Author: Bev

“Say my name, say my name,” is the catchy chorus to a Destiny’s Child song (1999) about a cheatin’ boyfriend.  The remaining lyrics have nothing to do with this piece, but that chorus certainly does.  I could add a relevant lyric of my own: If you want to hand me fame, say my name, say my name.  Repeat, again and again as many times as possible.  A few famous first-name celebrities, whose names we’ve all heard a few million times, include:  Exhibit A: Beyoncé.  Exhibit B: Cher.  Exhibit C: Adele.  Exhibit D: Madonna.

Honestly, have you ever checked a box on a ballot, one of twenty choices running for office, lets’ say for judge in the 419^th district court, because you’ve heard or seen that particular name somewhere?  I’m truly and civically sorry, but I have.

His or her name rings a bell.  Factoid, I think this saying derives from Pavlov’s experiment with a salivating dog, behaviorally-trained to respond to the sound of a bell, with a hunger reaction.  Can we be manipulated as easily as Pavlov’s dog, to want what we’re told to want by a powerful media master?

I recognized the name and none of the others, so I checked that box.  Maybe it had a ring to it, that name.  Maybe it sounded sophisticated or ordinary or smart or the charming kind of ethnicity that tickles my fancy.

It didn’t matter that perhaps I saw the name in the Criminal Court column in the newspaper or I saw the name in a smear campaign from his or her opponent’s political commercial on television.  The name was familiar so I checked the box.

If your name is familiar enough to enough people, you might just be a celebrity.  I’m no Jeff Foxworthy, but when a name has been repeated three trillion times, I may feel like I know that person, in the familiar but not really, “I know you from…somewhere, but I don’t know where…” kind of way.

It’s a fact of social science that the more people who know your name, the more famous you are.  Thus, the “no publicity is bad publicity” mantra of the fame-machine; the get your name out there in public, campaign of every Hollywood publicist worth her salt (can you say Kris Kardashian?); and every person whose goal is more followers and more friends on social media, are all publicity techniques in the game of how many people can I get to know my name.

Yes, it’s a game that celebrities strive to win at all costs.  And, they pay.  Sometimes they pay with real dollars.  Other times they pay with their privacy.  But often they pay with their dignity, and a moral compass gone haywire.

Why?  Power?  Clout?  Ego?  An antidote to poor self-esteem?  Or, is it as base as mo’ money, mo’ money?

Do you know the name, Alissa Milano?  First there was a television career, back in the 80s-90s.  Lots of acting roles followed, including hosting a fashion-design show.  Then she emerged, quite vocally in the “me too movement,” paving the way to a visible stint in political activism.

Besides a name, who is she?  And, why should anyone listen to her political or social opinions  as opposed to those of my neighbor or yours, or a preacher, scientist, therapist, attorney, plumber, doctor, teacher, barber, or bartender?

Why would we listen to a celebrity about anything other than the substance from which their fame originated?  Certainly, if I want to know something about acting, I should consult Meryl Streep, or Robert De Niro, and hear them out.  If I’m pursuing a career in vocal music, the popular version, or need to know what it feels like to wear a meat-dress, Lady Gaga is the one to see.  If a professional quarterback is my goal in life, then it wouldn’t be a bad idea to consult with Terry Bradshaw or Tom Brady.

However, if I need help to decide who to vote for in the next election, should I seek the opinion of an actor, singer, or athlete?  Moreover, would I even consider their opinion as valid if they tell me in no uncertain terms, that I’m stupid, unfeeling, unchristian (or too Christian, whichever is more pejorative), deplorable, an unsophisticated degenerate hick, hateful of minorities, gays, women, illegal immigrants, and any number of others if I don’t vote the way they say I should?

On the other hand, might it be better before casting my vote, to consult an historian (or history book), a political scientist (or poly-sci journal), a retired lawmaker, with little to no vested interest in my decision?

I’ve seen memes (sayings) on Facebook, throughout the pandemic period, saying in essence, who’s essential now?  It’s not professional sports figures, actors, musicians, entertainers, artists and celebrities of every ilk (can you say celebrity-politician?), whose names we know without even tapping into our long-term memory.

It’s, guess who?  Retail workers, nurses, police officers, first-responders, doctors, and so many of us out there, with names unknown but to a handful of loved ones, friends, or maybe some hundreds of acquaintances we call Facebook friends.  We’re just going around doing our jobs, unsung, and not living in the realm of privilege, that celebrities call normal.

In the sociological literature, celebrity is boiled down to renown, literally the sum of all the people who have heard a person’s name.  “Herd dynamics,” and the “bandwagon effect,” perpetuate celebrity, upping the public discussion of certain individuals, exponentially.  Did you hear about…?

