On the Joys of High School Reunions. Really.

I went to my high school reunion this past weekend -- my 40th high school reunion. Class of 1978. One thing you should know about my hometown in New Hampshire. Our school has the distinction of having the "oldest, active high school alumni association" in the country. It's a big deal. Every year on the second Saturday in June, there is a parade in the morning with many of the five-year and ten-year classes entering floats that fit that year's theme. There are local bands, civic groups, weird little cars with clowns, Sometimes, mascots for the Sox or Pats come. Other years, it's Clydesdale horses and Miss New Hampshire .Something like fifty units participate in the parade.  Like I said: it's a BIG deal. The riders on the floats throw candy to the kids lining the streets. In the middle of the day, the alumni association has a lunch and business meeting with any alumnus who wants to come, and later throughout the day and night, many of the classes - especially the five and ten-year reunion groups -- gather around town to catch up. They do this every year.

When I was growing up, I lived on the street where the floats lined up before the start of the parade. I always got up early to go check them all out, trying to guess which class would win for best float. I loved it every year,  so of course that also meant that I took it for granted.  In the 60s and 70s, my hometown was a mill town with several industries. It wasn't huge but it was considered a city in rural New Hampshire. There were paper and flock companies, a foundry, all places that were big employers. We had a lively downtown, main street culture. Then it changed. Factories began closing, and businesses left town. By the  late 80s, what had been a thriving community fell on its knees. I had moved out of state for college but each time I went back, I saw rapid changes. 

But back to reunions. When I talk about our this, people are usually amazed, to put it mildly. Actually, what I usually see is a mixture of disbelief and dread. First, there is disbelief that any school or town is so *obsessed* with this tradition and then the deeper, gut-level reaction comes. I see a kind of twitchy, anxious look on their faces, which means they are imagining how it would feel to go back and voluntarily spend time with the kids they went to school with. 

And I am the first person to say: I get it. 

If you are thinking that because my hometown had charming -- and yes, they ARE charming -- annual rituals that this somehow protected us from the crap that being a teenager anywhere, any time brings, then you are dead wrong. BELIEVE me when I tell you that for me, for lots of us, the teenaged, high school years were a special kind of hell. Was I bullied? Absolutely. Was I an "in kid", part of a clique? No. Everyone has their own version of this but mine was along the lines of: awkward, overweight, unmotivated teen who liked to write stories and sing but that was about it. So my grades weren't stellar and for reasons I won't belabor, I wasn't being pushed to try harder. And I didn't. 

The first reunion for my class was the five-year in 1983. I didn't go. Though I had managed to get myself into a state school and graduate, I didn't feel like I could go back because I hadn't done anything. In 1988, it was our ten-year mark. That year, I had just gotten a graduate degree in creative writing and I had lost a lot of weight. So that year, I went.  I went but it was ONLY because I thought that what I had done had made me "good enough" to go. Think about this for a minute.

I went to the gathering, having had a stiff Scotch before I even left the house, but I didn't stay for very long.  At one point, they gave out awards, like: who had come the greatest distance to get there, who had the most kids, etc. I found myself being given the award for being the "most educated" in our class that night, but only because my master's degree was an MFA, a three-year degree, and the others there with a Masters had earned an MA, a two-year degree. It was the perfect irony.

And after that, I just...couldn't get myself to go back. Our 20th, 25th, 30th, 35th... The reunions came and went and though I knew each time,  an eager group was building floats and getting together at night, I couldn't do it. Even after Facebook appeared, which showed it to me, I still felt like since. I wasn't a jock, an honors student, a cool kid -- I wasn't *anything* -- I didn't belong. 

In 2017, the parade theme for 2018 was announced: Broadway. It seemed like a great theme and knowing already that our class has a amazing amount of talent and creativity, I guessed that this would absolutely fire them up. I also decided one year ago that I was going to go; I called and made a room reservation right then. Because 2017 also had brought me my own personal challenges, I had already been rethinking how I saw myself in relationship to everyone. Revisiting my feelings about high school became a natural part of the process.

