Amy J. Randall-McSorley

Author

Celebrating Pride Month…Every Day

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald)

I know me like the leaves know the trees. But just like stormy weather can shake those leaves from the branches they call home, I have let the words of others rattle my beliefs in me.

When I was a little girl, I enjoyed dolls and tea sets. I also enjoyed climbing trees and getting dirty crawling around outside with our pet ducks, Mother and Sigh. But it was the inside time, putting pretty dresses on my dolls while hosting pretend tea parties that set the stage that I really liked being a girl. This was a source of great disappointment for one of my parents. Determined that I should be a boy, the long hair I preferred was always cut above my ears. As to my “looks,” I was introduced at gatherings as the one who had a fire in my face that was put out with a rake. 

When my parents divorced, I was still fairly young, and no one really paid attention anymore, so I let my hair grow long. I have never cut it short since. I love wearing dresses and I’m in love with an amazing and handsome man.

I was born a girl in body and mind. I was born straight. So even though I had a hard time at home, society viewed me as “normal.”

Imagine knowing who you are and how you feel and needing to hide it to avoid being mocked, bullied, discriminated against, harmed or even murdered because others think you should be or feel or want something other than what you do.

In his proclamation recognizing June as LGBTQ+ Pride month, President Biden stated that this is the time “… we recognize the resilience and determination of the many individuals who are fighting to live freely and authentically.” 

I pray for a time when that fight is no longer needed.

While June is Pride month, every other month, week, and day of the year is also a time to celebrate diversity and to work toward equality, fairness and justice.

President Biden also stated in his proclamation “I call upon the people of the United States to recognize the achievements of the LGBTQ+ community, to celebrate the great diversity of the American people, and to wave their flags of pride high.”

The pride flag is a lovely flag – a rainbow to represent the beauty in diversity, and the importance that all people be equal and free to shine, to be the people they know they are.

The Pleasure of Paintings

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald June 2021)

A cool summer breeze fills the sails as the boat glides in through the small bay encircled by forested land. The leaves of the trees are basking in the last rays of the sun as the sky is painted in hues of orange, red, and lavender. I never tire of watching that boat come in at the end of the day. I always get lost in thoughts and dreams as I watch the scene play over and over day after day. Where is this sweet place of solace you might wonder? It is in the place that I call home – a painting on my wall.

I have loved art all of my life. My mother was an artist, so perhaps it began with her. Sadly, I only have a few pieces my mother painted. One of her paintings has lived on only in my memory until I found a work of art on Etsy that was so similar to it that I almost cried. I, of course, purchased the painting and now, every day, it is there to keep me company. It takes me to that place where I learned how to sail and it brings me peace.

Art is like that – something special, something different for everyone. Gary and I have filled our walls with paintings and photographs. Some of the photography is Gary’s own work. And no matter how long those art pieces have hung on our walls, I still get lost in them.

There is a long, horizontal photograph on my bedroom wall that takes you amid a forest of aspens. I purchased the piece years ago when I had traveled to Colorado. During the trip, I had the pleasure of going on a half-day horseback ride through fields, woods and mountains. The tranquility of the day is a memory I rely on to help me through difficult times. Having that photograph to help my mind drift into the memory of that serene day I spent with a guide, a horse, and wonderous nature means everything to me.

Perhaps you have a favorite piece of art on your wall. Perhaps you have space for one more, or for your first. If you don’t already, I highly recommend you follow ArtsaRound on Facebook to see what they are currently featuring in their gallery in downtown Circleville. I cannot tell you how excited I was to read in the Circleville Herald that Jesse Patterson is displaying his work for sale in June. I own two of his paintings and can tell you his work is varied and beautiful and definitely of that which you can get lost in. You would benefit greatly by owning one of his paintings. If you are not in the mood to buy art, I encourage you to visit his exhibit anyway. It will cost you nothing to do so, but in return you just may find yourself lost in one of his paintings, finding a memory or creating a new one.

Memorial Day: Two of the 58,000

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald May 2021)

Many years have passed since he was killed in action, and yet I still think of him all the time. At the top of my bookshelves in my office at home sets an etching. I remember how hard I cried when I tried to transfer the letters of his name from the Vietnam War Memorial Wall to a piece of paper I could carry with me as though the paper would keep him closer to my heart.

In his poem “Facing It,” Yusef Komunyakaa wrote of the Vietnam War Memorial Wall, “I turn this way—the stone lets me go. I turn that way—I'm inside.”

More than 58,000 names are engraved on the Wall. Each name, each life, a branch of a tree of family and friends. They are the names of those whose lives ended too soon, lives that touched other lives - stories upon stories welcoming us inside.

My cousin, Jeff Hamilton, was always kind to me. Fourteen years my senior and clearly a young man among men, he did not tease me for my girlish affinity for dolls and tea sets. Rather he invited me into his world just as I was. I couldn’t comprehend it then, but looking back now, I can understand how he was compelled to enlist to serve his country, eventually being promoted to First Lieutenant. I looked up to him and can certainly see why others did too.

While in Vietnam, Jeff met another young man who would become his best friend. Jim was the radioman, so the two were joined closely not only by friendship but also by necessity. When the two met, they quickly discovered that they had grown up only a matter of blocks away from each other in Mansfield, Ohio. Strangers back at home became brothers on foreign soil.

Stationed near Hue city, on March 22, 1968, their company was charged with securing the area. While on the quest, a sniper’s aim took down my cousin, Jeff. Trying to save his friend, Jim was also hit. And so, two young men who never met when neighbors in Ohio died side by side as best friends in Vietnam. Two stories joined as one. Two lives ended before they had really begun, Jim age 20 and Jeff age 21.

Komunyakaa’s poem ends, “In the black mirror, a woman's trying to erase names. / No, she's brushing a boy's hair.”

More than 58,000 stories are on the Vietnam War Memorial; and yet that is only one memorial for one war – one breaker on the ocean of waves of those who are remembered every day for their service and honored on Memorial Day. May hearts soar like the American flag when we spend this long holiday weekend remembering those we have lost and may hearts be blessed and heal as we honor their sacrifices.

For more information about Jeff and Jim’s story, read “How Mansfield made a difference in the Vietnam War: 1968,” written by Timothy Brian McKee and published March 17, 2018 www.richlandsource.com)

The Season of Hope

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald May 2021)

Oftentimes I wake somewhere in the night, sometimes 2:00 sometimes 4am. The invader of my slumber could be anything. Something someone said, a memory of someone I lost, a jumbling of deadlines, or the nagging pain from the constant migraine or headache that has tormented me for years. The waking is in those inconvenient hours between the commute - far after the last drive and too soon to arise and prepare for the next.

Knowing I won’t be at my best if I don’t find a way to sleep, even if just for interrupted naps, I turn to the Native American music station I favor, especially on nights like these. There is something about the rhythm of the drums and the wind song of the flutes. I settle into the magical sound and imagine I am flying over the dessert, across the lakes and above the forests. My thoughts transition into dreams as I fall to sleep once more. The flute inspires my flight as I find freedom from the things that cause me worry and sadness. I become lost in the night sky and overcome by a feeling of peace. Soon will be another day. The sun will rise again.

When I rise in the morning, although keenly aware of all my blessings, I am still uneasy and unable to recapture the feeling of flight, the belief from my dreams that I could take wing to soar above that which concerns me.

But now it is spring, the season of hope. The days, weeks, months have been fleeting and yet all too prolonged to get us to this point in time. The pandemic is older than we believed it could ever become. The transgressor still has its steely grip on our daily lives. We continue to mask up, remain socially distant, and try to find normalcy in days that are anything but normal. Hope blooms with vaccinations while the spread remains a challenging foe. Rumi wrote of “calm in the midst of lightning.” Just as I find calmness in Native American music, I find peace in knowing our Higher Power has a plan.

Tonight I will probably awaken again sometime between 2:00 and 4am. I will most likely turn to the Native American music that brings my mind and dreams to take wing and when I soar over the hills and streams I will find solace in the flight, in believing God has a plan, and knowing that the spring will always come.

Full Moon Commute - An Ae Freislighe

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald April 2021)

Among other things, April is National Poetry Month. One of the reasons I love poetry is because of all of the different forms there are. One form I recently learned about is ae freislighe, which is an Irish form that is framed in quatrain. In addition to the four-lined stanzas, the pattern also prescribes for rhyming with three-syllable words in lines one and three, and with two-syllable words in lines two and four. There should be seven syllables in each of all four lines. And for a little extra added fun, the beginning of the poem, be it a word, line or syllable, should be the same as at the end of the poem.

Having just learned of this form of poetry, I’ve never written an ae freislighe before. So this issue of the commuter column will be my first attempt and will be in honor of the early morning commute through the beautiful landscapes of Pickaway County.

Full Moon Commute

Moon at full is evidence,

It’s too early to commute,

But deadlines are eminent,

And not my place to dispute.

Southern hills seem mountainous,

Before dark skies are lighter.

Golden sunrise wonderous,

Flames the sky all the brighter.

In nearby woods stir wildlife,

Into the fields they emerge,

Doe and her fawn are childlike,

As they frolic and converge.

While I’m at my vocation,

They will quietly slumber.

Tonight in mid lunation,

Moon at full will sleep cumber.

The Highway is Still Going and the Hope is Still Growing

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2021)

Somewhere in the back of my mind a little girl climbs a pear tree and spends her time daydreaming about the future. The world is wide open before her. The possibilities endless. And hope abundant like a warm spring day when you realize that somehow, unbeknownst to you, the trees have been budding, the grass has been growing and the robins have returned to offer their serenades.

At the same time it felt like spring would never arrive, it’s hard to believe it is here. Time truly does fly. And that little girl in the pear tree is older now with very little time for daydreaming. But the hope is still there, always rejuvenating in spring, growing brighter in synchrony with the yellow returning to the wings of the goldfinches.

This past Monday, I pulled out the driveway for my morning commute when the dark sky was lit by the lamp of the moon. After a couple days at home, it felt strange to be on the road again. My shuffled song library began to play “Highway” sung by the Shook Twins. The beginning fiddle notes touched me to the core, as fiddle notes always do. “Don’t stop now. The highway is still going,” the song began.

Lately I’ve been at a crossroads between where I’ve been and where I want to be commuting to. Do I give up and sit back now for the rest of my working days, settled into an existence that wasn’t exactly as I planned, or do I keep moving towards my dream of doing more, tapping into what I have to offer to make a better difference than I am now?

The Shook Twins sing, “The wind is blowing this way because that’s where I’m going,” describing the feeling I often have of my Higher Power’s hand on my back gently pushing me in the direction He wants me to go. And I laughed for a moment realizing that the decision is really not mine to make.

The song winds down, “It’s your life. Live it up. Little darling live it up – it’s your life.”

It is my life, isn’t it, albeit all the sweeter when I’m tuned into and living according to, His plan. And I think again of that little girl, sitting in her pear tree who wondered what her future would be. And I know I won’t stop now because “the highway is still going” and the hope is still growing.

First Times & Never Agains

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, March 2021)

On any given commute, but especially when I am able to take the back roads throughout Pickaway County, I can be privy to any number of beautiful sights. While there may be similarities, no two experiences are ever exactly the same. The drives are filled with first times and never agains.

There was the first time I saw a mule deer on Marcy Road up near Slate Run Park. Unsure of what I had seen, I had to look it up later. It was my first time. Recently, I saw one in a field off of Route 23 and I knew that never again would I need to do some research to identify the glorious animal I had seen.

