Anthem

This evening at my daughter’s track meet, the event dutifully began with our national anthem “The Star Spangled Banner.”  While the tune is a rousing and patriotic one, I have always wished that our national anthem was “America the Beautiful.” And tonight, as I thought about the lyrics to each of these paeans to the American way, I realized why.

“The Star Spangled Banner” is a song of victory in war. So many of the images, especially beyond the famous first verse, speak of destruction and conflict: “rockets red glare,” “o’er the ramparts, “bombs bursting in air,” “the havoc of war.” It is a song that first and foremost glorifies the vanquishing of our enemies.

I have nothing but admiration and gratitude for the men and women who put themselves in the line of fire to defend our country. And I acknowledge that it is sometimes necessary to go to war. But I think that we in America become obsessed with conflict, with winning, with the enemy. We dwell upon military might rather than the freedoms our military is supposed to safeguard for us.

“America the Beautiful,” on the other hand, dwells on the magnificence of the land in all its natural glory. We sing about “spacious skies,” amber waves of grain,” and “purple mountain majesties.” We ask God to “crown thy good with brotherhood” and “confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.” Perhaps if we emphasized the grandeur of our physical environment, we would be more obsessed with protecting our land rather than destroying it. And if we prioritized the noble goals of brotherhood and the rule of law, our country would be the better for it.

If our national anthem represents what our country is all about, then maybe our emphasis on war and conquering should yield to an appreciation for the land that “pilgrim feet” trod to beat “a thoroughfare of freedom.”

Going Without

Today is Ash Wednesday, and Christians all over the world begin a 40-day season of fasting and abstinence in preparation for commemorating the passion, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ. I have always found this season challenging. In a land of plenty, it is hard to willingly go without.

Giving up something we love – in my case sweets – is first of all a sacrifice made to mirror the much greater sacrifice Christ made for us. It is a reminder, like the ashes on our foreheads today, of our mortality, our weakness, and our need for salvation. But it is also a way to show solidarity with the many people in our world who go without through no choice of their own.

Lenten fasting is designed to make us hungry, and along with almsgiving, it helps us develop compassion for our brothers and sisters who live with want. Going without helps us learn empathy. A local church in my town also has a yearly “Sleep Out Saturday” when teens and adults put up tents on a cold night and sleep outside to raise funds, awareness, and solidarity with the homeless. In the most affluent country in the world, these practices help us see beyond our own lives and show us the urgency of helping those in need.

But there is another important reason for going without during Lent. Fasting focuses the mind and turns us inward toward the source of our very being. Without the satiation provided by lots of food, entertainment, and noise, we are stripped down to our essence. This helps us spiritually and clarifies the meaning of our existence.

I can’t say I ever look forward to Lent. It’s a hard season, forcing me to confront myself and the fallen world in which I live. Spring has not yet come, and the cold gray world seems dead. It’s an ideal time to turn inward and look for the larger meaning of our lives. It is good, within that context, to go without.

 

Talking to Myself

Every so often I smile when I see a headline implying that talking to yourself is a sign of high intelligence. While I question the veracity of that theory, I at least feel as if my penchant for talking to myself is less crazy than you’d think.

Ever since I was a child, I have had a habit of speaking when there is no one else in the room. My mom used to tease me about talking to the television set when I was watching a favorite show. We are not talking about shouting out the answers to Jeopardy here. I would verbalize my feelings about the action in the show, going so far as to yell at the characters on the small screen.

I have always found it useful to think out loud. For instance, if I am planning a course of action, I will verbalize the steps I’m going to take. Or if I have a difficult conversation ahead of me, I will rehearse what I plan to say out loud. This has led to many instances of my husband saying, “What?” or, in a De Niro-esque way, “Are you talking to me?” So while others are nearby, I try to minimize my verbal mutterings, especially since in public, such behavior makes me look mentally unstable.

But I have concluded that verbalizing thoughts, even if just with my lips, helps me with processing. Years ago I had a friend who would, when listening to others speak, silently repeat the words they were saying. I found this to be a quirk of hers, but I’m guessing it was an aid to comprehension that she had been practicing most of her life. In fact, a New York Times article suggests that talking to ourselves can improve cognition and performance of tasks. (Kristin Wong, “The Benefits of Talking to Yourself,” The New York Times, June 8, 2017)

So if you see me speaking when no one else is within earshot, it is very likely that I am just trying to figure something out. Of course, I also like to sing in public. Not sure what that is a sign of, but it makes me happy.

