The #WATWB October Edition: Tackling the Impossible

Image source: @FamiliesSyria on Twitter

On October 11th, the Families for Freedom bus began its journey in London. The iconic double-decker, covered in photographs of Syrians who have been illegally detained, disappeared, and even murdered by the Assad regime, carries the families of these detainees, mostly (but not only) women, in a journey across Europe to call for the release, at the very least for information, of their loved ones. Their next stops will be Paris and Berlin, "wherever peace talks are being held", as their website states.

Their final destination, as the bus so proudly announces above the windshield, is Damascus. To "pick up" their loved ones. The sheer hope in that sign—it blows my mind.

And that's why I decided to use it for my WATWB post this month.

There are few things as hopeless as having someone you care about vanish into a corrupt, totalitarian system. In Latin America we're well versed in the subject—and we know, first-hand, how unfathomable that particular black hole is. We know, also, how distant any possibility of hope seems. And we know, all too well, the excruciating pain hope can bring when it comes any closer.

Image source: Amnesty.org.uk

And yet here they are, these women. Against all odds. Against the whole world. Holding their heads high. Holding on to a ragged shred of hope as tattered and worn as the once-favorite blankie of a grandchild long grown and gone.

We are women-led. We are peaceful. We are determined.

Can you imagine the courage that must take? I try, but I fail. It's staggering, isn't it? And that's why I find it so inspiring: if they can do it, if they can—after years of not knowing, of being turned away, of being silenced and threatened and ignored—still find a way to hold on to hope, then we all can. No matter the odds. No matter how impossible the goal may seem. No matter how many times you've failed. No matter who stands in your way, who tries to drown out your voice. No matter what.

Hopelessness is, quite simply, not an option. And the impossible, as they say, just takes a little bit longer.

This post is part of the We Are the World Blogfest, a monthly event created by Damyanti Biswas and Belinda Witzenhausen to spotlight stories of hope and light. This month I'm helping Belinda out as a co-host, along with extraordinary bloggers Shilpa Garg, Sylvia McGrath, and Mary Giese—please hop over to check out their WATWB posts when you get a chance; they're always amazing. And take a peek at the other WATWB participants for a dose of feel-good to last you a whole month. You'll be happy you did :)

Thank you so much for the visit!

The Love Song That Wasn't — Lost & Found hop + #BoTB

"Every new beginning comes

from some other beginning's end."

~ Seneca

(Seneca, yes. Not Semisonic.)

Note to BoTB-ers: To skip the preamble and go straight to the Battle, scroll down to where the long Lost & Found banner is :)

When people of my generation think of love songs, they might think of Bryan Adams or Bangles or Peter Cetera or Air Supply or Richard Marx (if they're mainstream). The "pseudo-rocker" crowd might list Journey, Bon Jovi, Bonnie Tyler, Meatloaf, or Heart, while the "real" rockers might go for Def Leppard, INXS, U2, The Cure, Scorpions, Cheap Trick, REM. The really alternative ones might go for The Smiths or Billy Idol or Leonard Cohen or Fiction Factory or Cutting Crew or David Bowie or Echo & The Bunnyman or ... let's face it, we wouldn't have known them anyway.

"... in the grace of the world..." (and the close of the #MiracleTour)

Of course Wendell had to be a dog lover. Of course.

In the spirit of this month's gratitude zeitgeist, here is a tiny beauty from poet Wendell Berry:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

"... in the grace of the world..." That line gives me goosebumps. There is so much gorgeousness around us, so much to be grateful for, and so much of it we miss because we're too busy with larger concerns, with the big picture, worried about things that will never happen, things we can't control—and, yet, things that would never be a concern if we all devoted our time to "the peace of wild things".

This year has taught me a lot, far beyond what I expected, what I even imagined. Today is the close of the MIRACLE tour, and awesome friend and blogger Damyanti Biswas is hosting me on her blog to talk about these unexpected lessons—of which perhaps the greatest is precisely this: Gratitude. To you.

Thank you. You've made an enormous difference in my life. From now on, every day, no matter where I am or what I'm doing, you'll be in my thoughts. Because you cared, because you had a kind word for me, because you went above and beyond (even though you may not realize you did... even though you didn't really know me).

I will never forget that.

Amid the chaos, let *your* voice be one of reason.

"Who would you be, if the world never gave you a label? Never gave you a box to check? Would you be white, black, Mexican, Asian, Native American, Middle Eastern, Indian? No. We would be one. We would be together."

Labels are at the root of the world's worst evils today. And they need to stop.

#Cherished: If This Teddy Could Talk...

On a bookshelf behind my desk, out of sight unless you know where to look, sits a toy koala bear. He's old, dusty, and faded. The hair on his ears is matted. His eyes are scratched, and the tan felt of one eyelid has peeled off. The plastic pear he wears as a nose needs to be glued back on. Again. And yet his grin remains. A tad sardonic maybe--not surprising, given the degree of abandonment he's put up with. But there's real bonhomie, too. Good-natured patience. I'm here, that grin seems to say. Whenever you remember.

Is there anything as sad as a forgotten once-beloved toy? These cast-offs speak of lost childhoods, changing priorities, the ephemeral nature of our attachments, even the ones that feel, at the time, forged in steel. Most of all, I suppose, these little personalities -- for who can deny them that bit of humanity? -- remind us of the selves we've left behind.

The Meaning of Cuernavaca

The city of memory, the city of nostalgia, of everything that's been lost, and found, forgotten, remembered.

We--my father, my mother, and I--moved from Mexico City to Cuernavaca in December 1975, when I was two months shy of three years old. I have fragmented memories of that December. For instance, walking around the pool wearing corduroy pants and a woolen sweater (yes, winters in the central altiplano of México can be cold), but my parents were wearing swimming suits, and I remember remarking on that, briefly, internally.