Then there was the first time I got lost trying to navigate new roads on the drive home. “That one looks pretty,” I thought and spontaneously pivoted direction to traverse unknown territory. The drive was indeed beautiful, but I got lost. Well, this isn’t a good example because never again doesn’t really apply here as I have gotten lost plenty of times since.

But what does apply with first times and never agains is to consider them occurrences of our every day – the spaces in between the commutes.

With the very recent passing of Sweet Sam, our 14 year-old magnificent Labrador, Gary and I are having many first times and never agains.

There was the first time we filled the dinner bowls for our other two furry companions, Moses and Jasmine. There was no third bowl needing filled, no meds to put in pill pockets, and no insulin syringe to prepare. And it really hit our hearts that never again would we be providing this special care for Sam.

Then there was the first time Jasmine got out Sam’s favorite blue ball to play with. When she was done, and not looking, I gently cupped the ball in my hands and placed it on the bed’s headboard so I would have it near me when I slept. For the first time I only see Sam playing with his treasured toy when I am dreaming. Never again will he romp through his yard gleefully holding that ball in his mouth.

As I am learning how to navigate the first times and the never agains, I am also thinking of all of the blessings they are wrapped up in. On the commute, there are the first time sightings of fox, heron, owls, hawks, and the beautiful sunrises and sunsets that fill the sky with a wide array of brilliant colors. I may never again encounter them exactly as I did the first time, but the blessings are that I was in the right place at the right time to see them once and that most assuredly, and with some new magical twist, I will one day see similar sights again. In my new life without Sam, I am wrapping the first times and never agains in the blessings of knowing that the first times make everlasting memories and that never again will I be the same, for I have been loved, for 14 years, by an amazing creature of God’s making.

In Memory, and With Hope

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, February 2021)

In the late quiet of the night the snowflakes gently descend from the deep and dark sky. The land still blanketed by the previous snow becomes buried deeper in that crisp silence that comes only with the winter. Full moon, half moon, or no moon, matters not, for the land is bright with the drifts on pristine frosted fields. But the beauty is difficult to enjoy when the heart is broken.

Somewhere a chair is empty and a lamp unlit. Pretty dresses hang never to be worn again. Jewelry, shoes, a tube of lipstick… all are like pages from a scrapbook, evidence of a pretty girl. The hall echoes with the memory of her laugh. And her absence is filled with the grieving of those left behind.

No matter how many times it pays a visit, grief still arrives as a strange and different thing. We grieve for the life lost, especially when far too soon – before 30 candles could brighten a cake, before the sober dream could come to light, and before the future could be told. We grieve for the beautiful smile no longer to be shared. And we are saddened by the thought of how hard she fought every day and for the joy she seemed to feel only intermittently.

And we grieve for the others who grieve. I watch my sweet husband, Gary, as he blankly stares out the living room window at the snowflakes dancing around the tree branches where a crimson cardinal has come to rest. Stunned by the news, his mind has gone somewhere I cannot travel to. And the realization hits me like an avalanche – the knowing that all the pain I feel pales compared to that of Gary and of his daughter’s siblings and other family members, some I am close to and some I have never really come to know due to my late arrival into Gary’s life.

But I am broken all the same.

While the ache seems impenetrable, I know that one day peace will find its way to the deep core of our hearts - a contentment wound tightly in the knowing that the fight is over and that Jamie can finally slumber in the warm comfort of the arms of our Higher Power.

Until that day when grief speaks with a softer voice, we will greet it in whichever manner it chooses to visit each hour, each day. We will greet a memory with a smile, a sad thought with a tear, and the moments of truth with a stunned silence. I pray for all those who Jamie left behind. And I pray for all those who, like Jamie did, battle addiction.

If you are suffering, please know that no one is ever truly alone. There is always someone to talk to – a family member, a friend, an acquaintance - even a stranger at the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration (SAMHSA). You can call their 24-hour suicide prevention line at 1-800-273-8255 or their treatment help line at 1-800-662-4357, or visit https://www.samhsa.gov/find-treatment. Hope, unlike the beautiful wintry snow, is not a fleeting thing that melts with the warmth of the day’s sun. It is not like grief – a heartbreaking thing. But rather hope can be an everlasting thing and more than that, a saving grace.

This column is offered with special gratitude for Terri Clark and Dion Frazier for their generosity and thoughtfulness to honor the memory of Jamie.

Wolf Moon Reflections

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald February, 2021)

Recently on a day when my hybrid work plan dictated that I commute to Columbus, I was greeted by a pleasant surprise on the evening drive home. Because I worked late and also needed to run a couple quick errands, my timing for nearing home was perfect to witness the beautiful Wolf Moon.

I read somewhere that the full moon was named such by the Sioux to describe wolves running together. I like the story. And it feels fitting for the first full moon of the year. January can be such an interesting mix of things. It marks the beginning of a new year, but yet can feel like winter apocalyptic. It’s bitterly cold outside, but warm and cuddly inside. The days are long and yet the sun sets so early the days feel short. Running with the pack brings comfort during times of uncertainty and challenges.

Every glance I was able to take of the Wolf Moon on the drive home the other night filled me with a sense of magical oneness with the pack I run with. At home, my husband and our three rescued dogs were awaiting my return. I knew that when I would arrive we would greet each other with the kind of glee normally ascribed for months of separation, not one day. That is my pack. We rest and run better when we are together. We know it won’t always be this way. We know one day, far, far too soon, one of us will depart this earthly place. But even then, even if only in our dreams, we will still run together. Heart and soul memory being what it is, no pack is ever truly severed.

In “With that Moon Language,” Hafiz wrote “… Everyone you see, you say to them, / ‘Love me.’ / … think about this / This great pull in us to connect. / Why not become the one / Who lives with the full moon in each eye / That is always saying, / With that sweet moon / Language, / What every other eye in the world / Is dying to / Hear.”

The magic of the full moon, and the Wolf Moon in particular, draws that feeling, that pull to connect, that love for, and desire to run with, our pack. And when the run is over, we will circle, as wolves will do, and cuddle up for a long winter’s nap. I wish that for all of us, that we sleep peacefully, that we rest in the connection and warmth of the love of our packs, those who are here in body and those here in spirit, for all the moonfull and moonless nights to come.

King’s Work Continues 

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald January, 2021)

There have been fewer commuters on the road due to the pandemic, but even less were on the road Monday due to Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. The week filled with virtual and socially distant celebrations for the civil rights hero was also filled with warnings to avoid downtown Columbus. Abundance of caution taken due to the anticipation that the recent violent onslaught on the Capitol in Washington D.C. will spread throughout State Capitol buildings across the nation.

And so civil unrest continues.

King said that "The ultimate measure of a man is not where he stands in moments of comfort and convenience, but where he stands at times of challenge and controversy."

And these indeed are times of challenge and controversy. I admire our heroes who peacefully advocate for justice. I learn from them every day.

King also said “The function of education is to teach one to think intensively and to think critically. Intelligence plus character – that is the goal of true education.” 

I, too, believe in the importance of education. That is why I worked so hard over the last 6 years to earn my doctorate degree in education. But it is the days of pursuing my undergraduate degree that I have been thinking about lately. I remember taking a class that combined history with literature. Through lectures and reading books like “Beloved” by Toni Morrison, “Winter in the Blood” by James Welch, “The Women’s Room” by Marilyn French, “Red Azalea” by Anchee Min, and more, I learned some things about history and culture that I should have already known. How could I have made it that far into my adulthood without knowing these things? But the learning finally happened, and that was what was important.

And the learning continues.

I think about Martin Luther King Jr. and I wonder how different our world would be if he had not been stolen from us on that fateful spring day in 1968. And I think how odd that something as unbelievably terrible as the COVID-19 pandemic wreaking havoc and strewing tragedies everywhere could also come with blessings. One of those being more people paying attention to the news about racism, discrimination and health inequities. An opportunity, as it were, for those of us who were not fully informed to gain an education and an understanding so that we could better serve as advocates for those who have suffered so long simply because of the color of their skin. And with each of us doing our part, no matter how small it might seem to be, we will bring peace and justice to light.

A Better Us for a Better Year

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald January, 2021)

Gary and I took time off work during the Holidays. From Christmas weekend until the New Year weekend there was no commute to work; just a leisurely stroll to the Holiday decorated living room where we cuddled doggies, napped, read, and watched television. Between work and school we have not really had any time off this year and we were ready for the break.

I have stacks of books and magazines to read, so having the time to actually do so was thrilling for me. I selected “Becoming” by Michelle Obama as my book of the week. I had started the book previously but didn’t really have time to dive into it until now. It was beautifully and transparently written. I am so appreciative of Obama’s generosity in sharing her story. Like most wonderful reads, I was saddened when I turned the last page – not ready to say “good-bye” yet. And then I realized I would not have to. Michelle Obama closed her book with parting words that I believe will stay with me ever after.

“Let’s invite one another in. Maybe then we can begin to fear less, to make fewer wrong assumptions, to let go of biases and stereotypes that unnecessarily divide us. Maybe we can better embrace the ways we are the same… There’s power in allowing yourself to be known and heard, in owning your unique story, in using your authentic voice. And there’s grace in being willing to know and hear others. This, for me, is how we become,” wrote Obama.

These words are perfect for any time, but very much needed during these especially difficult days. The COVID-19 pandemic arrived with its own set of problems but also, I believe, helped to draw back the curtain that had been serving to some degree to cloak racism, discrimination, health inequities and so much more. Just as, with wide open arms, we invited 2021 in, so too should we invite each other in. Interestingly, during these times of social distancing, our closeness is something that cannot be denied. Virtual meetings, social media posts, videos, documentaries, books, periodicals and more have given us opportunities, to get to know others who we might not have otherwise had the pleasure of knowing. It’s okay to not fully understand what our fellow humans might have endured or are enduring because, as Obama wrote, the grace is in “being willing to know and hear others.” As she professes, this is how we “become.” I hope that 2021 will be the year we all become better listeners, friends, learners, advocates and more – in short, a better us for a better year.

New Year’s Wish – By Amy Randall-McSorley

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald December 2020)

Time rolls out in a rhythm asynchronous to that of my perception. Belief of my age is challenged by the undeniable evidence on my driver’s license and the calendar on my wall. And another year is passing by solidifying the inevitability of aging, yet the festive lights and music of the season make me feel like a child again. Like the famous “Christmas Carol” by Charles Dickens, the me of my past, present, and future are visiting me all at the same time.

There is a box on my kitchen table – the annual Christmas gift of pears from my father. And I’m reminded of the days when, as a young girl, I would climb our pear tree with my sister. We would sit in the strong branches until our bellies ached from laughter and from dining on all the pears we could possibly reach.

Every New Year’s Eve brings volumes of memories of days past and plans for days of the future. I never have been much of a fan of new year resolutions. I guess that is because I am perpetually working on those things that would make the list if I actually created one. As much as I love the young girl of my past, I’m never content to leave her as is – let her spirit naturally ebb and flow with the changing of the seasons and the passing of the years.

I like to think that the past me would look at the present and future me’s and say, “They’re cool.” The present me is grateful for the past me and hopeful for the future me. And I hope that the future me will look back on the present and past me’s and say, “I could do it because they showed me the way.”

In his work, “David Copperfield,” Charles Dickens wrote: “My meaning simply is, that whatever I have tried to do in life, I have tried with all my heart to do well; that whatever I have devoted myself to, I have devoted myself to completely; that in great aims and in small, I have always been thoroughly in earnest.”