However, the “knowing your name” thing can backfire.  Like with most things, there are exceptions.  For example, Jesus is quoted in the Bible books of Matthew, Luke and John as saying, “no prophet is accepted in his home town” (paraphrased). 

Why? Maybe the thought goes something like this: “That’s JUST Jesus, the aimless, illegitimate, carpenter’s son who’d rather sit around outside the temple listening to esoteric meanderings of the priests than help his dad make a living.  Why would I listen to the stuff he’s spouting?”

It’s about HOW you know that person.  For example, when I say the name, Dolly, do you imagine Dolly Parton, Dolly Madison, or Dolly, the advertising animated-cow?  Could you readjust your imagination to elect Dolly, your president, when you knew her as the four year old kid that ate her boogers or the teenager that the popular kids called a slut, or the drunk college girl who streaked the coed dorm and would have been charged with a sex crime hadn’t her powerful mom made the charge disappear?

It begs the existential question, “can anybody ever really be ‘known’?” and William Shakespeare’s equally philosophical question, “What’s in a name?  that which we call a rose.  By any other name would smell as sweet.”

(stay “tuned” for part two…)

 

The raison d’ etre of my writing this piece was teased out of my dream-like memory-store, in the form of the theme song of The Jefferson’s, an old television show.  It went like this in my head: “we’re movin’ on up, to the East Side, to a de-luxe apartment in the sky…we’ve finally got a piece of the pie-ie-ie-ie.”  Then there were references to baseball, “Now we’re up in the big leagues…Gettin’ our turn at the bat…”.

Back in the day, the 1990s specifically, and before a certain friend called Pam Foor rocketed to the top, and deservedly monopolized the genre, I won the Hershey Cocoa baking contest at the Bedford County Fair.  I have the brown ribbon from Hershey and the Best of Show blue ribbon from the Fair, stuffed in a cupboard behind some old cookbooks, to prove my win.

My next-door neighbor deemed me Betty Crocker or Suzy Homemaker or some such moniker indicating my locally publicized baking prowess.  For five minutes, it was heady stuff being recognized for something I had baked.  I didn’t fare so well at the Farm Show in Harrisburg in January, searching high and low for fresh mint in the middle of winter, and failing, to garnish my mint chocolate cake. I knew nothing about nor cared one iota for “decoration.” My poor step-sister of a cake looked anemic and sad.  But those who love me assured their Cinderella, “I’ll bet it tasted better than those ‘show-pieces’ that probably tasted like cardboard.” 

It’s been twenty-five years and compared, I don’t bake much anymore.  I lost the verve.  Besides my specialty Christmas cookies, birthday cakes for my husband and daughter, dictated by tradition, and the odd enticing new recipe, baking is in my past.  Until this week.

My other next-door neighbor and I share a “waste not want not” philosophy about food.  Having to throw out food feels to us like we’ve squandered a resource.  So, we both have been known to get creative with our food stores and often bake or make meals with what’s on hand.

We have some apple trees.  Last year’s apple harvest was good and given my relative disinterest in baking, I had quite a bunch of apples stored.

This week, “quarantine boredom” hit me.  I’m ever so grateful to be healthy and safe.  However, the stay-at-home rule, for those of us who have abided by it, has made a few of us, the word for it in the common vernacular is, crazy!

So, yesterday I baked an apple tart, from a recipe found many years ago in a Gourmet Magazine.  It became a favorite apple recipe, first for my mother-in-law, then me.  I also tried an apple ginger upside down cake which sits firmly in the okay-but-will -toss-the-recipe, category.  Given my baking reluctance, recipes that don’t rate in the can’t-live-without-this, category, get binned, as the Brits say.

Tomorrow or as soon as I can muster the baking-energy, it will be an apple cake and an apple pie or two, for my husband.  He’s a “real American,” who loves apple pie.

“As American as apple pie,” originated in the 1860s.  The 1974 ad jingle touting apple pie along with baseball, hot dogs, and Chevrolet, personified this pie as American.

I don’t like apple pie.  Not even a slice, a piece, or a taste.  In fact, pies in general get a response from me of a neutral or disinterested “meh.”  Of all the dessert categories to choose from, pie is at the bottom of my list, unless we’re talking peanut butter pie.  But I would argue it is a parfait atop a graham cracker crust.

And, cutting a pie into pieces.  I can do precision but I’d rather not.  I’m not all that fond of rulers, and in my kitchen they just don’t belong.  I’m not even keen about the pie chart.  It’s too exact.  I want some leeway, wiggle room, space for creativity and imagination.

