Politics, the Art

It starts with conversation...

I’ve tried to stay away from the topic. I really have. Yes, this presidential selection and election circus has been screaming for comment, but there are plenty who are weighing in with strongly worded positions, so I’ve held back. But, darn it! The circus is infecting otherwise rational reasonable humans.

Even the Minnesota legislature managed to adjourn this week without accomplishing the primary goals of this year’s meeting – to provide bonding for needed public works projects in the state. Lest you forget, this is the state that famously had a huge bridge that collapsed during rush hour. You would think our legislators would understand through experience that keeping bridges and roads in good repair is a smart investment in prevention. And it wasn’t about money, really, since there is a surplus in Minnesota’s budget.

It’s an embarrassment that would be seen as an epic fail in any other venue, yet is somehow waved away as “just politics” in our current environment.  And there’s the core of the issue.

“Politics” has become a dirty word.  It’s right up there with the “F” word and the “S” word.

We shouldn’t be surprised as so many public figures vilify the word whenever given the opportunity. Politics, sex and religion are the three topics polite people are taught to avoid in conversation and my mother raised me to be polite, too.

“Mary Margaret,” she said more than once. “These are things we just don’t speak of in public. It’s just not done.”

Of course, she was talking about partisan politics – the private clubs and organizations that determine who the rest of us get to vote for in public elections.

In fact, she was quite political in the way of small “p” politics, which was, to her, the art of getting things done for the public good, as she saw it. She wrote letters to the local newspaper decrying various public policies she saw as holding back progress or infringing on individual enterprise.

She agitated at neighborhood gatherings about wayward dogs, unkempt lawns, or loud households. And she always had a solution ready because that’s how she believed things got done in a community. To her, it was about people of good intention working together, even arguing over different solutions, to end up in a better place. And she was quick to recognize that her viewpoint didn’t always win over others – but she taught us that not engaging was not an option.

So I’m engaging to bring back the importance and value of engaging in politics as the art of accomplishing good. In our messy experiment of a democracy, it’s important that people of good intent practice the art of engaging in difficult discussions with underlying respect for the value of disagreement. Disagreeing on important issues doesn’t mean one side is evil and the other all good. It means we each bring different experiences, perspectives, and perhaps values, to the table. But the discussion itself is where we learn to navigate, negotiate, yes, influence, but ultimately come to somewhat imperfect but workable agreements.

We need public investment in Minnesota roads and bridges. Everyone in this northern state of temperature extremes agrees on that. So engaging in the difficult discussion of how to accomplish that investment should have been possible in the legislative session that is now adjourned.

I propose training sessions in the art of politics, or the art of discussion, disagreement, and then resolution that takes place far from the glare of media where yelling and extremes sell advertising. I think I’ll start on our porch this summer. It’s a small venue, but one where we can practice before moving into this fall’s election. 

Tilting at Change

Koppel china out from the dusty closet and ready for dining once more.

It started a few weeks ago when I realized that the sun was hitting my eyes as I read the morning paper.

“Hey, that’s new,” I think.

After checking to see if I’m up later or earlier than usual and realizing, no, this is the same time, same place, I recognize it’s the sun that’s moved. It does that as our globe zooms through its orbit, tilting and shifting along an axis we take for granted.

I’m noticing change like that more than I used to. For the decades of my life experience, I recognize that seasons have come and gone with great regularity – particularly on this north coast. But they have been little more than a reminder that it’s time to shift closets from long to short sleeves and vice versa.

Now – maybe it’s age, maybe it’s experience, or maybe it’s the allergies that have emerged in recent years when moldy spring and fall air overloads my sinuses – I notice the shift and change that accompanies the tilt of the earth. And that shift of change comes with reflection of times past, requiring extra effort to move forward with the seasons.

With spring, I find I’m assaulted with a kaleidoscope of images and memories that comes with, as we say in Minnesota. I remember the parties we planned for the kids on their last day of school – complete with an overload of sugar that led to a sweet coma of excitement.

I remember the intense logistical plans that went into summer activities – “If you can pick up on Tuesdays, I can drop off at the Science Museum for that cool camp. And how will we negotiate the Farm Camp on the U’s campus?” It was a little excessive programming for two kids who may have enjoyed a carefree summer at home.

I find I think of those things now when the time for worrying about that is long gone. The kids are now more than kids, and living on the left coast – far from the summer camps and activities of their youth. It’s time to move on and reflect forward.