It’s good to continuously try with all one’s heart to learn more and to be a better version of oneself. It is equally important to not forget who we were, enjoy who we are, and to believe in the person we are striving to become. But it is even more important to love all of these versions of ourselves. As we approach the end of 2020, I wish for you, Dear Readers, that the past you brings warm memories, the present you is safe and well, and the future you is filled with joy and peace.

We Need A Little Christmas Joy

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald December 2020)

While the reason for Christmas might not fit with everyone’s religious beliefs, the feel of the season is one that can warm us all. Every year is met with challenges, some unforeseen, but 2020 has been riddled with even more trials. And yet, in spite of the year of difficulties, all around the county I am seeing beautiful displays of Holiday lights, blow up Santas, snowmen, deer and penguins. My mother, who has been gone for 9 years now, was one who went gangbusters when it came to decorating for the season. The tree would be up as soon as the last Thanksgiving dinner plate was washed – not that you ever really knew for sure there was a tree under all of those colorful lights and ornaments. You just assumed, based on the size, shape, and pine sent of the brilliantly lit object which took residence across most of the living room, that it was a tree. It was so gaudy it crossed over to being classic and it certainly brought joy to our family.

The season can be filled with joy and laughter just as much as it can be filled with sadness and tears, especially this year when far too many presents will either never be bought or will never be unwrapped. Some homes are not only vacant of those who should be home, but also vacant of a paycheck for which to purchase items for the purpose of celebrating the season.

And it can be hard to not visit friends and family during this time of year traditionally chock-full with gatherings. Following the CDC guidelines to help reduce the spread of COVID-19 may shed darkness on what otherwise would be a shiny season, but worth the sacrifice for every life potentially saved. But the deprivation of things once tradition makes every little thing we do get to do all the sweeter. Random season greeting texts, sending cards through the mail, baking, watching favorite movies and listening to cherished carols – these things once thought of as “little” can bring great joy during a hard time.

Just as this year has been hard on families and individuals, it’s also been hard on businesses. We have so many lovely small businesses in Pickaway County. Some have closed, but some have managed to stay open making whatever adjustments possible to survive. I would suggest looking up your favorite local business on the web, on Facebook, or giving them a call, to learn what changes they made to adapt to the pandemic environment. Some might take appointments, some might offer online or personal shoppers, and some might offer curb-side pickup. You might be surprised to learn what safety measures are in place and what options are available. And when you continue to be a patron of these businesses, not only will you feel a little Christmas joy, so too will the business owner and their family.

Some of us might not have the resources for Holiday shopping. There is an array of services available to help with navigating through life’s challenges. For example, Pickaway County Community Action https://www.picca.info/ provides a wealth of resources and support. They accept donations too, as will the Emergency Clearinghouse. I recently read in the Circleville Herald that the annual Mound Street Churches food drive will be held from 9am to 1pm on December 19 to benefit The Emergency Clearinghouse.

Alternative to receiving services and donating to help provide them are other ways we can have a little Christmas joy. These include the wonderful books and other materials available to safely borrow from the Pickaway County Library https://pickawaylib.org/. And, if you are lonely, check out the Pickaway County Dog Shelter and the Circle Area Humane Society on Facebook to find your forever fur friend. There is a dog or cat out there who could use a little Christmas too and, in turn, they will make yours all the more joyful for this and many Christmases to come.

Thanksgivings

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November 2020)

An eastern sky brilliantly painted with sunrise, a strata of fog hovering over a field, a hawk in a nearby tree – these are small blessings of a morning commute. A day without event, a deadline met, a conversation with a coworker – these are blessings of a good day at work. A mask string that does not break, an errand ran without a close encounter of less than 6 feet, hand sanitizer that does not burn my hands – these are daily life blessings that we would not have imagined just one year ago.

This week, traditional Thanksgiving will be anything but. Gatherings once large, will be small and limited to those who we have been sharing our homes with during this year of isolated living. Toasts from across the country will be held virtually over meeting technology we never envisioned we would become so intimate with and dependent upon. And in spite of these strange changes and limitations, there will still be blessings to celebrate.

In our home, Gary and I will say prayers of thanks that we are both still well, that we have one more Thanksgiving with our Lab, Sam, and that Moses and Jasmine, our other two doggies, are oblivious to the virus that storms around the globe. Every bite will be more delicious, every sound of laughter more musical, each hug warmer, and the celebration of our blessings all the sweeter.

Gary and I had become hermits of sorts before the pandemic necessitated such, so we will be in our element this Thanksgiving, but our hearts break and our prayers are sent to those families who are not able to spend the holiday together due to the restricting coronavirus considerations or worse due to the loss of loved ones. We pray that those who are lonely or grieving this time of year find solace in cherished memories and the knowledge that better days will indeed come again. And we pray for those who have known no loss that they never need suffer, and yet still appreciate the preciousness of every moment lived and our duty to play our part to stop the spread: wear our masks, keep our social distance, wash our hands frequently.

This Thanksgiving, and always, we are filled with gratitude for the beloved memories of days past and prayerful for the days to come – may those days be filled with magical memories and find you safe and well.

Veterans

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald November 2020)

Whether the day is one that involves commuting to Columbus or is one where I work from home, I end each day with my favorite person, my husband, Gary. Surrounded by our dogs, we talk about the day and settle into an evening filled with love, laughter and good conversation. Even though every day closes in this manner, I am overwhelmed with gratitude each and every evening and I think of those who are separated from the ones they love.

In November, we celebrate those who courageously separated from their families and friends as they embarked on their journeys serving in the military. Some returned home after months, some after years, and some never returned. Some families packed up and moved once, and some moved time and time again to stay together as much as could be possible during the years served.

I have had to be brave many times when my life has been threatened, but the incidents were random and I certainly never willingly signed up to put my life in danger. Our military members never know what peril they might face day after day, month after month and year after year, yet they volunteer to stand in the potential fray. And while I greatly appreciate the bravery of our military, I am not able to fully comprehend that level of courage.

I think about the years that Gary served in the Coast Guard, and I am proud, inspired and in awe of him. I am also very thankful that we were not sharing our lives together when he served. I don’t know how I would have made it through the days worrying and wondering where he was and what dangers he might have been facing from enemies manmade and of nature. I would not have been patient. I would not have kept a positive attitude. And I would not have been pleasant. To put it simply, I would not have been someone you would have wanted to invite over for a cup of coffee let alone for dinner.

So while I am thinking of veterans this November and extremely grateful for their bravery, I am also thinking of the circle of family and friends around each of those veterans. I am praying for happiness and wellness for our veterans and that they know how greatly appreciated they are. I hope that they are spending their days surrounded by loved ones and immersed in laughter and peace.

Halloween Escape

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald October 2020)

‘Tis the season of ghosts and goblins and other things that go bump in the night. There are plenty of scary things in our everyday lives, especially so in this year of 2020, but Halloween is the time for escapes frighteningly fun.

In my hybrid working approach this year, the days that I work in Columbus versus from home have had an extra eeriness lately. The early morning drives begin when the sun has yet to rise, and in those wee hours of the day to be, the one cup of coffee which I allow myself has been plenty to give me the jitters and awaken my imagination. Who knows what things lurk in the deep, dark woods I pass? What ill-meaning ghoulie awaits my rounding the corner? What devilish troll lies in wait under a bridge I traverse? And even more horrifying is the fog which becomes a living entity weaving in and out of the fields and trees hiding all things familiar.

These things that are imaginatively ominous make my heart and mind giddy with thoughts of what might be. The experiences remind me of when I was younger, way before my commuter days, when my grandmother gave me several boxes of old and tired hard bound Nancy Drew books. I was immediately enraptured by any semblance of mysteries yet to be solved and of heroines.

As I grew older, I fell in love with the work of Stephen King and how he tells stories that cause my heart to skip and my breathing to pause. He strings thoughts perfectly illustrative with just the right descriptive links missing so that my mind’s eye takes flight while filling in the blanks.

At Halloween, there is nothing better than a lonely jack-o’-lantern on an old and dark front porch beckoning us to look into its vacant eyes. There is nothing more chilling than a howl in the distance on a moonless night – not quite a coyote, but rather something shadowy and sinister that waits for us to climb into our beds and slip into sleep. And in that sleep the ghost stories come to life and dreams that are sweet on any other night are filled with Halloween frights. How lovely indeed to immerse ourselves in the imaginary frightening things this time of year and stray somewhat from thoughts of things more terrifying because they are real. An escape is an escape, right?

Keep Being You

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October 2020)

Bullies are everywhere. They run you off the road, they leap from the shadows at places of work, they haunt from the hallways of schools and they seek us out in cyberspace. I feel sad for bullies because clearly something has been missing from their lives or something has been present that never should have been.

It’s easy to fall target to bullies. All you really need to be is different from them. The differences can be gender identification, skin color, size, values, ethics, the list goes on.

I’ve been bullied plenty in my lifetime. The most recent times were last month and this month, October, which, coincidentally, is National Bully Prevention Month. And both of these times, I was just being me and doing the right thing.

In September, I was cyberbullied when I posted a comment on a social media channel about how proud I am of my place of employment for all of the work they do to support diversity, equity, inclusion, and anti-racism. I received several responses to the post, of which one resulted in me replying that “Black Lives Matter.” And then I received an onslaught of cyberbullying accusing me of being a white supremist. I was shocked and I was shaking. Obviously, there was a critical thinking deficit on the part of the bullies for responding to my post in that manner, but still I was hurt and rattled.

Fortunately, there are tools for dealing with cyber bullies. If you are ever in this situation, you can block posts and report bullies to the social media channel managers. I was able to stop the inundation of bullying remarks through these tactics. Did the encounters scare me? Yes. Will it stop me from being me? No.

The second recent bullying event took place this month when a stray dog landed on our porch. This sweet little guy is no stranger to us as he has been coming for visits for over 4 years. We have suggested to the family several times that they get a license and micro-chip for Buddy, as we have affectionately nicknamed him, provide him with monthly-preventative treatments, and make sure he is kept safe and well. The bad news is Buddy clearly has not been receiving monthly treatments and has no license. The good news is that, always prepared for a visit from him, we had kept the owner’s contact information handy.

We reached out to the owners and began the wait to hear back from them. We couldn’t go to their home for reasons it would be unfair for me to disclose here. We couldn’t bring Buddy into our house because we feared he might be contagious and would put our dogs at risk. We couldn’t leave him outside unattended either. So we found ourselves reaching out to the official experts with authority. Ultimately, we needed to reach out to more authorities for our own protection because of being bullied by a representative of the family.

There’s a song co-written and sung by Jill Scott called “Hate on Me” that has a line in it “No matter where I live, despite the things I give, you'll always be this way, so go ahead and hate on me hater now or later, 'cause I'm gonna do me.”

I’ll keep being me – taking a stand for what is right. And I know that means I will also keep being a target for bullying. But at the end of the day, I’ll feel good about me.

If you are being bullied, you are not alone, and there many ways you can get help and support. Please don’t suffer in silence. Talk to a family member, friend, someone at church, at school… someone. Among the many places you can find additional help is by visiting https://www.stopbullying.gov/resources/get-help-now. If your situation escalates and you fear for your safety, please call your local law enforcement. Bullies are everywhere, but so are those who can help their targets.

