I recently wrote a Blah, Blah, Blog accompanied by a photo of a trio of newly hatched Robins. Three huddled, featherless babies lay in their beautiful nest nursery in a cedar bush in my backyard; hovered over by Mr. and Mrs. Robin in vigilant watch-bird mode for worms, insects, and loudmouth and dangerous Blue Jays and Crows along with other predators.
My friends, forget about your alarm and security company, Mr. and Mrs. Robin exceeded all expectations. Any would-be predators didn’t stand a chance. The parents proved their worth in birdseed. They took over my backyard as the Dangerous Drones of Cedar Bush.
It is now Day 11 of the baby Robins’ birth. TA-DA!!!!!
All decked out in their beautiful feathered coats. They sit in their Royal Nest Nursery. Mouths always opened ready for the feed. ( I spend a lot of time checking them out… and when I say open all the time… I mean open all the time.) For the last 11 days Mama and Poppa have fed and protected them.
Today, for the first time, I have noticed a change. I can go right up to the nest and no parental dive bombing.
I have come to a brutal conclusion. My baby birds’ childhood is almost over. In too short a time, if they want their beaks filled, they are going to have to leave the nest and fill it themselves.
LEAVE THE NEST???? OMG! They’re still babies. What do they know about life? What do they know about men? (one of them must be a female)
As long as I did what they wanted me to do, my parents fed and protected me at the beginning, and as I remember would have done so forever.
OOOPS!!! On second thought…
Hey, my adorable use-to-be-babies, shut your beaks and test your wings. You can always come back for a visit. The cedar bush ain’t going away. This is your chance to be you. Take it!
In my backyard, I do not allow any FEAR OF FLYING. (sorry, I just couldn’t resist)
After a recent conversation with a loved nephew, my busy brain began ruminating. That happens on its own. Ideas hit my headball, and I am once again in rumination.
Our tête-à-tête moved as it does from family to our favorite subjects… social and political issues.
He was describing his research into how propaganda and mind persuasion for the American public existed way before digital inventions. Before computers and cell phones there were newspapers, radio, movies, handbills, and pamphlets to dispense political and social points of view. Points of view that would influence voters and prepare the way for legislation, always towards goals of one political party or another.
In other words, my friends, even before the bots, people could be and were HAD.
This blog is not about right or wrong nor is it about good or evil. It is about how easy it is for the human psyche to be manipulated.
Not so long ago a television series called Mad Men illustrated the birth of advertising as we have come to know it. Mostly men… and a lone female, understood how to use the many powerful tools of persuasion, aka propaganda. Yes, it showed us how they manipulated consumers.
How many times have you said, “I just bought this gizmo. I absolutely didn’t need it. Last night, in the commercial break, my favorite movie star was using it in her home and I just knew I had to have it. So I bought it. I don’t need it. Like I said, I have absolutely no idea why I bought it”?
We know why I bought it! “Gadzooks, someone got into my head! I wuz robbed!”
You would think after years of living with a mother who had a Ph.D. in manipulation and mind control, I would know better. You would think!
And all of this took place, as I said, before computers, cells, iPads. Yes, the radio was a powerful tool but it could only get into homes that had radios. But as radios and then televisions became more affordable there was a seismic shift in the abilities to persuade and influence the public.
Speaking in digitalese, let us fast forward….
In 1976, the first commercial computer was born.
In 1976, I was… [I am pausing here because those of you who know me know I need to take off my shoes so I can use my toes along with my fingers to count.]
I’m back! In 1976, I was 43 years old (Ah, yes, I remember it well!)
Mother of three living and performing in D.C.. You know Washington! Even if it was only smoke signals, it was the spin capital of the world.
To me, computers were part of the old chapter series in the movies of my youth. Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon. [Please tell me someone else remembers them!]
I did not get into the digital thingies, computers, cell phones, Ipads… and because of my schedule, I never had the time to watch television. If I wasn’t doing household chores and child activities, I was at rehearsal. Not complaining, just the facts.
In 1997, I was 64 years old. My last daughter finally married (she was and still is very picky) and her husband, my new son-in-law, a very brilliant IT man, convinced me I could learn to use a computer. [I wasn’t kidding… he had to be brilliant!]
He actually did teach me. Of course, it helped that he worked a few blocks from where I was living in Manhattan. When the hysterical emergency calls went out [and they did fast and furiously] he would walk over and bring what I surely thought was a dead thingy back to life.
