Living under a death sentence

It’s Thanksgiving Day in America, so you know the drill. This is the Super Bowl of gratitude, the occasion on which we’re meant to take a little time—a single day out of 365—to pause and reflect on the things in our lives that essentially bring us joy.

That’s what gratitude is, right? The realization that something or someone brings us joy. It might be a momentary flicker or an all-encompassing wave of delight, but saying, “I give thanks for this” is really the conscious acknowledgement of that happiness. One day out of the year for this is just the teensiest bit paltry, in my opinion, but still—let’s make the most of it.

For the past few years I’ve made a concerted effort to practice gratitude daily. This isn’t always easy; there have been days when I only grudgingly and after much flailing about come up with three things to name out loud as being worthy of thanks. This very month, following the attacks in Paris and for the first time in years, there were two days I couldn’t find the heart to do even that.

I’ve been thinking a lot about all those lives in shards after that Friday night. No warning and no reason. Lives ended, bodies maimed, families and friends bereft and bewildered. One minute a play on the football pitch, a rock song or a bite of dinner; the next explosions, automatic fire, screams, blood, death. No one knew when they headed out that night that this was in store. They weren’t prepared to die, and they didn’t know to prepare their loved ones for their deaths.

I, on the other hand, count myself as fortunate. I had the grace, the blessing of knowing that my days with my BFF were numbered. She died last month, five years after being diagnosed with ovarian cancer, a bastard of a death sentence. Pretty much from the beginning, Leilah did a magnificent job of facing the future, and she prepared us for that every step of the way.

And this was a tremendous gift to me. After initially totally screwing the pooch for a couple of months, I did my best to be brave, supportive, encouraging, silly, honest and loving, whatever state of mind I found her in. Knowing her time was precious, we made super use of it by communicating openly and, in the end, fearlessly.

Example: last summer I asked her, “Listen—all those years when I made fruitcakes and gave them to you at Christmas: did you really like them, or were there a lot of very tipsy birds around your house? It’s okay, you can tell me the truth; I’m never going to go to the trouble of making them again.”

No, she really liked them. A slice of fruitcake and a cup of tea were just what she needed on some days.

This year, when she finally stopped the chemotherapy, we doubled down. She’d planned to hook a small rug for me in a Celtic knot pattern, but she realized she wouldn’t get to do it. So she sent me one in an Amish pattern that she’d made a couple of years ago. I told her I’d put it next to my bed so it would be the last thing my feet touch at night and the first thing they touch in the morning.  And so it is.

On my recommendation, she watched Fantastic Mr. Fox—Bill Murray as Mr. Badger was what did it. She loved it, high praise as a career children’s librarian who wasn’t all that wild about animated films.

I started jotting down memories—pie (she basically introduced me to real pie), getting so involved in our conversation while out on a hike that we ended up halfway to Baja before we realized we were lost, smuggling her cat Angela across the Oregon-California border, our respective weird cousins (mine are contenders, but hers sweep all categories), flying to Borrego Springs in their Cessna…for brunch—and scribbled them across several cards. Just reminders of shared experiences, conversations, laughs, close calls. I came nowhere near covering the depths, but I gave what we researchers might call a representative sample, and she was tickled to have card after card arrive, all those cues to fire up her own memories.

She did her own version—for my birthday last summer she sent me a carton with many small gifts, which included a pair of earrings I’d given her about 40 years ago, her mother’s pilot’s log book and two sterling serving pieces that simply beg to be used at a dinner party. It was Christmas in August.

My last conversation with Leilah was right after my job interview in DC in October; I called her the instant I walked into my hotel room and got those interview shoes off. She was so pleased to hear the enthusiasm and confidence in my voice; that came through the slight driftiness of the morphine. It was a good conversation, and it ended (as our calls have done for more than five years) with us saying, “I love you.”

A week and a half later she was dead. No more phone calls, movie recommendations, surprise packages at the door. But the legacy of a deep friendship that enriched my life and made me a better friend to others. And we were able to say how much we mattered to each other because we knew we didn’t have much time. Nothing went unsaid, nothing got put off “until next time.”

