Whack-A-Mole...

All of our lives, we're told not to make mountains out of mole hills. That's good advice and I generally agree but do you know what's under mole hills? Mole holes! No one ever warns you about those.

At the moment, I have a clear mountain ahead. That's where my focus lies. Unfortunately, while I'm looking ahead to the mountain, I keep stepping in mole holes.

I'm talking about the literal mole hills that seem to be appearing across my yard. I notice them, of course, but pay them little mind until I step on one. Suddenly, I'm ankle deep in a mole HOLE. Then, I'm reminded of the very real issues before me that are not quite mountains, but still serious.

Over the last few months, while looking at the mountain, I'm overwhelmed by the figurative mole hills: I'm unemployed while keeping my children safe and sane during a pandemic and separation from their dad, a snazzy new appliance that brought a scary gas leak, logistical concerns regarding my husband's care, and, finally, the passing of my beloved brother have all been laid out in front of me. It's a game of real life Whack-A-Mole.

As I say this, I'm reminded that when my kids are playing actual Whack-A-Mole in the arcade, they do much better when they work together. When more than one person has a mallet, those moles don't stand a chance.

I have an army of people who stand behind me with love and hold those big goofy hammers high, ready to whack any mole that rears his head. Knowing that so many people are watching my back *and my ankles) means that my focus can remain on the mountain so it can be properly tackled.

Obviously, my family has been clobbering those little bastards all of my life, Looking beyond them, I see the mob of friends, armed with giant hammers, ready to whack-a-mole.

Thank you army. I love you for so many reasons, but especially for that.

When You Know Better You Do Better...

“When you know better, you do better.” I honestly can't say where I heard this first – maybe my mother, my grandfather, or my grandmother, maybe a stranger on the street – but it's lived in my head most of my life and I have always tried to follow that wisdom. I don't know that I've always succeeded.

I grew up in a time that was far from politically correct. I heard words and witnessed actions that didn't sit well with my heart and that countered the lessons I'd been taught about what was kind, loving, and morally right. These things were swirling around me – violence against people I know and love just because they were unacceptably different in some way. Because their skin wasn't acceptable, the way they love wasn't acceptable, the way they pray wasn't acceptable. That kind of thinking was not acceptable to me.

I thought that was enough. To be a good person, to set an example as a loving, open-hearted person, to live by those rules for myself and to teach my children to live that way should be enough. It's not enough.

If you've been paying attention, you know the world is burning. None of this is new, though. We've had a global pandemic before. Now we have the science and wisdom to properly uncover and address it. Likewise, we now have the technology to see the much bigger human virus – violent racism – with the lens of instant video evidence that allows for people to be held accountable.

Racial injustice certainly is not new. As long as there have been human beings on this planet, there has been a need to rule and instill superiority over other human beings. This is also a global pandemic. It has happened all over the world for centuries and has been accepted by the masses through caste systems, social division, slavery, and so on. Unfortunately, America has perfected this division in its short history. This has never been acceptable to me.

My kids – like ALL kids right now – are paying attention. They see police beating black men just because they're black. They see the man in the white house shrugging his shoulders and doing nothing. They see and hear ignorant responses from the people they are supposed to trust, and they say “This is not acceptable to me!” They're right. It's not acceptable. To them, to me, to anyone with a loving heart.

I'm not a fighter. It's never been in my nature to march or shout or protest. I've always thought it was enough to vote, to step in when I can to defuse a situation, and to remove myself from people who made it clear that they were racist, sexist, homophobic, or generally ignorant. That isn't enough. It's time to shout from the rooftops and demand change. It's time to shout because when you know better, you do better.

As a parent, when my daughters said they wanted to make signs and march, I resisted. I saw the violence in the streets of Atlanta, I said no. I reminded them that we're still fighting a pandemic and need to social distance and protect ourselves. I told them that this is not our fight. I thought that was right. Then I continued to follow the footage and questioned my decision but reasoned that I was protecting them.