At 64, I had 64 years of living without digital anything. The life I tasted, sipped, swilled, was dimensional, real, pure uninterrupted life sans machinery.
When I wanted to write to someone, I sat down took out a piece of stationary with my name engraved at the top. I sifted through my thoughts slow enough to really think about what I was thinking and what it is I wanted to share. Yeah, I know what would my Blah, Blah, Blog be without this machinery. As Yul Brynner used to say nightly in The King and I, “… It’s a puzzlement.”
The biggest change for me is in my personal relationships. I made time to get together. It was and still is important to be in each others company. Don’t tell me about Skype… it’ll never replace the hug, the kiss, the touch of one to another.
Today that time is taken up with texts. If I send an email, I have to text the person to check their email for something that carries more portent than a text message can handle. And no one uses a phone anymore.
In pure defiance, I got myself a landline in Florida because I wanted to be connected to the land and not cyberspace. Big joke! Because the only way you get a landline today is through the Wi-Fi of your cable company.
The biggest change in this digital age belongs to the number of interlopers we let into our lives. As I said before, I can be had. And today, with all the available electronic equipment and all of it pointed in my direction, at least it feels that way, to buy, to read what they want me to read, to join, to contribute, to do survey after survey, I feel abused.
On a daily level, I am bombarded by organizations like Cambridge Analytica. Oh, yes, it is now out of business. What do you know? They got caught. However, there are thousands of similar corporations slithering in and around your computer continuing the dirty business of messing with our heads.
It is amazing but when you hearken back to Nixon and his “dirty tricks”. He was such a beginner! In Trump’s White House, he never would have been caught!
At this stage of my life, I do not want to share whatever time is left of my life with what I call The Distractors. It is hard enough to focus when there are forces whose only reason for being is to manipulate me away from being me.
It’s what I told my Generation-X nephew…
I am so grateful I had 64 years without the accouterments of this modern society. I know something they don’t know. Life was definitely not easier, but somehow I think it built up my resistance to the viruses of these manipulator machines.
Not to worry! I am not going to cancel my Wi-Fi.
I won’t de-chip my cell phone.
I will charge my iPad battery.
And push comes to shove, if they come after me, I can always call on my protectors… Buck Rogers and Flash Gordon!
Right? Of course, right!
P.S. Thanks to Lynnette for collecting the photos and illustrations.
ACROSS THE POND AND INTO THE WOODS OF THE GERS AND THE CITIES OF LONDON AND DUBLIN…
Alright already, so what is this 85 year old woman, who on too many occasions still thinks she is 55, trying to prove???
For indeed, mid-journey, as I packed and unpacked on yet another leg of the trip, and stretched my back hoping to remove the cricks and creaks from my spine, ordered yet another wake-up call and taxi to the airport, that question was a constant.
I dared not look in the mirror for the answer. I was sure to discover I had morphed into a female facsimile of The Ancient Mariner.
How did what was supposed to be two weeks and a couple days turn into almost a month? Well, I am glad you asked. I’d like to know how that happened, too.
The first invitation came from my good friends in the Gers (an area between Bordeaux and Toulouse), an area of ducks, foi gras, armanac, truffles, and brilliant wines.
The original plan was for me to stay 2 weeks and then go onto London to see some other friends and then home. It would have been 2 weeks and 3 days in London. Doable!
The plot thickens. I have three daughters. My oldest daughter and her husband and 16-year-old daughter decided to move to Barcelona for a year. They were going to be in Barcelona when I was in London. I thought how wonderful. I shall fly from London to Barcelona and help them shop and move in and do all the mother things I am trained to do. “Here! Let me do that for you.” “You really don’t want to do that, do you.?” “I think this is a better idea, don’t you?”
Well, thank goodness I have another daughter who isn’t afraid to tell it like it is. She called me after she learned I was going to fly to Barcelona. It went something like this…
“Mom, what planet are you on. You do not want to do this. She is just getting to Barcelona and she doesn’t need you to show her the way… YOUR WAY! She needs to make her own way. This is not about love mother, this is about her choices not yours.”
My reply: “Well, she didn’t say anything.”
Other daughter: “Did you give her a chance to?”