And because of that, I know that Leilah knew how much she meant to me, and I sure as hell know that she loved me. We expressed that in every conversation, every debate, every cup of tea or glass of wine. There was no room for doubt, and that is a huge comfort to me as I face my first holidays without her to share them with.

Here’s the thing, people: we’re all under a death sentence. We just don’t know when it’s going to be executed. The world we live in is not as stable or safe as we would wish—and we need to work on that. Part of that work, in my opinion, is never passing up an opportunity to express our affection in words and actions—to those close to us and those we meet on the way.

Treat everyone as though this might be the last time you see or talk with them. Be honest—be kindly honest, especially about how much you appreciate them. When you act like a jerk (come on—we all do), apologize as soon as you can bring yourself to do so. When they do something to piss you off, consider cutting them some slack; or, if you must call them on it, frame it in terms of the anomaly you know it to be. Leave a note, make a call, send an email, give a hug, pat a back, listen to a tale, share a cookie, say a prayer—whatever it is that strengthens the connections that bring joy to your life, do it.

Do not wait until you see a Paris-class catastrophe or get a phone call saying so-and-so was in a car crash to think, “But I didn’t get to say…” You still may not get to the Celtic knot hooked rug or the grand photo album with annotations and pithy remarks. But, in the end—soon or late—that won’t matter if you’ve created that tapestry of friendship one stitch at a time, making every moment count.

Trust me on this: you’ll be grateful you did.

Atmospherics

Yesterday morning we had clouds, which eventually brought a bit of much-needed rain. They also made possible a beautiful sunrise, starting with just the palest tinting of pink on the closest edges—so delicate, I couldn’t capture it on camera, just in my eyes and heart.

Then, as I approached the Apple HQ-in-process, it got fired up some:

And finally, when it died down in the East, the West gave me this:

This kind of sky show only happens when there are clouds, and they’re a rarity here. But it was a perfect time for me to be pulled out of my routine and watch the spectacular around me.

When you just can't help yourself

One of my friends on Facebook comes from Denmark, and she has interesting things coming across her timeline.

By which I mean sometimes they’re intrinsically interesting and sometimes they’re interesting because of the translation algorithm that Facebook uses.

This one’s kind of both—clearly some kind of promotion for…well, something. 

I’m sure that the 24 exciting packages are swell, and everything. But what I really got wrapped around was the big nice zinkfad.

I don’t even care what it is, I want one. Possibly several.

Gratitude Monday: A timely reminder

I’ve started full bore on the pre-moving task list. After four different moving company “consultants” surveyed my household goods, I’m rounding on making a choice, and a booking. Once that’s in place, the several, large events that are dependent on the pack and load dates will fall into place. Still work, but manageable.

Meanwhile, I’m in that frenzy of uncovering (opening closets and the garage I haven’t been in for several months; or years), sorting, culling and divesting. I’m going to end up paying someone to collect a lot of stuff and dispose of it in various ways (consign, donate, dump), because I can’t move an Ikea dresser or queen-sized bed from the third floor to the ground. Shoot—I can’t even move that dresser three inches.

Also, I’ve started the pre-move-out cleaning. This place gets right much dust and dirt because it’s near the intersection of two streets known for heavy traffic. And, as you may recall, we’ve been in a state of drought for the four years I’ve been here. I can spend an hour vacuuming every floor in the flat, and by the time I put away the machine, there’s already a new layer of dust settling. For this round I’m bring out the heavy guns—wiping down every surface with either bleach, Windex or white vinegar.

I’m really glad that it’s so warm this week I can have all the windows and the sliding door to the balcony open. Otherwise I’d have asphyxiated myself.

This process has a high potential for making you nuts, and I’m well on the way to crazy town. Plus—you know, The Holidays.

So I was startled out of my madness yesterday by a packet from a friend, congratulating me on the new job, giving me a supply of emergency chocolates and describing what’s ahead of me—past all this insanity—as a great adventure. 

Yes, it is. And I’m grateful for that, and I’m grateful for my friend for reminding me of that.