Determination – Checking off the List

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, October 2020)

Whether the commute will be the long drive to Columbus or the few steps to my office to work from home, the morning always starts the same. Together, Gary and I begin the day helping our sweet Labrador, Sam, check all the things off his morning list. A while back, Sam’s medical needs grew to the point that we created a spreadsheet to make sure we didn’t miss anything. Sam eagerly eats his scooby snacks, which are his pills cleverly disguised in diabetic friendly treats, gets his eyedrops, insulin, breakfast, and takes care of other doggie business. These things are accomplished with tail wagging and ears up. Sam’s determination to greet every day, and to find his blue ball, even though playtime is remarkedly shorter than in his younger days, is a determination to be admired.

Determination is such a varied thing. We take life one year, one month, one day or one hour at a time depending upon our challenges. Those challenges can be within ourselves – hoping and wondering if we can reach our dreams instead of believing and pursuing them. The challenges can come from things we have no control over like how people treat us and other circumstances like a pandemic, discrimination and more. But challenges are meant to be met. Even if the challenges get the upper hand, we win simply through the fact that we fought them. This is true, but of course, a sweeter win is the one where you walk away with the cherished chalice, the awaited award, the pined-for prize.

As I am writing this to you, I am preparing for my final oral defense for my doctorate degree in education. When you read this, I will have already presented it - one of the last few milestones to meet before the treasured EdD can take permanent residence at the end of my name. When I first began this journey, there were those who scoffed at me, actually made fun of me. And I’ve had people minimize the long hours week after week, month after month and year after year that I have spent in pursuit of this dream. But there have been others who have checked in to see how things were going and to ask when they can call me “Doctor.” And while I have the fire and the drive within me to do this, those people have been the inspirational vitamins to keep me nurtured through this long battle. Foremost among those who have supported me is my husband, Gary. To call him wonderful and our relationship amazing is like saying that when a dog hugs you it feels just okay. There are no real words to describe the happiness, trust, love and energy we share.

Like Sam, I too have a list to check things off of. And my bucket list is about to be minus one “what if…”. While I have plans for putting this degree to work; like Sam, I also have plans to use the gift of time I will soon be awarded to play. It might not be with a blue ball, but with toys of a different sort. My running shoes, books, and more have been quietly awaiting this moment.

If you have a dream that you can’t stop thinking about, I encourage you to find a way to chase it down. And if you know someone who is on that journey, let them know you believe in them. Together, we can help each other check one more “what if” off our lists and replace it with a dream lifted to reality.

Our Dogs Quiet the Din

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald September, 2020

There’s a noise that permeates the quietist of moments. It’s the sound of fear, death, discrimination and other nightmarish realities. The noise is cloaked in the persistence of the pandemic and wears the shroud as though it serves as a super villain cape, impenetrable by hope and victory. But the noise is mistaken. It is like white noise. It may come in many frequencies and with the same intensities, but it is not unconquerable. And the triumphs over the noise come in varying degrees and from a multitude of sources.

To be clear, I am not insinuating that these things of which I speak are minimal by calling them “noise.” On the contrary, I am describing them this way because noise is like air – it is everywhere. And the problems the noise channels are gravely critical.

There are warriors who battle the deep and vile noise. There are highly visible heroes and there are those who are unseen. Some of our heroes we might never really ever get to know personally and some are family members and friends. And some warriors do not appear to be fighters at all. They come in all shapes and sizes, are furry and walk on all fours. Gary and I are fortunate to share our home with three of this type of warrior.

At the end of a hard day, there is nothing like the love of a dog to bring peace to your heart and your mind. A wag of a tail says, “I love you.” A grunt in your ear is a whisper from God. Blood pressure drops after a few minutes of cuddling. Laughter at silly play quiets thoughts and steals the power the damaging noise holds on us.

The love of a dog can rejuvenate and heal us from the challenges we face every day. Love helps to divert us from succumbing to the will of the damaging noise. What greater weapon is there than love? It’s the thing that stands behind our daily battles. For love of safety, we fight fear. For love of life, we fight death. And with love for one another, we fight discrimination. This is but a small list of how love conquers all.

We fill ourselves with love so that we have love to give. And one way we do so is through accepting the love of a dog. Sure that love comes with obligations and responsibilities, but those pale in comparison to that which our dogs give us in return.

I cannot imagine my life without dogs. I tried that once, thinking that was the safest way to be. Your heart cannot be broken again by the passing of a dog if you never open your home and heart to one again. But I was wrong. The answer is to open your house to more than one – three in our case. Through the love of our pack, my cup runneth over. And while I realize the day will come when three will become two and the loss will be overwhelming, I also know that I will bear the weight of the sorrow more easily because of those who will remain.

The sources of the harmful noises are powerful and must be fought until they become less than a whisper. Until then, I will stand ground against the damaging din, and find healing and solace in the loving, joyful noises our dogs so generously and unconditionally give.

If you do not share your home with a dog, but would like to, you can visit the Pickaway County Dog Shelter on Facebook to see who might be looking for a forever home, and how you could be the one to provide it. You can also visit the Circle Area Humane Society on Facebook to find your forever cat or dog friend. They are not the answer to all the dark noises that fill our days, but they bring the light that can quiet our hearts in the evenings so that we may rest and be ready in the morning to rise and fight again.

Well Deserved Labor Day

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, September 2020)

Labor Day is upon us and the celebrations will be with a new and strange twist this year. COVID-19 has morphed many jobs and stolen others. And one could argue that those who have had their jobs taken away due to the pandemic are still working hard despite the removal of a regular paycheck.

Life is hard, even harder during a pandemic. A paycheck is precious, and even more so when there is a keener concern it may be your last for a while. Work can be difficult, but unusually challenging when you are navigating new communication channels, access to technology, social distancing, and so much more.

We work hard. This year we have worked even harder. We look forward to play. We deserve to enjoy the day designed to celebrate our hard work. Labor Day is synonymous with gatherings. Fire up the grill. Pile plates with hamburgers, baked beans and deviled eggs. Fill the air with music and laughter. Dance. Sing. Hug.

And Labor Day marks the end of summer. The waning of warm, sunny, long days. A time to prepare for the fall season ahead. Labor Day is that last hoo-ha before we need to dig our sweaters out from the back of the closet and try to remember where we stashed our forgotten snow boots.

While the meaning behind Labor Day has never changed, perhaps the tradition of the day has clouded the intention some. One thing that the pandemic has not squelched is appreciation. While always there, I believe, gratitude for each other has grown even stronger. It is important to also recognize ourselves. This Labor Day, while we might not be able to gather around the grill and celebrate in some of our other traditional ways, we can still strive to find a moment to rest and celebrate our labors and to show our appreciation of the work of others. The festivities of the day may be different due to COVID-19 concerns, but the meaning for the day will be stronger than ever. And while the laughter might be quieter and less hamburgers will be flipped on the grill, it can still be a day to celebrate – to honor the hard work that we all do.

Lifting the Fog of Implicit Bias

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2020)

There has been a change in my pattern of commute lately. I’m spending more days driving to Columbus versus traversing across the living room to my office at home. There were several morning commutes lately when the world was cloaked in fog. I love it when the dense mist occasionally gives way to the morning sun – a moment of clarity, if you will. It’s akin to the moments when you realize something you assumed to be true was not.

Assumptions are tricky things. Sometimes they come to us founded with analyzed data and critically considered findings. Other times we know not from whence they came. And those are the ones that can cause the most harm.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about a particular kind of assumption – implicit bias. Implicit bias is omnipresent. Without really being aware we are doing it; we see someone and make an assumption about them. That person is probably smart. That person is probably an artist or musician.

Implicit bias is a natural state of thinking that we all harbor. It sets up residence in our minds nurtured by things we experienced from childhood through today. You would think that since you have lived with your implicit biases all of your life, you would be well aware of them. But those assumptions are elusive and deceptive. And there is danger in letting them remain cloaked in a hazy fog. For when we are not aware of our biases, we might act on them – and without any intention we might hurt someone.

I’ve been following many Black Lives Matter conversations. And the stories shared drip heavy with implicit bias. Imagine if you just threw on some ugly jeans to run an errand. If you are White probably no big deal, but I’m reading stories of Black people having encounters where it’s assumed that they have ill intentions because of the way that they are dressed. Or try this on—let’s assume you’re at a celebration for an achievement. Perhaps you have just graduated from medical school, you just wrote a book, or you just got your pilot’s license. Whatever your dream may be – imagine you accomplished it. And at the gathering to celebrate, because of the color of your skin, someone approaches you assuming that you are a server. Now, don’t get me wrong here. I admire servers – very much. For a variety of reasons, this is a job I should never be hired to do because I would most certainly not do the job well. The point I am making here is that implicit bias drives people to make assumptions based on the color of someone’s skin. And even something that appears benign like mistakenly asking the graduating medical student who is the toast of the party to fetch you a drink, can forever cast a dark shadow on what should have been the night of a lifetime.

We have much, much Black Lives Matter work to do. Implicit bias is one piece of the puzzle. But if we each really take the time to consider our assumptions and what they are based on, we can move to changing our patterns of thinking. We can bring the fog to lift, the clarity to come, and thoughts and actions immersed in fairness to persevere.

A Place of Sweet Peace

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, August 2020)

As I am writing this to you, Dear Readers, it’s 5 o’clock in the afternoon. I’ve finished my workday, but because my commute today was no further than home, I’m already in my favorite place. Lying at my feet is Sam, our big, sweet Labrador. Moses, our coon-husky-hound -I-have-no-idea-what-else mix is lying out in the yard beneath his favorite maple tree. He lifts his head for a moment while his thoughts transition from discerning what is running around in the woods to philosophizing about the meaning of life. Jasmine, our little Yorkie-poo is inside, no doubt watching a veterinarian show on television. Next to me, Gary is quietly rocking as he gazes out back waiting to spy a deer, bunny, or perhaps the rose-breasted grosbeak we had spotted earlier this year.

The days have been long and filled with work and school. My dissertation has grown to over 230 pages now and, as I much as I love it, I admit I pine for the days when I can spend more time here in my favorite place. I’m grateful to Gary for building us this beautiful deck where we can unwind at the end of the day. My continuous migraine has grown heavier and heavier and I have come to believe that if I could just add more deck time to the plethora of other interventions we are throwing at it, the time resting here with Gary would be the antidote to “stop this crazy thing,” as George Jetson would say.

I hope that you have a place like this. A spot on the porch, a favorite chair by a window, a field, a path in the woods – somewhere to leave your worries aside and just be. There have been times when, due to matters of mother nature like lightening, hail, or rotating winds, I could not sit out on the deck – not that I didn’t consider it. Sometimes, when that has been the case, I have found solace on YouTube through videos with calming music complemented by breathtaking scenes of nature.

But this late afternoon is being kind to me. The temperature has cooled down to 76. And although sunset is hours away yet, the tree frogs and crickets have begun their chirps and trills as they impatiently wait for the finches, cardinals, robins, and blue jays to surrender the stage to them. In his poem, “A Clear Midnight,” Walt Whitman wrote, “This is thy hour O Soul, thy free flight into the wordless, / Away from books, away from art, the day erased, the lesson done,/ Thee fully forth emerging, silent, gazing, pondering the themes thou lovest best, / Night, sleep…and the stars.”

During these difficult and challenging times, I wish for you Dear Readers, a place of sweet peace where you can put away the “lessons of the day,” clear your mind, and think of the “themes thou lovest best.” Be safe and be well my friends.

Keeping Score

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July 2020)

In the heat of a moment, a life can be ended or forever changed. The destruction can come from a sudden impact or from a series of intentional, cruel actions.