So, cut to the chase: Alumni Day 2018. Did I go? I did. Was it good? EVEN BETTER than I was hoping.

I got up on Friday and as I was driving into the truck yard where the group was gathering to finish up our float, for one second I thought: WHAT the hell am I doing? These people don't know me. What if no one talks to me? Yes, I was anxious. But I parked. Immediately, I was given a hug by someone who said she'd know me anywhere. From there, it only got better. Yes, there were butterflies all night. Classmates who routinely came to reunions said that this year was the first year where they had a hard time recognizing each other. So we introduced each other. What have you been doing? Where do you live? Do you have kids?

The next morning, our float full of about forty of us sailed through the town. We threw candy and waved, and when it was over, we dismantled it. A group of about a dozen of us went out to lunch and sat out on a patio by the river, making connections about who was where, who wasn't with us, who'd had surgery recently. Guys shared stories about their heart episodes. We discussed the appeal of living in a one-level house to be ready for "later". We shared stories comfortably, making connections and trying to remember who knew what when. Later that night, we had our official class party. It was easy, fun. We wore nametags, to be able to jump into the conversations.

I shared the suite I'd reserved with a classmate who I hadn't seen since graduation, though we'd reconnected on Facebook. It was the perfect opportunity to spend time with her. We both felt like at our age, the *crap* of our youth...just didn't matter anymore. We didn't discount it, and both remembered clearly how hard it was at times. But now, with  perspective, there is also, a letting go. If I hadn't gone, I wouldn't have known this truth.

A couple of other observations struck me. First, the fact that my hometown does this at all is amazing. I had no idea how rare it is. To have an alumni association to dedicated is incredible. The town is on the upswing now and doing better but  with miles to go before it's truly "thriving". That it has this tradition which allows for a timeless, and to me, kind of transcendent joy year after year, is remarkable. I use the word transcendent deliberately. Among my classmates who I talked to over the weekend were people who worked in jobs that ranged from doctors, lawyers, CPAs, nurses, teachers, landscapers ,to shift workers in the local gun factory, retirees, and store clerks. We talked about how we *were* and how happy we were to be together doing this crazy float-building thing. To transcend is to rise above.  Whatever BS we felt when we were 16, we rose above. It doesn't matter anymore. Perhaps it never did, but now, we know it.

And if you are wondering how that float of ours turned out? Well, it just so happens that we took first prize and carried that trophy with us the entire length of the parade.

And what to do for an encore? My soft advice to you is this: Go. Go to the reunion. I say it softly because I know it's hard. Push your heart to get out there and challenge your fearful assumptions. There may be community waiting for you, conversations to have, and new/old friends to make. But you won't know until you try.

The Beatles said it best: All You Need is Love.

Indeed.

In Praise of Celebrating Small Occasions

I have a friend who celebrates small occasions. It's not that she ignores big occasions, but as part of her professional life, she has learned that sometimes celebrating small occasions can be the more powerful tool.

She is an interfaith chaplain in an urban hospital, which means that not only is she versed in the rituals of multiple faith traditions but she has become aware of the life -- and death -- traditions of people from all over the world. She believes in the power of art and tangible items to help us honor and hold the power of each moment.  And I have benefited from this practice of hers, too.

For example, in February, she gave me a mug with a W on it. My name doesn't begin with a W but as I looked at this beautiful ceramic mug, with it's twining flowers and vines, she explained that she wanted me to know that she knew I was experiencing a mark in time. She was aware that I was holding it heavily and that the W stood for "Wonder Woman". She told me she was proud of me for my strength in the previous year. I was moved to tears, by the beauty of the gift and the loving gesture behind it.

I am a believer in this practice, too. My friend is a giver of cards, a remember-er of occasions. I rarely quote the Bible but one verse that has always been a powerful one for me comes from the book of Isaiah. Isaish 43:1, which in the English Standard Version is translated as:  "I have called you by name, you are mine."

This idea that something bigger than us -- for which you can use the word "God", if you like -- knows us that well and is calling us by name is a powerful idea. To be known so well that the smallest of moments can be held up and honored can go beyond language. For me, at least. 