Then they told me about a march that was organized by students from our high school. Because of the location – at a suburban shopping center, in the middle of the day -I relented. We went to the march. We shouted. We raised our fists and I saw that we were standing on the right side of history. These kids know what's going on and they've had enough. They're demanding answers, they're demanding to be heard, and they're demanding change for their brothers and sisters, for friends they've known and loved all their lives. They're also reminding those who may disagree with them that they are all on the verge of voting age and that they intend to use that right to invoke change.

Walking away from that protest, we cut through an alley behind a restaurant to get back to the car. In that moment, my white privilege struck me square in the face. I've always known I had it but took it for granted. I told my girls that no one would ever question me for walking down a back alley because of that privilege but reminded them that their Latino dad may not have that experience. They – as Latinas themselves – were more likely to be questioned. We still have a lot of work to do.

So we put on our masks, filled our water bottles, made more signs, and did it again. We marched about three miles to honks and cheers from passersby. My 15 and 11 year old kids led many of the shouts, and my heart swelled with pride. They see the wrongs and want to right them. I've seen the wrongs all my life and was waiting for someone else to right them. Maybe that someone else has come along in the form of my children and their entire generation who has seen enough. They're mad as hell and they're not going to take it anymore.

As for me, I will continue to live and demonstrate love while I help them make signs, drive them to and walk with them in protests as long as they want me by their sides. The mom in me will remind them to drink water, wear comfortable shoes, and to stand up straight. The budding fighter in me will take my own advice while I shout and march with them. Because When You Know Better, You Do Better.

Out Of The Swamp...

On Mother's Day, my brothers and sisters embraced technology and had a video chat with our mom. From all over the country, in three different time zones, it was almost like being together. Of course, when we are all together, we catch up and tell stories. We're not one of those families who talk on the phone often so this is how we piece together details of each other's lives.

One brother was talking about being on the other side of a rough time in his life and likened it to being in a swamp. He just kept wading through it, pulling his feet out of the mud, until he got to the bank and dry land. He knew he was in the swamp and that it wasn't fun, but his focus was on the solid ground ahead. Once there, he had no interest in lamenting the fact that he'd been in the swamp and was just continuing to move forward.

This brought my mother to talk about particularly tough times when she felt like she was crawling up a steep bank. Anyone watching from the distance couldn't see it, but she knew she was making progress and kept at it with her slow and steady climb to get out of that ditch.

I think most of us can identify with tough situations. The difference, I think, is perspective. I know I have had no shortage of muddy swamps, steep ravines, and potential quicksand pits in my life. I've always made it back to solid land. I have faith that I always will. So far, so good. I'm not going to pretend that wading through the mud is fun. I'm not sure I know what I'm doing or where I'm going, but I'm sure that I can get there if my focus is clear.

I often tell friends going through tough times that they should wallow. I stand by that. Sometimes, when you're in the muck, you just need to roll around in it. Wallow in it until you can't stand it any longer. Then, crawl your way out, shower off the stench, and keep moving on dry land.

Times are rough for a lot of people right now. A lot of us are standing in the mud wondering how we got there and how we get out. Everyone's muddy bog is different and the ways out are up to each of us. I'm finding myself back in a familiar place. The mud is thick and heavy, and I think I lost my shoe, but I'm looking up to find the sun, I'm looking forward to find my path, and I'm moving towards the bank. When I get there, I know that I'll be met with the open arms of the people who have always been there for me.

They will cheer me on and pull me up and out. They'll hose me off, find my shoe, and probably give me a hot meal. That's where my focus lies. The dry land and the people I love. I don't need to stop in the swamp to pity my situation. I just need to keep moving.

Later, after a shower and a sandwich, maybe I'll have a story to tell about the frog who jumped on my head or the damned mosquitoes, but I'll never complain about having been there. I'm pretty sure that everyone who has ever been stuck in the mud has a funny tale or a lesson learned on the other side. The best part is almost always finding the way out.

 

A Whole New World...

This pandemic has changed us.