All right already. I got it. I called and told her I wasn’t going to Barcelona. Her sigh was heard around the world. There was only one problem. I had already changed my flight to fly to Barcelona and then home from Barcelona. My agent informed me to change it back again would cost me another ticket plus she couldn’t get me out of London except for another week in London, unless…unless…
Yes???? Unless what. If I flew from Dublin she could save me some money…
Dublin??? I’ve never been to Dublin. I always wanted to go to Dublin… see the Abbey Theatre… pretend to be Irish for a couple of days.
Yes! Let’s go to Dublin.
So a two-week trip suddenly got to be 3 weeks and a couple of days.
Now, I finally healed a fractured third lumbar of my spine. I knew extending my trip would give me some bumps. I thought if I was careful, I could do it. So I went for it.
I flew to Paris and then from Paris to Toulouse and my adorable friend Mary picked me up. My friends have a beautiful house but wherever I travel if I can I make it a policy to stay at a hotel… I live alone and over the oh, so many years, I have, what shall I say,… developed, alone habits and eccentricities. Just very personal preferences nothing illegal… although these days, that might be hard to prove.
So I had previously stayed in the Hotel Guilhon in this medieval walled village of Lectoure.
Thierry and Marc, the owners and dear friends from a previous stay, who greeted and treated me like their long lost Brooklyn relative. Oh, yes, born and bred in Brooklyn, and even in the Gers they heard of the place.
Their hotel is a 17th century ancient that has been brilliantly restored… only 5 rooms but each room is a decorator slice of heaven.
They serve a lovely continental breakfast with fresh fruits and croissants and brioches, boiled eggs if chosen… and for special guests from Brooklyn, Thierry would make dinner. Simple, elegant French cooking at its best. And last year I was introduced to the beautiful, inside and out, person, Pascale, who drove me everywhere and introduced me to second hand and antique shopping. Nothing like being in a place that goes back a few thousand years to discover the culture of the place you are visiting. And since Pascale had her own shop she really knew what she was talking about. Pascale, Thierry, Marc and moi… The Four Musketeers! Or, as I called them my very special French Mafia!
So what could be wrong?? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!
Except in the middle of the second week, my aching back got a little more aching… too long away from the body workers that guard my spine.
Grid your loins… that’s easy for you to say! However, at the appointed time, I flew to London… and of course, the new way for me is the wheelchair. Oh, my friends, I shall never understand anyone who can choose a wheelchair not choosing one. Afraid to admit how the apparatus ages you…. not on your life… literally as well as figuratively. Think of what you would look like after rolling your luggage through a terminal that makes a football stadium look like a puddle. No! Thank you. Give me my wheelchair and let the vanities be damned.
London was great… back to the Royal Automobile Club around the corner from Buckingham Palace. (I was terribly sorry to miss tea with the Queen, but I only had 4 days) The club is convenient and the concierges Geoffrey and Martin, extraordinary helpers, especially my Irish friend Martin with his beautiful brogue who outlined my entire program for Dublin.
But while in London, it was the meeting up with friends… you know the kind of friends I am talking about, the friends that belong to a very special club… THE WE’RE STILL HERE CLUB!
As I look through my little phone book…the crossing out of names is on every page. Of course, I don’t need a reminder of my mortality… truly at this age it circles my head like a flea or fly or on certain days a buzzing mosquito or bee. Shoo it away, my friends, just shoo those suckers away!!!!
There was a very special event with one of my friends. Sculptor extraordinaire, Helaine Blumenfeld, had a special exhibit at the Ely Cathedral, outside Cambridge …oh, the joy of ongoing creative excellence that Helaine gifts to the world! For me her work is a constant reminder of how to pursue the artistic passion of our gifs. Bravo, Helaine!
And then, it is off to Dublin. I don’t know anyone in the city… I know some of its history and its poetry and plays and novels… and that could be said to give me a sense of its people and it gives my journey an excitement for the new and unexplored of all the places I have thus far been to.
When I go to a city I have not been to before, my plan is to find a driver and car to acquaint me with the particulars of the city. I checked into my lovely hotel and requested said driver and car. And then made a quick addition to my request.
I have a hearing problem… I have great what I call “vanity hearing aids” You cannot see them… but I know about accents… and I know about the Irish accent having tried it in a couple of O’Casey plays. It’s difficult and understanding it is more difficult. So I requested someone who doesn’t have a thick brogue.
The next morning I came down to the desk and explained I was waiting for a driver to pick me up.
“He’s here.” And up came Tony…with his lovely Irish lilt… totally understandable, “Sally! I’m Tony. Welcome to Dublin.” He plunks my cheeks with a kiss on each and I knew I would have a wonderful time with Tony in Dublin!
