Snow PTSD and arthritis of the soul

 

The one thing I wish for in the cottage is a fireplace.
Meantime, this will have to do.

There’s a pot of chili on the stove, the little artificial fireplace is blazing away—no heat, but the image is warming, and I am at my desk with a blanket over my knees. The trouble with that comes when you have to get up and move around—your legs, accustomed to warmth, freeze. The words cozy and cottage seem to go together, but as I learned in Snowmageddon and am learning all over again today, so do chilly and cottage.

A friend said recently that Texans have PTSD from Snowmageddon. Mention the possibility of below-freezing temperatures and that dreaded wintry mix, and our nervous minds jump back to loss of power and days spent shivering under a pile of blankets, to say nothing of over two hundred people who died. We relive the ice storm of 2021, and we are convinced the grid has not been fixed, the power will go out, the pipes will freeze, and we’ll be cold, hungry, thirsty, and miserable. All week there’s been a sense of dread in the air as folks prepared for the cold—outdoor faucets were covered, pot plants came inside, grocery stores were mobbed. Folks in my area turned out in good numbers to get blankets and beds to shelter animals and hay to areas where stray dogs and feral cats are known to hang out.

What I hate most, even more than the discomfort, is the sense of ennui that comes with a severe cold spell. It’s too easy to think, “I can’t do that now—or this—or whatever, because it’s too cold.” And I feel more isolated, although Jordan has already been out to the cottage three times. The psychological effects of severe weather are almost as bad as the physical.

Sophie, however, is undaunted by the cold. She had been out three times by ten o’clock in the morning, and when I refused a fourth trip she barked at me in frustration. I explained to her carefully that she would freeze her little tuchus off, but she only cocked her head an looked at me quizzically. When I finally let her out about lunchtime, she wandered around as though it were a spring day. No squirrels to chase today and few birds to catch her eye. She looked hopefully at the main house, perhaps for a glimpse of Charlie the kitten, and then she reluctantly came in. She has not, however, learned to close the door behind herself, so each time she pushes the door open, I have to dislodge my lap blanket and get up to close the door. She is now ensconced in the wing chair, snoring softly. It’s a comforting sound.

If the phrase “Snow PTSD” got my attention, so did the title of this morning’s sermon: “Arthritis of the soul.” Russ Peterman preached, to a very sparse crowd, about forgiveness. Somewhere in there was the thought that God forgives all of us—and in this day and world, my thoughts immediately go to trump and Greg Abbott. How can God forgive them when they show no remorse, no repentance, no sign of changing their ways. In fact, they seem bent on doubling down. But, according to the sermon, there are some things that forgiveness is not: condoning—you don’t have to approve of the action, whatever is t; forgetting—you don’t have to forget that the offense happened; reconciling—you don’t necessarily have to hug and make up, things may never be the same again; and, justice—if justice is called for, forgiveness doesn’t alter that. That made a lot of sense to me.

Stressing that if we cling to resentment, it eats away at us, he quoted Ann Lamott’s familiar line: “It’s like eating rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.” It gives you arthritis of the soul. It was a sermon I needed to hear, not only because of the cruelty of men like trump and Abbott—they are such public figures, for better or worse, that we are painfully aware of their transgressions. But the truth is that the world is too full of people like that. But an even bigger truth, to me: I don’t know about you, but there are a  couple of people in my personal life that I need to forgive. I’m working on it, and the sermon helped.

In this cold weather, it’s easy, especially for those of us in our “golden” years, to be more aware of arthritis. For some, it is a crippling thing, but for many of us it’s a lot of little aches and pains that grow worse with cold weather. So it is with arthritis of the soul. The isolation and depression of an extreme cold spell makes it easy to fan the flames of resentment and exacerbate arthritis of the soul. Letting go is hard, but none of us want to be that guy down the street who is crippled with anger and hate.

Stay warm and safe my friends.

 

Keeping the Sabbath

 

I definitely do not mean to turn this blog into, “Look what I had for dinner tonight!” but I can’t resist. Our dinner tonight was so good and so lovely to look at—a Mediterranean chopped salad with marinated steak. Christian knows how to tenderize even the cheapest cut—tonight was skirt steak, and it was delicious, served with a bit of marinade to go over it. Grilled red bell pepper and onion, and fresh grape tomatoes, sliced baby cucumbers, feta, and pita chips, all drizzled with the marinade which was heavy in lemon zest. A delightful dinner, and as Christian pointed out, healthy.