No matter what your stance on this thing may be, there's no denying that. Some are locking themselves in a bunker, hoarding bleach and toilet paper, some are staying home, venturing out only for necessities under cover of face masks and rubber gloves, some are stepping outside carefully for some sense of normalcy, while some are ignoring all precaution in defiance of all of those recommendations and thumbing their noses at all who choose the careful route. Whichever approach you choose, it's very clear that you are not alone.

We're one world. No matter how many borders or labels people wish to apply, none of it matters. Nature doesn't see walls or skin color. Religion and language does not apply here. HUMANITY is facing this. People are dying. People are separated. People are finding themselves taking inventory of their lives and evaluating and measuring importance of people and things that have previously occupied their time and energy.

I would like to believe that I already had a handle on those things. Previous challenges have tested that in my life so I feel like I may have had a head start in this but there certainly are no winners. My hope is that, on the other side of this (and there will be an end), we will ALL see the world through new lenses. We truly are all the same in this...simply human. May we step forward with healthy bodies, open hearts, and open minds and greet our brothers and sisters with warmth and respect.

OK, I get that I'm probably annoyingly pollyanna. That's fine. I'll wear that badge happily. The reality is that this situation has already forced us to do things differently. We're already adapting and shifting. Our creativity is shining. Our hearts are connecting. Ingenuity is blossoming and walls are coming down in spite of our hard-headed tendencies.

When schools across the country were forced to close their doors, dedicated educators found a way to keep engaging students. Lesson plans were quickly adapted to online learning. Video chats allow kids to directly address the teachers they know. Technology! A few weeks ago, I was complaining about the time my kids spent wrapped up in phones and apps and saying that technology was taking over their brains. Now, I'm embracing it.

Me! Embracing technology! Not only are my kids “going to school” through their computers, they're connecting in other ways, too. My 11 year old blackbelt is continuing her classes and workouts because the Master figured out how to hold classes via Zoom. My teenager can chat with her friends and stay connected. My husband has video chatted with a group of high school friends. Even I used video chat for a job interview and stuck my toe in the water with a video call with my own group of friends. Look at me! Leaping forward in to the 21^st century! Next, I think I'll try to get my far away family to try this thing out.

One solid truth in life is that change is inevitable. The way we deal with that is up to us. As with all things, there are good and bad elements. I choose to welcome the positive and shine my light on that so it can grow. I hope that others will do the same. In this darkness, we've already found light and seen beautiful things blossoming. 

Keep shining. It's a whole new world. Let's fill it with love and kindness.

Fear Itself...

Well, these are crazy times, aren't they? In my lifetime, I remember a series of events that had the human collective terrified. I guess it's a fairly natural reaction to fear the unknown but it's never been my first reaction. I remember angry lines for gas, fear over any number of newly encountered threats, blackouts, violence, and even disease. Fear just has never been in my arsenal of reactionary tools.

As the world is discovering the latest threat, I just keep hearing the voice of FDR saying “The only thing we have to fear...is fear itself!” I couldn't agree more. I don't say that to dismiss the serious issue at hand. Obviously, this latest health concern is a big deal. It's unknown and it's scary and we have a lot to learn. That's what I choose to do: learn. I do what I can to do my part, I practice good hygiene, take care in my interactions and care for those around me. That's all I am meant to do. To live, to love and to practice kindness along the way. I will not allow fear to enter my space.

I've written about this before and I say it all the time, There's not place in my world for fear. Not afraid.

I can't pretend to know what the greater Universal plan is for this latest concern but from where I sit right now, it seems that it may just be the incentive people need to stop for a minute. Look around. See what matters and let go of what doesn't. Look a stranger in the eyes as you pass them from a “safe” distance. Be thoughtful. Be kind. To borrow bumper sticker wisdom, Be The Change You Hope To See In The World.

We are resilient beings and we will get through this and be stronger on the other side of it. Hang on to the humanity and shake off the fear.

Honor Guard...

