JANUARY 28, FOREVER

 

My mother Nina Naomi, born November 6, 1922-died May 25, 2005

My son, born January 28, 1972-died July 17, 2005

His daughter, born July 29, 2005

His nephew and our younger grandson, born January 28, 2005 

Everyone has a hardest year.  Ours was 2005. Our house was filled with love and grief so intertwined that swirling molecules of one collided with molecules of the other.  My mother was in a nursing home dying of cancer and her first born grandson could not visit her because he was dying of his own cancer. She was 82 and he was 33. My daughter had a 4-year old son and a baby born January 28 (today as I write this) the day her brother turned thirty-three. We have a photo of them together, our son, a tall man with soft light brown hair worn long in front--now bald from chemotherapy--and his nephew with the downy scalp, held high, matching bald head for bald head. Our son looks quizzical. 

Twelve days after our son's death, his daughter was born, a healthy amazing child with straight-up punk-style strawberry blonde hair. 

I still remember being in the hallway when a nurse asked me, is the new mother your daughter?  No, she's my daughter-in-law I said.  She made the connection and looked stricken for me. "Oh, I'm so sorry," touching my arm. 

But even then, just twelve days after our son's death, his daughter closed the circle. Our grief was cushioned by our love: for him, for her, for her mother.  Our daughter-in-law was sleep-walking.  She went from nursing a husband to nursing a baby; flush with all her new-mother hormones, yet asking God "why?"

I got through the day of the funeral holding the precious baby who had been born just six months before.  Our daughter handed him to me as we came home from the church, knowing who I needed to stay upright as friends came by. I focused on his silky soft head (99th percentile, his father bragged). By six months this baby boy was already saving a life.

From the moment of her birth our son's daughter filled the family with joy and admiration. She is a smart, willowy college junior.  As God's gift to her and to us, she has never shared our grief. She has her own knowledge of loss, I believe, but not with the depth of ours. When she holds out her arms for an embrace, no person is luckier than I.  

I am writing this small remembrance on January 28, the birthday of my son and my younger grandson.  Now, 21 years after the death of my son, it is my grandson who I awake thinking of.  His happy birthday, away from home in Scotland at St. Andrew's University, living his best life and sharing it during long phone calls, with us. 

In the midst of this remembrance of love and sadness, I get a call from our granddaughter.  It is Daddy's birthday, she says to me, and I am thinking of you.  Who raised such a girl I wonder.  How can she know I need her voice today?  

We are home with the flu and she drives partway up our icy drive, then walks the rest of the way carrying a bag of cough medicine and spicy Peruvian chicken.  She leaves it all on the back stoop and taps on the window and waves.  We are snowed in and feverish but now we have enough chicken, rice, beans and Robitussin to last till weekend. There are yucca chips in the bag too.  

The hardest year is long over.  We survived it.  We do, don't we?  Our daughter-in-law stayed a widow for ten years, until that no longer seemed right, and then married the man our granddaughter calls Dad.  But Daddy is still our son, a man who has filled her with his tenderness of spirit and so many other qualities.  More than any other feeling, I feel lucky and blessed.  I feel hope in the younger generations. I feel God's gifts in my marriage, in the snow softly falling again, in the candlelight glowing by my computer.   

In Waiting for Godot Samuel Beckett (1906-1989) said, "I can't go on.  I'll go on."  This is supposed to reflect the essence of human persistence despite despair, and it does.  But to Christians, surely a statement of God at our side. 

Thank you for reading.  Nina Naomi 

 

PESSIMISM IS FOR LIGHTWEIGHTS by Selena Godden

Think of whose that marched this road before

And those that will march here in years to come

The road in shadow and the road in the sun

The road before us and the road all done

History is watching us and what will we become

This road is all flags and milestones

Immigrant blood and sweat and tears

Built this city, built this country

Made this road last all these years 

This road is made of protest

And those not permitted to vote

And those that are still fighting to speak

With a boot stamping on their throat

There is power and strength in optimism

To have faith and to stay true to you

Because if you can look in the mirror

And have belief and promise you

Will share wonder in living things

Beauty, dreams, books and art

Love your neighbor and be kind

And have an open heart

Then you're already winning at living

You speak up, you show up and stand tall

It's silence that is complicit

It's apathy that hurts us all

Pessimism is for lightweights

There is no straight white line

It's the bumps and curves and obstacles

That make this road yours and mine

Pessimism is for lightweights

This road was never easy and straight

And living is all about living alive and lively

And love will conquer hate.

