If I were the Creator, could I have imagined a sky so blue with clouds so complex: some plump portions deeply white, some darkened and threatening rain, all in slow motion from the wind, some tiny wisps of white blown invisible into the vibrant blue?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined trees that develop such that in spring, tiny blossoms of white or pink emerge, sometimes with exquisite scents, which then, over a period of days, slowly fall, covering the ground with a natural confetti, resulting in expressions of awe from anyone nearby?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined any of our oceans, so immense, so beautifully edged, some ending in dramatic cliffs, some at sandy beaches, with water of magical hues as its depth lessens, all filled with living coral and too many varieties of exotic life to count, all sorts of sizes, shapes, and colors, some that we enjoy eating, some that we enclose in smaller spaces in our homes or offices to view and admire?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined the colors that most of us can see, the rainbow of colors displayed in our plants and animals, that we attempt to copy with our paints? Could I have imagined the white beauty that covers our land as snow or even the simpler wonder of rain, soaking a dry earth, replenishing its rivers?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined our earth, the ways it is used to grow our food, our forests, and our flowers, the wildness of it, yet sometimes submissive to our demands, our desires, and needs, our inquisitiveness that yield natural remedies from it for our ailments and even poisons, as well?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined our personal energy that is generally replenished nightly with sleep and supplemented occasionally with naps? Could I have imagined the complexity within our bodies, our organs and bones that somehow keeps so many of us walking and talking for decades before being worn out?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined human beings, with just a little help from fathers, beginning in the mother’s womb, only after months of its unconscious nurturing, emerging to take a first breath and stretching out to cry, requiring years of conscious care to successfully develop into an adult, a full human being?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined the human requirement for food as sustenance, along with the innumerable ways that our appetites can be satisfied, including through vegetables, such as artichokes or asparagus, or with fruits like pineapple or mangoes or peaches?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined French poodles or penguins or kangaroos or giraffes or pandas or lions or chipmunks or whales or mosquitoes or angelfish or bright red cardinals or robins with their beautiful blue eggs or caterpillars turning into monarch butterflies? Could I have imagined kittens or puppies or lion cubs?

If I were the creator, could I have imagined the earth circling the sun or the moon circling us, giving us day and night and the seasons? Could I have imagined the other planets and the other galaxies, scattered throughout our night skies, or diamonds and opals created by the weighty pressure of the earth’s inner movement?

I didn’t paint the Mona Lisa, but another human being did. I didn’t write Hamlet or Huckleberry Finn. I didn’t design a rocket ship. I didn’t build the pyramids. I didn’t write the Declaration of Independence. I didn’t design the Garden of Versailles. I didn’t design or build the Colosseum. I didn’t create the first blueberry pie or develop cheddar cheese or Brie. I didn’t design replacement knees or heart transplants, but other human beings did. Other human beings have imagined and accomplished all of these amazing things and so much more.

This creative energy is within each of us, just waiting to be used, to be released. Each of us has this one lifetime to release it, to discover it, to uncover it — this creative energy that is waiting to be unleashed. Perhaps this is our responsibility, our part to play in creation: to use our portion of creative energy, in all the ways that we do.

If I were the creator, where would I hide myself away, to be in full view, to be everywhere, to be available as needed, yet invisible? Would I be in the 99% of every atom that appears invisible, that fills every being and every thing on earth and every space in the universe? Check with Mary Conrow Coelho for her satisfying answer.

Copyright © 2022

Occasionally, when someone influences us, we know immediately, for example, watching someone on the news doing something spectacular, like rescuing a person from a burning building, or standing up against authority, like Malala Yousafzai. More often, we are not aware of the influence until decades later, as often happens with the influence of parents. Sometimes, we are influenced without being aware of the force of that influence, especially when the influence is held together only by threads, until something reminds us. This story describes that kind of influence on me by Sherry Turkle, author most recently of The Empathy Diaries.