I've never been one of those people with a lot of close friends. I mean, I have a lot of acquaintances who all have a special place in my life, but I've always keep the number of those people in low single digits. Perhaps that's just a by-product of having a large family. I never had to look outside my front door for a sounding board, a buddy, a shoulder, or a voice of reason. At least that's what I've always thought.

A recent conversation with my mother made me take a closer look. She was talking about her own realization that she has friends. I mean, she has always had that small handful of people that have always been there, and that she trusted would always be there but never reached out for more. But, you know, she's a really nice, pretty interesting person and people are naturally drawn to her. She was sitting at a lunch table, with a group of people she's been meeting for lunch regularly for a couple of years and realized those people were her friends! What a revelation! They've been there for one another and helped one another, without fail. Wow.

That conversation – like so many conversations - led us to my grandmother. My mother's mother, Josephine. I never thought of my grandmother as having girlfriends. She was too serious, too busy, too Josephine to be bothered with such things! Sure, I knew that she had a regular group of ladies that she quilted with, who gathered in a church basement to cut and plan and stitch. Surely, there was friendly chatter, but I never saw it for what it was.

When my grandmother passed, I went with my aunt to that church basement to purchase quilts that she had so lovingly stitched. Imagine my surprise when I saw those quilting ladies, with tears in their eyes, and heard them talking about their dear friend Jo. Jo! They called my grandmother Jo! They were her friends!

At my grandmother's funeral, I was preoccupied with my squirmy 1 year old daughter and conversation with relatives so I missed a lot of details swirling around me. Apparently, when her casket was carried out of the church, my grandmother's friends – those quilting ladies – pulled out their needles and held them high, in an honor guard salute! I missed it, but I'm sure that Jo saw it all!

Thinking about all of this made me sit back and take inventory of my own circle. I thought I had a pretty good grasp of my world and the people in it. I'm friendly. I open my arms and my heart to a lot of people but probably have never given credit where credit is due. The people I have sorted and labeled as 'acquaintance' deserve more than that. I have friends – a lot of them!

Of course, this makes me look deeper. I know who my quilting ladies are. Our stitching doesn't happen in a church basement. It happens across many miles, for many years now. My husband has long referred to this crew as my “Imaginary Friends”. I know, without question, that they are 100% real. And, really, it's kind of his fault that I know them at all.

When he asked me to marry him, I realized I had no idea how to throw a wedding. I was never that little girl who had it all planned out. I cared that people I loved would be there and have a good time and I knew that fancy bridal magazines weren't going to tell me how to do that. So, I turned to the trusty internet to tell me what to do. I stumbled across a chat board with simple discussion among a group of women who were there for the same reason. We were all there for the same reason.

Because we weren't in the same room, there was no need to impress one another. Simple conversation about dresses and flowers and all that comes with weddings, led to regular conversations that revealed personalities and true selves. Like minds and hearts came together and a regular posse formed. We all cheered one another on, comforted and consoled when necessary and, sometimes called one another out when we were ridiculous. Basically, we formed real and true friendships.

After the weddings, we continued to talk. I flew to California to meet a couple of the ladies and we had a blast. So we planned a gathering of a larger group in New Orleans and we've continued to gather whenever and however we can since then. My Imaginary Friends have been there for me through it all...babies, funerals, challenges, victories, and the boring day-to-day. I think they'd say the same about me. For nearly 20 years, across the country, across the ocean, even, they are my posse and I know I can count on them and I am grateful to the world wide web for delivering them to me.

As time marches on, I can't help but wonder – what will our honor guard hold up? Keyboards? Computer mice? Cell phones? I don't know, but I am certain we will find a way and I know that our bond will live on through the ethers.

Little Red-Haired Boy...

I was sitting with a sister and a brother at my mother's kitchen table yesterday. The inevitable happened – as it always does when 2 or more Alberts are gathered – and we brought out the Remember Whens. This happens organically when we're talking about or seeing something that reminds us of something that happened once upon a time.