SO today, I celebrate. And YOU are part of this celebration too. Last week was the anniversary of this blog. ONE YEAR of blogging. I know there are much more prolific bloggers than I but this is a mark of time I couldn't imagine reaching. 

One day at a time, as they say in AA. One post at a time.

So friends, thank you for listening and reading. I have appreciated the feedback you've given me. Go find some delicious cake or cookies, whatever strikes your fancy. Pour a cup of something hot and raise your glass. Cheers to one year...and onto the next. 

Salut!

On Knowing Gratitude

As I write this, I am sitting in front my fireplace, three layers clothes on and a comforter around my shoulders. There has been no power in my house for the last 26 hours due to a storm that has blasted the northeast all day yesterday and this morning, an unprecedented storm of wind and rain. A Bomb Cyclone, Bombogensis. That’s the word they’re using now. Historic flooding, hurricane-force winds. Our mayor announced that Quincy – which I understand is getting quite a bit of media attention including the Weather Channel – hasn’t seen anything like this since the Blizzard of ’78. Go us!

This morning, I attempted to leave my neighborhood but quickly had to abandon the idea. The high tides had been magnified by a full moon yesterday and didn’t exit, as they normally do. Marshes behind my and my neighbor’s yards were unlike anything I’d ever seen. Not just the usual look -- plumes of phragmites and and weeds, waving and rustling above pockets of water – but had filled up and became a flowing river, movement pushed by wind. The main road out of my peninsula neighborhood was cut off. I tried the other back-road way, only to find that the low-lying section of road had gushing water pouring over what had been street. Even my sturdy Honda CRV would have been swamped. I turned back.  We are an island. 

I write often about gratitude. You may be wondering: why now?

As I write this, I am sitting in front of the fireplace, as I said, many layers of clothes & comforter and now, in fact, I have a dog on my lap. Success, they said, is where luck meets preparation.  This morning, I saw houses that were islands, surrounded by water. I can’t begin to even guess how much damage is out there. But, my house is dry. Through some miracle of placement, just high enough above the worst of it, I dodged it. I am in the flood plain but somehow, missed it.

And I was ready to do what I could. A stash of wood, C batteries for the radio, flashlights and candles out.

SO my gratitude is for all of it. I am grateful that my basement is dry and that I know how to keep a good fire going.

The other piece which is always, always in my consciousness, is how many people in the world live so meagerly *all the time*, without hope of improvement, ever. SO many, torn by war and poverty, right now, in situations far more dire and terrifying than mine. Me? I have first-world problems. Dear God. When news of Syria comes on, I force myself to listen to ever detail, NOT turn it off because that is the definition of privilege. I sit in my car to charge my cell phone? That is NOT a problem; that’s a luxury.

When the power returns, as it surely will, it will feel luxurious. I will wash in hot water. I will take the dog for a walk, not feeling like I must stay to feed the fire. I will do laundry and bake bread in my oven. I will post this because the wi-fi will be back.

Yes, I am a lucky, lucky sister, and I know it.

Your encore for the day? Count your blessings. Do it.

Be grateful.

Peace.

A Remembrance of My Uncle

Last Friday, my Uncle Robert would have turned 93. He didn't make it to that birthday, passing away on January 20th. My uncle had a full life, no doubt. Two complete careers, a lover of opera, a booming voice and a devoted friend -- all are just part of who he was. He was also a cataloger of history. To understand the "then" of it, for many years, he traveled to see the "now." He and my late aunt traveled all over the world - England, Poland, Russia, Germany -- and with each stop, gained perspective on each location, each culture, each person.

Today, the blog contains reflections of him that I wrote for his memorial service.

And the encore for this is short and sweet, friends. No matter how long it is, life is too short. Be the loyal person, the one who stays in touch when you say you will. Sometimes it's a nuisance. It's a hassle to buy stamps, send cards, and make phone calls - especially in our era of incessant texting. There is nothing inherently wrong with texting. But life. Life is lived in the words and the connections. Be the connection.

Your encore for the day? Tell the people you love that you love them.

