It all adds up. I just haven’t figured out how yet. The same day I retrieve my beloved from the loading lane at a top-ranked hospital (according to the billboard-sized banner on the side of parking garage) several days after her hip replacement, I get an email that says my pandemic-year essay entry won a spot in the top dozen and will be published soon along with the other twelve winners on NextAvenue, a PBS affiliate. I also walk the dogs twice around the brand new school that has just opened for classes after sitting sparkling and empty this entire school year. And I mail my memoir pre-orders (smudged with palo santo smoke before packaging). And I plant a rainbow of pansies in the patio bed alongside the relentless mint and chives and the chiminea that will host a fire before the last chill. What else? Enlarge to yesterday, to an exciting text stream with my daughter and a delightful phone call with my son and a walk with the dogs at the American River on the first day of spring and a binge of the HBO Europe limited series Bjornstad (Beartown), a title which I can translate myself because I’ve been studying Swedish on Duolingo for over a year and have made it to the Diamond League for those who might appreciate that.
Resurrections are afoot. Energy swirls in anticipation of real hugs and clinking toasts and 3-d dancing. At least in this swath of the northern Hemisphere, where after a sloppy COVID-19 response roll-out, we are even sitting pretty enough to dream of a good ol’ fashioned 4th of July. But what does THAT mean? This year’s merry-making pause has me wondering. George Floyd’s murder. The election trickery and denial. Mass shootings. Mask controversy. The stunning forgetfulness of what it means to love our neighbors as ourselves.
“My freedom ends where yours begins,” is the way I learned it. How much red, white ‘n’ blue worship is good for communities? And how much is bad for democracy? I’m reading Octavia E. Butler’s Parable of the Talents. A cautionary tale if there ever was one. I’m not a Butler scholar nor am I a sci-fi nerd. I don’t need to be either to appreciate the prophetic storyline and its call to action in the face of facist tyranny.
I’m partial to sparklers and the elementary school band Sousa renditions conducted by Mrs. Croft back in the ‘90s when my children played them. I’m partial to cole slaw and deviled eggs and strawberry shortcake dazzled with blueberries. But maybe we could spend this year’s Independence Day doing a little less flag-waving, a little less marching, and a little more listening. A little more listening to American stories that come in more colors and languages than any of us can imagine. Why wait until the fourth of July? Take a couple minutes a day to hear someone else’s story. These collections offer many: Storycorps, American Portrait, and Brief but Spectacular.
If we all invest in the act of listening, a consciousness that truly represents the red, white ‘n’ blue can pull us closer together in life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.
And if you don’t like stories, study a new language. A few minutes a day might get you to the Diamond League.