I recently read the book “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma,” by Bessel van der Kolk, MD, following the recommendation from my primary physician. In our quest to end the daily migraines I suffer from, he told me nothing is off the table. I agree. And I try everything he recommends.

There are parts of the book that, as someone who is not clinically trained, I was not able to follow in perfect fashion, but the gist of that which I gained was fascinating and, in some ways, life changing. I learned there is an array of trauma that can bring one to Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome. And I learned how the body, not just the mind, becomes wired differently when forced to endure unescapable trauma. I learned why I think the way I do and I gained a better understanding of how my body has kept the score, including my daily migraines.

The traumatic events I have endured did not all occur in individual heat of the moment incidents. Many took place over time - a long trail of varied assaults by multiple doers of harm. And I’m not sure what makes me sadder, the direct knowledge of how cruel people can be, or the awareness that many who read this column know exactly of that which I write.

As I have been listening to #BlackLivesMatter stories that have been so generously shared by Black people through personal conversations, the news, and social media including through the #BlackintheIvory conversation on Twitter, I’ve thought about Van der Kolk’s book. Racism occurs in both that heat of the moment sudden impact kind of event as well as in the long-lived trends of cruel words and actions. Van der Kolk wrote about how when we have experienced inescapable trauma, among the ways it changes us is that we become hyper-alert. I realize that I am still learning, but one of the things I am coming to understand from reading and hearing more about #BlackLivesMatter is that the hyper-alert state is a prevalent state of being for our Black brothers and sisters. When I say prevalent, I mean omni-prevalent. It not only plays a role in big decisions, but choices that are made every single day. These are choices like: what to wear when running a quick errand, what road to drive on, what road to go for a run on, what to say and do when assumptions are made based on the color of one’s skin, and more - the list is infinite.

Until We Can, and Want to, Fly Away

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, July 2020)

Somewhere in the shadows of memories a little girl dances and twirls. Her yellow dress patterned with little canaries was sewn for her by her grandmother. She can’t quite reach the turntable of the old style record player and so she asks her mother to “Play it again…play it again, please.” The song that simultaneously brought her delight and sadness played once more - “Yellow Bird” by the Kingston Trio. “You can fly away, in the sky away. You’re more lucky than me,” the lyrics still bring me a mixture of laughter and tears. Yes, I was that little girl.

After all of these months of working remotely in my office at home and leaving my safe haven to run errands as infrequently as possible, you would think that I would still be envious of that yellow bird that could “fly away in the sky away,” but I’m not. You would think that as more and more places of business are opening back up after the COVID-19 shutdown, I would be excited and ready to stretch my wings and fly away, but I’m not. I know I am not alone when I say that being in public frightens me. More and more people are becoming severely ill and while many survive, sadly too many do not. Whether the numbers are growing because of lack of masking, social distancing and washing hands for 20 seconds or because of the increased testing matters not, for the result is the same – COVID-19 is not relinquishing its hold.

I’m not sure what scares me more about going out in the public, the omnipresence of the coronavirus or the absence of social distancing and masks. The deadly virus is real and it grows stronger every day while so many treat it with disregard, disinterest or denial. When I wear my mask, I am showing you that I value your life. I understand there are some situations where people are not able to wear a mask, but those who can, but choose not to, are telling the rest of us that our lives, and the lives of our family members, matter not to them. That’s a sad state of being. And also a negligent one. As human beings, we owe it to each other to listen to, and adhere to, the recommendations of the medical and scientific experts. If we all truly do this together, one day we can be free like that yellow bird - no masks, no social distancing needed, we will be able to stretch our wings and fly away.

I Wear My Mask for You

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June 2020)

For three months now, my commutes to work have been a quick shuffle across the living room to the writing room where, with dogs sleeping at my feet, I log in and work online. I’ve only driven to Columbus once during this time for a meeting that could not occur virtually. Otherwise, I’m only firing up my Buick chariot once a week to travel to the big city for immunotherapy, and then there are the occasional local runs to the grocery store or pharmacy – always with mask on, and always reminding me of the song My Silver Lining by First Aid Kit.

“I don't want to wait anymore I'm tired of looking for answers. Take me some place where there's music and there's laughter. I don't know if I'm scared of dying, but I'm scared of living too fast, too slow,” the lyrics are hauntingly surreal.

I’m fortunate to work from home – breaking it down, I’m fortunate to have work and to have a home. I’m grateful to be alive. I may be far behind the scenes, but as a hospital employee, I carry the obligation of respectfully adhering to the guidelines provided by medical and science experts. I ache to go for hikes, to run on a path instead of on a treadmill, to go “where there’s music and there’s laughter.” Unlike the lyrics to the song, I do know that I’m scared of dying. Like the lyrics, I am scared of living too fast. And so I keep my distance. I wash my hands for 20 seconds. I take my temperature daily. And I wear my mask. I do these things to protect me, my loved ones, and you.

As careful as I have been, I could be like so many others who are asymptomatic and yet test positive for COVID-19. I hate wearing the masks. And I admit that they make me panic a little. Perhaps it is because, as an asthmatic, I’m a bit claustrophobic about fabric draped over my nose and mouth. But I would rather be uncomfortable when I run my errands than risk the chance that I could be part of the spread of Coronavirus.

It’s difficult when you go places where the workers are also masking up to protect others and are offering overhead announcements to encourage social distancing, but where many of the customers are unmasked and uncaring about keeping their distance. It’s true that masking is a choice in many establishments. And I get that there are plenty of folks who are unconcerned about the spreading of the life-threatening pandemic. But the facts about the virus are undeniably evident. And COVID-19 might be invisible, but it is a murderer all the same. So, like many others, I’ll keep following the guidelines. Until we can go where there is “music and laughter” and jubilantly hug each other without risking becoming severely ill or dying, I’ll work from home when I can, and when I need to be out and about, I’ll keep my distance. And I know that some may not care, but I’ll also wear my mask for you. (Photograph is of my sweet husband, Gary.)

#BlackLivesMatter

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, June 2020)

I never knew George Floyd, but I join the thousands upon thousands who mourn his death. And while I wish I could say that he probably did not awaken that fateful day thinking it would be his last day on earth, I really don’t fully believe that to be true because now I have a glimpse of an understanding of what it is like to be Black

I am white and I’m a girl. The former has not caused me much trouble, but the latter has made me a victim of discrimination and of violence. Like black skin, I cannot hide the gender I wear, but unlike black skin, my gender challenges are not a part of my every day… my every minute. As I am paying attention to the news and to testimonies, thoughts, and stories of Black people, I am becoming more aware of the magnitude of racism. The narratives are generously shared to help cultivate an understanding so that we can all work together to make a difference.

Actually, “difference” is an inapt word for the undoing we must make of cataclysmic, long-standing injustices, inequalities, and violent acts. It’s time to not just make a change, but rather to turn the world upside down whirling through space and spinning on its axis until it lands and takes root in a new orbit as something completely dissimilar and unrecognizable compared to the world we have known.

How do we revolutionize our world? George Floyd started that movement with his death. He shook everything up. His sweet little daughter, Gianna, even said her “Daddy changed the world.” How do people like me, people who are white, help to change the world? I believe there are hundreds of ways. We each have our own talents and tools. It can be as simple as carrying a cardboard sign with the words “Black Lives Matter” during a protest or planting a sign in our front yard. We can be advocates, teachers, messengers and more. And we can take a stand, or a kneel, to show our solidarity.

I am grateful that where I work, Nationwide Children’s Hospital, there is no tolerance for racism. And I was filled with gratitude and pride when I saw the photographs on Friday June 5 of the #WhiteCoatsForBlackLives event where doctors in their white coats knelt on the campus lawns at Nationwide Children’s and at The Ohio State University’s Wexner Medical Center to show solidarity.  I was not surprised to learn the critical role that Dr. Ray Bignall, II, of Nationwide Children’s Hospital, played in orchestrating the event, partnering with Dr. James MacDonald. I have had the honor of knowing and working with Dr. Bignall for a few years now. Among the many hats he wears are those of a nephrologist, advocate, and educator. I was thrilled to work closely with him on an Underrepresented Minorities (URM) in Medicine initiative and through that work I came to realize how much I do not know about Black lives. I also came to realize that no matter how embarrassed I might be to ask questions, admitting my naivety, my questions will be welcomed. I still have so much more to learn, and as I am gaining an understanding, I am learning ways to help bring change. Some are small, but I’m hopeful they will add up.

I might not be seeing Dr. Bignall and Dr. MacDonald very often these days due to social distancing and working from home, but I’m still learning from them. I invite you to join me on Twitter to do the same. You can follow Dr. Bignall @DrRayMD and Dr. MacDonald @sportingjim. Through Dr. Bignall’s posts, I also began to follow the conversations #BlackLivesMatter and #BlackintheIvory to learn more about what life is like for Black people. Through knowledge and through united #BlackLivesMatter actions we can end the senseless cruelty of the past and of today to make the tomorrows better for George Floyd’s little daughter, Gianna, and all Black people who dream of, and are fighting for, better days.

Path to Empowerment

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May 2020)

Working from my office at home these last couple months has allowed me the freedom to listen to music many more hours than the days offered me pre-pandemic. Lately, I’ve been gravitating to the song “Stand Like an Oak” by Rising Appalachia. “Stand like an oak / An aspen / An alder / It’s in you, don’t falter / And if so than I got you / Fake it, walk taller…” the song begins.

I know I am not alone when I share that this isn’t the first time that I’ve found a personal path to empowerment during a difficult period. My stories are many and are why I earned the nickname “Scrapper Girl” from my husband, Gary. We’ve all had to stand tall like an oak, and, like the song describes, there have been times when we have faltered and have found ourselves faking it and walking taller than what our minds would naturally allow us to do. Like fictional stories that morph into perceived truth when told over and over, “faking it” can give us the power to stand tall. The ploy can come in many forms. I have stood tall post trauma through planting a garden, moving every piece of furniture in my house, by running marathons, and more. These days, the media is filled with stories of people taking up baking – feeding more than just their bellies by creating something from scratch. Some people are taking up painting, playing an instrument, writing poetry. It matters not the approach. Sometimes the hardest part is recognizing that there are no wrong answers to finding personal empowerment to stand tall during difficult times. The noise around us can mislead us. Tune in to what you need and follow that path. What you choose might not make sense to you, but follow it all the same. Your empowerment path might lead to you feeling better or it might lead to you helping others —divine intervention as it were.

Cast Off Toward the Finish Line

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, May 2020)

“I wish I was a fisherman / Tumblin' on the seas / Far away from dry land / And it's bitter memories.” Fisherman’s Blues by the Waterboys tugs at my heart.

These days as I’ve been working from home at my desk near a window that looks out over our few acres with lush green carpet that sweeps up to meet the trees that are beginning to don their garb of like color. As lovely and calming as the scene is, it bears a small disappointment every time I gaze upon it. It is landlocked.

And I’m remembering the wind and the water of years ago. The wind was cool and stirred the branches of the trees on a nearby island to sway. It attempted to playfully bring the mainsail to dance, but the fabric held taut. The water was dark and deep hiding mysteries vast. And we skirted over its surface randomly taking flight as we would crest small waves.

It’s been a long time since I sailed. My stepfather taught me how to crew - things I can no longer remember. How to tie certain knots. How to read the wind and convince it to join us in a choreography designed to bring our little vessel across the finish line ahead of the others.

“Castin' out my sweet line / With abandonment and love,” the song plays on. And I’m amazed at how vivid the memories are. I can almost smell the water. And I swear I can hear it slapping against the hull and protesting the plans of the rudder.