To the outsider, this probably seems like we're just telling the same story again and again but that's never the case. When your family is as large and as scattered as ours, there's always someone who was not present at the time of the event or someone who knows some details that the others don't. I never get tired of this. These are not re-runs or rehashed tales, they're always about perspective that changes the way we hear things.

One story always leads to the next. What began with discussion of the open door policy in our home – our front door was never locked and friends and neighbors always knew that they could come in whenever they needed safe haven. Boy, did they come! Countless numbers of unrelated teenage boys were sleeping in our house at any given time. Local authorities understood this and our house was often the first stop for questioning. People often asked my mother why she had such a welcome mat at her step. As she put it – she always knew where *her* children were and that we were safe.

Talking about this brought up the Mystery Dinner Guest. Dinner happened at the table, with the whole family, at the same time every evening. Because of our family's fluid and open nature, it was not unusual for a friend or two to be at the table with us. As I recall, my siblings' friends were always polite and grateful. Some of them even helped clean up after. So when there was a little red-haired boy at the table every single night for an entire week, no one thought twice about it. Everyone assumed he was someone else's friend. He was clean, well-mannered, and said thank you after he ate.

After a solid week of dining with us, he just wasn't there so we started asking. Everyone thought he was another person's friend. No one knew his name. No one knew where he lived or how he ended up at our house. We lived in a fairly small, close knit community back then. Every family knew the other families in the neighborhood. No one knew this kid and, as far as we know, he was never seen or heard from again. Because he was nice, I hope he liked my mother's meatloaf, I hope he left with a full heart as well as his full belly, and I hope he remembers that nice lady with her nice family, and that he opens his door and his arms to share that kindness to others. I suspect that he probably does.

Naturally, one story always leads to the next, and we talked about “That Night In Philadelphia” that also featured kindness from strangers. Circa 1987, my mother, sister and I had been in an accident that left my sister very badly injured. She was being cared for in another state and my mother flew to be with her for a couple of days. When she was returning from the airport, her car broke down and she was stranded on the side of the road. There were no cell phones at this time and there was no way her car was going to get her home. So, she walked down the highway to an exit ramp, found a payphone, and called me in the apartment we shared.

I had a car that was not in much better condition than hers, but I was just a teenage girl in a city I didn't know. I took down the instructions she gave to find her and headed out to retrieve my mother. It was dark, it was cold, and I could not find the place but I kept trying. I stopped at every open place I could find in this rough area and asked if anyone had seen my mother and verified directions as best I could. In one particular stop, a man began to approach me from the side and at the exact moment that I saw him, another older man came at him to chase him away from me and to tell me I needed to get out of there. Now, metaphysical me wonders whether that older man was actually there or if a guardian angel swooped in. I'll never know, but I'm grateful either way.

The search for my mother went on for hours. It ended for me, when I found a store with a friendly clerk and a couple of bikers who stood watch while I called the apartment and heard my mother answer the phone. She made it home! These kind souls led me back to the highway with directions and a hug.

When I arrived, I heard my mother's tale of her side of the events. When she left the car and finally found a payphone, she found that she couldn't easily get back to the car. While I was searching for her, she was searching the streets for safe entry back to the highway where she left her car. After a while, she was scared and frustrated enough that she climbed an embankment and was about to cross a guard rail when a city police officer stopped her, scolded her for what she was doing, listened to her story and drove her – in his police car – back home.

Through the kindness of strangers, we both made it safely and securely, back to each other. We hugged and cried and said good night because we knew that the next day was going to bring the drudgery of recovering the car, and dealing with the details of life to follow.

Our lives are filled with stories like this. Sometimes the events are funny, sometimes dangerous, sometimes just tedious and draining. But the common thread in every one is Kindness of Strangers. So, when my kids laugh at me because I smile at or talk to every stranger that crosses my path, I hope they see the greater lesson behind it...we're not strangers at all. We're brothers and sisters in humanity and it's our job to care and to help. It's really just that simple.

Whoever that little red-haired boy is, he has a place in my heart and is my brother.