                  Selena Godden, b. 1972 Hastings, UK

 

SO MUCH TO PRAY FOR IN AMERICA

Under the Shelter of a Cedar Tree

 Diary of a Mindful Nature Lover :  What I want to do most is love God, spend my days in nature, care for my family and friends and care for myself.  Be mindful of all.  The basics, right?  We have such a beautiful country, parks and mountains and rivers.  Late afternoon I see circling hawks; at dusk deer tussling; evening, geese noisily passing overhead. We want to be there for those we love; to be tender with ourselves and others.    

What I have been doing instead is thinking about sin-- how can this be helpful in these times of crisis, I'm not sure. But that is where my mind is leading.  Sin is so much present.  The times are suffused with it. 

Pride is the original and worst of the Seven Deadly Sins.  C. S. Lewis writes in Mere Christianity that pride is the "anti-God" state, the position in which the ego and the self are directly opposed to God.  He says it was through pride that Lucifer became wicked.  Pride blinds.  Through pride, or hubris, leaders with power become more and more irrationally self-confident.  They too become wicked. We've seen this in history and from afar. Now we see it up close.  

We began praying for the Ukrainians being shelled and dying on 24 February 2022 when Putin invaded.   We also, I do, pray for the young Russian soldiers sent to their slaughter, 1,108 per day since the beginning of the invasion, or about 103 deaths for each square kilometer of Ukrainian homeland taken. Then we began praying for the Israeli hostages taken on Oct 7, 2023, about 250 men, women and children.  Those prayers continue, but were soon joined by prayers for Palestinians in Gaza whose homeland continues to be destroyed by Israeli forces.  Over 46,000 Palestinians have been killed by the Israeli Defense Forces (IDF).  

There's so much to pray about, we could do nothing else.  I am praying now for the 100,000 United States Federal workers to date who have been fired or forced to resign.  One of them is our daughter-in-law, who had trained long for a job she loves.  She does not know what comes next.  What else?  We can pray for those with Alzheimers or cancer and the doctors who look for cures, and for the Courts who are charged with determining whether cancelling medical research grants is legal.   

We can pray for children like the transdaughter of a friend, that they not be denied medical care; we can pray for our schools that free school breakfasts and lunches continue for the hungry; we can pray for our churches that we can continue to be sanctuaries for refugees; we can pray for everyone poor or disabled or female or gender non-conforming or a person of color, that they be treated as well as those who are rich or male or white non-Hispanic.  Oh my.  

When our son was little he had Tourette's Syndrome and we prayed about that.  In our family, like yours, people have gotten sick and died.  But never have I prayed so much for our country and our democracy.  As a lawyer, I took the oath to support our constitution. I pray also for its survival.  Has there always been this much to pray about?  I don't know.  But it seems like facing sin head on leads one to prayer,  and that cannot be bad.  Prayer is always a good start.  It leads to hope and that leads to action.  Prayer, hope and action are what American needs right now.

Help us, Lord, to pray for, support, and do what's right.  Help us to take action in accordance with Your will.  Help us to work for and support freedom and justice for all. Help us to love our neighbor, on our street or on our border, as ourselves, and support those who do the same.  In so praying, we remember that might does not make right and that evil is as real as good.  AMEN

 

WINTER THOUGHTS

Winter Sea

This is what's been happening.  We come to the beach for a wintry escape and it is wonderful, cold and bright, waves lapping, starry nights and fresh mornings. Nothing is open, but we bring necessities from home and stop at Friendly Market on the mainland for their prepared chicken-wild rice and shrimp and grits casseroles.  The house is cold, the window cranks need repair but while we were unable to be here the pipes did not freeze and the heat pump did not break.  Only the kitchen faucet is spewing and we need a plumber but that is all and we are relieved. We are so glad to be here.  The bedroom refuses to warm up and I put on extra blankets.  I'm missing Mr.Wiggles, our little maltipoo who the last time we brought him, fifteen and with only months to live, could no longer do the stairs.   