Courtroom drama

Seventy years ago today the major powers who defeated the Axis on the battlefield embarked on a novel enterprise: they put the leaders of Nazi Germany on trial for what we’ve come to know as war crimes. The International Military Tribunal, comprising jurists from France, the United Kingdom, the United States and the Soviet Union, opened proceedings against 24 civilian and military figures (one, Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, was tried in absentia), the ones who had neither committed suicide nor managed to escape into anonymity.

The trial was held in Nuremberg, for both practical and symbolic reasons. Although the Allies had bombed the hell out of the city, the Palace of Justice was basically intact and had enough room for such a massive undertaking. And Nuremberg had been the spiritual heart of Nazism, being the home of the Party’s annual gatherings. Where better to drive a stake into the heart of National Socialism?

There were four charges—unprecedented in the history of warfare and international law:

Conspiring to commit crimes against peace

Planning and waging wars of aggression

War crimes

Crimes against humanity

Ahead lay nearly eleven exhausting months of contentious testimony, unspeakably ghastly evidence, equivocation, defiance, arrogance and behind-the-scenes manipulation. The Soviets had never wanted to conduct a trial—their preference was summary execution upon discovery. Even Winston Churchill had toyed with the notion of rooting out the evil without bothering with legal niceties. But in the end, the Allies pulled together and gave humanity a permanent record of what happens when the rule of law surrenders to ideological insanity.

Yes, the irony of Stalin’s minions sitting on the bench that exposed ideological crimes does not escape me. It was a delicate dance the Western Powers performed, condemning Nazis while turning a blind eye to Soviet atrocities against humanity.

It was also a chancy business—not only charging elected (in some cases) leaders and military commanders with crimes that had not been defined as such at the time of commission, but also naming them as criminal actions. Because if they are crimes when committed by Nazis, they are also crimes when committed by Russians, Japanese, Syrians and Americans.

It’s a slippery slope, no doubt about it. And Lord knows we’ve gone ass over teakettle a few times over many of the principles argued at Nuremberg.

But what a remarkable undertaking, to draw that line in the sand, to say out loud, “This is wrong and it does not go unnoticed.” Even if it does very often go unpunished.

In my opinion, almost more than the actual victory itself, the Nuremberg Trials marked the triumph of good over evil. Pretty much anyone with manufacturing capability, masses of conscripts, good commanders and the will to persevere can win a war. It takes something more than that to turn from places like Babi Yar and Belsen to the Palace of Justice in Nuremberg.

Crying tears of hope

A while ago I told you about Joan Oliver Goldsmith’s How Can We Keep from Singing, which relates her relationship with choral music, including its life lessons and powers of healing.

And my mind recently turned to something she said about hope, because it’s something I’ve been trying very hard to embrace. And in light of the events last week, this is more important than ever.

“I have practiced hope. Help me to feel every drop of love and of joy that are here on this Earth for me today. I started saying that years ago, after my last bout of depression. Not asking for the world to change, not always clear who I’m asking. But every day, clearly asking. The day begins. I forget about it. But I notice life differently than I used to.”

And this is one of my go-to pieces—it’s not Bach, but it speaks to me: Alison Krauss’s “Jubilee”. It’s appropriate in and of itself, but also because of its use in the film Paper Clips, which is where this clip came from. Paper Clips is the extremely powerful documentary about middle school kids in Tennessee trying to get their heads around the concept of prejudice and the kinds of horrors it can lead to. This particular clip shows the journey to Tennessee of a railroad boxcar that was used to transport Jews to extermination camps.

As it happens, this part of the film was shot on 11 September 2001, so it, the kids’ project and this song tie in perfectly to the barbarism we witnessed on Friday in Paris—this is what happens when ideology triumphs over reason. This is what happens every time when ideology triumphs over reason.

Only when hope, love and joy turn the tables on the mindset that proclaims mass slaughter as a path to paradise will we really make progress as a civilization.

Ladders to nowhere

One of the things I’m really looking forward to in taking on my new job is getting off all the “apply for this great job here” email lists. I don’t know who built the algorithms for CareerBuilder, Dice or The Ladders, but guys—they totally suck.