Tonight there were just the three of us, Jacob being at camp. But the dinner was a bit fancier and a bit more work than any of us do during the week. That’s because we try to keep the tradition of Sunday dinner. When my kids were in high school, I often had fifteen or more at my Sunday dinner table—my kids, some of their friends, assorted friends of mine including the family of my goddaughter, and always, my brother and his two children. I sometimes ran out of menu ideas but occasionally splurged on leg of lamb or turkey roulades. Other times, it was a casserole, but I tried to make it special.

The sermon at my church this morning, delivered by my favorite minister and good friend Renee Hoke, was about keeping the sabbath. Renee began with her childhood memories—rushing to be on time for church, sitting through Sunday school, the ritual of the service, and then rushing home for the roast beef dinner that was in the oven all morning. My memories are a bit different.

On Chicago’s changing South Side in the forties and fifties, we attended St. James Methodist at 46^th and Ellis, because in the twenties my father, in osteopathic school, lived in a fraternity house at 48^th and Ellis. And, a preacher’s kid, he was a loyal attendee. When my brother was old enough to drive, his job was to deliver both of us to Sunday school and then go back home to get Mom and Dad for the eleven o’clock service. Truth is he dropped me off, went cruising (having sworn me to secrecy), and then got our parents for church. I never ratted on him.

But by the fifties, the face of the neighborhood and the church was changing. Neighborhoods in Chicago were segregated along fairly defined lines, and 47^th Street marked the division between black and white. North of 47^th was Bronzeville, a flourishing Black business and residential district. As kids, we knew not to go there—except for church. Our church was increasingly Black and, sad to say, increasingly hostile to the remaining white population. One Sunday Mom heard someone preach about the white man as enemy. She went home with a migraine and vowed never to go back.

I meantime had made friends with several girls who went to the United Church of Hyde Park,

United Church of Hyde Park

safely on 53^rd Street in the middle of the Hyde Park neighborhood, even then a bastion for intellectuals and a diverse population. I began going to Brownies and then gradually to Sunday school and the evening teen group, called for some unknown reason Tuxus. That group and those friends were the core of my high school life, and to this day I remain grateful for that group and that church. Many of my church friends are now gone, but I remain in touch with at least one. It was, quite simply, a marvelous teenage experience.

Meanwhile, back at home, we didn’t have the traditional roast beef—we’d probably been eating it all week. On Sundays Mom would fix “supper” instead of “dinner”—a spinach souffle (my favorite) or a cheese strata or even Welsh rarebit. In winter, she’d roll the tea table into the living room in front of the fireplace, and we’d have our supper there. Fond memories.

Today, all the Sundays of my life come back to me. I am a faithful churchgoer, albeit on my computer, though I keep vowing to attend in person (that takes family cooperation). And I feel the need to make Sunday dinner special—the Burtons feel it too, though not quite as fervently as I do. Yet today was a good example of how I keep the Sabbath—the eleven o’clock service in the morning, a nap in the afternoon, and Sunday dinner in the evening. And somehow, indefinably, Sunday always feels different to me than the weekdays. I think I take to heart the idea of rest, which I think is part of what Rev. Hoke was saying this morning when she talked about detaching—detaching from feeling we need to be in control, to worry about everything. Instead, she suggested delight—watching a hummingbird (that brought memories of my mom), watching a child’s delight (I have a whole warehouse of those memories). I am going to watchful now for sabbath delights—and just maybe tonight’s dinner was one of them.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

Is there a better name for aging?

Some time ago the senior minister at our church announced a series of sermons titled, “Life Comes at You Fast.” He intended to explore four ages: childhood, adolescence, adulthood, and, according to the announcement, old adulthood. I howled in protest that I did not want to be called an “old adult,” and Russ Peterman, our minister, confessed that was a typo: it should have read “older adulthood.” Not much of an improvement in my mind. Later, he wrote that at one church he’d served, the seniors called themselves Third Agers. I thought that sounded a lot better, but then, a few days later, I saw a reference to the “chronologically-enhanced population.” Whoever wrote that admitted the phrase does not trip lightly off the tongue. But it’s pretty expressive, and Russ used it in his sermon this morning.