At the same time, the fires in Los Angeles are still burning.  So much suffering.  Our own western North Carolina has not rebuilt yet.  Many lives there were lost.  My husband and I have friends moving from this life to the next, three in these past months, all from cancer, two after long debilitating treatments. These are serious times in our life and maybe in yours too.  I would not be surprised.  We fear power-bloated billionaires and warmongers.  Many diseases do not wait for us to age. Anxiety is in the air.  Fragility abounds.  

And yet, life goes on. That's what life does.   From the ashes like the Phoenix the sun rises daily. The moon as well. All is not vanity. The most miraculous things continue to happen.  We see on TV the gratitude of those who, yes, lost their homes but not their lives.  We see the superhuman bravery of the firefighters.  We see goodness and compassion.

Each morning we all find something for which to give thanks.  Tea or coffee, children or grandchildren, jobs to do and friends to see.  Here the day is bright and cold again. This visit the shore is wide, the dunes rebuilt by last year's storms. Some visits no shore at all, steps and decks washed away.  The wind alone decides whether to take or give. The sea can be as dangerous as fire.  

Precarious as life is, who isn't grateful to be alive?  Who wouldn't be grateful to take a walk, even with a bad back, by the windy shore, bundled and dodging the incoming waves?  We rebuild after hurricanes, floods and fires, not just shelters for our bodies but places of friendship and love for our hearts. We try our best to keep our families safe, even as they grow or diminish.  With each loss we recommit to life. 

When someone dies, we are thankful that they didn't suffer.  If they suffered, we are thankful that their suffering is over.  We are thankful that they lived, however long or short.  We would never trade the joy in their living to avoid the pain of losing them.  Our love is strong, and deep.  It abides.

It is a miracle how we are made.  It is a wonder how two people can make a love that lasts a lifetime, from young love to old age, neither straying, nor wanting to, from one another.  It is a wonder as well how two people can meet at any age, after most any disappointment, and find nothing but love and compassion between them.  It is a wonder how we feel for strangers and want to help them, how we see our lives in theirs, how we know that, "There, but for the Grace of God, go I." 

It's not that we manufacture good, I don't think. We're not Pollyannas.  But sometimes the good simply won't let us ignore it.  I've read that we're "hard-wired" (a word I don't like) to look for the negative.  I don't think that's true.  If it were, how in the face of natural catastrophes and greed, would we continue to take such good care of ourselves and others? We have survived because of our better angels. 

Something about the ocean gives rise to these winter thoughts. Something about the vastness of our world, sky, land and sea, makes space for us to look for any blessings we can.  And lo and behold, we find them.  

  

A PRAYER POEM FOR TODAY

Mourning the loss of hope,

Missing those moments of joy,

We shelter in place

As if from a storm.

. . . 

We know that history is long

And tyrants are made of flesh,

That power corrupts but does not last.

. . . 

Hitler is dead.

Mussolini is dead.

Stalin is dead.

Saddam Hussein is dead. 

Judas is dead.

No resurrections there.

. . . 

Only love can defeat hate.

Only light can drive out darkness.

. . .

The fight is long,

The fight is hard,

The fight continues.

God bless the fight. 

"We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope."  Martin Luther King, Jr.

WHERE BETHLEHEM LIES

 Have mercy on us Lord,

And hear our solemn prayer.

We come to hear your living word;

It saves us from despair. 

These are the words of the hymn we sang this Sunday.  As we sang, I hoped that God's Word would save us from despair.  There is much to despair of these days. 

For so long we've been thinking of the Ukranians.  We have no trouble sorting good from evil in that war.  Now we have something more complex.  People switch from anger to grief and back again.  There are no simple answers, maybe no realistic answers at all. As we await Advent and the countdown to Christ's birth, we cannot help but grieve.  Not only for the Israelis killed wantonly on Oct 7, but also for Gazan children killed randomly today. 

Bethlehem lies less than 10 miles south of the city of Jerusalem.  Jerusalem is only 62 miles from Gaza.  We will be singing carols about the little town of Bethlehem but the disconnect between Christ's birth there and the advanced warfare of today sickens the heart. Tensions between the Palestinians and Israel date back decades, but tensions is not the word to use anymore.  On October 7th over 1,200 Jews of all ages were butchered.  Over 240 were taken hostage.  Since that date over 11,000 Palestinians have been killed, most of them women and children.  The number grows daily.  Some premature babies who need medical care are surviving evacuation, some are not. What is left behind is rubble.  Pictures from Ukraine and from Gaza look the same. 