And I did.
There are so many wonderful aspects to Dublin and of the Irish.
Having traveled a bit, I want to say that the Irish are communicators. With or without a pint in their hand they want to talk. They want to know who you are. Where you come from. Who you voted for… Oh, yes, big topic was our political situation. (TRUE EVERYWHERE I WENT!!)
For me, their political situation was a big topic. They were one of two countries that stayed neutral during World War II. That for me, considering they made nice with the Nazis, was something I wanted to know about. And a very simplistic answer was that’s how much they disliked the British. And if you know the history, even a little bit, it could explain it, but does it justify it? The jury is still out on that.
As the days dwindled down to a precious few, I was ready to go home.
(Even the Pope’s arrival in Dublin didn’t delay my departure. I tried to explain to him that next time he should have his secretary check with my secretary.)
HOME… and the extra special benefit of flying from Dublin is that it is one of the few places that has American custom agents in Dublin so that when you check through customs in Dublin you are finished. Arrival at JFK meant just getting into my wheelchair and being rolled to a waiting car to take me home.
I DID IT!
Sooo, even with the gathering fatigue and aching joints and back, was it worth it???
New faces, old faces, new countries, old countries… wonderful.
My friends, no matter what we say or do the years keep climbing… and our mission if we choose to accept it, is to learn to accommodate, adapt, and yes, slow down.
It is difficult for me because somehow I equate slow down with death.
There, I said it.
The question somewhere inside not hidden too far away from my consciousness, WHAT IF…???
After a bad bout of the flu, a fractured spine, fear of flying became fear of dying. Little did I know how important planning and traveling was going to be to my ongoing life. And that’s the thing isn’t it? Until it isn’t … it is ongoing.
Listen loud and clear… all you control freaks (even those who don’t think they are control freaks)… your due date is out of your control. And this is a good thing.
I still have some shelf life left. Hooray!
Try this to test for your own ability to plot and plan… put your right hand onto the inside wrist of your left hand. Can you feel it? You can??? Brilliant!
AS THE DAMSEL OF OLD OR MAYBE AS AN OLD DAMSEL, I HAVE BEEN BESIEGED!
We have read about it happening worldwide. People at home abed or lined up inside and outside hospitals with – I’m afraid if I say it will it come back and bite me again – THE FLU.
I come from good peasant stock. In the home where I grew up, getting sick was not an option. Being one of eight, my mother did not allow it for two reasons: time and money. She didn’t have the time or the money to cater to any illness.
Many is the time I remember being sent home from school with this or that ailment and my mother taking one look and sending me right back. And the tussle would begin. And if memory serves my mother won out more times than the school. This is all to say I had a healthy disrespect for being sick.
Probably because I have been fortunate in avoiding the usual colds and flu until….. the end of December… All I can tell you, my friends, is that January is a complete blur. I think I was around for it. I just don’t have the specifics.
And bugs and viruses (Are they twins or different species? Not sure.) have no respect for people… infants to seniors, rich and poor. In today’s world when it comes to infection we are one sneezing, coughing, fevered, unhappy family. If being part of the global family means sharing our bugs and illnesses, I am going to opt for hermithood.
If it sounds like I am bitching…you got that right. Phew! Glad that’s done!
Now let me get to the gratitude because it is that gratitude that began the healing process. I am firmly convinced that my bitchy attitude made the healing harder. Once I realized self-pity and the ever-present judgment and blame was ruling my consciousness, I surrendered. I think it is amazing that no one called me on my negativity. In recovery, all I got was support and love.
I shall remember, my dear friends, that when a friend or loved one is not feeling well, give them the “ah-ha, oh, yes, I understand. It must feel terrible. Is there anything I can do for you.” And mean it. Because, in fact, that verbal caring goes a long way in recovery.
Yes, my mother’s need for us to not be ill was based on time and money. Time is certainly a factor in getting well. It took me over a month and I am still working on it. And I am not negating money. No, it is essential to recovery. But it isn’t the ultimate.
I would like to share with all those “billionaires” who think that by buying votes they can buy their health. I am here to tell you that can only happen if it comes wrapped in LOVE.
To all my friends and family, Thank You for your time and money, but mostly thank you for healing me with your love and kindnesses which cannot be bought.
Last weekend we got our first snow of the season in the Berkshires. I was not happy. I did not want the first, second or any snow of the season. I was having a family party. Relatives were coming from near and mostly far to attend.
