A Fragile Hope: Dear Grandkids

 As a writer, I have felt the pull to put down on paper what 2020 was like for me.  Just as you figure out your grandparents were in high school during the depression, your parents married during World War II or your instructor served in Vietnam, the year 2020 has been, seminal. Pivotal.  A before and after time point, like 9/11 or the Berlin Wall falling.  

As a person I have not felt any pull to write about this pandemic.  This election year full of vitriol and brokenness, the social justice movements.  I'm weary of the turmoil.  The idea of thinking even more about it for hours and hours to draft one of my blog posts, has been anathema to my peace of mind.  But this good old blog is where I write for sanity, and today, with fragile hope, I write. 

Here's why: my grandchildren.  I know I should be thinking of my adorable little grandson Ari who is five months old now when I write.  But what has been pecking away at my conscious for months now, is what I can do, one person, for my grandchildren when they are my age -- 57.  When I will be long gone, and we won't be discussing the sunshine (finally) or the apples on the table (so tart) or the soft, soft blanket he likes to snuggle into. No, this post is in hopes they will all look back and know that I did all within my power to do the right thing.  

The Pandemic

I have tried to educate myself and really listen to the science.  It changes regularly like all science does, as we learn more and more about Covid-19.  I have tried to enjoy life rather than complain.  I can still go for a hike, enjoy the color in the trees, kayak in my lake, talk to friends and family by phone, work full-time, binge-watch television series like The West Wing and Great British Baking Show, order a new footstool, try a new variety of pears, and on.  So many people are focusing on what they can't do during the pandemic and I find it wearying to listen to, and boring frankly.  I will need to rewrite this so I don't sound  holier-than-thou, but I'm tired of hearing about how hard it is to put that cotton face mask on to go inside and pay for your gas.  How lonely people are now that they can not shop the sales at Charlotte Russe and have coffee afterwards (you can, you just have to be creative).  

There are parts that are hard, but a lot of them would be hard without the Coronovirus pandemic in our time.  A family member and a friend's daughter both battling cancer.  To do this with hospitals locked down and visitors not allowed, seems like an unfairness I'm not happy about at all.  One daughter's last year of college, feels like we should be and would be in a much more celebratory mood if it weren't the pandemic.  The college campuses are all struggling to stay afloat and give an education, but not add to the death toll.  It isn't the college students so much at risk, but the instructors and the parents if they go home to visit on a weekend.  Another daughter teaching 4th grade.  All staff and students wear masks and stay six feet apart.  It is better than the spring with no school at all, but it is hard to communicate emotion and energy with most of your face covered.  It is very, very different.  And the constant prayer, and hope, is that a cure will be discovered, a vaccine will be developed, and Covid-19 will be in those 4th graders' memories as a very odd couple of years that they will tell their grandchildren about.  That feels like a reasonable hope. 

Dear Ari when you are 57 and your cousins: here is life in a pandemic.  I work from home now, using my laptop in different rooms of the house to login to virtual meetings from about 7am to 5pm each day. I work in the healthcare industry, so Coronovirus affects not just my free time, but my work time at least 50% with federal laws changing, our hospitals opening or closing, filling or emptying. When I go to the grocery store I wear a cloth mask.  I have about a dozen now of different styles and fabrics, and some defogging spray for my glasses.  I don't visit your Great-Grandma and Grandpa Evans very often, but their two kids, Cathy and Chuck do every week.  Pretty much the grocery store is the main outing I experience besides your house in Congerville occasionally, and every once in a while Target for sanity, also with a mask.  We get pizza delivered, drive-thru or pick up at restaurants, and don't eat inside. It is basically not that hard, for us, as we have an income, insurance, and good health so far.  I don't know how bad it will get before the end, but on this day we have lost 234,534 of our dear Americans to Covid-19.  In the world 1.2 million people have died. 

The 2020 Election

I belong to many facebook groups such as "Christians for Biden/Harris", "Christians Against Trump", "Liberal Christian", "Nasty Lady" and others.  But on my personal facebook page I've been excruciatingly restrained about the election and all it means to me.  To me, it means we are chosing between eliminating evil and embracing freedom.  I feel very deeply that it isn't the Republican party that is a problem (your Grandpa Chuck has occasionally voted Republican) but D. Trump, the current president, who worships only himself, with no regard for the American people, precious freedom, or Christian values.  He is a bad, bad man.  

