Despite the fact that the U.S. is sinking deeper into modern fascism and white christian nationalism, the other fact remains: I’ve not been a working stiff for 21 long luxurious days. Let’s focus on that for this postcard from the Village of Retirement, shall we? I simply cannot and will not be silent about the state of America. It seems like the fascist train just plows onward and we are left to shake our heads and wonder what’s happening. I object and I want my objections noted for what they’re worth. I don’t think I’m being hyperbolic to say there’s a genocide happening in Gaza and we bombed the citizens of Iran. Our dear world feels very fragile and some of the humans living in it very unloved and mistreated at every turn. I cannot separate these thoughts from my regular thoughts of retirement bliss and summertime. They exist together. Walt Whitman said it far better:
I am large. I contain multitudes.
Sister came out for a long visit. We rented a darling seaside cottage and split time between the City of Angels and Santa Babs. We went on quiet morning beach walks at low tide and sat under the canopy of western sycamore trees at our cottage. I slept on a trundle bed because it opened to the back deck on a seasonal creek. On my first evening after discovering the solar lights I covered them in foil to preserve the dark mystery of nightfall. Inside, on the enormous couch Sister read me a bedtime story, Bats At The Beach.
Dearest Sharron and Mary came bearing beautiful blackberry crumbles and rhubarb custard pies. We sat and talked and ate and smiled. It was very very good.
It was also the trip of the Herons because we saw so many! And woodpeckers lined up on branches, and rabbits, and a baby coyote, and dolphins, and snowy egrets with their golden slippers. Oh how deliciously beautiful the world is! And tragic for those caught in war. In breath, out breath. There they both are. I see them both. My heart rejoices and breaks.
On a walk one day (in LA) an elderly man approached with his shorts and hat and suspenders and vest. We were walking on a fragrant chaparral-covered path. I opened my arms to indicate an appreciation of the day and before I knew it he had moved into my arms thinking I was offering hugs. We embraced and then Sister wanted a hug too and he happily obliged. We referred to him thereafter as hugger-man. In my 62nd year of life I endeavor to hug more strangers. To offer more smiles. And if I can overcome my natural predisposition towards irritation at my fellow homo sapiens, to soften rather than harden. Because I think the times are calling for that. And frankly, I’m here for it. For all of it.