When Turkle first influenced me during the 90’s, I was happily employed in technology management at Price Waterhouse, one of the world’s six major accounting giants. Sherry worked at MIT in technology, a loner, examining the effects of early social media and technology on human beings. I had always been a math and science nerd, long before we’d heard of STEM and its importance, with little interest in the soft sciences, like psychology, which to me seemed wishy-washy, not really science.

Turkle’s work demonstrated for me the link between technology and psychology, leading me to register for one of the few technology courses offered at Harvard that could be applied toward a psychology degree. At the time, Price Waterhouse (PW) had a policy that would reimburse employees for classes taken, related to their work, after earning an A or a B for coursework. This was one of the initial connection threads, whose future influence I could not have imagined.

After successfully completing that first class, then getting an ok from PW to continue work on the Master’s Degree, I was laid off shortly after 9/11 and immediately after the next class began, so, of course, before I could be reimbursed. My director, when telling me that I would no longer be working there, also told me that she had secured an ok for tuition reimbursement of my class. This was the second vitally important thread. Because of the promised reimbursement, I continued with that class, ultimately completing my Master’s Degree, even receiving an award for my thesis and research on gratitude in the 2005 Science-and-Religion Contest.

That degree led to a winding and happy career path through consulting, coaching, teaching, and ultimately, to a happy retirement, which now includes and embraces writing. Much of my writing includes my travels, each of which seems superficial and disconnected from each other. Then, out of nowhere, I hear Sherry Turkle’s name again, read her newest book, and recognize that she offers a perfect description of the connecting center, as she asks, “what might cause or allow someone to see themselves differently?” Turkle’s work examines technology as that connecting center, the mechanism that allows the change in vision, in possibility. Reading her work made me see that, for me, both travel and making the decision to travel served as the mechanism that allowed me to change. She asked an important question: What causes or allows someone to see themselves and their possibilities differently?

I have only recently been drawn to writing; now I am compelled to write. Recognition of the ‘decision to travel’ and ‘travel’, jointly, as a mechanism for change, rather than simply as wonderful experiences, allows me to fuel my writing and to connect the decisions and my travels with this significant unifying thread. Sherry Turkle’s work once influenced me to take a tiny step from technology into social sciences, leading me into more than an entirely different career — rather, a completely different way of seeing myself and my life. Once again, she is giving me a new way to see my past and view apparently separate choices, events, and threads as altogether unified.

Copyright © 2021

I’m not writing about ‘fighting’ as in physically fighting, as that’s not actually something I’ve ever done. However, there is a fight that happens when something in you rebels against what the world expects of you, something that is different from the seed of you which is growing, stretching towards what it must become. Here’s my story of what I’ve fought for during most of my life, starting long before I recognized it.

Probably when I was about ten years old, in 1956, I began to have some recognition that, as a girl, I lacked something that boys had, and I don’t mean a penis. Talk about my future included choices between secretary, teacher, or nurse. Airline stewardess was totally appealing, but I knew that was impossible, because I wore eyeglasses. Without any discussion, I ‘knew’ I couldn’t become a doctor or a lawyer, just because women didn’t, but something in me didn’t accept that.

About that time, my father needed help carrying something heavy from our basement to his car, and he asked for my help. I don’t remember what it was, but I do remember that it was very heavy, that we were successful, that he expressed his thanks, and that I was very proud of myself. It made me feel that I was as good as a boy.

Now, I need to change the words I’m using. Rather than say I fought for something, it’s more accurate to say that I reached or stretched for something. What I was stretching for will get a name later.

When I was in high school, I enjoyed surprising teachers with my math abilities. I remember my geometry teacher, Mr. Jamieson, who told me at the beginning of the year that girls never got an A in his class. I don’t actually remember the grade I received from him, but I do remember my math SAT score — 795 out of 800. I loved taking that test!

I remember one of my early conversations with my physics advisor in college, as he alerted me that I would have other departments — chemistry and biology — vying for my presence. This represented a change for me, that a strength in a male-dominated subject would make me a person of interest, rather than someone to be avoided.

In all of my physics and math classes during the seventies, only one professor was a woman, Dr. Joanne Growney, among all the white men. There were few women in my classes, too.