I am not an ethicist or a historian, but I expect they have no more or better answers than the rest of us.  "Thoughts and prayers" has become a platitude.  Politicians use it after mass shootings as the rest of us wait for the next one.   

With the Holy Land a war zone, I wonder if anyone else feels like it will take extra effort this year to picture a baby born on a silent night in Bethlehem. 

One thing that we can hope for is that as the days march on to Christmas, the Lord will enter our minds and hearts and help us bear the sinful world in which we live. That has happened before.  We've had wars before.  We can ask the Almighty to be with the innocents--in their death shrouds, in hiding or held hostage, or digging through the wreckage--whether they pray to God, Jehovah or Allah. Mired in the world, we have often been lifted up to find gratitude and praise.  

I don't know what to expect.  But let us hope together for God's mercy and his Word to save us from despair.  

Old Mission Santa Ines, CA 1804
A Place to Pray

SEASON OF MISTS, LAMENTATION AND HOPE

There's something about the change of seasons that is hopeful.  The heat of late summer has lifted.  Doors and windows stay open waiting for the evening chill.  No matter what is happening--and there's enough happening today for lamentations to pierce the Heavens--Autumn still comes.  For this we must be grateful. Our human sinfulness has not, so far please God, prevented summer, fall, winter or spring.  The world keeps revolving.  And here we are, in another October.

So easily this season gives rise to poetry.  In 1902, in "Autumn Day," Rainer Marie Rilke wrote, "Lord: it is time.  The summer was immense. / Lay your shadows upon the Sundial, / and in the meadows let the wind go free."  This speaks to me.  I have a sundial in my side yard that marks a death.  I have a meadow where the wind goes free. Then the last stanza, "Whoever has no house now will not build one anymore. / Whoever is alone now will remain so for a long time."   A melancholy premonition that we must ready for what comes next, we and the birds and chipmunks and all who fly south, burrow or grow winter coats for warmth. 

The last lines tell a truth about war too. Here is where our lamentations lie. Palestinian citizens are being slaughtered in return for the slaughter of Israelis by Hamas. Children for children.  An eye for an eye.  Ukrainians are still suffering to defend their homeland and young Russians are being sent to kill or be killed. As fall turns to winter, "whoever has no house now will not build one anymore." 

Even earlier, in 1820 John Keats called autumn, "Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness," using sensuous imagery to describe its fleeting abundance. And isn't abundance always fleeting?  Robert Frost wrote, "Nothing gold can stay."  How briefly are the dogwoods red and the maples yellow?  Their radiance falls to the ground and turns to mulch.

How is any of this hopeful, we might wonder, if we have not changed since Robert Burns wrote in 1784 that "Man's inhumanity to man / makes countless thousands mourn."  How can hope live amongst historical rivalries and political chaos? Why do we find it in the turning of the earth?  

maybe each new season reminds us that the earth abides. Maybe we relish that something is predictable.  Something there is from which no one need run. 

I fear the sentimentality of this thought, I who am not being slaughtered or evacuated.  But surely moments of hope are good things.  Surely, we need not be ashamed to appreciate fat mounded mums in russet and yellow or smiling pansy faces in purple and white. The colors of fall are exuberant for a reason.  This October they might make one hope that death and destruction will not have the final say. 

They might remind us that while we cannot be complacent or resigned, nor should we be without hope.

For as it is written, "Generations come and generations go, but the earth remains forever.  The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises.  The wind blows to the south and turns to the north; round and round it goes, ever returning on its course.  All streams flow into the sea, yet the sea is never full."  Ecclesiastes 1:4

                                                    Nina Naomi

 

LIFE IS WAITING FOR YOU

 

I am you and you are me.

We are alone, but not alone. 

We are trapped by time, but also infinite.

Made of flesh but also stars.

This is a quote from Reasons to Stay Alive (2015) by British author Matt Haig (b.1975).  The book is part memoir, part mental health critique, part depression handbook.  The thought in the first line--no more than seven one-syllable words--is unifying and certain.  

I think of God's promise:  "I am in my Father, and you are in me, and I am in you." John 14:18-20.   Poetically, the first two lines also echo Walt Whitman:  

I celebrate myself and sing myself, 

And what I assume you shall assume, 

For every atom belonging to me as good as belongs to you. 