It comes down to temperament.  I’d rather write the explanatory essay than answer true or false; “well, if you mean this…, then it’s true; but if you mean, that…, then, it’s false.”  For me, there are too many ifs, or if you need to be scientific, variables, in the true or false and multiple-choice question-answer format.  I’d rather explain, sometimes in detail.

So, the American dream of upward mobility, with its baseball and apple pie were alive and well in the 1970s when The Jefferson’s aired.  I wonder if the American Dream, the concept coined by Writer and Historian, James Truslow Adams, in his 1931 book, Epic of America, remains relevant in today’s cultural landscape?

“That dream of a land in which life should be better and richer and fuller for everyone with opportunity for each according to ability or achievement.”  In 1931, the same year the Star-Spangled Banner was adopted as the United States national anthem, and the nation saw the Empire State Building completed, experienced the Dust Bowl and lived the Great Depression, those words outlining the American Dream were penned.

Notice that in 1931 the apple pie of opportunity was divided among each and every person who contributed to America via “ability or achievement.”  In a way, we were all relieved of the duty to contribute to the nation through our abilities or achievements, when President FDR, from 1933-1939 instituted The New Deal as a temporary umbrella to help America through the financial storm of the Great Depression that produced widespread financial hardship.

The Jefferson’s worked hard to climb the ladder to their de-luxe apartment in the sky and to get their turn at bat.  It “took a whole lotta tryin…Just to get up that hill.”  And, they were African-American.  No excuses.  Opportunity was limited.  However, those who were determined to accomplish the dream, worked, sacrificed, and persisted, until they achieved their goal, located some steps up the ladder.

Theoretically, those who could not work, via disability of any sort, were and are helped by the necessary New Deal programs that remain as an umbrella for the hard times.  Social security and Medicare, although part of the New Deal, were and are “insurance-like” programs that workers invested in through payroll deductions, to reap the benefits at retirement when working would no longer be an option. 

If nothing else, I believe perhaps today’s perceived path to the dream has put a kink into the dreaminess of the dream.  Are today’s American dreamers biding their time with hands out, hoping for pie in the sky?

Work was always built into the American way.  The predominant rule for getting a piece of the pie, which is to work hard, can be followed by anyone who wants a chance at the opportunity formerly known as the American Dream. 

Have some pie, and Bon appétit.

There was some dirt littered along a threshold and it was attracted to the broom like metal filings to a magnet.

Even before I did a speck of analysis, this dream felt hopeful, somehow.  We, being the floor, the broom being our savior, and the dirt being this pandemic, that is.

Even the opposite of the dream message, that the “dirt won’t stick,” feels like light at the end of a tunnel, or the exit from a cave/tomb.  Dreams have a funny way of unearthing deeply buried truths.  Sometimes it’s in opposites.  Sometimes it’s in symbols, figures, numbers, or crazy scenarios.  But, always dreams hold truth, if we can but discern it.

In this time of international fear and uncertainty, people are jittery and the nations are shaking in their boots.  I think we could all use a bit of cosseting, as it happens, the Dictionary.com word of the day, for being treated like a pet; pampering, coddling.

I think the old-timey British way of comforting someone by saying, “I have good news for you, pet,” is just about what we need.  But, depending upon one’s parenting style, some think coddling or comforting is not what we need, but a good, swift kick in the butt; a talking-to; or a good shaking back to the stone-age.  Whatever your style….

How timely is it that this dream occurred on the eve of Resurrection Day, otherwise known as Easter, when Christians celebrate the life after death of our Savior?  Jesus of Nazareth was the epitome of a humble, benevolent, non-political nor establishment leader.  People listened to him and followed him because they wanted to.  Today, some two thousand years later, people are drawn to him and his message of love, salvation, righteousness through sacrifice, and liberty.

Most world religions acknowledge Jesus, if not as their Savior or Messiah, then as an extraordinary human being, set apart from all others.  Variously, Jesus has been understood by throngs around the world, as a remarkable prophet, a mystical, charismatic, historically poignant and universal figure of good will and kindly wisdom.

What we Christians have done with Jesus’ legacy…. Well that’s a long story and even though I have a relatively informed opinion on this, I choose to let it lie dormant for the time being.

My concern here is with the dirt’s attraction to that broom.  The dirt being the pandemic and the broom being our savior.

On Facebook the other day, I saw a meme (a saying) and forwarded it to my list of friends, because I found it particularly striking.  Here is the gist of the meme:

6+3=9   So does 5+4.  The way you do things isn’t always the only way to do them.  Respect other people’s way of thinking.