He talked about some closely-held ideas in America, one of them being a fear of aging. We all know that the media bombards us with glorification of youth and rarely has much good to say about age. Similarly, one person talked of the so-called golden years as a time of being, not doing. You’ve worked hard all your life, doing, so now you can let others do, and you can just be. Not an attitude that Russ endorsed. Instead, if I got his meaning, he spoke of our older years as a time of freedom—kids are grown, family is probably more stable financially, career is over or slowing down—but he emphasized that we cannot sit back. We in our seventies, eighties, and beyond have accumulated wisdom to share with the world. It behooves us to share our wisdom, to use our new leisure time to better the world somehow. A wealth of volunteer opportunities are open to older adults. What I got out of today’s words—and I hope I’m not distorting—is that we should use the hard-earned lessons of the past to move forward. We are never too old to participate in life.

That struck home to me because the other night I was talking to a friend, a minister, and said I feared becoming irrelevant. This was partly prompted by the fact that more and more when I go out, I want to be pushed in the transport chair rather than walk with my walker. I’m not sure if it’s a return of my fear of open spaces (I sort of suspect that) or a sign of growing weaker. My friend said it was not a sign of weakness. “You are engaged,” she said, and that made me feel a lot better. And maybe that’s what Russ was saying: as we grow older, we must continue to be engaged, bringing with us the wisdom of the past as we move into the future. He quoted former U.N. Secretary General Dag Hammarskjöld: “For all that has been, Thanks. To all that shall be, Yes.”

Last night I had a lovely dinner in the Blue Spire, the formal dining room at the Trinity Terrace retirement community. Friends Carol and Lon have been there about two months, and they invited me and Jean (who already lives there) to join them. The dining room is on the twelfth floor, and I tried to take a picture of the view, but it didn’t come out. Me, who goes weak in the knees at height, loves to be inside looking out from that height. Jean lives on the seventeenth floor, and I’m not sure I’d be comfortable with that. Carol and Lon are on the fifth floor in a different tower, and I was at ease with that. When Subie and Phil get there next month, they will be on the third floor, easy for Phil and his seeing-eye dog to navigate.

Much of the conversation was about Trinity Terrace, what goes on there from food service to programs, and who lives there. It struck me that someone said, “Has memory problems” about every second person whose name came up. Is it in the atmosphere? Something that’s catching? Then it dawned on me: these people are in their seventies and eighties (and a few nineties)—of course they have memory problems. It’s part of aging and doesn’t necessarily lead to Alzheimer’s or dementia. I have memory problems all the time, mostly people’s names that I can’t grasp. After a few minutes, the name comes to me, and I go on my way. I think I’ve been doing that since I was, maybe, forty? Where I wonder, does one draw the line, and what is the line anyway? I am reminded of me friend and once teacher Fred who moved, with his wife, to an apartment complex filled with friends of Jordan. When I pointed out he is old and the other occupants were all young, he said, “Precisely.” Maybe he too was afraid it was catching.

One final thought from the sermon: we take with us into old age the attitudes we’ve had all our lives. I hope your attitude is on health and happiness.

Church thoughts on a lovely day—and some cooking

          

This sunny, mild day is most welcome in North Texas after a string of chilly, gray days. This morning’s clouds burned off, and the afternoon is bright enough to cheer the spirits.

This morning, Dr. Russ Peterman titled his sermon, “Finding your vocation,” by which he meant finding that which God calls you to do. He stressed the difference between a career, which is about making a living, and a calling, which is about making a difference. It brought to mine a conversation of many years ago with dear friends, a husband and wife, he a doctor, she still in search of what she wanted to do. She had been a stay-at-home mom, earned a graduate degree in social work, and was still searching. Her words have always stuck with me. “I envy you two. You have found your passions in life—medicine and writing.” She went on to find her own passion in gardening but not with the same fervor. This morning on the way to church, Christian had mentioned Jacob’s passion for sports. I’ve come to realize a life lived with passion (no, not that kind!) is indeed a blessing, and I am grateful.

I get really weary of modern hymns in our church. They read like lectures, so this morning I was grateful for two old favorites: “Jesus Calls Us, O’er the Tumult” and “Here am I, Lord.” One of the apprentice ministers had said during the service that she thought the latter was her favorite, and after we sang it as our closing hymn, Dr. Peterman commented on the vigor with which the entire congregation sang. “I think that’s everyone’s favorite hymn.”