Robert Harold MacPherson:

I am Leslie MacPherson, daughter of Wallace MacPherson who was one of Robert’s younger brothers.  I didn’t see much of my uncles growing up. I knew I had two uncles, one older than my Dad and one younger, both Universalist ministers, one active in parish work and the other, who had moved onto a new career. Because of geographical distances, we only saw each other occasionally. In my mid-twenties, I decided that I wanted to change that and get to know them for myself. At the time, I was considering a career in ministry and since my lineage was as a MacPherson – literally: son of a parson – it meant that it was in my blood. I decided that I wanted to know these men as family.

And so, I did. I took trips to Richmond where my uncle – Rev. Dave – served a church and to Asheville to get to know Uncle Robert better. The funny thing is that Uncle Robert didn’t want me to call him Robert. For all his formality, and the Boston accent that never quite left him, when we corresponded, he wanted me to call him Uncle Bobo. Which yes, I really did.

Each of you has your perspective on who he was. Here’s what I can tell you; He loved the Red Sox and was passionate about politics. He stayed on top of what was happening locally, nationally and back here in New England. He was as eager to ask me what I thought about national elections as he was to hear what the mayors in his hometown of Somerville, MA were doing. Side note: He was thrilled when I sent him an article last March about the current mayor who had declared Somerville a sanctuary city and when the Attorney General announced he would be taking away funding from these cities, the mayor announced: “Come and get me.”

https://www.boston.com/news/local-news/2017/03/29/come-and-get-me-somerville-mayor-says-to-sheriff-calling-for-arrest-of-sanctuary-city-leaders

I LOVED sharing that article with him. 

During one trip to Asheville, I asked him why he had left the ministry and gone into speech pathology. I’m there were multiple reasons, but what he said was that he still considered himself a minister. He’d left the parish but not the work. He defined ministry broadly.

It was a bit of a miracle for my family that he’d gone into that field. In 1993, my mother was diagnosed with throat cancer. She lost her voicebox to surgery and my family was thrown into a world of unknowns. I can’t even begin to express how grateful we all were when Uncle Robert mailed two state-of-the-art electro-larynx devices to my parents. HE was the calm presence who understood it all and could patiently explain to my mother and father how to use them to produce sound. He was their angel.

This past year, I have had my own trials. Without going into details, I will simply say that Uncle Robert has been one of my lifelines. At 92, he stayed connected to me, emailing me and calling me every week for months.   We would talk about the Red Sox and Elizabeth Warren, the state of the world, and what my kids were up to. He kept me upbeat, because that’s who he was. Yes, he was so smart, but he was also relentlessly positive. In a world besieged by heartbreak, Uncle Robert ended every conversation with “Let’s look at the bright side, shall we? What else is there?”

And indeed, what else IS there?

I will hold these words in memory, and I will be grateful for the time with him that I was given. 

Peace.

In Praise of Fixing What's Broken

Over the weekend while walking my dog, we went past a house that had put out their trash and recycling bins. Monday is our neighborhood's trash pick-up day, as well as our single-stream recycling, though not usually simultaneously. As I went past this house, I noticed that perched on the top of a trash can was a small artificial Christmas tree. I'd noticed the tree -- decorated -- on previous walks during the holiday season. There had been two trees flanking the house's front door and they'd been lovely: about four feet high, standing in forest green boxes, and had strings of unusual, copper-colored lights. They were decorated with dried starfish and other nautical shapes since we live by the water. At some point during December, I realized that the lights on one of the trees was out, and then it became an asymmetrical sort of display. Still lovely.

On Sunday, when I saw that tree, it made me sad. Not sad because the lights had stopped working but sad because it was going out with the trash, meaning: it was destined for the landfill. If you haven't thought too deeply about how they're made, let me tell you. This kind of artificial tree is made with metal and plastics and usually, one of the types of plastic is PVC - polyvinyl chloride. (Read: petroleum-based. Bad. But think that's bad? Older types used lead.) Basically, artificial trees are non-recyclable and non-biodegradable, meaning they are going to sit in a landfill for centuries, if you put them there. Which leads to the obvious question: well, okay, what DO we do?