 

Couch Potato

If “sitting is the new smoking,” as my husband likes to say, then I am in danger of becoming a five-pack-a-day person. As my kids have grown and my household responsibilities have diminished, I find myself more and more inclined to spend long periods of time on the couch watching TV or reading a good book – or sitting at the kitchen table scrolling through Facebook, writing, or doing a crossword puzzle. This lack of physical activity cannot be good for my aging body.

Over the years, I have enjoyed physical activity. Starting with my college years, which necessitated miles and miles of walking around campus, I have gotten into aerobic dancing (the Jane Fonda workout, Jazzercise etc.), step aerobics, running, Tae Bo (Yo, Billy Blanks!), and my two current faves: walking and yoga.

Recent injuries, however, have made me feel fragile and disinclined to move around much. Coupled with the Arctic winters in Chicago, I find myself becoming the proverbial couch potato. I know such inactivity will only exacerbate my physical infirmities, but I can’t seem to get myself moving.

There are two main problems. The first is that all my favorite activities involve sitting. I can’t very well complete a crossword puzzle while taking a walk. And I don’t get much enjoyment out of watching my favorite shows over the whir of the elliptical machine. Then there’s the irresistible allure of my couch, a cozy blanket, and a good book.

The second problem is sheer lack of will power. If I am not forced, it’s hard to motivate myself to get outside and talk a brisk walk or worse, go nowhere on the torture device known as a treadmill. Yet experience has taught me that I feel so much better when I get moving.

What to do? Well, I could hire a drill sergeant to whip me into shape, someone I pay to force me into physical activity. I could listen to a good novel on audiobook only while walking, thus motivating myself to exercise more frequently and for a longer period of time. This worked not long ago with the memoir Educated by Tara Westover. I could get a new Fitbit, which would buzz every so often to remind me to get up and move.

These are all great ideas, and I hope to get around to them soon. Right after I finish the Times crossword!

Crazy About Fads

Yesterday I gave my 18-year-old daughter and her friend an early Valentine’s Day gift that made them squeal with delight. They each got two Mini Brands balls. Mini Brands are tiny toy versions of commercial products such as ice cream, ketchup, and mouthwash. They come in a mystery ball, and part of the thrill is in not knowing what you will get.

Mini Brands are the latest fad to take hold of the buying public. Ever since the advent of the Hula Hoop in the 1950s, there have been crazes that have delighted kids and confounded parents. I still remember the fads of my own childhood: troll dolls, rabbits’ feet, and mood rings (Groovy, man!) My sister and I collected Liddle Kiddles, small dolls that came in their own special lockets. Nowadays, little girls have LOL, which are just a modern version of the Kiddles.

In the Eighties, Cabbage Patch Kids created such a frenzy that their popularity was immortalized in the movie Jingle All the Way. The image of parents jostling and fighting to procure a toy for their child was not a far stretch from reality. Power Rangers took hold in the Nineties. And, of course, who can forget the insanity of the Beanie Babies craze?

As a parent, I did my fair share of tearing my hair out and running around town to find the latest fad my kids just had to have: Teeny Beanies from McDonalds, Pokemon cards, Webkins, Crazy Bones. The Tamagotchi virtual pet and the infamous Furby were higher tech fads. My oldest wanted a Furby so badly that she saved up her allowance money and forked over the $35 for one. A week or so later she had buyers’ remorse, and ever since then, my husband reminds our kids of “the lesson of the Furby” whenever they want to make an ill-considered purchase.

My youngest has been just as crazed about the latest fads, even collecting such items as lip balms and pocket hand sanitizers. But her interest in the latest silly trend of Mini Brands is the fault of the app Tik Tok. I believe the company that owns Tik Tok should be paid for all the free advertising given to Mini Brands by Tik Tok users. Who am I kidding? I’m sure they are totally in cahoots with each other.

As ridiculous and annoying as these fads can be to those of us forking over our hard-earned money, I have to admit it was fun to see the pure, unadulterated pleasure on the faces of my daughter and her friend as they opened their surprise gifts. And even though our tendency towards fads indicates a certain sheeplike quality in us, it’s mostly harmless fun.

What will the next big thing be in the world of crazes? How about bringing back the pet rock?

 

Belittled Women

The irony was lost on members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences at last night’s Oscars when it showed a film clip from Greta Gerwig’s Little Women. In the scene, fledgling writer Jo March and her sister Amy disagree about the importance of Jo’s work. Confessing her doubts, Jo asks, “Who will be interested in a story of domestic struggles and joys? It doesn’t have any real importance.” Amy responds, “Maybe we don’t see these things as important because no one writes about them.” The act of writing them, she argues,  “makes them important.”