As the snow blew in, I did what I am accustomed to doing… I tried to control the storm. I held my hands up to the sky and tried to force Mother Nature to take her bounty back. She had the last laugh as she dumped five more inches on the town.
Karen and Bill, who had arrived before the storm began, and my friend Cindy watched as I tried to control the uncontrollable. Waving my hands and I shouted to the wind, “BAH! HUMBUG!” (which is also the name of an exterminating service on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills)
When my tirade had no effect, I took a pause and looked around me.
Here I was in a winter wonderland – the yard was decorated – a Mr. and Mrs. Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer (his red nose winking and blinking, her direct from the beauty salon with curly shining hair ); Poinsettias, holly, a boxwood tree, greens, winterberry sprouting from places throughout the yard and on the porch. When the snow hit the lights, they sparkled like diamonds.
Suddenly I realized how blessed I am. The real joy was being with dear friends who also
happen to be relatives. Like the air going out of a balloon my ego settled. Yet again, it was not going to be “my will be done”. I’m telling you guys it was only when I let go that I was able to see the real beauty and feel the gratitude. All of us booted, gloved, donned hats and ran out to play in the falling snow.
I was an octogenarian kid. If you don’t believe me, watch this…
Santa Sally and her merry elves,Karen, Bill, and Cindy in a Winter Wonderland
I was wondering… if I can “let go” of what I can’t control, like the storm, like what children or grandchildren or friends or relatives wear or don’t wear and what utensils they use while eating (hopefully they will use something) and what color hair and body piercings and political or nonpolitical affiliations… I am not saying I can… but IF I can… I think I might have a Happier New Year.
On Sunday, December 3rd, at Storrowton Village in Springfield, Massachusetts, I shall perform a holiday reading from Charles Dickens’, The Christmas Carol as part of their annual Yuletide Festivities. I have chosen to read the chapter, The Ghost of Christmas Past.
Did someone just ask why I chose this chapter? Thank you. I was hoping someone would.
This is not to say I have anything against the present. I don’t. The present is filled with wonders. Sitting at my computer composing this missile…absolutely marvelous.
The wonder that I can put thought to page makes the present brilliant. In the present I am clothed, fed and sheltered. Fantastic!
So why not choose The Ghost of Christmas Present? Well, honey-bun, because I would have to wait until Christmas. But most of all because at this stage of my life, thoughts about Christmas from my past waft in and out of my present and I remember.
What a sentence. I remember.
Oh, yes, how great is that. In the present, I put one foot in front of another. In the past, I sit back and I remember. And this is what I remember…
A very long, long, time ago, I grew up in Boro Park, Brooklyn. It was a very mixed neighborhood. There were Christmas lights on one house and next door there were Chanukah candles.
I was raised in the Jewish faith. My family celebrated Christmas and Chanukah. Do not ask me why. I do not know. When I was younger, I thought everyone celebrated everything. Why not? I wanted to be on whatever line there was that was giving out the presents. Wouldn’t you?
And then, one year, I received a rude awakening. I think I was in 6th or 7th grade. Before the holiday school break, the class Christmas tree was raffled off. I won! I was so excited.
I remember pulling the tree behind me from school all the way to my house. I ran up the stairs. Yelling for my mother to come and see what I had won. I dragged the tree into the living room. I should have known something was wrong. My mother was sitting in a chair. My mother never sat down in any chair. I was the seventh of eight and believe me when I tell you I never saw my mother sitting down…including meal times.
But there she was sitting in a chair in the living room. Our Rabbi sat in another chair.
That was the year I discovered Jews don’t have Christmas trees. To save face, my mother asked me to throw the tree into the garbage. Heartbroken, I did as she asked. The Rabbi left.
My mother went out to the garbage and rescued the tree. Brought it back into the house and into the living room. I was loaded down with many of the mixed messages parents impart to their children. This was one mixed message that did not add to my growing list of neurotic complexes.
Along with so many of my memories of Christmas past, this one is favorite. It is right next to the vision I have of Christmas mornings…
On the staircase, all eight of us lined up one behind the other, according to age, the youngest first waiting for Santa to call us onto his lap to take us to our nest of gifts.
Santa Claus, aka my father, 6 foot 2 inches tall (how did he make it down the chimney!?) dressed with a Santa mask that had seen better days, and a gorgeous blue silk embroidered Chinese kimono… did I say CHINESE kimono?… I did say CHINESE kimono. That was his Santa Suit.