Shortly after graduation, during an interview for a position as an industrial engineer, I was told that I was not being offered the job, because they wanted to hire a man. Then, in the early eighties, that was legal. I secured another job as a systems analyst, later as a computer specialist, a new corporate position. When I was promoted to management, my first assistant was a young man. Often, when someone new entered our department, they assumed I was the secretary and he, the manager, simply based on our genders.

Last week, I needed to see a new doctor, a nephrologist. There was an immediate rapport between us. I told her about the job that had been denied to me forty years ago, because of my gender, and how excited I was that she is a woman. Don’t get me wrong — I like men. I just don’t believe that having a penis is a necessity for most jobs.

What have I fought for? I have fought for this woman to be a nephrologist, to be anything she wants. I have fought, not with weapons, but with my life for more than half a century, for gender equality.

These horrendous shootings injure each of us like stabs in our hearts. It is senseless to imagine whether it is a worse experience for someone who has young children or older or none at all. Any needless death hurts each of us who witnesses it, even indirectly, through any form of media. I speak as the mother of a man who was once ten, once a fourth-grader, now a foot taller than me. Of course, then, when he was little, he was unable to give love as intentionally, as he does as an adult, but is there any substitute for the loving hug of a ten-year-old? In this article, I want to describe a few ways that my 55-year-old man-son has shown me love through the years.

When he was to be married the second time, having decided that they would be married privately, no friends or relatives present, I told him that it would mean a lot to me to be there for the ceremony. After they discussed it, they invited my husband (not his dad) and me to witness their simple ceremony, then share a dinner celebration with them. What I loved so much about this is that he heard me and understood that it was important to me, then he discussed it with his future wife, recognizing that it was not his decision alone, then, finally, invited us to share this important event in their lives. To me, it was much more than his love for me, but his loving concern for each of us that moved me and demonstrated his loving kindness, his sweet humanity.

The next time that I was especially struck by his loving kindness was a few years later. Whenever we spoke, although I never mentioned anything, I was waiting to hear that she was pregnant. So one day, when he told me he wanted to talk, I thought, ‘this is it!’ What he wanted to tell me, though, was that he had had a vasectomy. He said that although I never asked, he imagined that I wondered about their plans, so he wanted to tell me. They had discussed it thoroughly and were clear about their intentions. Because the vasectomy would be a simpler procedure for him than the process required for her, he had taken the responsibility for it. I was incredibly moved by his sharing this very personal news with me. Again, his actions were undeniable proof of his loving nature, towards both his wife and me.

Those examples demonstrate one instance of responding to my request and another of anticipating an unspoken one. When he turned fifty, the same year that I turned seventy, I asked for something much more substantial. The year that I had turned fifty and my mother eighty, I took her to Bermuda for a few days, just the two of us. It was a delightful event, joyous for each of us. So, when Jack was to turn fifty and me seventy, I asked if we could go away, just the two of us, for a few days. Knowing that he had little interest in travel, I told him that he could decline, that it would be ok, though I’d be disappointed, I’d get over it. But he said yes! We spent a fabulous week on a Mississippi cruise. What a tremendous gift he gave me with that of time shared.

Last Mother’s Day, the first year in eighteen that we were both living in the same state, when we met for lunch the week before, he was unaware that this significant holiday was approaching. After he was reminded, he gladly planned for our day together. It was a wonderful day, but what meant the most to me was part of the note that he wrote on the card for me: “I love bragging about you to my friends. You have always been the most amazing mom.” Additionally, he signed it, “Love, Jack.” This was important to me because, starting college, he began to be known as John, his given name. Jack, what I had always called him, was reserved for me alone, a gift.

These four events are tips of the iceberg, the most obvious demonstrations of Jack’s heart to me. I have no idea whether he’s aware of their importance to me, perhaps not, but they fill me and surround me with his love. No, we don’t always agree on everything and he’s not perfect. Inside me, he’s still the ten-year-old bringing me dandelions and expecting a hug. And, I am blessed with witnessing his blossoming into a loving man. What more could any mom expect?