Well, what I do for stuff like this, meaning *stuff*, things that can't be recycled or composted responsibly is that I try to either re-use it and if at all possible, FIX it. In the case of this tree, put on new lights. Sometimes the lights are fixed to the branches. Okay, well, then, leave the dead ones there and hang on a new string. Simple.

First, a word of understanding: This is complicated. I get it. On my Facebook page, I have a pithy quote, as many do. My quote is one I grew up with and stayed with me:

"Use it up. Wear it out. Make it do, or go without."

Somewhere between "make it do" and "wear it out" is an assumed step of owner responsibility in order to maintain use. I know people think this is weird because they tell me so. I tell them: I HATE cheap stuff and I hate built-in obsolescence.  They say: Enh, just buy another one. Then what I *think* but don't always say is: I resent this. I shouldn't have to buy another one.


And YES, this shouldn't be an issue. It SHOULD be easier. Companies SHOULD take responsibility for But right now, tell me: don't you hate it when stuff breaks down, soon after you've bought it??

Stuff is cheap -- or at least, cheaper than much of the manufacturing from previous generations and though I could go down the rabbit hole of angst over corporate greed and capitalism, I won't ... for today, at least. Today, we are talking about fixing stuff.


Last week at work, our Green Team ran a Repair Fair. What's that? A Repair Fair is an old idea that's making a comeback. They're gatherings where those with particular talents – Fixers – help people with broken items. The possibilities are wide-ranging but generally, there are people who can fix or offer guidance on repair of things like clothing, jewelry, books, bikes, and small appliances. They meet in a space with tables, outlets and good lighting and help keep items out of the waste stream and back into service. A good idea, right?

Something I suspect is that this grey area may trigger insecurities. I call it a "grey area" because in the realm of responsibility, if a company produces so much *stuff* in the name of "business" AND if in the course of your growing-into-an-adult process, you don't happen to learn life skills like sewing or soldering or using tools correctly, then how are you supposed to deal with this situation? If you don't know how to rewire something or sew a seam or even, use a glue gun to stick two pieces together and keep them intact, then maybe it's just easier to suppress any insecurities by just dumping the thing and starting fresh. I get that. I do but ...in the name of our planetary health, I have to ask for those with those insecurities to face them and get past it. There is a better way. 

A confession: I *hate* sewing. I really do, though I know how. I was taught to sew as a child. I was a Girl Scout who routinely made Sit-Upons, I suffered through Home Ec in Junior High AND I actually took a year of sewing in high school. I have made clothes, and know how to read a pattern. I still hate it.  But see? That is THE beauty of repair fairs. I don't have to love sewing -- though it is helpful if someone does. In point of fact, I don't have to actually be a repair person of any kind. In my case, last week, I was the organizer but I also did some jewelry repair, which is something I like. Could you go out pay for some of these services? Absolutely. I have no problem with that. It's a free market. But here's the thing -- and here is my deeper mission -- when you gather with others to do this work together, it's about community and a more meaningful purpose. Yes, sure, you're sewing back on loose buttons -- but you are also keeping a coat out of landfill *and* you are doing it together. 

Below are pictures of one of my favorite t-shirts. It's about twenty years old and the wonderful embroidery in the center was pulling the shirt apart. I hadn't worn it in at least a couple of years. But I brought it last week and a talented, caring colleague sewed a patch onto the back, strengthening the fabric and giving me my shirt back to wear. I was thrilled. 

So, this week: multiple encores for you and yes, I know it's challenging. First, if you work somewhere you could organize a Repair Fair, try it OR pass the idea along to whomever is a logical organizer. If you want advice about how to run one, you can do some research or just ask me. I would happy to share my observations. We are going to do a second one here in April. 

If this seems too big, then think smaller: How could something be fixed instead of tossed? Could you fix it? Could someone else? When you shop, consider your purchases carefully. Will your item last? If you already know that it won't, could spend a bit more money to buy something that will? If for no other reason, you will save money in the long run. You can think of it that way. 

In a world that too often feels broken, mending something -- sometimes -- can feel like a huge accomplishment. There's that, too.

