I’m disheartened by the cruel words I’ve seen directed at those stocking up at the stores and online. Our society and capitalism have fueled a scarcity mindset since the depression to drive profits and keep people in fear. The empty stores shelves are that mindset in action.
My dad was born just a sneeze before the depression and he had scarcity written into his bones. It didn’t matter he had a steady office job with decent pay. We lived with many shelves of extra paper products including TP. Extra canned and dry goods. An extra full size standing freezer and second standard fridge/freezer in the basement, all stocked. And every night before he left work he called my mom and asked if she needed anything from the grocery store. His hoarding extended beyond groceries and included money keeping him from enjoying much of what he’d planned so long and hard for due to scarcity. This mindset never left him. In fact it was reinforced when USSteel failed, the company he worked at for 30 odd years yet he felt safe because of the habits his scarcity mindset had created.
Scarcity mindset is real, it’s based in trauma, and it’s passed down generationally. It leaves an imprint so deep that even in times of surplus it shouts from the darkness at us. And it serves big business of every type so capitalism does nothing to ally its fears. I cannot impress on you the level of restraint I’ve needed to “only” have 2 extra packs of TP on hand right now. Not shopping more has me stomping down panic. I’m battling a lot of memories. I’m battling the voices in my head. All to resist the over-culture’s implanted fear, my family’s ingrained fear, and the anxiety COVID-19 is producing in my world and the larger world beyond.
For my love of community, I resist and leave most items in the stores/online. In compassion for my community, I refuse to judge those who don’t/can’t.
I ask this of you, my community: join me in this spell or resistance and compassion. If you are able, leave some items for others. If you are unable, share them when called to do so. And always, hold compassion for all of us, especially those who feel unable to resist.
I’m not up for details of the complicated nature of our relationship at this point, but my brother Scott was dead within a week of being told he had stage IV cancer. (DOD: March 3rd, 2017) He lived in CA. His remains were donated to research, then he was cremated and the ashes shipped to Chicago where my sister lives. We rendezvoused there and held a service this past Saturday. I returned yesterday with him.
Welcome home, Scott.
Is it me? Is it you? My thoughts run frantically after each other, twisting in confusion. I search for the path to the center. Was there a minotaur, or simply a mirror? When does a hospice worker get to say, “nope, not you”? Do you get to say bugger off to your calling? When seeking advice from the Ancestors, why do they snort-laugh and shrug?
Answers in order: Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Whenever. Sure. Because they can.
If I can find a way to decipher my feelings around the situation it will all become clear, yes? Does a soul-cleanser get to say, “Not my job. I’m not the only Worker here”? Are there guns involved, and if so, what caliber? Will regret be involved? Does that change anything?
Answers: Same as the first set, choose as appropriate.
Decisions that shift hourly are exhausting. Life is exhausting. Death is exhausting. Sleep will be a temporary relief.
I’ve been meaning to “note this somewhere” and here is as good as any place, yes? Starting about mid-August I’ve noticed unusually active spirits, sprites, Beloved Dead, and various other flitting-about Energies. Generally these are always around, seen when looking, and more easily visible as the veil thins towards Samhain. But this year, this year, they are early and active, like whoa.
It has been a distraction especially while driving. They are not fluttery wisps, they are dense and quick. So much so I’ve been reacting as if pedestrians are about to rush in front of my car. It is quite unnerving when I’m behind the wheel. I cannot fathom what it’s going to be like once we’re at Samhain, but I’m rather excited to find out. Hail our (often) Unseen!
I remember a time when my online persona was such a good match for my offline persona it was a bit disturbing. Somewhere along the years of Facebook I have lost that. I don’t know if it’s the medium, the horrors of menopause, or I’m just more careless and quick to answer with my words, or all of these, but it is something.
I started shifting this in January, smoothing some of my edges, but not stopping my desire to spotlight issues of social injustice. It worked for awhile. Then it didn’t, then it did. I’ve all the right reasons in my head, but then it slips and I don’t even notice at first. In person I notice quickly. (I’ll give ya sometimes I’m clueless, but that is unusual, not typical.)
I was being quiet more, with spurts of RAWR, but I didn’t shift enough internally. I was choosing where to post what, hidden from much of friends list, with the occasional two day outbursts on my timeline. Basically I changed where without changing how. Which is duh, but there ya go, I was being duh. I wasn’t feeling this shift in my body and for me that is an important piece to permanence.
Today after visiting a hospice patient I felt it in my body. Like huge I felt it. Not the shift, but the gulf between the state of grace I am in when I am in service to the dying and the state if non-grace I am in a place like Facebook. How I am face-to-face in my community where my hands fly around, my eyes are bright, and my face lights up with passion when discussing things. When I discuss all things, from SJ to how the squirrel wiggled itself up a tree. It was core blowing how acutely I felt the divide between the two places I am “seen”. And it was unnerving. And humbling.
My wish is that I hold this state of grace more purposefully going forward, in all my places. That I try to do better. That I will do better.
I have a hospice client I’ve been visiting since March. She is on a slow walk to death. She is unhurried about the process in all ways. She is directing it. Never doubt that the one who is doing the business of dying has a say in the progress. Every person I’ve sat with has shown this to be true. Not a stop to it, mind you, but the final puff of breath doesn’t come without consent.
Each week there is a little less fat under her skin as her illnesses take from her more than she can manage to replenish. She gets chilled easily so she wears thick clothes, lap blankets, and fingerless gloves pulled halfway done her hands. I see the upper half of her fingers, and I see the bones more clearly each visit. This week her gloves were pushed back to her wrists.
It was like an anatomy lesson laid out in topographic relief across the backs of her hands. Almond and purple tissue paper skin creates the ground with raised blue roads running the length, winding around knuckle-boulders as tendons stretch taut between unnaturally long looking bones. As she drifted in and out of naps I looked at her hands, fascinated that they could be reduced to their base elements, yet still function to pick tiny bits of of fluff from her blanket, grab my hand and pull it to her lips to give a kiss, then entwine her fingers for our prayer before I leave.
The human body is an amazing thing, and it stays just as amazing during the final slide to the door that we all go through. Blessings to the hands, and all they have done, and all they continue to do, even as they waste away to resembling the model strung up on poles in physiology labs. Blessings to the hands of the dying, offering poignant visuals to become memories for those who will remain.