Did I believe this 6-foot 2-inch kimonoed vision was Santa Claus? You bet I did! Like I said before if he was the keeper of my presents, I was a believer.
In the present and the approaching season to be jolly, I want to tell you that the world of possibilities still exists for me. Though, a 6-foot 2-inch kimonoed Santa might strain my credulity. But what is a belief about if it is not about being tested?
I am not embarrassed to admit it. I wanted to make the trip, but I didn’t want to make the trip. How could I not want to travel? I have always wanted to travel and I always have. As often possible and to destinations around the world. I got so good at it that I could actually make a trip with just a carry-on.
Why did this opportunity to travel to France and England feel like I was being asked to climb the Matterhorn in heels? I broke through an age barrier. I was over 80 and I was going off on my own. That’s what happened.
Oh, sure, I would be meeting with friends and family. But basically, I was going on my own. I would not have a group identification number. No one would be handling my baggage… and my friends, gone are the days when I could travel with just a carry-on. I have to make room for all possibilities and my exercising and stretching equipment.
Yes, age definitely demanded a different kind of attention to the details of travel. Is this what Bette Davis meant when she said, “Growing old is not for sissies”?
Let’s get one thing clear. I want to grow old. I want to grow very old. I want to be the oldest old lady on the planet. But I was having difficulty with that wish and desire coming together with the reality of what I could and couldn’t do.
Let me tell you what always got me into trouble. For too long my bywords were, “I COULD DO THAT”. And every time I did do that which I thought I could do and couldn’t, I paid the price. Here’s how I think… there are no rewards or punishments, only consequences. Well, my consequences forced me into a new set of bywords, “I USED TO DO THAT”.
If I took this trip, would I be able to “keep up” and not “try to keep up”, or pretend I was still 60 and could climb and leap over rivers and streams? The fear and the challenge were palpable.
Well, my friends… I did it!
I left on August 17th, traveled with family to southern France, to see the most wonderful exhibit, Annie Leibovitz: The Early Years: 1970-1983 at the Luma Arles. It is a brilliant exhibit offering the early years of her work, once more proving she is the Cassandra of photography.
While there, the sights and sounds of Provence and the Camargue and their crazy version of bull fights. Here’s a fun video showing what the bulls think of all this…
It was in Arles as I was walking in the town that I realized how good I felt. I wasn’t afraid of what might happen. I was thrilled with what was happening. I landed. And I landed on both feet and they were carrying me to new places and new peoples. I was challenged each day by deciding what I could or couldn’t do… and after a very short while it became easier and easier to know, “I can do this” or “I cannot do that”. Freedom, my friends. New found freedom. A different kind of freedom. Hooray!
It was then onto my friends in Gascony, Mary and Barry, who bought a derelict chicken house 30 years ago and turned it into a provincial French/English country house and something I think Eleanor of Aquitaine and Henry II would approve (after all this is the part of France that did belong to England for many years).
From there I journeyed into the small medieval fortified village of Lectoure (this area is part of the 100 years war and so many other wars) where I met my new best friends, Thierry and Marc who own a fantastic hotel, L’Hôtel Particulier Guilhon, in which my room belonged in two different centuries, one of the past…
and one of the future…
Through them, I met another new best friend, Pascale, who gives new meaning to eclectic vintage clothing… no one does chic like the French.
For me, the best reasons to travel belong to the cultures you breathe and the people you meet. And once I decided that it was all right to not do it all… to do what I could do… it all fell into place.
I left France full of canard (duck), cream, butter, pate (we drank it all day), and of course, le pain (bread)… not to say my insides didn’t beg for relief but once I arrived in London and could eat a simple sandwich and some unadorned meats and chicken, all was well.
In London, I met up with friends, whom I had met when my over 50-year-old daughters were 7, 9, and 11.
And the coup de grace was visiting my gifted friend Helaine Blumenfeld and her husband Yorick (doesn’t look anything like Hamlet’s friend) at their home in Grantchester (love the series), en route stopping to see her brilliant sculpture in Canary Wharf in London.
I must say by the time I came to London just knowing I was 3 days away from flying home, I was ready.
Yes, growing old may not be for sissies… but growing old has its advantages… list your own… because believe me, those advantages are to be celebrated.
And with all that I have enumerated in this testament of aging travel… I leave you with the best advantage of the whole trip.