  

Haig underwent a crisis of depression as a young man, as many do at any age, a time when bodies seem heavy, and thoughts mired.  We learned much about these feelings during the worst of the long pandemic, if not before.  It is a mood we fear for those we love and they for us.  For many it stems from grief.  Here is what he says to those so struggling:  

You are on another planet.  

No one understands what you are going through. 

 But actually, they do. 

 You don't think they do because the only reference point is yourself.  

You have never felt this way before, 

and the shock of the descent is traumatizing you, 

but others have been here. 

 You are in a dark, dark land with a population of millions.   

The description of depression as descent into "a dark, dark land" is nevertheless hopeful because we are "in a dark, dark land with a population of millions," others who understand, who have been there, who--like the author of these lines--have survived, and we will too. 

James Baldwin said, "You think your pain and your heartbreak are unprecedented in the history of the world, but then you read."  Yes, we might read any of the great writers or poets or we might read the Psalms. 

When I am sad my first comfort is always the Lord who shares my feelings with me and lifts me up and out--helps, saves, comforts and defends me.  He has been in this land with the population of millions.  He was, after all, crucified; and thought he was forsaken.  When we are down, life continues on its parallel course, waiting for us to rejoin.  Often what helps is concentrating on something transcendent:  a face we love, special words, the moon and the night sky.  Certain things for each of us, lift our heart.  In the face of what could be despair, to be calm is revolutionary. 

Peonies

One day is bad, but the next is better.  One week or even year is bad, but the next is better.  Beauty cleans the mind of hurts, even of devastations.  The beauty of God's creation, the trees, the stars, the ocean, art, music, literature, those who love us, the children we know . . . . The beauty of confession and forgiveness.  The beauty of hearing (or saying) "I'm so sorry.  I won't do it again."  Haig says, "Made of flesh but also stars."  That's us!

In peace, let us pray to the Lord.  Amen. 

 

 

EACH DAY IS FILLED WITH THINGS THAT HAVE NEVER BEEN BEFORE

 

Each day is filled with things that have never been.  It doesn't matter if every week you wash the same clothes or dishes or bathrooms as you did last week.  You are new, the world is new, our heart is different, our thoughts are evolving, the shadows are elongating, the moon is shining and none of it has ever happened before.  Look at the calendar.  Tomorrow has never existed before.  My candle is burning and tomorrow it will be different than it is today.  My little dog will be a day older and so will I.    

Tomorrow in my yard what are buds today will bloom.  Or what is in bloom will wither.  Or a freeze will come.  The little pain in my back that I woke with today will be gone (or it will be worse).  My fears will not have come to fore.  They almost never do.  I might in the night lose sleep because life is short.  I might today, which is Ash Wednesday and I sit here typing with ashes on my forehead commemorating that we are dust and to dust we do return, enjoy the leisure of a long uninterrupted day. 

It is wonderful that each day is filled with things that have never been before.  It is glorious that we change our minds, grow our faith, jettison old ideas, welcome new thoughts and people.  In our yard change is constant.  Branches fall from the trees, squirrels ravage my pot plants, weeds emerge and moss spreads.  Whole towering loblollies lose their tops in a storm.  New growth never ceases.  Cedars reseed like rabbits (of which we have few due to the vigilant hawks).  

All of these things are good.  We may be worried or mourning or fighting pain, but much goes on.  We learn to live with our worries.  We learn to be that person with great grief.  We even learn to shrink from pain and yet not shrink from life.  If we have faith, that guides us, lifts us.  We become no heavier than a feather to our God.  

Something good will happen tomorrow.  We know not today what it will be.  But we can wait with assurance that something, something good will happen.  It may not (will not) be a charmed reprieve, but each day is filled with things that have never been and that we can welcome.  Help us to see, Lord.  AMEN  

                                                           Nina Naomi

WHERE WE FIND HOPE

 

All Hallows by the Tower, London

What gives you hope?  It's when I'm in church that I feel the most hopeful. Hope is the opposite of existential dread.  Hope is the opposite of fear.  When we are hopeful, we do not fear that life has no meaning or purpose.  Christian hope promises nothing more nor less than resurrection and life to those who must exist in the shadow of death.  Where each of us lives.

We think of the thousands of bodies in the rubble of Ankara, Turkey or the thousands of lives lost in Ukraine, young Russian recruits as well as Ukrainian families.  The list of losses is always too long.  