Copyright © 2022

Well, I wasn’t actually punched in the stomach, but it certainly felt like it, leaving me surprised, hurt, with the wind knocked out of me.

It had been two months since their trial, my four friends and fellow activists. Their sentencing took place last Friday, delayed for multiple logistical reasons. Dozens of us showed up at the courtroom for support, another dozen plus on-line, many wearing red. We really had no idea what to expect, but were optimistic, believing that the judge was understanding of the moral reasons for the actions taken, if not in a legal underpinning for it.

His sentencing took nearly twenty-five minutes, with its complexity and his reasoning behind it. Within it, he differentiated between the defendants, who had each been found guilty of two charges, trespassing and trespassing on railroad property. The judge singled out Jay as the leader, though there had been no testimony suggesting that and, in fact, he had not been. Additionally, a second defendant, Johnny, was judged (exactly the right word in this case) with him to be more at fault than the other two, Dana and Dan.

Their sentences included three parts: six months jail time, to be suspended in return for five years/three years of no involvement in ‘conspiring’ or planning other actions, expenses to be paid for the firefighters’ and police officers’ time, and additional court fees to be paid. The time required of no involvement was longer for two defendants than for the others. The expenses were to be split among the defendants: 2/5 for the ‘leader’ and 1/5 for each of the others, thousands of dollars each.

Before he pronounced the sentences, the judge offered what appeared to be positive comments, saying that he believed the defendants to be good people, that, in fact, he would have been happy to have any of them babysit for his own children. Of course, he was grey-haired and unlikely to have children of an age that required babysitting. He contrasted the defendants with those who usually came through his courtroom, ‘thieves and drug addicts.’

Then, he punched me in the stomach, figuratively, by saying that what they had done was ‘civil disobedience for the privileged,’ thereby discounting it. Although I had not been arrested that day, I had been there with them and taken similar actions. He suggested that taking these actions was not the right way to change what’s happening to our planet, despite the fact that we have attempted all available means of changing the actions on the part of the systems, the corporations, that continue to pollute the earth for their own profit. Who, other than we, the privileged, can even begin to change what’s happening to our planet and to all of us, especially the unprivileged?

I salute and honor my fellow conspirators for enduring this trial, their two years of awaiting it on bail, and now, dealing with this harsh sentence. Among the effects on me was my recent decision to drop out of waiting for jury trial. Instead, I will accept my backstop sentence of thirty hours of community service and my “guilty” verdict. After anticipating this trial for more than two years, I am left with mixed feelings, including great relief and a measure of guilt for ‘giving up.’ Anyone able to support this work, including the financial sentences for Jay, Dan, Johnny, and Dana, can do so by clicking the Donate button at this site: https://www.nocoalnogas.org

Copyright © 2022

(Please read Part I first.)

The Camino: From Boston on September 23, 2017, six weeks before my 71st birthday, we flew American Airlines flight 8640 to Madrid, then took a train to Sarria, our chosen starting point. There was a little awkwardness between us, as we each anticipated the beginning of our pilgrimage the next morning.

Then, it started, my Camino. I left a little before my friends and, at one of the many local shops, selected my walking stick, proud to have it, a symbol of this momentous walk. I began to walk, uphill on cobblestones and out of the village into the countryside. The weather was perfect, as expected for this time of year. The path was well marked with the iconic scallop shells and yellow arrows. Dozens of others walked the path, as well, most of them faster than me, many walking with a buddy. There was a wonderful feeling of camaraderie among us. There were many hills and, whenever I began to feel a little out of breath, I simply stopped, moved over to the side of the road, allowing other pilgrims to pass. Often, someone would stop and inquire about my well-being, which I appreciated.

Along the way, I connected with a young German woman walking at my pace, Lenke. We began to walk together, enjoying our conversation, as well as the comfortable silences, and ended up staying at the same excellent hostel that night, for 10€ each. We had walked from 7:00 am until about 3:00 pm, with a stop for lunch. At the end of the day, it felt so good to take that 20-pound pack off my back! And, I felt so proud of myself for doing it on my own, for carrying my own pack, making a new friend, and bravely choosing a place for the night.