I always dream of sailing, but perhaps a little more so now that I rarely leave the house. My days at home are filled with my day job, my writing, and picking away at my dissertation for my doctoral degree. There are still chores to do, doggies to care for, and far too many prayers to whisper. And every time I learn of someone else losing a loved one, my impulse grows to tell Gary how much I love him. The frequency of the utterances brings no dilution to the meaning.

“No ceiling bearin' down on me / Save the starry sky above / With light in my head / With you in my arms,” the Waterboys serenade me with their Scottish-Irish splendor. And I wonder when we will outpace the pandemic storm and rest peacefully gazing at the night sky. And when we do get on the other side of this, I know that it will matter not if this dream I have held all these years to sail again comes true. All that will really matter when the pandemic race is over is that Gary is still in my arms, our dogs are by our sides, and that those we love, and also those who are strangers, are safe and well.

Time, Space and Love

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2020)

The sunlight softly climbs through the slats of my window blinds and dances on the delicate petals of the lavender orchid with neck outstretched to greet the light. Loreena McKennitt’s romantic, celtic music drifts toward me from the living room stereo. Near my chair, our little dog, Jasmine, peacefully sleeps. I wonder at how rare it is to see her still and not running like a rabbit chasing her orange ball across the room, or barking enthusiastically at some television show. On the other side of my desk, our yellow Labrador, Sam, is stretched out sleep running. And I remember how he loved to run the trails at Hargus before his sight, hips, and diabetes stole those days from him. And I’m inspired by how he joyfully runs in his sleep and how, when awake, he still finds his blue ball in the toy basket and happily plays, albeit slower these days.

My eyes go back toward the window by my desk, past the orchid, past the blinds, to the lush green grass and trees. There under his favorite tree, Moses, our husky -coon-hound mix, lies poised as though philosophizing as he gazes out to the mysteries of the nearby woods.

These three are my office mates of late. It’s hard to believe that I have been working from home for about 6 weeks now. The hours are concentrated – dense with tasks leftover from the position I recently vacated and those of my new job in another department. So much more can be done when nothing steals your attention – nothing other than the soft snore of a dog, the beauty of an orchid, the blooming of the trees outside. Time commands a conundrum – how can the days be both short and long? Fast and slow?

Space also offers a conundrum. The ambience is serene and sweet in our humble abode, yet every minute is cloaked with keen awareness of the harrowing happenings of the omnipresent COVID-19.

We know that in the days and months ahead as the Coronavirus slowly eases its grip on every crevice of space and every moment of time, we will emerge never to be the same. For we have lost too many. Laughs never to be heard again. Smiling eyes never to be seen again. And in conflict with the deep void is the happiness found through friendships forged and relationships repaired during the time of crisis. And so the disease itself offers a conundrum – how can that which causes pain unimaginable also bring blessings?

Perhaps the solutions to the conundrums I have pondered here are not the ones I have suggested, but rather something from a different lane. Time is not short, long, slow or fast; but rather is precious. What makes space a haven is the awareness of the menacing threats from which the place protects you. And what makes the pain of losing loved ones worth the price are the bountiful memories and the knowing that your life was embraced by angels on earth.

Better Days

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April 2020)

It takes four years for the President of the United States to serve a term. In four years, a student can earn a traditional bachelor’s degree. And four years after being planted, a bamboo tree will finally break through the ground and then in accelerated fashion grow 80 or more feet in a matter of weeks. The president can change the future of the country. A graduate can use knowledge to make a difference. A tree can teach us that, in time, any one of us can change.

In one year, the earth can complete its orbit around the sun. The night-blooming cereus flower will bloom one time. And in one year, a researcher can find a cure. The earth’s journey gifts us with warmth of day and restful dark at night. The cereus flower helps us appreciate the beauty of nature, no matter how brief. A researcher transcends hope to reality.

It takes 27 days for the moon to orbit the earth. In one day, a human heart will beat about 100,000 times. And one day at a time, my daily devotional provides wise offerings. The moon orbiting the earth gives us the patience to take life one day at a time. Our beating hearts give us the compassion to care for others. And a daily devotional relieves worry, brings peace, and stirs souls to sing.

In “The New Rule,” Rumi wrote, “Last night the moon came dropping its clothes in the street. / I took it as a sign to start singing, / falling up into the bowl of sky. / The bowl breaks. Everywhere is falling everywhere. / Nothing else to do.”

The pandemic fills our days with facts and fears and our nights with darkness and dread. But in so doing, the evil enemy is becoming slowly disrobed. Medical and scientific experts are dissecting, analyzing and identifying the strategy with which we will win this war. And they bring us blessings to sing about. Evidence of effective treatment. Stories of survival. And in the solitariness of social distancing, we are becoming closer together, united in the fight for all of our lives – the dream of better days.

In his song “Better Days,” Eddie Vedder sings “Fill my heart with discipline / Put there for the teaching / In my head see clouds of stairs / Help me as I'm reaching / The future's paved with better days.

Better days are coming. Lives are saved every day. In one year, or less, a cure and a vaccine may be found. In four years, COVID-19 will be a memory reduced to narrative in a classroom history book. And parting words of “Stay safe and well,” will wax with fictional familiarity to George Orwell’s “1984.” But for today, Dear Readers, they wax true as I share them with you. Please “Stay safe and well” for the better days are coming.

COVID-19 Dreams and Prayers

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald, April, 2020)

They take to the air, flying with our dreams tightly clutched in their hands. Our dreams are sacred. Our dreams are of one more chance to say I love you. One more walk around the park with our sweet dogs. Our dreams are of reunions with those long lost. We dream of sunrises on the beach. Sunsets across the fields and plains. One more day spent with the sun playfully dancing on our skin. One more night cozied up with the ones we love listening to the rain softly pitter-pattering on the roof of the shelter we seldom leave these days. We stay at home, while they go into the fire each and every day.

They are nurses, doctors, grocery store workers, and deliverers of items essential.

They are the Valkyries and Berserkers in flight gone rogue, for they fight for all to have life, not just a chosen number. Some circle and soar in hospitals saving lives. Others fill shelves and alleviate hunger. And others deliver those things that strengthen our comfort, weaken our fear, and protect us by reducing the necessity for us to leave our homes.

The fear is great, the destruction vast and unfinished, the enemy invisible. It is unimaginable how the words “positive for COVID-19” lands, hits, strikes, and sends someone and their loved ones to their knees. Solace can be found in reflecting on the high number of survivors.

I always thought that I took nothing for granted – and perhaps that was the case, but evermore so now as I cling to every moment. I pray for those who work from home, for those who have lost their jobs, and for those who brave each day outside their homes so that the rest of us can remain safely in ours. I pray for all of those who are battling the virus, and for their families and friends.

And I pray for those who courageously march into the fray to save those who have been diagnosed with this deadly virus. Some barely rest at all, but when they do sleep, I pray that we become the aviators – we hold them in their dreams, and soar with them through the night sky, over the clouds and among the stars. I pray that the warm glow of the moon restores their strength and that their hearts fill with the love and gratitude we feel for them.

Celebrating Women in History and Today

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald March 2020)

In her poem “Mapping the Confluence,” Carol Feiser Laque wrote, “I walk into water stalking / my million-footed self / whose steps test fathoms – gripping / sand, mud, shells, stones / tightly in my slippery toes.” On the commute when there are no cars traveling near, I slow down as I go over the bridges and gaze at the horizon limited by the bend in the creeks and streams below. In my mind I am a painter. I imagine replicating the scene and I know that any attempts to put oil to canvas would fail to adequately show the picture and to describe the myriad of words of poetry I feel. And I dream of shuffling off my shoes and wading through the shallow, cold water below. And I think about how extraordinary the ordinary experience can be. People who have inspired us and yet who we will never meet, have had those same dreams of wading through similar waters.

During March, we celebrate women in history. Women who were extraordinary, and yet who also did ordinary things, like wading in streams. I think of heroines like Florence Nightingale, Amelia Earhart and Grete Waitz. And I think of women of today who will become the women in history to be celebrated tomorrow. Jennifer Lopez inspires me to embrace not just one, but all the roles I want to fill. I can be a wife, dog mom, researcher, scholar, novelist, poet, bad fiddler and more. Oprah Winfrey inspires me to chase my dreams unfettered. And Hillary Clinton inspires me to break traditional barriers.

“I map oceans, rains, rivers - / rising, falling, surging in my heart / where Life and Death comingle. / I map the confluence, the rush / through my veins and arteries,” Laque continues. All the things we experience, all the paths of our life’s journey become a part of us. Memories in the making rush through us until they find a place to settle in the shadows of our mind. Vivid images of past experiences become perpetual companions and guide us along the future paths we wander. We will enjoy the lived days ahead just as we have enjoyed the lived days past. We will survive the losses too. And all of these become our stories.

Laque closes her poem with “My history, my watery map / yields a billion designs / and those patterns flow into / a cartographer’s pen keeping my stories never lost and never found.” It is true that our stories are never lost, but I think they are found. I’m thinking of the unsung heroines of today, some right here in Pickaway County. I am thinking of women like Dr. Lisa Dubos whose kindness and commitment as a dentist and migraine warrior are unmatched. And there is Dr. Crystal Hammond whose medical knowledge, compassion and intuition make her the finest of veterinarians and literally a life saver. And I think of JoEllen Jacobs whose dedication is also to dogs. Her work to support the Wright-Poling Pickaway County Dog Shelter is beyond inspiring. These are only 3 women in Pickaway County who are heroes – and the lives they have touched are immeasurable. The stories innumerable. They are proof that even a woman who dreams about ending migraines, a woman who dreams of ending animal diseases and injuries, and a woman who dreams of one day no dog shelter being needed - these women are to be celebrated today and tomorrow.

In Dog Years – March 3, 2020

(As written for, and published in, the Circleville Herald March 2020)

Looking in his eyes no longer brightest of the brown. No longer with unparalleled vision. Perhaps in his near blindness he sees me better than all the years before. He cannot speak, but with his head turned to my face he seems to ask what has happened. I say, “I understand.” In my mind, I’m still running marathons, I’m still out dancing on Friday nights and, I’m still surrounded by an intimate group of 30 best friends.

In my dreams, I run the roads of the marathons. I know that they will greet me in reality when I complete my doctoral degree. On my deck, I still dance. No longer am I surrounded by a group of 30 best friends. More selective, the intimacy of friendship is more literal these days.

He too runs in his dreams. Feet skittering in his sleep I know he is flying along the paths at Hargus Lake, joyfully unrestrained – the absence of leash. He wakes and struggles to get up. He wanders to the basket near the wall. Somehow, amidst all of the other things of which to choose, he always finds that blue ball. Like him, it’s tired. Unable to fully see the treasure, he drops it and silently stands, tuned in to that thing which has brought him such happiness. He moves a foot, then another, and alas the ball is his again.

In dog years, he is over 90 years old. While I am far behind him on the path of life, like him, I am wondering what happened. Where have the years gone? In my head and heart, I am still that girl although I left her decades ago. I am asked what birthday I celebrate this March, and I hesitate. Is that right? Yes. The math adds up. The years silently and swiftly have swept by.

I watch him age with grace. The magnificence of Sam the beautiful Lab who stole my heart 13 years ago when he landed in my life, full of love in spite of the cruelty he had survived, is still so present, just a bit more quietly so. My constant companion. The holder of my heart, thoughts, tears, and laughter.