Ash Wednesday is upon us, when Christians wear ashes on their foreheads as a sign of repentance. "Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return."  God tells us this in Genesis 3:19.  

The sacramental symbolism of ashes touches us on a fundamental level, the level where our inner fragility and poverty lies.  The smudged cruciform reminds us of the resurrection as well.  From ashes on a Wednesday through lilies on a Sunday six weeks later. The answer to anyone's foolish question, "Do you know who I am?" is the simple comeuppance: "You are but dust."   

The words human and humility come from the Latin word humus which means earth.  One who is humble is "down to earth."  We are earthen vessels into which God has breathed life.  When the breath goes, the dust remains.  

So where then is the hope?  

Theologian Jurgen Moltmann says that there is a reason the inscription above the entrance to Dante's Hell says "Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Here."  Hopelessness is Hell.  It is why our grief for the suicidal is so strong.  How can they not know there is hope?  

In church we hear the words, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life."  Because people I love have died before me, I want to believe in eternal life.  It's a promise I want to hold close and do. But the resurrection of Christ is not a consoling opium, Moltmann says, soothing us with only the gift of life in the hereafter.  It is the energy for the rebirth of this life.  Hope in Christ doesn't just point to another world.  It is focused on the redemption of this one. It is not a consolation for suffering so much as a contradiction of suffering.  It is something you and I know so well:  the andness of life.  

So those sifting through tons of debris keep looking.  They find people alive.  They find bodies to return to families for burial.  The Ukrainians do not lose hope.  They seek and receive help from countries who value them and their democracy.  We did not lose hope in the face of Covid. The mother of Tyre Nichols, fatally beaten by the five Memphis cops (lest we forget) seeks meaning for her son's death; she does not give up.  This happens over and over.  The children of Parkland, Florida became activists after their school shooting. We seek hope, we find hope, we are given hope. For Christians and non-Christians as well, through the Spirit's efforts we bring newness and life to our world.

The future remains open, our futures.  Let the hope we have been given make us brave, like so many others, to embrace it.  

                                                          Nina Naomi

OUR PLACE IN ETERNITY

This winter evening, I am strangely alone by the sea.  One thing I notice is that when the ocean is loud, the rhythmicality of the sound is akin to silence.  When you can hear nothing but waves in an unchanging pattern, it can seem like being in the midst of quietness.  This is especially true in that unique darkness that lives at the sea.  I stayed outdoors in my down jacket as long as I could.  Then the chill took over.  Do you feel that we never run out of good places to be?  

Yet even as I write, I am brought up short by the thought of the Ukrainians and others cold or hungry or frightened while I am enjoying the early night, warm in my coat and aware that supper is mine for the making. We know about the "andness" of life.  While some of us are happy, others of us are sad.  We have each been on both sides of that "and" I suspect, although most are not living in the daily presence of war.  

Still, Hanukkah and Christmas are on their way.  They come for those of us in the momentary glow of a peaceful starry night and they come for all who suffer. Perhaps for them most of all.  And of course, what we hope is that even in extremis we can take a moment to look at the stars at night or hear birdsong at daybreak or find a flower in a crack or let the waves give us a place in eternity, and in those ways find hope or consolation.  

Tonight I am thankful and do not want to let that pass.  Good wishes to all.  Nina Naomi    

FEAR OF THE FUTURE

It's so easy to fear the future right now.  Especially if you're a person with empathy and you keep up with the news.  

We fear for women and girls of child-bearing age.  Don't we wish that no person alive ever needed an abortion?  But that has never happened.  

We fear for school children and churchgoers and Black people and anyone simply living their days peaceably until they become the next victim of gun violence.   We fear for Ukrainians still defending their homeland.  We read that fifty migrants were found dead in a tractor-trailer in San Antonio today.  What have I missed?  What comes tomorrow?  And if there's sorrow within your own family, how much harder then to cope.  When my mother was dying of cancer, as I shopped for fresh night clothes for her, I couldn't stop crying.  Grief can be brutal.  

What might we do?  Experts say that any act of self-love helps our mental health.  This could be noticing and accepting how we feel.  "I feel sad.  That's OK," we might say to ourself. Or angry.  That's OK too.  Or hopeless.  "Others do too.  I'm not alone in my feelings."  Perhaps I need sleep, or a walk outdoors, or a break from the news.  Or to talk with others or help in some way. There's always a way to help.  Or to give it to God if we can.