At the same time, I have family and friends who believe the opposite.  Because I care about them, I have chosen not to post about politics in recent months.  Not to comment on any Trump fan's posts,  not to argue, and not to debate.  I reached a very dark point in August where I felt that Trump was going to somehow brainwash America into four more years, and then, I got hope. 

Hope is fragile.  It is something I grasp like a brief fragrance on the wind.  It is something I have consciously, ploddingly, forced myself to feel.  Hope instead of hatred.  Hope instead of despair.  Hope instead of anger.  It has been hard.  But there was a point where I realized that both sides of the political debate were feeding off of their own confident hate, at the risk of everything.  Misery loves company as they say.  I decided a positive attitude was the only thing that might get us back on track, and so I started my #90DaysofHope leading up to the election in two days.  I guess I'm on day 88 today.  I have refrained from sarcasm (so hard for me) and negativity, complaints, or venting -- a favorite of mine by the way, and I'm very, very good at it too, grandkids. I've tried to post only stories of restoration, beauty, comedy or progress.  No politics, no anti-Trump or pro-Biden or pro-BLM or anything divisive.  

And now, at two days before the election, I feel I must write something while I do still have hope.  I know the election could go either way, and I'll find my way regardless of its outcome, but I want to write to my grandkids from a place of hope. 

Dear Ari and cousins when you are 57: I am going to be an election judge on Tuesday, which means 15 hours of greeting voters to a polling place.  Because I don't want you, my grandkids to think that their grandmother didn't do everything in her power to keep freedom alive.  I've prayed.  I've studied.  I've searched for hopeful signs.  I've also been worried at times, and buried my head in books or video games or bad movies.  I'm not perfect by any stretch.  But I am thinking of you, grandkids, as I donated money to every senate race that is up for turning blue on the last six paydays.  I'm thinking of you when I put the Biden/Harris sign in my yard even though on that day this past summer I was sure some alt-righter would come in the night to deface it or steal it.  I was wrong.  I admit it.  It still stands there expressing my views.  I've never put a presidential sign in my yard as I was raised to think that like how much you make, how you vote is your own private business.  That is how strongly I feel this year is different.  

The world will face more disasters and illnesses and forest fires and derechos, and hope is your only hope.  Try to make people smile.  Try not to alienate others. And try to represent hope, because hope is fragile inside us, but it is the only thing that will bring happiness, contentment, or victory.  And I've had two bald eagles who landed on our lake on the third day of the Democratic convention, when I began to feel a positive wave out there.  I named them Biden and Harris and I've seen them almost every day since.  I never dreamed they'd stay this long, all the way to election day.  For me it is my sign from God that whatever happens, there is hope to hold on to. 

Love,

Grandma Toni House Evans

November 1, 2020, two days before the election. 

(Likely this one was Biden, based on the white hair)

How We've Stayed Married 31 years, 8 months, 18 days (so far)

1982 (I think)

I remember when I got married my brother had already celebrated his 10^th anniversary and I thought, “Oh my God, they are soooo old.”  And here I am heading towards a 32^nd anniversary in May.  Married much longer than I lived at home.  I hope someday to look back at year 32 and think “We were only half-way there.  Such innocents!”

With Valentine’s Day tomorrow, my blog brain has been wanting to touch on ‘Secret to a happy marriage’.  Except happy is such a namby pamby word.  Secret to a long marriage?  Secret to a lasting marriage? 

First, the individuals are what make the difference.   Obviously they have to be strong, caring and respect one another.  

Second, is expectations. If we both had super high expectations, all the time, expecting perfect meals, no gray hairs, constant fun, constant loving attitudes, constant agreement, we would have given up long ago.  The two individuals have to recognize imperfections as valuable, and just, not mind.  Get over it.  In my younger years I minded a lot more that my life wasn't like the pictures in my Goodhousekeeping magazine.  Let it go.  

Third, agree to disagree. If we had to have constant agreement we wouldn’t have gotten married.  We are as different as two people can be in politics, activity level, television show selection, hobbies, you name it.  We rarely agree  and when we do we both pull our heads back and look at each other in amazement.  But we figured out long ago that it is OK to not agree on stuff.  It is ok.  My kids would tell you we argue about everything.  I’m sure life would be easier if we didn’t.  But we have learned over the years, how to not agree. 