The next day was similar, walking again with Lenke and sharing another hostel that night. The third day Lenke moved ahead of me and I stayed in a private room in a small hotel for 20€, still a good deal, as long as I could forget the more than thousand dollars that I had spent for the fine hotels where I was not sleeping!

This continued for about a week, with me sending a brief message at the end of each day to my three friends to let them know I was safe, though not in luxury. Then, I was ready to rejoin them, recognizing that I expected to be at their planned location by the end of the next day. I sent a text to them to let them know that I would meet them and spend the next week with them.

Here comes the shock: one of them texted me to let me know they did not want me to join them! They were so unhappy with my decision to walk on my own that they did not want to spend the rest of the time with me. This was women who had been my friends for 35 years!

I cannot begin to express the mix of feelings I experienced. Not anger, but confusion, sadness, and disappointment. I’d been feeling such a high, such joy at this journey, now confounded by this. A single incident later that day helped immensely to reduce the negativity I was feeling. My husband, who did not use email at that time, happened to choose that day to send me an email love letter, expressing his deep love and appreciation for me. He will never know how much that meant to me, receiving it right after being rejected by my friends. I personally do not believe in coincidences.

I continued to walk on my own, crossing paths with them during the next week. Except for the one who had texted me, the other two women approached me with kind words, inviting me to have lunch or coffee with them along the way. These two have also continued to reach out to me occasionally, after our return home.

I regained the joy of walking the Camino and experiencing the buzz of finding my own place each night, frequently walking with others and continuing to stop when I needed to catch my breath. If I had known in advance the outcome, the rejection I would experience, would I have made a different decision about walking on my own? No. This is the way I wanted to walk my Camino.

Postscript: As background information, we four had met in the 80’s while working at a teaching hospital in Pennsylvania: one, a physician doing her residency, two as social workers, and me as an ultrasound technician, working with cardiovascular surgeons. Thirty years later, we had become a rheumatologist, an Episcopal priest, a therapist, and me, a special-ed teacher, teaching algebra to high school students with dyslexia. The jobs were not the same, but all of us remained in helping professions.

Three months after the Camino, in a tap-dancing class, I experienced a heart attack, followed a week later by heart surgery, a triple bypass. During that week between my heart attack and surgery, I received a call from the friend who had texted me on the Camino, assuring me of her love. I asked for her reason for shutting me out, but her response did not help me to understand. I still do not understand.

I have wondered many times how close I was to this heart attack while walking the Camino, where I would have been a long way from effective medical care. Again, I don’t believe in coincidence. I do believe in blessings.

Copyright © 2022

Among the many stories of those who have walked the Camino de Santiago, that path in Spain that pilgrims have walked since the Middle Ages, is my own. Much of my story is shared by many and not so unusual; however, there is one particular occurrence in mine that I believe to be quite unusual and for me, rather embarrassing, almost shameful. I will share it here. The surprise is revealed in Part II.

The beginning: In 2016, approaching my seventieth birthday, I decided I wanted to do something rather spectacular, certainly different from any earlier adventures. After reading a lot about the Camino and not being particularly athletic, other from enthusiastically rowing as part of the Gloucester Gig Rowers, I decided that I wanted to train for, then walk part of the Camino, specifically the last hundred kilometers. I wanted to carry my own pack, walk what I could each day, and spend each night at a hostel, having a shared dinner with other pilgrims. This would mean having an openness to the weather, my body, and its capabilities and not committing to a particular distance or hostel until the end of each day. There were many stories about hostels not being particularly clean or comfortable, others about luxurious accommodations requiring reservations, and everything in-between. I wanted to aim for the in-between, knowing there would be a certain amount of risk.

On the conference call of my 69th birthday (this was pre-Zoom) with three special friends, I announced this decision, inviting them to also walk the Camino when I did. The reactions were mixed, as I was planning to retire soon, while they were each to continue working. Among the challenges facing us were settling on a departure date, the length of our overseas stay, and which level of accommodations we wanted. From the start, I emphasized that we could make different choices and still walk the Camino at the same time.