This writing I am doing right now is self-care for me. Many say that writing is emotional processing, much like talk-therapy I think. 

It's true that not every storm is followed by a rainbow.  There's debris, downed limbs, flooded homes and clean-up.  But it is also true that after every storm we clean up together.  It's never me against the world.

We can even use our negative emotions as reminders to take care of ourselves.  Something that triggers a PTSD response can help me remember that I haven't been defeated before.  Devastated I'll admit, but not defeated. 

Right now my personal life is good and there's that disconnect, living on two levels: the one that makes the nightly news and the one that makes dinner.  You may be the same, that's the least we can hope for.  So we go forward, trying to avoid overthinking and to accept what we cannot control.  And all the while looking for ways to take care of ourselves, small and large.  A cup of tea, a vacation, play-time, letting love blossom, talking with a friend, spending time or money working for good.  Maybe even looking at history and knowing that the McCarthy Era ended.  So did the Vietnam War.  We've endured 9/11 now, and January 6.  Post-Roe will not be the same as pre-Roe.  There are good people in government too.  

Let's do the next right thing, as the psychiatrist Carl Jung (1875-1961) originally said, and our fear of the future will be manageable too.  

In peace, Nina Naomi    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

INSPIRING MINDS

Collage-Journaling by Nina Naomi

I don't Google "inspirational quotes."  I want to find them myself.  Or create them.  But most often something inspirational finds me, not the other way around.  We're all inspired by something different, aren't we? When something does reach us, we're likely to share.  Maybe one of these will reach you for you to share. I hope so.  

Quote by R. Arnold

I'm not familiar with Arnold, but I love the surprise of being fluent in silence.  We associate fluency with words, not their absence.  But here it is the silence that is eloquent.  The idea of sharing our fatigue naturally with each other without the need to speak is so appealing these days.  It feels like comfort and intimacy.  What could be more welcome?

Tablescape by Nina Naomi

"This is my life.  It is my one time to be me.  I want to experience every good thing." Maya Angelou.  Of course what is meaningful is that this is Maya Angelou speaking.  She has all our admiration.  I was privileged to see her perform once; she sang, talked, read and enchanted.  What is different about what she says is that she doesn't want to experience everything, but only every good thing.  A goal that takes work.  It may have been a wish she was granted, but not without her share of travail.  This may be true for us too.  

"Hope is the thing with feathers /  That perches in the soul - / And sings the tune without the words - / And never stops - at all - "  Emily Dickinson.  There's more to this poem, two more stanzas.  What is amazing is the absolute truth of her every word.  But then that is Dickinson's hallmark, isn't it?  Living in isolation with her extraordinary mind, she carries every subject, every emotion, on her lanyard. We could spend our life reading Emily Dickinson and feel that we had known the world.    

"Nothing is missing.  You are already whole."  Unattributed.  If we are complete, something at one time needed to be filled-in or added.  Completion is a finishing.  A correction of a lack.  But wholeness is different.  We are born whole.  We have no lack, we need not be made better.  I might say, "God made me whole."  

Then there are the smaller things we tell our own hearts to inspire:  "Try something new, my dear," I might say. "Make a friend, or a friend's day," I remind myself. "Reread your favorite book.  Why not?"  "Dig a hole, plant some seeds, water and wait." "Go outside and be amazed."  And always remember, 

Would you care to add?

 




 

 

FIND COMFORT HERE

Quote by Jane Austen

 These are thoughts I have that comfort me.  May they comfort you as well.    Nina Naomi

     There will be better days ahead. 

    When we look for the light, we find it.

Faith is the water that buoys the soul. 

    Everyone has their fair share of bad days.  I have no more nor less than anyone else.  

Faith is the thing with wings that lets you fly.  

    Hard thoughts, prayers and petitions, thankful hearts:  these can be a good day's work.  

Faith is the memory of all we believe.  

    To live in the moment is to be unaware of the hours. 

    There is goodness in setting your face to the sun. 

Faith makes a nest for love. 

    It's possible to grieve and live fully at the same time.  

    We are called upon to care.  

    Anyone who has knelt in desperation knows that they have not reached the end.

Faith can be borrowed until you find your own.  

    No one regrets an hour spent with a thankful heart. 