Today, I’m setting our table with china we found in the top cupboard of my dear departed mother-in-law’s apartment. It’s beautiful and has made the journey from Madrid to Rotterdam, through the Panama Canal to Los Angeles, and now is living in Minneapolis. The family has no memory of its use in more than 40 years, so cleaning off the dust of disuse reminds me not to dwell in what was for too long. Holding on to things that never see the light of day is really kind of sad, no?

So why do I hold on to those summer memories of the porch door slamming shut followed by the plaintive, “Mahhh-mm!” echoing through the house? Ah well – the “kids” will be home for the weekend, so maybe I’ll hear that once again.

New Normals

Rome, Italy

We’re going to Rome next week and I couldn’t be more excited by the trip. The Vatican right after Easter and during a Jubilee year – how gorgeous that will be. And the coliseum and forum with the always-curious Jacques? How fun.

Our friends think we’re crazy. “But, Brussels…!” they say.

Yes – European capitals are on high alert and Rome with an open-door Pope and the world’s Catholics in attendance could be the target of more terror-minded young men. But numbers don’t lie and statistics tell us the most dangerous part of the trip will be the drive to the airport from our home.

Some have said that we should all just stay home and focus locally on curing our planet of anger and hate. Practice peace by planting a garden. Recycle and walk more. Be kind to our neighbors. No argument that these are good things to practice in our own hometowns.

But this is a small planet we inhabit and I believe our ability to understand and practice tolerance requires interaction. Face time with real people speaking a language of compassion and interest that transcends mother tongues. I simply don’t know how we can survive if we don’t recognize that all humans share this planet – its oceans, its ever-shifting continents, and the skies. Sharing those resources means we really can’t ignore each other, nor should we.  

I heard an impassioned speech by a sprightly work colleague arguing why Americans should stay out of the rest of the world. That every time we get involved – even when it’s with the best of intentions, we make things worse. 

In his opinion, all our do-gooder stuff just creates problems. We go into Africa with public health programs and agricultural training to feed the population and now people in Africa are living longer and we’re stressing the planet’s ability to feed all the humans. And that competition for increasingly scarce resources causes more war and strife and hatred. We should just stay out and let them fend for themselves.

How can that be right?

I know that our frame of reference as Americans shifted forever following September 11th. It was clear that the way we thought, the way we approached our work and life was going to change, but in the middle of it all we just chanted “new normal” to describe life in America after the knowledge that we were not immune to terrorist rages.

The change that happened in 2001 was profound, sudden, and surprising. But it shouldn’t have been. It was not the first time this country had experienced seemingly senseless attacks. The difference was that the events of the 1980s and 1990s were led by homegrown attackers and somehow didn’t create such a sense of vulnerability. Events like Ruby Ridge and Waco, the Oklahoma City bombing, followed by Columbine and then a list of shootings in schools, churches, and synagogues were carried out by disaffected young men who were identifiably Americans. Somehow we discounted those attacks while elevating attacks by those we see as “others”. Just last year, the attack in San Bernadino was seen as more threatening than the one that took place a month earlier at Oregon’s Umpqua Community College.

Why is that? Is it that we discount the impact of disaffected young American men while we elevate the effect of disconnected young Arab men? Aren’t they all somehow similar – living with such skewed values that killing innocents – mothers, children, men going home – is believed to be a worthwhile goal?  I struggle with the idea that it’s ok to call for a war on Islam, while seeking mental health counseling for young Americans.

There is evil in the world and we’re seeing its face all too often now. But there is also goodness in the world and that is what I seek through travel and engagement. Good hearts and souls are alive and well in Europe, in Brussels, and in Rome.

I’ll never forget that period of quiet living right after 9/11 in the otherwise busy flight path of MSP airport. It was the absence of what we took for granted on outside evenings on the porch – the coming and going of planes representing travel to other parts and places. It felt so isolating to realize that our access to the world was cut off by hatred. I don’t ever want to feel that sense of separation again. 

Charmed

I have never had a charm bracelet, but I always wanted one. I thought that the idea of a piece of jewelry that changed over time with the addition of gold and silver memories was just so cool. A trip to the zoo could provide an animal charm that marked the shocking first glimpse of a live lion. I loved charms that were detailed and unique and had tiny moving hinges.

But it always seemed that charm bracelets were a family thing, handed down from generation to generation as memories hewn in metal were passed from mother to daughter. And in our house, that wasn’t something that would have occurred to my mom.

The idea of collecting charms and adding them to a simple metal chain until it chimed when the wind blew would have been a very foreign concept for her. That’s probably because she was a piano teacher whose hands flew across keyboards and the idea of anything jangling on those flying wrists was a wild distraction.