Shortly after I posted this meme, I noticed a friend’s Facebook post which contained some pretty emotionally- charged and politically-sided “information.”  Putting the two messages, “my” meme and my friend’s post, side by side, in a eureka way, I noticed something IMPORTANT.

I saw that BOTH SIDES want THE SAME OUTCOME.  Isn’t that awesome?  Do you see the possibilities in that?  Do you see the hope in that?

Both sides of the aisle, or the issue, or the table, or the door; whatever divides the sides, want the same thing.  This means there is POTENTIAL for AGREEMENT!  Agreement tears down walls and opens doors; invites to the table, where give-and-take are exchanged back-and-forth, and problems get solved.

I wish we would all grow up and stop taking sides like bullies exerting their power in a school yard and get some stuff done.  What happened to “the greater good?” 

“Ask not what you can do for your country.  Ask what your country can do for you?”  Wait.  That’s not quite what Catholic Democrat President, John F. Kennedy said.  It sounds a bit closer to something straight out of Atheist Socialist, Karl Marx’s playbook.

Short lesson on socialism from a former Sociology teacher:  from the central government, everyone is disbursed economic sustenance, equally; we all receive the same check.  Neither enterprise (work) nor creativity/brilliance are rewarded.  There is no incentive to improve or excel, because everyone is given the same reward regardless of effort.  Productivity, the hallmark of capitalism, is not rewarded; and fails, eventually; leaving in its wake, a stagnant, disinterested, languishing, then declining, economy and a broken, hopeless society clamoring to flee.

Equality and equity are vastly different concepts.  Equality = sameness.  Equity = fairness.  Do you want to be treated the same as everybody else; never rewarded for the outstanding things you do, produce, or share with humankind?  Or would you prefer to be treated in some way commensurate with your contributions to society?

Kennedy said, “Ask not what your country can do for you.  Ask what you can do for your country.”  This statement is the antithesis of socialist thought.  This quote is oft spoken when we are, as a nation, in crisis and public service and collective, civil behavior is paramount to moving forward.  Perhaps it needs said in such a time as this?

However, me fears that possibly we are at present, “a house divided against itself” (Mark 3:25).  Matthew (12:25) put it this way: “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation; and every city or house divided against itself shall not stand.”

Abraham Lincoln, repeated the same sentiments in regard to his bid to end slavery.  Thomas Paine paraphrased the quote in his 1776 document, Common Sense, ironically.  Abigail Adams wrote to a friend, “A house divided upon itself – and upon that foundation do our enemies build their hopes of subduing us.”  Subduing us, can you say Socialism?

The takeaway is, division ruins a nation, a family, a community.  Let me add, if you believe, “Those who do not learn history are doomed to repeat it,” (George Santayana) then here we go.  But must we?

If one side wants to get to 9 by adding 3+3+3 and the other side wants to obtain 9 by subtracting 3 from 12, is it possible by using Jesus’ humble, benevolent, selfless, and love-motivated leadership style, some methodical combination of formulae could be discovered to get to 9, together?  I prayerfully hope that the answer is yes.

“When the Lord brought his exiles, out of captivity, back to Jerusalem, returning them to prosperity, they were like them that dream (it seemed so unreal) …. They who sow in tears shall reap with joy.” Psalm 126, paraphrased from several Bible translations.  Let’s hope my dream image of the dirt (COVID19) becoming powerfully attracted to the broom (our unified efforts to grow forward) is fulfilled.

I’ll conclude this essay with another equation: “1&1&1 is 3” which begs the further solution, “come together right now,” so said Lennon and McCartney in 1969 along with every Jewish mother, Catholic mother, and common-sense filled mother in the world today.  Some of them say it like this, “get your sh—together children.”

I understand it but I don’t really “get it.”  I guess we need an official “holiday” (April 22, 2020) in order to collectively pick up litter and celebrate the magnificence of the land we live atop.

I am not a romantic.  I am a person who fathoms not the concept of making a celebration out of every little thing.  Consequently, with some “holidays” I just can’t perceive the point of setting a day apart from all others to celebrate it.  Some of us celebrate these things every day.  I honestly just go through the motions with a few of these “minor holidays.”

Don’t get me wrong.  What I call a “minor” holiday might be one of your favorites and ranks high on your celebratory radar.  And that’s cool.  Have at it.  You certainly don’t need my “hoorah” to get excited about a day, or get a nod from the federal government or the post office to take a day to celebrate, away from the usual grind.