    There is room to breathe for all of us.  

Faith can sleep and then awaken.   It will take hold of your shoulders and whisper in your ear,  "I am here.  I am here."  

 

 

 

 

  

LOVING LONG DARK NIGHTS

Some of us actually love long dark nights.  Are you one of those?  I am. Nothing beats warm pajamas and early-to-bed. Today is the winter solstice in our hemisphere and my husband and I have picked out our spot to watch the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn.  The last time these two bright planets huddled this close together was in 1623! We'll be doing our own huddling in hats, mitts and scarves.   

I wonder what the world thought almost 400 years ago before telescopes and binoculars.  The Christmas star I suppose some called it.  I read that not until 2080 will the planets align so closely again. I won't be here to see that.  

So a few minutes after sunset we and another couple will be at our spots at a high point just a few miles from home staring at the southwestern sky.  If we were at the beach in Pine Knoll Shores the view would be spectacular.  This is the season the sun disappears directly into the Atlantic there.  Residents gather every cloudless evening to watch the drop. Tonight they can also see the planets shine about 30 degrees above the horizon. 

Tomorrow the night will be a few minutes shorter. The next night a few more.  Until the shortest night and longest day on June 20, the summer solstice. I plan to savor the still-short days in January and February.  I plan to light fires indoors and out, grill hotdogs and steaks and roast marshmallows. Keep the sparkle lights twinkling.  Bundle up every sunny day and enjoy the cold.  Read, knit, cook, try new things, pray, keep as positive as I can.  And of course hope for snow, which in fact is forecast for Christmas Day. (In contrast, our New Jersey relatives are making snow angels already and digging out if they want to go anywhere.)  

Isn't it wonderful to have something like this free for all?  Here we have been trying to survive Covid, worrying about ourselves and eachother, modifying plans like mad, weathering the strife of politics . . . and all of a sudden it's Christmas week.  Lights everywhere, gifts, mangers, movies to watch,  Zoom sessions with friends, FaceTime with family and, best of all, vaccines being scheduled. 

I'm taking the conjunction of these planets as a symbol of hope.  Why not?  Why not indeed.          Nina Naomi 

 

 

 

 

WHO HAVE YOU BEEN MISSING?

Who have you been missing most during this pandemic?  I've been missing my mom, been wanting her advice. This is bad because she's been gone for 15 years.  She's the Nina Naomi this blog is in memory of.  I love being her, just for this bit of my life, this on-line persona.  I know some of us dread turning into our parents but, for the most part, I'm fine with it.  Do you have a role model whose advice you would welcome?  On dealing with isolation, limited options, money, health and child worries?  Or just plain change?

We've got a running joke in our family--"What would Fauci do?"  You know, the doctor in the White House Coronavirus briefings.  Would Dr. Fauci recommend the beach rental house?  And on what conditions?  Would he approve the college student's meal delivery job?  Does he wipe down those plastic clam-shells that the grocery deli comes in?  

Maybe my mom wasn't my lodestar consistently when she was alive. Not when I was young and going full force. I didn't always want advice.  Got enough of that at work.  Maybe you too.  But as I was ruminating on what she would tell me if she were alive, I realized:  the role model is there.  Her last years were isolated, she and my dad retirees in a rented condo at the beach, no in-town relatives, having to wait for family to show up.  World-travelers (I have a picture of her on a camel) became stay-at-homes.  Party-givers became TV watchers.  They found a way--because of their age--to accept an unknown future.  

So what did she do when her world changed? She taught herself how to quilt.  She entered local craft competitions and once even won a ribbon.  She read voraciously, especially American history.  She sent cards in her clear, even handwriting, an old-fashioned cursive.  She went shelling on the beach and organized her treasures in interesting ways, before the term shelfie was coined.  She planted hostas in the shade and gardenias along the porch.  She labelled photos with enough information so that no ancestor would disappear on her watch.  So many parallels between our coping and hers.

She would tell me, and all of us, that we're doing just fine.  That isolation and health problems, even death, can come at any time to anyone and we are made resilient.  Then we would discuss that there are tools to help with depression, grief, fear and loss:  friends, therapists, medication, God, nature, children, pets, hope, sleep, walks, a good cry, healthy mourning, books, the Psalms . . . .  And I would be helped.  I hope you too.  In peace, Nina Naomi