This post could be ten times as long if I was to mention everything that makes our marriage work.  We’ve been in counseling,  done the requisite date nights, certainly have weathered ups and downs and don’t expect those to end. And though we do have fun, love each other, and I do cover my grays lol, these things aren’t the key element.

When I narrow my thinking down to the one thing I would say has kept us rolling merrily along, it is very simple: Doing something nice for your spouse when they aren’t expecting it.  Yes there are beard hairs in the sink that gross me out, yes he ate the last piece of fried chicken, yes he just made a crack about my reading too much.  But then he brings me a cup of coffee (after making it, with whole beans) without making a big deal of it, or he insists on a hug when I'm mad, or he scrapes the snow off my car in the parking lot at work and warms it up without telling me.  Maybe I take the dog out when it is his turn, or my willingness to offer to rub his shoulders, because I know they hurt, even though I still feel grumpy.   It isn’t big stuff that is the glue.  It is the simple things that make you feel worthy.  Makes you feel like this person, unlike most of the cold hard world, is looking out for you. They are looking out for you even though they don't have to.  And when they surprise you with kindness, all the crap that is in your craw evaporates, and you move on for another few days, feeling pretty good.  Those days turn into years.  Perhaps that isn’t the romantic ending you were expecting, but if you need this information, it is what I have to offer.  In my marriage, it is being surprised by kindnesses that give our relationship life.

2014

  

Sanity escapes me

Today I love the title of my blog. 

A lot has happened in the last 9 days since I last posted.

I sort of realized I wasn't so much depressed as just that life kind of sucks right now.  Good to know. 

I reached a level of stress that went beyond my reserves, beyond, those backup storage reserves, and entered damaging to my health territory.  None of my usual techniques has fixed it.

I fell and cracked my head hard on the cement walk in front of my house.  I could have died.  Like my neighbor Ray did.  Like other people do.  Walking to the car. Dead.  So that happened.  So far? Still alive.

We sold our flip house, which until the burden leaves you, you don't realize how it has been there waiting, while you soldier on, refusing to give in to worry and stress.  It is a huge relief, but now all the worry I had bottled up is released.

A low level anxiety exists for a writing day I'm going to in December, with my idol author, and it is just giving me mild yet continuous waves of insecurity and ever stronger feelings that my stupid idea of being a fiction writer is so so ridunkulous.  Labeling what I'm  not good at is so easy.

I don't want to waste time here on my work stress.  Let's just sum it up this way: my team went from 14 to 8 in the last  2 months time.  We are still attempting to carry on work as usual down 40% of our FTEs. One of those losses was to unexpected, young death.  Two left for career reasons, and three were 'downsized' out of the blue. 

It is surely more than the sum of these few items that has my typical solid and ready attitude to battle any crisis in the toilet.  Instead I feel like I'm made of tissue paper.

But wait, there is good news.

So last night I curled up in bed with my ear buds and my super-sized box of Nutty bars and watched the most depressing movie, and it left me feeling so much better.  It is 'Cake' and was (unlike its title) about a woman with chronic, severe pain. Twenty-four-seven.  I don't know how I ended up with it, as I was looking for a 'feel good, stress-relieving' kind of movie.  After this I watched a really bad tv Christmas romance. 

But it made me realize for the 147th time that people have it worse than me.  That most of those things I listed above are actually GOOD, like really good things, I'm just in a fragile state.

I also used technology to my advantage, found a cool meditation app (more another day), read my bible, called in to work today which in and of itself is a luxury that I'm sure 98% of the world's population can't afford to do.  But while in the shower just now, a light shown from above and hit my palms. (I was trying to be in the moment)  Through the soft-focus of the water hitting my palms I had a major realization:  "The palms of my hands don't look any older than they did in high school."

Wow.  Life-changing that?  Yes.  I don't even worry about aging much, wrinkles, spots, sags.  But something in me said, 'There is a silver lining moment.  You should share.'  So I'm sharing.  And I'm taking it a step further.  I'm going to try to find as many silver-lining moments as I can every day between now and Thanksgiving which happens to be a month from today.  I promise it won't be every day, I'm too ditzy to remember. 

Learn by teaching?  Feel better by making others feel better?  Laugh at yourself?  I'm sure those are all on posters somewhere.

p.s. friends who got this far, feel free to share one of your silver lining moments as all writing is basically stealing being inspired by others.

Stress at work? Perspective.