In fact, what’s minor to me might be major to most everybody else and vice-versa.  Having studied the Bible I used to be downright annoyed that Hebrew and Christian scholars called Habakkuk a “minor” prophet.  What?  I’ll bet God didn’t consider him or Malachi minor.

So, did we not celebrate mother’s before May 9, 1914?  And was love not the object of revelry before the 18^th century embellishment of Saint Valentine’s “Day?”  Now we have Siblings Day.  I love my siblings every day and some don’t love theirs any day, but a holiday?   Surely, we didn’t give one hoot about cleaning up the earth before “Earth Day” was conceived on April 22, 1970, did we?

I don’t know, but I think I’ve been picking up litter my whole life.  I grew up in rural Pennsylvania, specifically Bedford County.  I wonder if when our rural mother’s “picked up the house,” which meant tidying up the mess strewn about, came from “picking up” the litter strewn about their outdoor home.  The “land” we lived on was significant, noticed, and respected.

I’ve walked firmly on the terra of this local land, intermittently, throughout my life.  I see minor things like squished worms on the pavement; bright red, expended shotgun shells; oddly shaped or colored mushrooms; Snicker’s wrappers; beer & energy drink cans; empty chocolate pudding cups & chocolate milk bottles; gnarly, knotted vines; smokeless tobacco (snuff) cans; golf balls; differences in the look of mosses, up close; Styrofoam containers and packing material of all shapes, sizes and uses, from “peanuts”  to takeout trays and coffee cups to huge cubes from someone’s latest Amazon acquisition, all in or near the woods.

These are objects that your usual auto or truck passerby doesn’t notice.  One only sees these things with your feet on the ground.  With the tons of roadside litter available to be picked up, apparently there are far fewer of us with our feet on the ground than in our vehicles, tossing the packaging of our lives out the window to the great beyond, or just to the brink of the woods.  Also, the Pennsylvania Department of Transportation Litter Laws distinguish unintentional litter from the other, as the stuff that blows around in the wind, Kansas-style, Dorothy.

Oh, and I’ve seen even more “imaginative” things which I’ve picked up with the proverbial “ten-foot pole,” plastic gloves, and tank of antibacterial soap at the ready.  Not really.  I use a $1 generic dollar store “grabber-stick” to distance myself from the nastier objects that I pick up and discard in a trash bin or take home to include with our recycling.

“Out of sight out of mind” is real, my friends.  And the opposite is true for me and my tribe of walkers, hikers, joggers, and ploggers (joggers who pick up litter, the Swedes “invented” this, just like Al Gore “invented” the Internet in some election cycle, some years ago).

“Where the rubber hits the road,” means when theory meets reality.  Walkers see the reality of litter, every time we take a walk.  Earth Day is not just a commemorative day to us, one that seems good in theory or in the abstract.  It’s an everyday reality.

Socialism is not just a theory, studied in a book.  To Venezuelans and others, it’s a devastating reality.  The Holocaust is not a myth, talk to a survivor, read The Diary of Anne Frank, or Elie Wiesel’s books, especially, Night, which are NOT fiction.  Climate change is, boots on the ground, real; what we should do about it is another matter altogether.

The pandemic of Corona-virus is no joke.  Go to New York, oops, no you can’t, to see how it looks on the ground.  For heaven’s sake wear a home-made cloth mask to the grocery store, it won’t kill you.  I’ve done it, it’s not that bad, compared to the alternative.  Wash your hands more often and more thoroughly.  What harm can that do?

We’re all losing income right now and staying “home,” well….  Let’s face it, having “enough” money is relative to how you define “enough.”  I think it’s fair to say that you and I don’t have enough of it.  And, staying home should feel pretty good to those of us who have one.

In fact, a while ago when I was picking up litter along a secondary rural road while walking, a young man emerged in his vehicle from a local industrial business, stopped, rolled down his window and asked point blank, “Do you have a home?”  After I picked up my jaw from the pavement, unfixed my duh-stare, and sufficiently suppressed the hysterics about to overflow from my gut, I said, “yes I do, thank you for asking.”

Granted, I wear some casual clothes when I walk/jog, not tracksuit- or gym-clothes-worthy, but I really didn’t think I was exactly bag-woman-chic either.  What did they call it? Boho?  Maybe I should coin a new term for it: Earth Day Fashion, EDF-gear?

Presumably if you’re reading this in April 2020, you live in or near rural Pennsylvania and you’re spending a LOT of time at home.  How about joining my tribe, but in your own time and location, and celebrate the concept of earth day?