Cooking adventures this weekend: Tonight, there’s company dinner in the house, and Jordan is making that family favorite—Doris’ casserole. One friend calls this American lasagna, which isn’t too far off the mark. It‘s a meat sauce, and a noddle and cheese layeer, all topped with grated cheddar. The only trouble with it is that it’s so good, there are never leftovers.

So since I’m not cooking Sunday dinner, I have a meatloaf in the oven—just because. I love meatloaf, especially cold sandwiches, so I should have this to nibble on all week. Yesterday I baked several pans of chocolate chip cookies, and now my cookie jar is full, but I still have dough in the fridge. It was a new, slightly different recipe (billed, of course, as the ”best ever”), and it reminded me of my mom’s old recipe because you dissolve the baking soda in hot water rather than mixing it in the flour. I had to try a few last night, just for testing purposes of course, and they pretty near were the best ever.

Last night, in solitary splendor, I had a lamb shank for dinner with a side of butter glazed baby carrots. The carrots were great, the lamb shank not so much. It’s the second time in a few years I’ve tried shanks, both times pre-prepared. I bought this one at Central Market; it was said to have been roasted with rosemary and mint. This morning in the car I announced that I am through thinking I want to try shank meat—in my experience, it is fatty and stringy, and the lamb burgers we sometimes make have more flavor. Gosh, I wonder why Christian rejected my leftovers for his lunch today. I know in the hands of a real chef it would be a different experience.

The week ahead looks busy. I hope you all find it a good one. Not so sure I’ll be glued to the impeachment hearings. I find the Republican arguments slight and error-filled after the meticulous presentations of the Democrats.

Facebook and Forgiveness

Lovely afternoon for a nap—rain, thunder, telephone call from Jacob about using my computer (no, now now!), dog barking at the thunder. The peaceful cottage. But there I was, snug in my bed, awake, but not ready to get up. So I thought about this morning’s sermon (I promise I won’t report on the sermon every week). It was about forgiveness, and it spoke directly to me.

For much of the sermon, I listened attentively with thoughts of my ex-husband in mind, he who left me to raise four children alone because he’d “spent enough time taking care of others.” Since, as I heard this morning, forgiveness doesn’t mean approving the act or reconciliation, I think I’ve done a pretty good job of putting that anger behind me. Oh, yes, I still have flashes of it, but they’re rare. Mostly I’m grateful. Leaving turned out to be the best thing he ever did for the kids and me.

But then the minister asked us to think about who we need to forgive, and his list included “world leaders.” Bam! Even Christian said he thought of me immediately. I realized that my anger and frustration with our current government and our leaders is turning me harsh and shrill. Okay, I’ll be specific: McConnell, Ryan, 45, more recently Tom Cotton and Trey Gowdy who have surfaced again. I am appalled at the anger over the Dreamers, the people who call them alien illegals. I’m appalled that McConnell thinks he’s giving Democrats a choice between saving CHIP or the Dreamers—they are all individual souls. How do you choose?

I did not join the Women’s March yesterday. I cannot walk without a walker, and that crowd was no place for me. I can’t drive, so I haven’t gone to, for example, evenings with Beto O’Rourke when he’s in Fort Worth, though I heartily support him. I haven’t volunteered at political headquarters nor, obviously, to walk my block. I figured what I can do is make my voice heard on Facebook, and boy howdy, have I shouted! But today those two words haunt me: shrill and harsh.

I’ve tried recently not to be snarky and not to share snarky posts, though some of them are so funny and clever I can barely resist. Still, I’ve tried to stick to what seem to be well documented, factual posts with information people should know, like the fact that the Koch brothers gave Ryan $500,000 after passage of the tax bill. Or McConnell is the one who vetoed Senator McCaskill’s bill to continue military pay (done during shutdowns in Obama’s administration) and to suspend congressional pay until the shutdown is over. I think those are fair guidelines, with a nod to Snopes.

But what makes me lose my cool are tunnel-visioned Trump followers who claim Obama and Hilary should be in prison, the shutdown is all the Democrats fault, etc. That’s where I become shrill. No more. I’m practicing letting go. Facebook and forgiveness simply aren’t good bedfellows, and I know that much as I rant I convince no one. I only earn comments like, “You drank the Kool-Aid” or “You need to take your meds.”

Watch for the new, kinder, gentler me, and if I mess up, call me on it.

The minister this morning quoted Ann Lamott, her version of something I’ve heard many times and will try to live by: “Holding on to anger is like drinking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die.”