ORDER A WHEELCHAIR… and if the pusher is cute… ENJOY!!!!!
Lately I have noticed a “blue” state of mind. I have always known I was susceptible. Hey, I even cry at supermarket openings.
I know much of what causes me to be blue are all the electronics… for the most part the computer and the cell. Land lines are almost obsolete so I don’t count them.
Well, I don’t know about you, but I can’t turn any of them on without being bombarded by explosive negativity. Words and phrases like EMERGENCY, URGENT, DISASTER, IT’S OVER, WE ARE FINISHED… pound my susceptible nature and I find myself thinking about building a bomb shelter like they did in the ‘50’s. The worst thing about this happening is that I don’t even recognize how profoundly I am being affected by all this negativity. So, how did I discover that I was depressed, blue, anxious and negatively affected?
I went to a high school music concert.
All right, I shall admit it wasn’t an ordinary high school. It was the Interlochen Arts Academy in the woods of Interlochen, Michigan. A school well known for its music program, as well as for its dance, drama and art programs.
The siren call for me was my granddaughter, Kiri. Kiri is a fine French Horn player and she is graduating the high school this May and this past weekend was a weekend of final concerts. I had to puddle hop to get there, which if I was only a little depressed before getting on those tin cans called planes sunk me even lower.
The first concert was Friday night and I watched and heard over an hundred young musicians play some very difficult music and fill the concert hall with such a gift of passion and talent…straight from the Bible my friends it was a “…joyful noise.”
After the concert I noticed a spring in my step that wasn’t there before.
The six horns she plays and studies with gave their concert Saturday afternoon. One after the other played their solos and some horn concertos. The spring in my step was by now almost a leap. Who says Nanas can’t jump!
Sunday was the piece de resistence. Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. Combining the Traverse City Symphony with the Interlochen Choir, 100 musicians and 100 choristers. Climaxing with the last movement of the Symphony, Ode To Joy, the rafters of the concert hall shook not just from the instruments and the chorus but from the emotions the music provoked from the audience as we followed every note in rapture, leading to a thousand people standing and screaming bravo, stamping their feet. And suddenly the classical music hall morphed into a rock concert with music by Beethoven.
Now I didn’t spring, I didn’t leap, I didn’t jump, I flew out of the hall. And that’s when I discovered I had been depressed. And I wasn’t anymore.
And that lift came from high school students disciplined and enthralled by what they do .
OK SJ, get with the program. Yes, I can either go back to my electronic mood swinging instruments (computer, cell) which carries with it so much negativity or I can find my own Ode To Joy.
Hey, guys, if 14 to 18 year olds can give such joy and pleasure and here is the most important word, HOPE, then THIS is my antidote for the blues.
Yes! I am still recovering. No! I am not giving up.
How do I become part of a grass roots movement to help effect a positive change? ‘Tis a conundrum! Or I should say it was a conundrum.
Two days ago I attended a circle conversation with Annie Leibovitz and Gloria Steinem and a hundred other women, including my own daughter. Below you will read the takeaway from each of us.
What is a circle conversation? Exactly what it sounds like.
People, and in this case, people being mostly women, sat in a circle, in the Women’s Building in NYC, formerly Bayview Correctional Prison for Women. Gloria Steinem and the NoVo Foundation in collaboration with the Goren Group are establishing this building as a place for women’s rights groups, a performance space, space for service providers for all and the community, workshops to help change and charge your batteries. The purpose is to create a world free from violence, poverty and injustice.
Is this just another pie in the sky scheme? I don’t think so.
As we sat in this circle, surrounded by Annie Leibovitz’s brilliant new Pop-Up Show, WOMEN: NEW PORTRAITS, all I could think was, what a match – the venue, the portraits, Annie, Gloria, over one hundred women of every ethnicity and color and class, including some graduates of the prison.
And what were we all seeking? Solace, yes! But answers, too. I am never far away from, “Just tell me what to do and I’ll do it”.
Indefatigable Gloria stood for over two hours taking questions and telling so clearly what this circle conversation was for.
She repeated it enough that I think I may have gotten it! She had no answers for anyone. How’s that for a new thought. Instead, she asked us to stop looking up. Good suggestion. Because if you look up in NYC, sure as shooting’ someone will run over you (car, bus, bike). I think what she meant is, the answer isn’t up or out, it’s inside.
If I give it time and consideration, I will know what it is I have to do to make life better. Remember, in a plane, you have to put the oxygen mask on yourself first if you are going to help anyone.