When my eyes grow dim, my pen no longer swiftly travels across the page, and my legs can no longer run, will I have the grace of Sam? Will the joy I find in the moments I spend with a favorite poetry book, my version of the blue ball, be enough to sustain me? Will the sustenance of dreams feed my spirit as they do his? I know not, but I promise to somehow hold on to time, somehow not let another year pass by losing the minutes, the hours and the days. I’ll walk across every minute. I’ll greet every day. I’ll breathe in the sunlight. I’ll kiss the wind. And I’ll earn my years with canine earnest and philosophy: seven for every one.

Celebrating Black History and Future - February 18, 2020

(As written for, and published by, the Circleville Herald February 2020)

In his poem, “Dreams,” Langston Hughes (1902-1967) wrote: “Hold fast to dreams / For if dreams die / Life is a broken-winged bird / That cannot fly. // Hold fast to dreams / For when dreams go / Life is a barren field / Frozen with snow.”

When I think of February being Black History month, I also think of dreams. For it was the dreams of African Americans in our history that launched the reality of civil rights, equality and freedom today. And while these things are a reality, they are still not fully realized today. And so, during February, the nation officially celebrates the African American dream chasers who became dream makers.

In the 1800’s, Harriet Tubman, among other courageous undertakings, was an Underground Railroad conductor. Two centuries later, our first African American president, Barack Obama, was elected to serve two terms. Much happened in the span of years between the two, much to celebrate. And there are more celebrations to come.

Langston Hughes prophesized in “I, Too, Sing America,” “I, too, sing America / I am the darker brother./ They send me to eat in the kitchen / When company comes, / But I laugh, / And eat well, / And grow strong. // Tomorrow, / I'll be at the table / When company comes. / Nobody'll dare / Say to me, / “Eat in the kitchen,” / Then. // Besides, / They'll see how beautiful I am / And be ashamed— // I, too, am America.”

There is a rendition of the song “This Land is Your Land” by Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings that I love to listen to from time to time on my commute on the days when I can take the slow and scenic way. Surrounded by fields, streams and woods, I hear the words, “As I was walkin', now they tried to stop me. They put up a sign that said, oh it said 'Private Property.' Well, on the back side, you know it said nothin.' So it must be, that side was made for you and me, yeah.”

This land was made for you and me. This life belongs to us all. A right not to be denied, but yet one to still be fought for. And so, in February we light the candle of dreams, we sing the celebrations of African Americans of our past, present and future and we pray that nothing will cause the flame to flicker or die out, and that no din will mute the words “I too am America.”

Heart Matters - February 4, 2020

(As written for and published by the Circleville Herald, February 2020)

February is the month of the heart both medically and romantically. For the medical version, we hear important messages about heart health and do our best to abide by the recommendations. As commuters, we try to eat right by, among other things, minimizing the times a hectic day might tempt us to stop at a drive-thru for dinner. We strategize our schedules so that we can find a way to partake of regular work-outs in spite of the long days we work and the hours of our commutes. And we become cowboys of sorts lassoing the wild monsters of stress so that we can miraculously tame them.

Stress tamed or untamed serves as a reminder that our heart is affected by things intangible. The strength of our hearts is evidenced by all that it does to keep our mind and bodies functioning. While strong, we know that both literally and figuratively a heart can break. According to sciencedaily.com, nearly half of all Americans have some form of cardiovascular disease. A staggering statistic to be sure. But I would add that the figurative heartbreak is far more prevalent. Does anyone ever live a full life and never have their heart broken? Alternatively, and more positively, does anyone ever live a full life and never fall in love?

Our hearts break when we are betrayed by a loved one or when a loved one leaves. Even acquaintances and strangers can have the power to fracture our hearts. And certainly animals can fill our hearts while they are here and leave our hearts desolate when they pass on.

Sometimes the thing we dread does not even have to pass, just the thought of it can cause the heart to cry. I try my best to not think of the day when I won’t be surrounded by our canine pack, but sometimes the nightmare weaves into my thoughts anyway. It momentarily distracts me from embracing the here and now. Unlike the song written by the Gibb brothers, I can see tomorrow and I do know about the sorrow.

In their song “How Do You Mend a Broken Heart,” the Bee Gees sing “How can you mend a broken heart? How can you stop the rain from falling down? How can you stop the sun from shining?” telling us that, sadly, we may never completely mend our broken hearts.

The beautiful thing about a broken heart, though, is that it had to have been full at one point or there would have been nothing to break. If your heart is full, enjoy every moment. If you are suffering from a broken heart, know that you are not alone. We can heal from the literal broken heart, so why not the figurative one as well? It will never be the same, sure. But it will get better. And if we need help getting better, there are plenty of people to help us.

This February, and always, there are medical experts to help heal the broken literal heart. There are friends, family, clergy, counselors, therapists and more to help heal the figuratively broken heart. And on Valentine’s Day, there is always the taste of chocolate, the scent of roses, and the sentimental card – even if you are sending these things to yourself. And that’s how we mend our broken hearts.

Be the Love that Drives Out the Hate - January 18, 2020

(Written for, and published by, The Circleville Herald, January 2020)

While there will be fewer commuters on the road on Monday January 20 because we will be celebrating the life and work of Martin Luther King Jr., the truth is that we celebrate him every other day of the year too. I oftentimes think about all that King would have accomplished had he not been taken away from us on that fateful day in 1968. I also think about all that he did achieve in spite of leaving us before he was 40 years old. At the same time it is beautiful that his message, his dream, still rings loudly today; it saddens me that we have so much more work to do.

It seems strange that civil rights are not as omnipresent as the air that we breathe. It’s difficult to fathom that in the year 2020 individuals still endure discrimination and hateful actions because of their race, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, age, religion, or other attributes they identify with.

Every day we hear news of hate and discrimination, or we witness or experience them ourselves. The problem is not big. The problem is all-pervading. It’s overwhelming. It can feel like it’s just too much of an ugly giant to slay. But remember David? We can sling our stones each time we encounter a wrongdoing. More than that, we can also sling our stones at “non-doings,” and fill the gaps so we can proactively support the protection of rights and freedoms. We can serve as witnesses, serve on jury duty, support change at work and in our communities, and more. If each of us takes a stand to help one individual, improve one situation, our reach can be expansive.

Martin Luther King, Jr. said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” Powerful words in the 60’s and just as powerfully needed today. We can’t all be as magnificent as Martin Luther King Jr., but we can each make a difference somehow. If we all take a stance, a promise, that we will keep King’s dream alive and real, one action at a time, we can be the light that drives out the darkness and the love that drives out the hate.

Resilience - September 29. 2019

I recently wrote in my Commuter Column for the Circleville Herald (CirclevilleHerald.com) about what I term the 3 Rs: Resilience, Rest and Resurgence. Today, as I think about this cyclic turn of events and the importance of each component, my thoughts are focused on the resilience scheme of things. More, I think of my dog, Sam and how he has remained as magnificent as the first day I met him. Then he was a 10-month-old rescue. Now he is nearly 13.

When Sam burst into my life, he was a bundle of energized, ornery and playful love. It mattered not that in his short 10 months here on earth he had been neglected and abandoned, dumped in a ditch on the side of a country road. He stole the hearts of a kind family and they worked for months to find him a home. Because they had taken in so many others like Sam they did not have room for more. I wrote about Sam in a previous blog post and how amazing he is. I hope you will forgive me for doing so again, but he consumes my heart and mind and thus I have no control over the words I write.

Sam and I have a few things in common. I wasn’t really wanted for a good deal of my life. Like Sam, I have chronic medical conditions that require daily attention. And Sam and I are both getting older, and yet both are convinced that is not the case at all. Sam still digs through his basket finding his favorite toy, a stuffed zebra, or teddy bear now missing certain body parts, and then there is the blue ball. He loves a good ride in the car. I love to drive. And I still love to run. I’m not slower than I used to be – I’ve always been slow. I still like to laugh, dance and play.

High School Reunion - July 30, 2019

Life can be hard, even harder when you’re a kid. In addition to the evolution of the body, life lessons are learned with a rapidity like that of the flittering wings of a bumble bee. Some lessons sting and some are honey sweet. You learn what you need to survive, but you are too young to do much about it. I began working when I was 15 and moved out on my own when I was 16. I worked at night and went to high school during the day, keeping my honor grades soaring in the turbulent wind of hospitalizations for chronic conditions that still haunt me today, decades later.

My love for school is illustrated through the years spent as a life learner, both informally and formally, as I am currently pursuing my doctoral degree in education. But my love for high school is deeper than this. High school was where I found sustenance for not only my mind, but also my heart. Within my school walls I found safety and kindness. I was never bullied and found friends in all the different cliques. I loved the hippies, who may have skipped classes, but never skipped on deep conversations and camaraderie. I loved the academic track kids as we challenged each other on tips for memorizing the classification of living things – Animalia, Chordata, Vertabrata, and so on. And I loved the athletes. High school was where I honed in on long-distance running. And high school was where my love for writing was cemented.

I recently had a high school reunion. We were a class of, I believe, over 450. A small fraction of us gathered in Ohio for the event. Some former classmates were unable to get away, some were uninterested, and some have already departed from this world. I know many of my classmates do not remember me. And I don’t remember all of them. But I love them all the same. They were my family in the safe place where I would walk 5 days a week to fill my brain with knowledge, my heart with friendships and my soul with hope. I cried when I saw people I’ve not seen in years and I cried when the list was read in memory of those who left us too soon. And later, I laughed at the sound of laughter echoing through the room. I was on an emotional roller coaster, hands in the air, grinning from ear to ear until all at once the ride jerked to an abrupt stop. Ride over. Room emptied. Reunion concluded.

My husband and I walked quietly out into the dark, our car parked just far enough away for the decompressing to begin taking residence in my heart. I know some of my classmates from those days of high school know how much I love them. I also know that some of them have no idea how important they are to me. They were more than classmates. I thought of them as family, because life can be hard, even harder when you’re a kid.

The Trip Not Taken – July 9, 2019

I started the morning a few days ago unpacking my suitcases from a trip I never took. After two days in the airport, my progressive itinerary never took flight. Weather stopped me from traveling half-way across the nation to visit my sister. She’s not been well, so the emotional thread woven through this weary would-be traveler’s heart and mind made the unjourney difficult to say the least.

We say there is a reason for everything. It’s cliché, but how better to explain the things that happen and those that do not? Simply put, no matter the great effort that went into orchestrating travel plans, work plans and school work so I could get to my sister’s side, I was never supposed to go. Maybe it was the fact that the trip had motivated me to get my MMR vaccine knowing I would be traveling through places where cases of measles have been reported. Maybe it was because staying home meant that I was more easily able to finalize and submit the next draft of my proposal for my doctoral dissertation. Maybe it was because, had I actually traveled when I was so worn out, I would not have been of much help to my sister. Or maybe it was because since I landed back home after the successive cancellations of flights, I have had the longest and sweetest reunion with my sister.

Not traveling to be my sister’s side sent her the message that it took tornadoes to stop me from being with her. The cancelled trip to Colorado was substituted with daily conversations by voice or by text. A constant way to remind her that no matter what has happened in our lives, I still remember when we were little girls. I remember the Tom Boy a couple years older than me who took on the bullies from school so that I could get home safe. A toughness that served her well years later when she battled cancer.