Despite being nominated for Best Picture, Little Women did not garner a directing nomination for the gifted Gerwig, whose stories about girls and women are quietly subversive. In the case of Little Women, Gerwig took a cherished and sentimental classic and transformed it into a commentary about the limits society places upon women. These limits are still clearly being felt, as evidenced by the boys’ club in Hollywood that fawns over directors like Scorsese and Tarantino with their male-dominated, machismo-saturated storylines.

Indeed, the latest version of Little Women was looked upon by many as a “chick flick,” something no self-respecting guy would watch. A story featuring and dominated by women – “a story of domestic struggles and joys” –  still holds limited appeal in a society that glorifies war, racing, crime and other manly subjects.

Everything about Gerwig’s version of Little Women made it worthy of an Oscar. The acting, the script, the production design that created a series of impressionistic visual images, the soaring musical score: it was a masterpiece. And it did win an Oscar – for costume design. I guess a “women’s movie” is allowed to be praised for its fashion sense.

As inspiring as it was to see a relative unknown, Bong Joon Ho, win big for his movie Parasite, I was disappointed that in 2020, women are still struggling against a perception that their stories and concerns are too light and inconsequential to be taken seriously. Maybe if Greta Gerwig makes the sequel, Little Men, the Academy will finally take notice.

 

A Great and Terrible Beauty

I’ve been reading a collection of gems by Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist Mary Schmich titled even the terrible things seem beautiful to me now. The title is a reference to Schmich’s mother, who towards the end of her life commented to her daughter, “You have to be old to appreciate the beauty of your life. Even the terrible things seem beautiful to me now.”

I have been thinking a lot lately about old age and mortality. Last week I mourned the loss of a friend who was born the same year I was. Just the other evening, I visited my 87-year-old mother, whose heart and mind are strong, but whose body has become frail and uncooperative. Even my own aging body has started to betray me in small ways. I’ve developed osteoporosis and chronic back pain. A stubbed toe has become a minor handicap. I watch TV with closed captioning because my hearing is not what it used to be.

We are all headed down this path toward our eventual earthly demise. We can’t imagine that the world will continue to turn when we are no longer alive in it. But of course it will. In another essay, Schmich again quotes her mother: “I keep wondering what I’m going to do with the time I have left.”

Ah, that is the question, isn’t it? Schmich posits that the answer to that question keeps changing over the course of our lives. I remember having some grandiose goals when I was in my 20s. I would ride a bike through Europe and learn to sail and write the Great American Novel. Only one of those dreams is still alive. I guess I had better get to it while I am still alive.

Yes, there have been terrible times in my life. I have experienced loss and fear and sleepless nights, physical and emotional pain, dread, anxiety. It can be a healing thing to reflect that all the terrible things have a certain beauty when seen in the context of a long life.

Thank you, Mary Schmich, for helping me meditate on the great and mysterious journey we call life.

Just Say “I’m Sorry”

Just yesterday I attended the funeral of a neighbor and friend. Jeff was always to be seen outside in his front yard working on tree trimming or gutter cleaning or some other horticultural pursuit. Yet he was never too busy to pause with the pruning shears and have a chat with any of us who might happen to pass by. His death at age 61 has hit many of us hard.

It is always difficult to know what to say to a family on the loss of a loved one. People grasp at sayings like “He’s in a better place.” While that may be true, it is small comfort to wives, husbands, and children who having a gaping hole in their lives where their loved one’s presence had been. It is best just to utter two simple words: “I’m sorry.”

The power of saying “I’m sorry” cannot be underestimated. It conveys our feelings in a direct and simple way. Accompanied by a hug, it can give great comfort to those we care about.

Saying “I’m sorry” is especially  difficult when we hurt someone we love. Our pride bristles at extending that olive leaf even when we know we are in the wrong. So much bitterness and damage has been done in relationships by parties failing to utter those simple words: “I’m sorry.”  And so much healing can take place when we swallow our pride, even in those times when we feel justified by what we said or did.

Many years ago, my young family met up with my husband’s sister and her family at Disneyland. I was so excited about the fun the cousins would have together, but my sister-in-law and her family kept going off on their own to enjoy rides and attractions. Finally, as dusk began to descend at the park, we met up with their family in Toon Town, the supposed home of Mickey and Minnie Mouse. I was exhausted and annoyed, and when my sister-in-law showed up crowing about the rides they’d been on, I let her have it with both barrels. How could she be so selfish? I wanted to know. We were supposed to be visiting Disneyland together, not like ships passing in the night! She immediately and in a heartfelt way uttered those magic words: “I’m sorry.” It completely disarmed me. I forgave her instantly, and we were able to salvage our family time together.

“I’m sorry.” Such powerful words in so many situations. Let’s be more willing to use them and help people heal – including ourselves.