She invited us to be part of the problem, but also part of the solution.
Oops, did I forget to tell you what the circle was all about? She reminded us the circle goes back to our roots… in the cave, in the tent, in a circle, to share our stories… to connect.
My friends, my time with Annie (OMG what a show!) and Gloria and my new best one hundred friends, that’s what I came back with… that is my grass roots. Being with each other… not texting, not emailing, not calling, but finding the time the place (The Women’s Building is just one example) to meet with each other. To agree and disagree, yes, but to connect personally. Shake a hand, a little kiss, a big hug, an arm around my shoulder. We all need it. And if you don’t, then come together anyway… someone is bound to cook something good.
Two fabulous women called on all fabulous women (and never forget we are all fabulous!) to do a little world cleaning. Honestly, if we do it together, it won’t take that long. Promise!!!
If only I had let her get a word in, it would have been perfect!
Love ~ Sally-Jane
Annie Leibovitz’s “Women: New Portraits” exhibit is showing from November 18 – December 11, 2016, at the Former Bayview Correctional Facility, 550 West 20th Street (between 10th and West Streets), Saturday – Wednesday 10 am – 7 pm; Thursday and Friday 10 am – 8 pm. It is open to the public free of charge, courtesy of the exhibit’s sponsor UBS.
On art and hope and endurance ~ By Pamela Schwartz
I had the privilege of attending photographer Annie Leibovitz’s opening of her photo exhibit in New York City titled “Women: New Portraits.” The exhibit is in the prison gymnasium of the former Bayview Correctional Facility, a women’s prison until just 4 years ago, which is now on its way to becoming a Women’s Building of New York City. We shared the space with former inmates who attended as guests. Immediately inspiring.
And there was more: Annie partnered with Gloria Steinem in this 10 city, 3 continent tour, and the opening events include a “talking circle,” or opportunity to have a free-wheeling conversation. This one, occurring just a week after the election, kept returning to the question of where to from here.
The discussion was good. The words from the former inmates were powerful. But what inspires me to write are Gloria’s closing words. I want everyone to hear them.
So I paraphrase liberally:
This difficult moment is actually a reflection of our progress. Gloria used to be one of 12 women screaming from the back of the room. Now Hillary will win the popular vote by close to 2 million votes. For women (and people of color and LGBTQ), possibilities are now immeasurably (and measurably) greater. That is a whole lot of progress.
She continued: Trump’s candidacy and now near presidency has given permission to a small but terrifying portion of our population who are haters of immigrants, people of color, gays and lesbians, women, people with disabilities, all who are defined as “other” from those who hate. This scares us a lot. To help manage the fear, Gloria offered an analogy:
In a domestic abuse situation, the most dangerous time is when the victim is at the threshold of leaving the abuser. The abuser senses the loss of control and lashes out in a desperate attempt to regain it. For the haters in our midst, we as a nation are leaving them. Our country’s color and cultures have changed and will keep changing. There is fear and resistance in response, which also makes for real danger. We must be extremely vigilant and protective as the change continues.
And to complete the analogy with vigilance in tow: next up is newfound freedom. And safety.
I love that vision for the hope it contains, the endurance it inspires.
Let us cultivate leaders who represent our multi-cultural and multi-gender reality – our freedom embodied – and couple that with the populist message that resonated for millions of Bernie Sanders’ (and Trump) supporters.
Perhaps then we can reach the vast number of voters who seek the change they deserve in a nation they can rightfully call their own.
We are on our way. It is scary and deeply promising all at the same time.
Both of these truths require the same thing: action. And that action is happening every day, everywhere, by millions.
As Gloria also said, protest matters. As we show up, determined to protect each other and the ideals on which this country was founded, we can actually afford to feel hopeful and optimistic. We are on the path to greater freedom.
Thank you, Annie Leibovitz, for bringing us the visceral power of women.
Thank you, Gloria Steinem, for providing us the living history that strengthens all of our faith and resolve to make the change that lies ahead.
Annie Leibovitz’s “Women: New Portraits” exhibit is showing from November 18 – December 11, 2016, at the Former Bayview Correctional Facility, 550 West 20th Street (between 10th and West Streets), Saturday – Wednesday 10 am – 7 pm; Thursday and Friday 10 am – 8 pm. It is open to the public free of charge, courtesy of the exhibit’s sponsor UBS.