Today and every day, status post an untaken trip, from across the mountains, rivers, forests and state lines, I am calling or texting my sister to tell her I love her. I would like to believe I would be doing this even if I had been able to make that recent trip to her, but maybe the absence of the trip has made the presence of the virtual hugs and conversation all the sweeter. I’ll still try to make it out there, but I can’t help but to wonder if maybe the unpacking of the suitcases from a trip I never took allowed me to unpack more baggage than I would have had to claim had I actually gone.

See Something, Say Something - June 12, 2019

The days fly past with a rapidity matched by the beating of my heart when I listen to the daily news. I’m reminded of the days when going to school meant seeing friends and learning about subjects that filled my brain with answers and my spirit with longing to know more. English, algebra, biology, history and more. I had plenty to be afraid of then, but school was the safe place – the haven for my heart and head. When did this change? It’s been such a frequent occurrence that I cannot remember the first time I read about a school shooting. I am grateful that the news is still shocking – that I have not come to accept it as the way of things.

Even though many years have slipped by since my high school days, I find myself still a student. When I end the chase for my doctoral degree, I am certain I will continue to passionately chase wisdom and knowledge. Because I attend school online, one might surmise that my fear of shootings is not about school, but rather about the workplace. That would not be true. For I worry and pray for us all no matter where we may spend our days.

Kids should be able to pack their backpacks with books, pencils, iPads and more. The purpose of the backpack should be as a tote with a favorite cartoon twist – the purpose of the backpack should not be a shield to ward off damage from a bullet spray. Precautionary drills at school should concern inclement weather, not an invasion by a weapon carrying assailant. Adults should be able to go to the office perhaps dreading meetings and deadlines, but never fearing a close encounter with a rogue co-worker or customer who can’t take it anymore and lashes out in a homicidal automatic weapon fashion.

I know some politicians say that guns are not the problem. And I respect our right to bear arms. I’ve had my home broken into and was harmed by the perpetrator. But somewhere in the middle something is not lining up. And that misalignment is detrimental to our existence. I don’t have the answers. I’m not sure what I can do except this: I can be kind to others, and I can pay attention to the warning signs, not just so I know when I need to enact my escape plan, but perhaps so I can prevent the need for such plan.

Is every shooter a cry for help? Maybe not. But maybe so. When we see classmates, co-workers, friends or family who are struggling, we can reach out a hand. They might not take it, but still we may have made a difference. We can encourage them to get help and let our concern guide us to what we should do next. Maybe we need to make that call for help before a crisis ensues. See something, say something, the motto of the United States Homeland Security extends to all places we land and call home – our school, our workplace, library, church, all places. And it spans from saying something to the person who is causing you concern to the people who can help deter another heartbreaking headline from the news.

Staying Power Versus Sustaining Empowerment - May 22, 2019

I recently contracted the sloppy respiratory and stomach mess that is going around. Fortunately, I was able to work virtually while I was not feeling well enough to be amongst my co-workers. Our three rescue dogs are accustomed to me spending full days typing away in my writing room, but it was clear they found it strange when I did not leave the house for days on end.

In the morning before I crossed the living room to begin work in my home office, all three of our dogs lined up to wag their tails and offer warm, sloppy kisses as if to say they wished me the best on my day’s endeavors. Once I settled into work, their routine continued. Our sweet Lab, Sam, who is probably going on 13 now, has a pattern: select the perfect spot for a deep nap; slowly stand up after said nap and get a long, loud drink of water; wander outside to take care of things; and then come back into my office and up to my chair to say “Hello.” It's not a new pattern, but what changed while I was ill and working from home was that I was actually there in my chair to respond to his wagging tail and that hug that only dogs can do - tucking his head into my legs and remaining there until he was confident I understood that he truly loves me unconditionally.

Sam is a big guy, about 105 pounds; but he is small compared to his presence the year before last. We almost lost him several times due to diabetic crashes and related pancreatitis. Last year, diabetes-induced cataracts stole his vision. A surgery restored his sight, but only for a short time. He has lost sight again in his right eye. His left eye is doing the best it can to compensate through what vision remains, albeit limited to farsightedness. He handles his medicine and his eye drops like a trooper. He can still find his favorite zebra, giraffe and blue ball from the basket of dog toys. And he still navigates our home and yard like Mark Twain on the Mississippi River on moon-filled summer nights. And he always finds me no matter where I am, which was remarkable when I was recently ill and lost my voice. I could not call to him, but he found me all the same.

Sam’s undeniable and perpetual love for us and for life are testimony for how the spirit always finds a way to soar. He is an inspiration – someone I would truly like to emulate. I always thought of staying power to be about keeping a job where you are unhappy or staying in a relationship that makes you miserable, but now I see staying power from a different perspective. Whether we are in an unavoidable, uncomfortable situation or have found a place of contentment, it is not about enduring the stay but rather being fully aware of, and tapping into, the joy that even the smallest of things can bring. From these we take sustenance. The smallest of blessings build upon each other and the amplification becomes our purpose, our ultimate power – not a staying power that we ourselves must fuel so that we can endure every minute, but rather a sustaining empowerment so that we can thrive and savor our days.

The Pear - April 30, 2019

There’s nothing like poetry to soothe wounds and to start dreams. I’m a fan of free form and formulas. I have labeled my blog page with “potpourri” because, just like my desire to write within the constrictions of poetic forms or free without boundaries, I wanted the blog to allow the freedom to write about any subject and to do so in any manner, including poetry.

Nearly ten years ago, my life took a sudden change of direction and I found myself purposefully living a double life. I was working a hectic 60-hour week job in a busy city and commuting to a house in the country where I lived a life of solitude except for the company of my dogs. It was during this time that I had an epiphany. I was standing in the produce section of the grocery store in front of the pears and realized I had not bitten into this favored fruit of mine for years. I also became aware that it was time to move on, brush off the sadness and begin anew. As will happen, poetic words began swirling around in the back of my mind until, one day, the poem below flowed from my heart, to my pencil to a piece of paper.

The Pear

Running

Tall grass whipping

Bare legs

Scrambling up

Into her arms

Strong full branches hiding us

From the glass-paned eyes

Of the house

High above the ground

Sisters clinging to each other

And to the tree

Licking wounds

Drying tears

Tucked away in her beautiful limbs

As she held us

As she fed us

She fed our souls

With her green leaves of hope

She fed our bodies

With her sweet fruit

And she fed our minds with her aged wisdom

Circularly carved in her spine

Secrets between us

Only to be revealed

Upon her autopsy

Perhaps this is why some 40 years later

One year after

A 17- year failed marriage

I found sweet

Splendiferous solace

In a single Bartlett pear

Why I cried when

I saw it on the store shelf

Gently placed it in my cart

Let it sit for days on my warm

Kitchen counter

Until just the right moment

To mourn and rejoice

The taste

Of no more running

No more hiding

No more wounds

To lick

Only the savory sweet juice

Dripping from my lips

© 2013 by Amy J. Randall -McSorely

Bullies - April 13, 2019

In one of the Norway spruce trees near our back deck, a robin rests on her nest. While the scene appears peaceful, if you watch long enough, you will see her switch positions, always wary of what enemy may be lurking near. Once my husband saw her bravely defend her vulnerable wards-to-be from a predatory bird of another feather. Unfortunately, this scenario of defending against bullies plays out all too frequently in our daily lives.

If you have not been the target of bullies, then chances are you know someone who has been. And if you have been the target of bullies, sadly, chances are that it has happened more than once. As I am writing this, it is only mid-April, and yet I have been bullied twice this year – both times resulting in the ripping away of my dreams to do something that fulfilled my heart and mind. According to www.stopbullying.gov, nearly 71% of students have reported being bullied in schools, and www.workplacebullying.org reports that 19% of Americans reported being targets of workplace bullying with 37% having been affected by it. I’m not sure what bothers me the most, the depth of bullying incidences or the breadth of them.

Like the robin in our spruce tree, I have defended myself from bullies; but there have been times when I have also walked away. I would say in both situations, I came out the winner, even when the encounters cost me my dreams. I say that I am the winner not only because I have not become like them, but also because, in spite of my heightened coping skills, my tolerance for bullies has evolved into an allergy of sorts - there is no antihistamine in the world powerful enough to make me feel comfortable being in the same room as a bully. I win because when I end my day and wind up my daily conversation with my Higher Power, I can give thanks for surviving another attack and gratitude that through the confrontation, I remained me. Like the robin in our tree, my spirit can still take wing and fly away from bullies while I also stay grounded and surrounded by my values, morals, and ethics.

If you, or someone you know, is a target of bullying, you are not alone. There is help. The web sites mentioned above are only a small sampling of the support that is available online, let alone the support that I am sure exists at your school, place of work or wherever else you may be a target.

Perhaps Kelso is Looking for You - April 7, 2019

A lot can happen in four and a half years. As commuters, we might start the years in a car that barely makes the journey - strange sounds rumbling under the hood - and end the period in a car where the technology is so advanced you actually have to read the owner’s manual. In four and a half years we will have driven past countless fields, woods, and streams and sighted any number of deer, heron, coyote and owls on our way to the big city where the inventory morphs to orange barrels, buildings, and potholes. In four and a half years, we can finish a degree, or at least put a dent in one, we can lose weight, have children, learn a new language, become skilled in the culinary arts, and more.

Yes, in four and a half years a lot can happen. But for one, the world has stood still for the last four and a half years. In any moment that can change. Maybe you, Dear Reader, will be the one to make that change happen.

His name is Kelso. He is probably around five or six years old according to Sherri Rarey, Chief Dog Warden for Pickaway County, Ohio. You see, Kelso, a beautiful retriever Lab mix, has been a resident of the Wright Poling Dog Shelter since October 9, 2015 when he was picked up on 752 in Ashville. Much has happened at the shelter since Kelso’s arrival. Many meals have been served and many hours of care have been given – of these Kelso has benefitted greatly. In four and a half years many hearts have also been healed as countless dogs have been rescued and returned to their homes or found new ones – many hearts, except Kelso’s.

The only thing that has changed for Kelso is that he has grown from what must have been an adorable puppy into a strikingly handsome dog. Other than that, he remains playful and energized and ready to find his permanent home. I asked our fine chief dog warden if too much time had passed since Kelso became a tenant at the shelter. At this point, would it be difficult for him to make the transition to a forever home where the noise and the presence of other four-legged friends would be drastically reduced? Rarey said that was definitely not the case. Kelso is ready, and looking, for his forever home.

Kelso is loved by the caring folks at the shelter and by a generous donor who has already paid his adoption fees. But Kelso would like to be loved by someone more permanent. When Kelso lands with his permanent family, like all of us who have been through difficult times, adjustments will need to be made, healing will need to happen, and a learning curve will need to be appropriately applied to the new life ahead.

If you are curious about Kelso, I suggest you stop by the shelter. You can tell the fine folks there a little about you and they can share a little more about Kelso so you can decide if you might be a good fit for each other. I know what you are thinking - there’s a reason why Kelso has been at the shelter for four and a half years. And you are right. But the reason isn’t what you are thinking – that he isn’t a good fit for a forever home. The reason Kelso has been at the Wright Poling Dog Shelter in Pickaway County, Ohio for four and a half years is because if he had been at any number of other shelters, his time would have been up by now. The reason why this energized, playful and beautiful dog is still at the Wright Poling Dog Shelter is because he is destined to make a difference in someone’s life. He’s been waiting for four and a half years to make that difference for his forever family. 

Perhaps he has been waiting for you.

You can visit the Pickaway County Wright Poling Dog Shelter in Pickaway County, Ohio on Facebook, or in person at 21253 Ringgold Southern Road in Circleville or call them at (740) 474-3741.