Here’s one example from The Ladders, which should make you afraid, very afraid:

Seriously—does anyone want me near firearms? Or, for that matter, sporting goods?

No.

Carted away

Shopping cart retention has been an issue for a long time. It’s apparently right up there with shoplifting as a factor in the rising cost of goods.

There are companies that make a living sending trucks round neighborhoods near supermarkets to pick up and return carts that that have gone walkabout. And at some of its newer stores, Target has installed a tech solution that combines a transmitter in their carts with something embedded in the gribbly pavement that forms a barrier to parking lot exits. Once the cart passes over the yellow raised dots, the wheels lock.

Well, that’s the theory, anyway. I haven’t tested it.

However, on one of my walks the other day I came across this notice in a cart, which basically advises the consumer that it’s equipped with that wheel-locking capability, so leave it in the parking lot:

However, the cart in question was about a mile from the nearest grocery stores, so someone defeated the device.

Hmm—possibly someone from VW?

Gratitude Monday: Untouched by human hands

It’s been a dark weekend, hasn’t it—last week saw pretty much the nadir of human capabilities, and I’m struggling to counter the frozen grip of despair that has encased my thoughts and feelings. Thus, I’m also struggling to find things to be grateful for.

Plus—all the words have just been completely knocked out of me.

So today I’m grateful for something that—so far—humankind has not managed to twist into ugliness:

Nous sommes tous Paris

I first saw Paris more than 35 years ago. Specifically, around 2100 of an October night, I tumbled out of a motor coach from Calais, boxed bicycle, panniers and a knapsack all my worldly goods. It was a rough arrival—figuring out how to stash my bike at the Consigné at the Gare du Nord, use a pay phone to call a down-market hotel in the Let’s Go France guide book, and managing to make it to the place.

I was so tired that I actually thought I’d forgotten how to speak French—I made the concierge spell out the directions and still I was convinced she was just making things up.

But that city still managed to grab my heart and hold on to it all this time. That first trip was an official pilgrimage—the starting point on the journey to Santiago de Compostela. Every visit since has been an unofficial one. I fell in love with the place, but with a love that sees the flaws and still forgives them.

I spent the next four nights at a student foyer and explored the city as much as you could without any money. I retrieved my bicycle (which later came to be known as l’Escargot Rouge) and some perfect stranger passing by at the Gare helped me set the handlebars straight. Somehow I came across the Tour Saint Jacques, all that remains of the church that was the embarkation place for medieval pilgrims headed to Santiago, so that’s where I officially set out on the 1100-mile trek.

On my return swing, six weeks later, I spent an…interesting night, completely unexpected. Paris has a way of doing that to you.

Months later I had a conversation with a very well-traveled woman who assured me that everyone has two “favorite” cities: whatever the other one is and Paris. As far as I’m concerned, she was right.

Yeah, I know—it’s not paradise, and it’s not for everyone. Parisians practically invented the term “attitude”; they certainly give it better than anyone else, including New Yorkers. I don’t care. I love the layers of history going all the way back to Lutetia, interwoven and expressed in a thousand ways. I love the medieval rabbit warren streets and the expansive boulevards (which were purpose-built to prevent the people from building barricades; sadly—or gloriously, depending on your point of view—this intent turned out to be unsuccessful). I love the grands magasins and hole-in-the-wall shops, the parks, the skyline, the sounds and the smells.

To this day, the scent of wet pavement mixed with diesel exhaust fumes sends me back to that first trip as fast as a madeleine evoked childhood for Proust.

The murders at Charlie Hebdo and the kosher grocery store in Paris last January broke my heart. I don’t know why I thought that was as bad as it would get, and yesterday showed me how pig ignorant I was in this regard. Synchronized attacks with explosives and assault weapons on restaurants, a concert, a soccer game; scores dead and hundreds wounded.

Sophisticated planning, ruthless execution; this is military-grade terror. It’s war, with my beloved Paris as the battlefield.

Le coeur est brisé.