Go to your favorite dollar store, donning your recyclable cloth mask and pick up a “grabber,” and set out for a plogging adventure.  And keep your polite, best, COVID19 distance from the other ploggers.  Maybe this endeavor will become a personal tradition, as well as a national holiday.

 

What do you believe?  What you hear?  What you read?  What you observe?  Your gut (like Gibbs on NCIS)?

Getting to the truth used to be reached via the traditional journalistic 5 w’s: who, what, when, where, and why.  But who are your sources?  Are they trustworthy?

It was 1970-ish and Christian pop-singer-songwriter, Gary S Paxton recorded a song titled, Evidence.  I had the recording on an 8-track tape.  It’s the kind of song that sticks in your mind like Cher’s “Do you believe in Love after Love” hit.  Am I right? You’re welcome.

Anyway, the Paxton song goes something like this: Evidence.  Evidence.  Does your life show enough evidence…?  Evidence.  Evidence.  What does your life say…?  The word, evidence, is based on evident, videre (Latin), for video; or to see.  And, if “seeing is believing,” holds water, then evidence is what’s needed to support belief.

But, is “seeing is believing,” waterproof?  As it turns out, not so much.

The whole quote, never shared in its entirety, of Thomas Fuller, 17^th century English clergyman, is “Seeing is believing, but feeling is the truth.”  And, if “doubting Thomas,” the Apostle who wouldn’t believe Jesus was resurrected from the tomb until he saw the nail scars in his hands, for himself, testifies to anything, is it “seeing is believing?”

If “feeling is the truth,” then there appears to be something beyond sight that leads to belief; something beyond evidence.  At the dawn of the new millennium we were led to believe, by the hugely popular CSI television franchise, which saturated the airwaves and has yet to completely fizzle and burn out, that DNA evidence and forensic science would solve all contemporary crime.  Again, not so much.

Fast forward to the election of 2016 when we sloshed around in the throes of “fake news,” and a flood of already published misinformation circulated like a virus through social media.  We stood as midwife at the birth of an ever-increasingly sophisticated fact-checking industry that eclipses the DNA-evidence phenomenon (Snopes was birthed in 1994 but in 2020 is considered a bit of a rag in the fact-checking business).  Now, it’s factcheck.org.

We find ourselves in a relatively new crisis of exaggeration if not misinformation which eclipses government /politics and involves a life and death virus, virtually spreading like wildfire through social media.  Fact-checking businesses have proliferated into the hundreds and have shoved their way past the forensic scientists of the global media machine to suck the fun right out of willy-nilly posting of “information,” on the Internet.

But, are today’s fact-checkers, known as “neutral cool,” just another form of CSI-crime busting popular kids, if not elite bullies?  Who’s checking the integrity of the fact-checkers and their “facts?”  Believe it or not, there is now such a watchdog, The International Fact-Checking Network (IFCN) conceived in the prestigious journalism school, the Poynter Institute, who’s Pulitzer prize winning fact-checker is Politifact.com.

However, no matter what the facts are, if we don’t feel it, according to Fuller, they matter not, to our belief.  If evidence is what we see, then what’s with the rest of the massive iceberg that lies below the surface?

It used to be the role of journalists and psychiatrists to dig below the surface to unearth the mass well-hidden beneath the obvious (what’s seen).  Are we any closer to the truth in 2020 than we were before the millennium?

Are more people seeing psychological professionals, for answers?  “How does this make you feel?”  Can we trust journalists with the information they disseminate?  “I’m not feelin’ it!”

“Faith is the conviction of things not seen” Hebrews 11:1. Seeing doesn’t get to the truth.  There has to be conviction to convince some of us to buy that horse.  I’m not sure there is ever sufficient evidence to convict if faith is not involved.  There is some sort of mystical proof that supplies this conviction and it’s not sight.  If it can be identified at all, perhaps it could be called, if not faith, then empathic knowing.

Maybe we could ALL use some metaphorical cataract surgery.  The blinders that keep us bound to one perspective, the one in front of our nose, might be best removed.  “If you wish to know the truth then hold no opinions” – Zen saying

Let me close with a few lines from I Can See Clearly Now (1972, Johnny Nash, songwriter):

I can see clearly now the rain is gone

I can see all obstacles in my way

Gone are the dark clouds that had me blind

It’s gonna be a bright (bright) sunshiny day.

Hope so.

Let’s have some fun with pass-words.

First, there’s the elephant in the room: The Password.  Just like “Open Sesame,” or “Swordfish,” got you through the door to a Speakeasy in the 1920s, we’ve got to have a password to do most things electronic, two decades into the 21^st century.