I always declare in planning, in job interviews, when discussing with others, that I like/love change.  I hate stagnancy.  I hate boredom.  I don't use the 'H' word lightly. I want to help manage change, think of great changes, implement change, and never do the same thing twice.  But I have reached a level of change to the hundredth power at work that is (no longer) bordering on chaos, and is no longer feeding my desire for variety or challenge.  It feels more like I'm in a blender with dull blades, and somebody is pushing down the 'chop' button every morning. And then again every five minutes.

For 20 years in IT, I've marveled at the accuracy of the Dilbert cartoon.  I mean we have good days and we have bad days, but a lot lot lot of days resemble this now classic cartoon.  You are telling someone why they need to care about something.  Because if not, the company might fail or a person could suffer, and you are wondering for the ten thousandth time, why you are always the one trying to get everyone to act responsible.  Why are you expending twice the effort trying once again not to do their job for them? But I only feel this way when I am self-centered, which is only 'most' of the time, thanks be to God.

I know I sound jaded, and in actuality, I am 100% positive and 100% cynical and 100% creative and 100% bored, it just all depends on the day at work.  Most days I see no reason to be negative.  Who wins there?  Who benefits?  Even I don't win, so why do it?  Counteracting that is my sarcasm level,  set somewhere around sophomore year of high school to a 96 out of 100.  I don't know where it came from, but when that personality takes over, you are going to laugh.  There are so many jokes out there about how lucky I am that I amuse myself, and I do feel lucky.  So many times, in an elevator or walking to my car I will just start laughing out loud, because of a thought in my head.  I amuse myself.  I try not to share things that tear a person down, but I don't always win that battle.  But I ask for forgiveness and move on to the second hour of my day :)

So, if 39-year-old women are dying of cancer this week, and houses are burning, and college kids are getting shot, and other people are laid off work, why am I complaining about stress at my job?  I mean, I'm lucky to be alive, have a house, have healthy kids and have a job. 

Telling myself this helps, it does.  For a while. For some problems.  But it doesn't fix anything broken.  It just helps you get through it.  No matter how positive and strong and capable you feel going in in the morning, if you spend the day in a blender,  you are going to come out rumpled, disoriented, and feeling pissed off at yourself for letting any of it get to you.  We work to live, we don't live to work, right?  Yet work causes such impact on sanity and spirit.

The only answer I have is quantity. We spend so much of our lives at work.  Anyone working full-time is spending say 50 hours a week if you count lunch and breaks and overtime.  Plus at least an hour per day gearing up for work (i.e. putting on mascara) and gearing down from work, so that's 55 hrs.  I happen to be on-call and travel at times and work from home here and there.  With 32 waking hours on the weekends plus 25 waking hours through the week, that equals 57 hours of non-work vs 55 hours of work.  So a minimum of 50% of my waking hours are spent at work. 

Now you might have a friendship, a marriage, a church-life, a child, all things that fit into that 57 hours.  You might read the bible, or watch TED talks, or do yoga at sunrise, but it ALL fits into that 57 hours.  Each thing is a piece of the puzzle.  WORK is work.  It is one big chunk compared to the littles.  It is like the wedding cake next to the cupcakes.  There is no hiding that wedding cake behind a cupcake--it is not just easy to see, it is impossible to miss.   Imagine, if you spent 55 hours per week...hmmm...I don't know....sitting in your car.  Your car is your life 55 hours per week.  You clean it, you polish it, you buff it, you organize it, you find the best radio station and then you do it all over again the next week, and the next, until years pass.  Imagine telling yourself not to allow that car-time to affect the rest of your life.  To put it aside the minute you get home and not dwell on it,  not think about it, not dread it or look forward to it, but to compartmentalize and leave it behind. 

OK, let's say that is a dumb example, how about 55 hours per week shopping?  You are a professional shopper and you are told to visit every retail establishment in a 20 mile radius, and shop.  You might take on the challenge, you might enjoy it, you might have strategies and like me, look for beauty in the parking lot or the historical quotes on the wall or the view from below.  You might be given adorable shopping bags for your birthday and end up with every credit card ever seen, but eventually, no matter how professionally you take this role, no matter how much you like shopping, 55 hours a week is going to get old.  And after five weeks or five months, you are going to hate it at the worst, and lose your perspective at the very least.  What can you do not to hate doing the same thing every day?  Working the same place?