The subject of charm bracelets came up once again because the first novel of my writing mentor/friend Wade Rouse is coming out this month – and wow – it is a powerful tribute to the intergenerational connections of mothers to daughters and granddaughters. Perhaps not surprisingly, the book is entitled “The Charm Bracelet” and he’s written in the name of his grandmother, Viola Shipman.

It’s one of those beautiful novels that makes you want to read as fast as possible to keep up with the women whose stories come alive on the page, and at the same time, you want to slowly savor each scene and phrase so that the characters can stay in your life a little longer.

This creating-imaginary-worlds-in-a-novel is all new for Wade. He is an extraordinary memoirist with books that cover his childhood in the Ozarks, his career as a Mommy handler at a tony private school, and his decision to pack in his “real” job for the writing life in rural Michigan.  In turns hilarious, biting, and poignant, Wade’s memoirs reveal the smart, funny man that he is. What you can’t really know until you meet him is that he’s one of those unique types of humans – a gracious creative.

Although I’m sure he struggles with the angst and anxiety that is part of life for all writers, artists and musicians, he also graciously shares what he knows and has learned with wannabe-writers in workshops and retreats hosted with his husband Gary Edwards. Together they demonstrate such a generosity of spirit that their fans span the country, and we’re all excited for his summer book tour that will land in independent book stores wherever people gather to read.

This novel is coming out by the end of the month, but is available for pre-order now. Here’s his website http://waderouse.com/content/index.asp so you can follow his summer travels and watch for an opportunity to hear him read - and get the book.

And now I’m running out to get a charm bracelet for my daughter. Never too late to start!

One Forgets

Winter version of Lake Harriett Bandshell.

Four winters in Southern California and suddenly all is new again with the Minnesota version of this season.

That crinkly sensation from frozen nose hairs? Ah yes – there it is.

Duck stepping along the yet-to-be-shoveled back walk? Treads become a necessary feature of all footwear.

The shock of temperatures on the negative teens side of the scale? Layers, layers, layers, and don’t forget the gloves.

Hand cream, and lots of it, is always in my bag and face cream is not optional for those of us who are of a certain age. It’s remarkable how drying a deep cold can be.

I expected it to be dry in the desert Southwest. But I forgot that the desert has nothing over a walk on a frozen lake at 15 below zero. Your body screams for moisture when back inside – well, moisture and heat.

I remember my mom and her cold cream – Pond’s Cold Cream. She was very disciplined about her nightly ritual that involved a healthy slather on her face and neck. And now that I’m older than she ever experienced, I’m finding that her discipline was something I should have picked up a decade or so ago. Ah well – we start where we are.

There are other things I forgot about winter in Minnesota.

I forgot the deep urge to gather friends around a table laden with steaming soup to share stories and argue politics in the safety of the progressive predictability of this state.

I forgot how comfortable a crackling fire could be with a wind blown sound track taking place safely outside of the house

I forgot about the different types of snow that keep it interesting, ranging from micro, fluttery snow flakes to those big massive flakes that hit like a cold wet kiss on your check.

I forgot about “stupid cold weather tricks” that include this year’s phenomenon of posing frozen pants in the yard. We haven’t gotten around to flinging pans of boiling water into freezing air to hear the crackle and pop as it crystalizes. Nor have we blown soap bubbles to watch them freeze and shatter as they hit the ground. Yet.

And I forgot about the deep clear blue of a Minnesota sky that can light up the snow, making the world sparkle for the day.

Yes, my California friends, it’s still good to be home despite the 80-degree difference in temperature. Once you’ve experienced 15 below, the rest is balmy. 

Sweet Melancholy

Sunset reflections in Poipu Beach.

Now that we’re back on the North Coast of the country with its extremely long nights surrounding the winter solstice, I’ve rediscovered the sweet melancholy of this time of year.

It’s connected somehow to the collapsing of time that happens as I work my way through the disheveled address book that I use to log the annual cards we send at year’s end. As I work through the alphabet of pages, I see names of people who were very dear for a portion of life’s journey, and now our paths have diverged and I’ve lost their whereabouts.

I stare at the names, wondering if life has treated them well, or vice versa – then move on to the next name on the list. There are the names with a single line through that tells me that they’ve passed on to a place where no cards are delivered. I pause on those names and remember dear faces, and move on once again.

This annual process has become a cherished part of the season of long nights despite the minor hassles entailed. Do we have a decent family photo this year? How can I avoid a schmaltzy annual letter? Are annual letters even a thing in this Facebook immersed world of ours? Where did I put that Zazzle password? And new this year was the emerging aches of – could it be – arthritis in the writing hand.