Let me know how your projects go. 

Happy Repairing!   

 

 

On Doing Nothing

Many years ago when I was in graduate school, I spent one summer -- one pretty perfect summer -- in a room and board exchange with an elderly couple in Kennebunk, Maine. They were like the grandparents I'd never had a chance to know. They were in their early 70s then, and were the kind of people I quickly realized I wanted to be: politically liberal and engaged, involved with their community, volunteers at a local animal shelter's board, organic gardeners, and big-hearted, creative tellers of stories. Plus, they always had wonderful political cartoons taped to kitchen cabinet doors.  There is so much more that could be said about them but for the purpose of this post, I will simply say that Paula and Bruce gave me more than they ever knew, in ways they could never have guessed.

When I lived with them, what they needed from me in exchange for use of an apartment in their house was minimal: mostly it was working out in their garden, which of course, I adored. They were my first teachers of the beauty of compost and I would spend afternoons, weeding, mowing, spreading chicken manure -- something you couldn't possibly ever forget. It wasn't a very hot summer, and in fact, it rained almost every weekend, which disappointed the tourists but pleased the gardeners. Honestly, I never felt like I was doing much for them, certainly not enough, and I realize now that our connection had very little to do with them needing help. Because I felt like I should be living up to my part of the arrangement, when Paula would tell me to take a break, I usually balked. She was someone who liked her naps. After lunch, which always included a lovely salad from the garden, the table set with cloth napkins and clever animal-shaped napkin rings, she would go upstairs and have a rest. I rarely did. At some point in August as I was beginning to pack up my things to return to grad life in Boston, she saw me in a flurry of packing and said to me "Sometimes, you just have to do nothing. Let yourself do nothing!"

At the time, I nodded as though I both accepted and understood her command. Really, I didn't have a clue. Take a nap? Do nothing...when there is so much work to do? HERESY. But still, it was *Paula*. She was special in ways that went beyond words. So, I mentally put it on my To Do list and tucked it away.

Those of us who are Yankees...of Puritan descent... whether we want to admit or not, we have a problem with doing "nothing". Or at least, I do. It makes me feel guilty. But recognizing that and getting beyond it took awhile.

I have taken naps over the years and as I have gotten older, began to discover the lovely satisfaction that comes from getting more rest. More than simply sleep, though, stopping the *doing*, whether with sleep, meditation, or just being, I have learned, is in fact NOT doing "nothing" -- it's the opposite. You may use language that suits you but more than the physical aspects of stopping, for lack of a better word, is the genuine opportunity for spiritual refreshment.

There is a famous Zen Buddhist saying that I love:

Meditate for an hour every day unless you are too busy. In that case, meditate for two hours.

If this is new to you, stop and think. Heresy, eh? Talk about turning our oh-so-busy lives upside down. 

Last year, the New Yorker ran a piece on the concept of hygge, which is a Danish (and other Scandinavian) tradition of being "cozy", for lack of a better term, particularly in winter. The descriptions sounded exactly in line with the idea that instead of fighting the weather and fighting what you need, giving it to yourself and others and refreshing yourself in the process. Because the weather is similar to what we in New England expect, it made sense to me. Think about the feeling of sitting in front of a fire, warm mug of hot beverage in hand, listening to the crackle, blanket around you. It's all that and more and I am integrating as much of this into my life as I can.

Here is the link to that article: 

https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/the-year-of-hygge-the-danish-obsession-with-getting-cozy

As I write this, the wind is howling and the temperature outside is about 5 degrees. Two days ago, we got a brutal Nor'Easter that dumped about fifteen inches of snow and kept most people inside. We are in hunker-down mode for next two days, when the weather is supposed to break. 

Also, as I write this, I am sitting in bed. I have been here for about five hours. It's almost dinner time. I have been in bed most of the day, with a dog quietly dozing at my feet. And furthermore, as I began writing this,  I had just woken up from a nap. Perhaps, I simply learned to give myself permission. 

It took me thirty years to understand the truth that sometimes, doing nothing is best. 

Your encore for the day? I think you know. Go do nothing.

Peace.