Fly away to the moon

Here we are—Labor Day weekend. In the US, this is the official End of Summer (even though school started up earlier last month); community pools close in the East, furniture stores run sales and there are valedictory barbecues.

Put away those white shoes on penalty of death.

To see us out, let’s have Dusty Springfield singing “Summer Is Over”.

 

 

 

Order in the court

I got summoned to jury duty—originally for late June, but I got it changed to late August because of my surgery. (Evidently you get one postponement; there was no further option to reschedule.) Start date was Wednesday, 30 August.

The deal is, you call (or check the website) the evening before the assigned date to see if your jury group will be needed. This is what I got:

So I think my obligation this time around is discharged. (Although I’ll keep checking, just in case.)

But it got me thinking about the concept of being entitled in our justice system to a trial by a jury of one’s peers. I don’t think it works out that way, in practice.

Because in reality, I’m betting that most jury pools pretty much everywhere in the country look like me: older, retirement age, probably fairly secure socio-economic status. And that would not be representative of the population, and most likely not be “peers” of people in civil and criminal trials.

I get it—retirees have the time and are not beset by monetary worries if they don’t show up to work. They can go to the courthouse and fulfill their civic duty.

If you work for a fairly substantial company not in the retail, healthcare or hospitality sectors, you may be able to serve on juries. A lot of firms pay employees who are summoned, the same way they pay for National Guard or Reserves obligations. But if you work for a mom-and-pop operation (or you are the mom or pop), you probably can’t get time off; it wouldn’t be paid, in any case, so you probably couldn’t afford it.

(And, BTW, if you are a janitor, barista or transportation worker for any of the big tech companies that happily pay their professional staff to answer the call, you don’t benefit. Because you’re a contractor working for a vendor company and you only get paid for the hours you clock in. Moreover, the rapacious, greedy company that signs your paychecks has no back-up staff, so if you don’t show up for work, than Googlers or Microsofties don’t get shuttled to the office or their restrooms cleaned.)

So the jury pool mostly comprises White, well-educated professionals (or retirees of somewhat more diverse ethnicities) who lose no compensation for the time they are at the courthouse. This, to my mind, is problematic. I don’t know what might solve it—municipalities guaranteeing jurors their lost wages would help, but it doesn’t answer the issue of people who can’t even take sick days because if they don’t show up, critical tasks don’t get performed.

I also expect that, as long as courts get enough bodies from retirees and professional-class workers, they aren’t going to do anything to improve the system. As far as they’re concerned, it ain’t broke, so why spend effort/money to fix it?

So I didn’t serve this time around. Next time, maybe.

 

 

In hand

I saw the hand surgeon yesterday. He—not being the person actually affected—is happy with my progress. And I’m doing okay. Not full functionality; probably around 80%.

Which is to say, I can open lidded jars and most screwtop wine bottles. But I can’t get the tips of my fingers against my palm.

Surgeon says that could take a year. But the bones have actually healed, so he’s happy.

As with my knees, I continue the exercises and carry on.

 

 

Optics

I was on my walk yesterday when I noticed this sidewalk rainbow:

Not exactly sure of the cause—looks a bit like an oil slick, but it’s on a golf course, so dunno how that computes.

Still—something to appreciate.

 

 

 

Gratitude Monday: bones, muscles, nerves & ligaments

Last week I came across this video on Twitter.

There is always a reason to enjoy life ❤️
Glory to the heroes 🇺🇦 pic.twitter.com/9mV6INhpTN

— Oriannalyla 🇺🇦 (@Lyla_lilas) August 9, 2023

Given my recent surgical history, I have to confess that as I watched it, my initial thought was, “These guys for sure are doing their PT exercises and their physical therapists are completely badass.”

Because I understand all too well how much a difference it makes that you do your damned exercises every single day, to keep the muscles and ligaments strong and in alignment to support whatever bone or joint issue you have. (I've come to the realization that I'll have to do my damned exercises every day. Forever.)

And these guys have some issues.

(TBH, the first time I watched, I was so focused on their legs I didn’t even notice the guy on the left has also lost both arms.)

Yet they dance with absolute joy, with whatever limbs, bones, muscles, nerves and ligaments they have left. What an inspiration.

Last week I also had a convo with my yoga instructor about mountain pose: the one with both feet strong on the ground (parallel on the outside edges) and all joints stacked all the way up to the head. Here’s what populates my mind whenever I prepare for mountain pose:

Christopher David, a Navy veteran, doing nothing to provoke federal “law enforcement” thugs at a Black Lives Matter protest in August of 2020. Look at the way he stands as they pummel him with their nightsticks and spray pepper gas on him. (The beating broke bones in his hand, somewhat similar to the fractures I sustained back in April.) That is mountain pose. He held it through the pounding, only turning away when he got the pepper spray blast. The videographer blurred out his hands when he flipped them the bird(s).

When I saw the video of David, I’d only been practicing yoga for less then two months. Perhaps that’s why the image imprinted on my cortex. Certainly, yoga is not meant to incorporate violence or pain, so possibly my bad.

But—as with the Ukrainian amputees—I look to him as inspiration for what a person can endure and restore within the confines of bones, muscles, nerves and ligaments. And I consider these reminders as graces; unasked and unlooked for (in the words of the daily prayer of the Novena to Saint Bartholomew).

And I am grateful.