The Password is your entrance to anything on the Internet; and don’t forget the “phone password” to get anything done with a bank or corporation via the old-fashioned telephone.

In order to get past Hello, you must present your “secret” code.  Then and only then can you move forward in the conversation.

Everybody has them, some of us have collected a whole slew of them.  Or if you’re techno-shy, someone has several of them for you.  “It must be at least 8 digits long, with one capital letter, one symbol, one number, and unique to this use.”  Yeah, right.  How many people still use 12345AbC or 000000Ab…?

Second, as a matter of comfort to the afflicted, we say “This too shall pass.”  And, it does.

Third, we take the Bypass, to go around the main road into a town or city.   This is an attempt to lose the traffic and congestion of the downtown, but can backfire.  My husband and I in many a domestic road trip, have taken a pass on the Bypass around a city, which experience taught us is far more congested than our fluid passage right through the city center.

Or, we bypass “step 3” in the directions for assembling that IKEA furniture we bought at such a great price; directions written by a brilliant Asian guy, translated to English by an equally brilliant Swedish guy, that this English-speaking American doesn’t want to read in the first place.  Bypassing step 3 just feels like the right thing to do.  Don’t pictures speak a thousand words?

Fourth, we have the passing lane.  Can I repeat, passing lane?   Now, some folks don’t get the concept of the passing lane.  It’s for passing, not for cruising.  Enough said.

Fifth, the passport.  Now, I think it’s funny that in today’s modern Pennsylvania governmental bureaucracy (atop the Federal bandwagon), we need either a passport (originally intended for foreign travel and access to countries not your own) OR the newly conceived REAL ID driver’s license to fly domestically.  Mind you, the REAL ID costs $60.50 as opposed to the regular driver’s license at $30ish, for no apparent reason, because it’s valid for four years just like the regular one.  Oh my.

Sixth, “Please pass the veggies.”  Or, others may pass on that.

Seventh, many of us have been heard to say, “I nearly passed out when I saw my paycheck last week.”  I’m fortunate that I’ve only nearly passed out.  I know it’s a regular occurrence for some of you party animals.  Personally, I’m not fond of losing control, nor am I nurse-material.

I once worked for a Podiatrist who arranged to have a few hours in a hospital for outpatient procedures.  I was clearly an office assistant, not a nursing assistant.  But on occasion, Dr. Podiatrist asked me to assist.  I didn’t know which end was up on the blood pressure cuff and I was just as likely to get a reading of 70/40 as 260/120 on the same patient 5 seconds apart.  Long story short, I was asked to assist with a minor operation, in a tiny, windowless room, dressed in my kitty-covered nursing scrubs.  Once a certain amount of blood flowed, I fought with every ounce of my being as waves of blackness swept over me in 2 second intervals until I could escape the confines of that asphyxial medical cell, and not pass out.

Eighth, “The buck stops here,” popularized by President Harry S. Truman, epitomizes a certain humility with responsibility one would expect from a leader.  But, passing the buck, blaming someone else, or even falsifying the facts, unfortunately seems to characterize too many of today’s leaders.

Ninth, I learned a song at the dawn of the 1970s when I was a teenager, called Pass It On.

The chorus goes like this:

It only takes a spark

To get a fire going

And soon all those around

Will warm up in its glowing.

That’s how it is with God’s love

Once you’ve experienced it

You spread His love to everyone

You want to pass it on.

Proselytizing, often associated with religious belief, is the act of recruiting or converting someone to your point of view because of your fervor over your personal experience with God.  Some of us feel so strongly about our point of view that we literally can’t hold back the desire to spread that opinion, thus the share button on Facebook.  Freedom of the press and “it’s a free country,” permit all of us ordinary folks to share away without censure.

But, sharing or passing it on, goes many ways.  This is where responsibility comes to play.  Referring to those lyrics above, it only takes a spark…and soon all those around…spread it…you want to pass it on.  Do you?  In view of recent events (COVID-19) perhaps we would prefer not to pass it on, spread it?

Tenth and last, but not least, we Christians and Jews celebrate Passover in a matter of days.  I’ll leave the details of the theology of Passover (Exodus 12) to any number of qualified clergies: pastors, ministers, priests, rabbis, to elaborate on.  But, one thing I know about Passover, like passing away, and it came to pass, is that it is about being released from captivity, slavery, and the pain and suffering inherent in life. 

Can we agree that we all want a mighty move of Passover this year?  Then, can we celebrants pray that the resurrection representative of Easter restores not just the old life we knew, but a new, improved, better version of this life? 

Borrowed from our Jewish brethren – l’chaim– to life!