Well, for one you can not work the same place forever.  Most IT people move about ever 24 months to a new company to learn something new or try a different role. 

Or, you can stop working, go on welfare, and never have any money to spend. 

Or you can make friends at work, goof off, and party all the time the boss isn't around (even 55 hours per week of fun gets old I'm sure).

Which leaves, figure out someway to stay sane amid sameness, steady stress, personality conflicts, bickering over mouse pads or locked doors or wet floors.  Stay sane, make a difference, not lose your sense-of-humor.  Try to contribute towards something in case you die long before retirement.  Try to make a difference.  It doesn't work for me, to say 'its just a job it will be over in 8 hours' because I can not swallow spending 8 hours per day not making a difference.  If I'm not making a difference, I want to be creative, if I'm not being creative, I want to be learning or problem-solving or laughing.  These four itsy-bitsy things are all I need from my career:  purpose, creativity, learning and laughing.  Is that too much to ask?  I know, you want money too.  On a good week, I make sure those four things happen.  I mean, I laugh every day, period.  The other three are goals.  But even so, I am stressed at work.

Here are my coping mechanisms for stress, not recommended by any sane therapist or wise person, in no particular order:
1. chocolate--fast and cheap and it works every time for a few minutes.
2. books--far, far away within minutes of picking one up.
3. nature--easier to forget about IP addresses and Medicare rulings when looking at leaves, rocks, and water.
4. pinterest--this really is my current therapist. I know, you're embarrassed for me.  I search for funny quotes.  Or I search for cottages by water.  Or I search for my next hair color.  It is escapism like a women's magazine custom-designed for me, by me.  Free, can last 90 seconds or 90 minutes.
5. fellowship-- this is not my first thought, I'm an introvert, but whenever I do step out and force myself to 'people', I always come home glad I went.  I hear a story or a bit of gossip, or a sliver of news that enriches my life and makes me gain perspective.
6. volunteering -- any time you can forget about your own perfectly imperfect life and concentrate on another-- run, don't walk.  It works every single time.

All of these basically are ways to escape.  Once I escape, I gain perspective.  Perspective allows me to remember all the truth. It allows me to forget my ego which is obsessed with the work day, and then I can actually participate in something else.  Whether it be read the bible, scrub the kitchen sink, or be a car-pooling mom again, it is perspective that allows me to see clearly.

p.s. here is a picture from an interesting perspective I took last weekend.

Dog Days of Summer

August is one of my least favorite times of year, also known in my journaling as "Limbo-land". Limboland to a controlling type such as myself provides me with a single-minded goal: to escape, and return to 'Pretending to have control' land.

Even when I was seven or eight years old, I didn't like August. The wading pool was limp, and the water tepid. The toads and tadpoles and lightening bugs had lost their zing weeks earlier. We'd played tag and ridden bikes one too many times, and everyone was blah-ed out. I'd ring on doorbells and instead of "Mom, can I play with Toni?" I'd get glazed eyes, a lifted lip, and "It's kinda hot out, isn't it?" The hours ticked by as slowly as the brownish grass grew. The days were survived with games of tic tac toe in a cool-ish garage or resorting to the basement to watch my mother iron shirts.

As an adult, and a mother, August has that same flavor, of Sunday evenings, of a large, slightly unpleasant task looming ahead. The back-to-school weeks. Now, I love school supplies as much as the next person, but when forced to spend half my grocery money for the week on highly priced dry erase markers or calculators or sports fees, I'm grouchy. Other than school supplies shopping, our one bright spot, we are soaked with anxiety. We are waiting to hear which teacher child #3 got, and who is in her class. We are wondering if we can find our way around the new school, as we get promoted. We wonder if we'll find our scheduled classes and hate our teacher. Limbo, wondering, waiting. So much of the next nine months depends on how smoothly things go over the next couple of weeks.

You might wonder what this has to do with becoming a published author? Let me clue you in: nothing. I've got the dog days bad. Instead of writing, I'm in limboland, waiting to see if everyone survives the next three weeks. Instead of querying, I am cleaning bedrooms and trying to find last year's protractor. Instead of revising, I am dreaming, of September. That luscious month when my regular writing schedule returns, along with the slam of those school doors, with my precious but chaotic offspring on the other side. In my daydreams, I'm driving away from the school, back home, to my writing nook, to meet an old friend--Toni the writer.

Grins--
Toni