Planning: During the next year, we held several conference calls to discuss possibilities and constraints. We were not in agreement about one particular issue — the level of accommodations. Others expressed interest in hiring a company that would transport our bags and reserve higher end accommodations. To me, this defeated the primary challenges of the trip — full openness to each day, carrying my own baggage, and allowing each night’s lodging to happen by chance. Yes, I would be risking comfort and perhaps a bit of safety, but for me, this was to be a spiritual adventure, not a vacation.

Our planning continued and included a rendezvous for the purpose of buying the right walking shoes and other equipment that we would need. We met in Pennsylvania, lived in different states (North Carolina, Virginia, Pennsylvania, and Massachusetts,) and had traveled together for 35 years to each other’s homes, plus to Alaska, Puerto Rico, England, and many beaches. We were used to traveling together and had worked through many of our differences. Two of us were early risers and the other two liked to sleep in, so we early risers often quietly left the others to walk, explore, and bring back coffee to the sleepyheads.

When we reached the point of making reservations and a commitment, the three others each wanted to hire a company to carry our bags and make high-end reservations, eliminating the need for any risk of discomfort. For me, that choice also eliminated my primary challenge of the expedition. However, I went along with it and sent in my share of the expenses, more than a thousand dollars for two weeks. I had retired in June and would be staying longer than the others and would make other plans for my last week there alone.

One point of contention was that I did not have a smartphone, so could not text. We had agreed that we might not all walk at the same pace and they wanted to have a way to know I was all right. So, as a concession, I sought out an application for my iPad that would allow the equivalent of texting.

My individual planning involved creating a walking plan for a six-month period of increasing miles, first without carrying anything, carrying an empty backpack, then gradually adding weight to it until I was carrying the maximum weight I expected to carry on the walk. I think that was about twenty pounds and included the clothing I would need for the two weeks of hiking, requiring daily washing out of socks and underwear. Among the pleasures of this preparatory work was the occasional inquiry from someone who saw my walking and asked about it.

My Decision: I agonized about giving up what I most wanted from this special trip, choosing being together with these special friends over my inner-most desire. We were to meet at Logan Airport in Boston, each of the others flying from their locations first.

Finally, the night before our flights I made my final decision. I called each of them, individually, to explain that I’d decided to spend the first night in Spain with them, as planned, then to walk on my own, carrying my own backpack, and determined by how my body felt, when to stop walking for that day, and secure a hostel for the night. I expected that perhaps by halfway or more, I would rejoin them and spend the last few days with them. I knew that I was disappointing them, but experienced enormous relief, as I was deciding to be true to myself. These calls were difficult; each friend heard me, then said good night, knowing we’d see each other at the airport. Still, I didn’t really know how they felt about my decision.

Conclusion, including startling surprise, to come next week in Part II.

Copyright © 2022

These two words have so much in common — four letters i, g, h, and t — and yet, so little, really. My life right now feels like a see-saw between both and must be examined. I believe that many others are also experiencing this in their lives, as well, because of the influence of Covid and Ukraine on each of us. Let’s unpack some of my assumptions.

Within the small circle of my life, home, family, neighborhood, Quaker community, and activist friends, all is well, suffused in light. Yesterday, at a late lunch with my son in Cambridge, at a Japanese restaurant new to each of us, Shabu & Mein, we hugged, laughed, oohed at the beautiful, unusual, and excellent food, and caught up on all of our news. Then, Jack (John to everyone else) drove home, dropping me off at the Beachmont T stop by my car. It was a jewel of an afternoon, leaving me feeling loved, appreciated by, and connected to one of the most important people in my life.

In this story, I left out an unexpected impediment in an otherwise perfect time: Toscanini’s ice cream, where we often stop for dessert, was closed, as they are on Monday and Tuesday. We agreed to never again meet for lunch on a Monday or a Tuesday, to avoid this dire situation.

Do you know Toscanini’s? They may have the very best ice cream on the planet, occasionally changing their flavor offerings. Last time we were there, I got cardamon and fig in a chocolate cone. Yum. They always have dairy-free choices for Jack, too.