Pandemic, now there’s a big word for you.  I would surmise that many of us were unfamiliar with this word a few weeks ago.  However, in the context of countless articles with pandemic in the title, posts with pandemic in the subject line, and electronic commentary with pandemic used in a sentence or two, we all could probably guess that it means, a global epidemic (affecting all and every nation).

                “I like big ‘words,’ and I cannot lie

                You other brothers can’t deny….”

                That a well-rounded big word in your face

is a thing of beauty!

                I apologize to those of you with sensibilities that won’t allow you to appreciate my mocking-parody of a 1992 rap tune about big butts, that I mostly remember being delivered by the potty-mouthed Donkey, I believe, in a Shrek movie.  I just had to…. Song lyrics pop into my head randomly.  Maybe it has something to do with the rhyming of lyrics pasted onto a memorable melody that remains in my brain tissue only to leak out at sometimes odd moments.

I’ve been accused of using big words.  Okay.  So, you want little words, short words, small words, perhaps four-letter words?

I like big words and fancy words.  I’m the Dolly Parton of big words.  I like disused words and unusual words.  I just, flat out, love words.  I can’t imagine why I’m a reader and writer.

Thank you, Mom, for modeling for your children an appreciation for the written and spoken English language.  It was one of the joys of my own life to have taught my child to read.  The circle of life.

As to the accusation of my using too many big words, it came from a student evaluation of my teaching skills, a long time ago, from a lad or lass in an Introduction to Sociology course.  Then, students could say anything they wished in an evaluation of the course, and the Instructor was expected to take it on the chin, hopefully either improving their performance or dismissing it as a disgruntled kiddo who thought they deserved an A but earned a C.  As there was no recourse to a student evaluation back then, it was what it was, I responded definitively but silently.

My gut-reaction, rebuttal was a sarcastic, “Get a dictionary.”  The expanded version, in my head was, “This is college.  Expand your vocabulary, expand your world.”  Then, “come on, really!?”  Then, probably some purely reactionary and unimaginative four-letter word.

As an aside, listen up people, especially movie-makers and script-writers – they didn’t use the F-word in the middle ages even for the “sex-thing” (not until late 15^th century) and certainly not for an exclamation of disdain (19^th century).  Just sayin’.  One of my pet-peeves.

About that aforementioned student evaluation, which was penned many years ago; I’ve mellowed since.  So, now when people accuse me of using big words, I go into my head again, never really saying these things to people.  I go back in time yet again, and refer to the tactic I used with students in my Developmental Studies Reading Lab at a university I worked at in Kentucky.  It’s simple.

Look at the context of what you’re reading to determine a general gist of a big word’s meaning.  I do it with Romance Language foreign words all the time.  French, Italian, Spanish, and many English words are based on Latin.  From the English, many times I can suss out the meaning of a French, Italian, or Spanish word I’m confronted with.  Not being fluent in any of these foreign languages, I can get by with greetings and the niceties, this way.   Or, when I need to make a point and English just doesn’t do the sentiment justice, I study the context in which I want to use a foreign word and having heard or read the foreign word before plus a little help from Google Translate, voila.

                “With a yawn, and a gentle pandiculation of her sleepy limbs, she drifted off to dreamland.  Something I would know nothing about. Insomnia is more my style.”  Could the word pandiculation mean to stretch?  And, it’s a much more fun word than stretch, I think.

Now, back to the big word, pandemic.  Can we learn some related pan- words that might expand our vocabulary as well as our generosity toward “all” in this global time of trouble?  How about panorama?

Many years ago, I had a dream wherein God gave me an option.  “You choose,” He said, “the panorama or the single pane.”  And I was shown a huge, 360-degree view of “It’s a small world,” at Disney World.  This was one of my favorite destinations at the park, back in the day.  Everywhere I looked, the objects in view were white, soft, jewel-like, sparkly, feathery, shiny, innocent, and childlike.  It was a fantastical utopia.  The single-pane window, in contrast, was one of those divided panes.  It was crowded, confusing, confined, utilitarian, and wholly undesirable. Of course  I chose the panorama.  I wanted it all.

How about Pan-Christian?  Uniting all branches of this group of believers.

Pan-cultural or pan-traditional = spanning many cultural traditions.

So, here we are back to pandemic.  ALL, ALL, ALL …. And, to combat it?  How about panacea?  “One for all, all for one” (The Three Musketeers, Alexandre Dumas).  The goal is to work separately (socially distanced) but toward one outcome, benefiting all. 

I had an opportunity today to correspond with a customer in Hong Kong.  We agreed that “we’re all in this together.”  And, together, we’ve got this.