But I’ve learned over the past 30-some years that when I take a break from the annual process, I feel a sense of loss. It’s comforting to work through that list of names with remembered faces and moments in time. There are the families who were part of our early years as parents; those couples who became traveling friends before children slowed down our wandering; friends from early jobs, childhood, college, and pre-Jacques escapades. Then there are the geographic friendships – great humans in the right place when we needed them, and then one of us moved and everything changed.

The truly precious are those who remain dear despite separations of time, geography, and experience. Those who contain a piece of who we were then and who love us anyway are so important to who we can still become in these next chapters.

So as the calendar turns to the critical, yet comical, chaos of an upcoming election year, we send our best for a 2016 full of health, happiness, and meaningful moments in spite of it all. 

Letting Go

Shades of the '80s.

The annual Pantone color designations for 2016 were a surprise. Ever interested in maintaining my slavish devotion to all things trendy, I was very stunned to realize that the ’16 pastels of the year – Rose Quartz and Serenity (blue) – were curiously similar to the trendy colors of the early/mid 80s when my friends were getting married.

I know that because I’ve been schlepping a collection of bridesmaid dresses cross-country for the past 30 years.  Featuring shimmering taffeta folds, poufy sleeves, and necklines that reflect the awkward hang of a fabric not meant to drape, this collection of wedding memories have occupied a corner of a basement closet that is rarely visited in the Minneapolis house.

The weddings themselves were memorable – with or without the physical swoosh of the stored dresses. Although not all of the marriages lasted as long as the dresses, the women remain friends – and would probably be surprised to know the dresses are still here.

The Pantone news release reminded me of the style dictum – if you were old enough to have worn the fashion the first time around, you’re too old to wear it again. And I was never ever going to wear those dresses again.

Originally, I had used my daughter as the excuse to keep the dresses. What if she wanted to wear one to a high school dance? Right…

But truth be told, I was holding on to a period of time that I remembered as filled with the potential and promise of youth. I remembered the sheer bravery of leaping into marriage in our 20s, launching new careers, imagining the life of a grown up hosting dinner parties with lifelong friends, and actually raising children.

Fast-forward 30-some years and that’s where we are now. We leapt, we launched, we figured out place settings, and now travel to spend time with grown children who forgive us for most of our mistakes.

And that’s when I knew it was time to let go of the dresses – to take them where they might be enjoyed. Since the dress colors are now trendy, there are young ladies who might enjoy remaking them into something stylish for Spring 2016 dances (poufy sleeves, be gone).

It has been a year of letting go of the things of life that are an unnecessary anchor. The things that hold back the brave acts of our next chapters. Some of those are physical things, some the mental and emotional baggage of stored memories. That’s my resolution for 2016 – to let go of all that doesn’t serve the future, which definitely includes bridesmaid dresses from the 1980s. 

Change

Dylan mural by Brazilian artist Kobra - completed summer 2015 in downtown Minneapolis.

As the leaves move from brilliant reds and yellows into the burnt oranges and browns of late fall, I’ve been thinking about change and how hard it can be.

Think about it. We should be used to change – it’s all around us.

We’re surrounded by ever shifting seasons as this globe whirls through our oblong path through space – so we know cyclic change well.  Up here on the northern coast of the country we’re doing our winter preparation rituals – getting the leaves off the lawn before snow pack arrives, Costco shopping binges just in case we need an extra 36 rolls of toilet paper in a snowstorm, that sort of thing.

Somehow that context doesn’t help when it comes to personal change. Moving through the process of saying goodbye to the collected furnishings and accumulated stuff of my dear departed mother-in-law’s place in Madrid was really hard work. And now that’s done. It’s still sad.

We’re in the final stages of construction chaos with the home improvement projects our 111-year-old house announced it needed upon our return to Minneapolis. I am looking forward to less dust and fewer people banging on walls – yet, I already miss Al, the tile guy, with his long, long stories and curiosity.

My dad was good at change. He left life on the farm to go to the city. He said he just didn’t like working with horses. They nipped at him. But I think it’s because he liked to solve the problems of change that were part of the emerging mid-century industrial landscape.

He was a mechanical engineer and he designed and redesigned factory floors to make the process of manufacturing more efficient. He loved clean simple modern design and applauded the tear down of the frilly buildings of the 1800s that were replaced by modern 1950s box-like structures.

“So much cleaner looking,” he’d say. He liked the change that modernity brought.

For me, it’s hard not to miss what was. Whether it was the Victorian buildings of my old hometown, the family apartment in Madrid we visited for 30 years, or the experience of the glorious summer and early fall of 2015. 

One thing I know for certain – this, too, shall pass.  But it makes me curious - how do you deal with change?