So, that’s about the worst thing that happens in the small circle of my life, that my favorite ice cream place is unexpectedly closed. This morning, when I looked out my bedroom window, across our driveway to the shrubs on the other side, I watched a cardinal land, picking around for a snack. He was quickly joined by a wren and a sparrow, then flew off. Seeing a cardinal always makes me catch my breath. Isn’t each of them a miracle, to be flying around so brightly and beautifully? Even the bluejays have that effect on me. (Sorry, wrens and sparrows — I do think you’re beautiful, too.)

There is so much light in my life — tiny events that remind me of the beauty, the kindness, and the pleasures around me every day, events that unsettle my senses, even for a moment. Let me always welcome these interruptions that pierce my ordinariness, that startle me and remind me of the divine presence, the light, that fills and surrounds us everywhere and always.

And the weight, what about that? Beyond my smaller sphere filled with comfort, enjoyment, and the pleasure of those who love me and who I love is the rest of the world, with its weight. That includes the weight of Covid and the weight of war. Although I have not been infected with Covid, many I know have been, with varying degrees of discomfort and inconvenience. The question of when and where to mask has not yet been completely settled, leaving me uncertain what degree of risk I incur whenever I leave my house.

And war, the painful distress of those in Ukraine and those who have abandoned their country with fear for their lives. This and Covid weigh heavily on me, pushing on the smaller sphere of my life. I imagine this smaller sphere contorted by the weight of these concerns, so much bigger than whether I can get good ice cream. I feel that weight as a burden and know that others feel it, too. However, the simple presence of a cardinal enlightens for a moment, invites me, lifts the burden. Let us each — consciously and fully — accept every invitation from divine presence and lighten the weight.

Copyright © 2022

This picture was taken with a real camera, not a phone, probably twenty-five years ago. I think it was in Turkey, though possibly Croatia, where we visited three years later. It’s my husband, Paul, and I having lunch at an outside cafe while on vacation. Incidentally, visiting Croatia was also an ‘accident,’ unplanned until visiting Venice, when it occurred to us as a side trip.

Sitting at a local cafe in another country is among my most favorite things, just absorbing the ambiance. Yes, so much walking is needed to really take in local sights, that sitting for an occasional break provides one more way to truly experience a country.

So, why is this picture an accident? When we stopped here for lunch, we asked a passerby to take a picture of us with our camera. You can see him, with a white shirt and tie, in the reflection of the window behind us. As he took our picture, another person unexpectedly stepped into the frame and became part of the picture. Our impromptu photographer immediately took another one, so that we had a similar photo without the third person entering. If this had been more recent, I would have immediately deleted this picture when I reviewed the pictures that evening. However, because it was taken with a camera, back when pictures needed to be developed to be seen, it was printed, along with all of the others.

As Paul and I reviewed the pictures, this stood out as one we both especially loved, partly because it was so unplanned and partly because of Paul’s reaction to it. Paul noticed that the man about to pass us was a workman, wearing pants that were paint-splattered. However, he was also wearing a nice sports jacket and a cap resembling his own. Paul really appreciated this, that this worker had an obvious self-regard that appeared to be representative of the culture here. An enlarged copy adorns Paul’s office wall, next to another with me at the helm of a sailboat while crossing the Atlantic Ocean.

Paul is wearing a leather vest, which he enjoys to this day, that he had bought in the Grand Bazaar, the enormous open market in Istanbul. I’m wearing a denim shirt that I received when I’d recently changed departments at Price Waterhouse, to the Work Life Balance group. It was within that department that I managed the national work-from-home program, when telecommuting first became possible. (See another blog post Telecommuting.)

We spent about two weeks in Turkey, flying first to Istanbul, spending a few days, then driving down along the Aegean coast through idyllic villages and through the city of Izmir, en route to Marmaris, where we liaised with friends, Michael and Susan, with whom we’d sailed the Atlantic from Newport to the islands of the Azores. That’s another story for another day, needing more space and attention than this blog has to give.

This is only one picture, but it holds multiple memories, each wonderful.

Copyright © 2022