View of the house I grew up in, from the carport. The deep end of the pool is just off-frame to the right.
In the back you can see half of the sandbox I played in for hours, the tree where I had my treehouse
(long gone, rotted or something, before this photo was made), and a corner of the tennis court
(you have to look hard).
My father made this photo five months before he died.

Who was Ad van Berchum?

Ad and me celebrating the completion of the fence's
first panel.

Many things: father, husband, friend, DIY master, harbinger of good humor and incisive wit. The saddest, by far, is that he now Was. That he Is no more.

(Another) Day @ the Beach

On Fear & Other Crutches

We hold on to our fears because they define us. They, we believe, keep us safe. Overcoming fear--of the dark, of scorpions, of speaking in public, of change, of no change--isn't easy, but we make it harder.

Because we hold on.

The Thing About Camouflage

It can save you, certainly. But--save you for what?

Original image here.

Mimesis is your thing, right? Pavement gray, autumn-leaf brown, technicolor lawn green, even the occasional metallic Honda or Toyota hue.

You're so good at this that even people who have you pointed out at them still can't see you. Takes them a minute to go, "Ah--there!"

Presumably your predators do not have you pointed out at them, which means you get to live long and prosper.

Oh, you grammar Nazis, you...

I'm one. I admit it. I'm even proud of it.

(Yeah, I taught English for ten years.)

I hate it when people misuse punctuation. Misspelled words--the classic affect vs. effect, for example, or confidant instead of confident, and the ever-present confusion of it's and its--make my teeth ache. My nerve endings cringe when I read sentences like, "If I would've seen it..."

And don't get me started on the new-generation text-type spellings of UR and THX and GR8. Hoo-hah, great time savers, those. What do people do with the thousands of hours saved by typing UR instead of you're, I wonder?

50 Best Literary Insults (Thank you, ShortList)

You have favorite lines from Shakespeare, don't you? Roald Dahl, Margaret Atwood, James Joyce? Lines so poignant, so rife with truth that they dropped like smooth riverstones into the still pond of your mind, that you felt the ripples to the tips of your fingers?

Of course you do.

Those poor bots, man

Last week, for the first time ever, a spam comment made its way past the Blogger filters. First time in eighteen months. Like everyone, I get email notifications when someone comments, so I deleted it immediately... But it started me thinking.

These bots that troll the blogosphere, leaving comments with links to such trust-inspiring sites as cheap cigarettes online UK, or speed up computer--I know they're bots, I know there's no actual person typing these comments over and over. Or maybe there is; I'm sadly (perhaps happily) un-versed in how spam works. Still, even if they're bots, I feel kind of sorry for them. Trolling, trolling, trolling... All that effort going to waste, because Blogger's spam filter catches them more often than not.

Makes me want to cry.

Post-NaNo Blues

On Friday I skidded past the NaNo winning line at 50,022 words and felt all good and self-satisfied with myself. I decided to take the weekend off from writing--from the computer as a whole, period. I deserved it, right? I worked hard all month, neglected all sorts of stuff to get this NaNo thing (and the editing thing) done.

And now, five days later, I can't seem to garner enough enthusiasm to get up from the couch, let alone write.

Say Thank You

Have you ever given a stranger's child a gift? Maybe a colleague invited you to their son's birthday party, or Bar Mitzvah, or Christmas at their place, or, you know, whatever. Say this child is young (so maybe Bar Mitzvah doesn't apply), younger than eight. You hand the child a gift-wrapped box or one of those feisty gift bags with tissue paper arranged just so, and the child's eyes go a little wider, their face a little seriouser. They take your offering somewhat solemnly.

And their mother says, "Say thank you, Robbie"--or Jenny, or Mindy, or whatever.

[At least that's the way it was when I was growing up. Nowadays parents seem oblivious to their kids' manners.]

Here's the lesson. It's not that the child isn't appreciative of your gift. He--or she--is dying to open it, to see what it is. Their heart is racing, adrenaline is flowing, endorphins are kicking in. They can't wait.

Mom, on the other hand, is all about social mores. "Say thank you."

So the kid does, kind of halfheartedly, or maybe a bit shyly if they're older. They'll feel a little embarrassed for the greed they feel, for the desire to get it over with and tear the damn thing open. And you'll nod, say they're very welcome and you hope they enjoy the toy--or book, or sweater, or whatever. You'll turn back to the mom, release the kid to the freedom of shredding paper and ribbons and plastic wrap and cardboard.

Aren't we all like that? Yeah, even the grown-ups? We resent the "say thank you", the obligation to pause in our enjoyment of gifts. Gifts like life. Like health, or family, or an exotic bird chirping on our windowsill, a tiny flower blooming among the weeds.

I don't think the child is wrong. That carpe diem of tearing gifts open, of getting excited over wrapping, over ribbons, is a wonderful thing. But I think Mom's lesson is pretty powerful. "Say thank you." Not because it's socially required, not because the gift-giver deserves the thanks, although they certainly do. I think it's important to say thank you because that pause of contemplation gives the gift depth.

In the hedonism of "a gift! a gift! a gift!", we forget to appreciate the moment. Moments pass so quickly. Saying thank you is a nod, however brief, to acknowledge it. Before it's gone.

Happy Thanksgiving, USA.

Drunk Texts from Famous Authors

A quick Tuesday morning laugh, via The Paris Review.

Drunk Texts from Famous Authors

A to Z: Xenophobia

intense or irrational dislike or fear of people from other countries.

~ Mac dictionary

fear of foreigners or strangers or of that which is foreign or strange

~ Wikipedia

unreasonable fear or hatred of foreigners or strangers or of that which is foreign or strange

~ Dictionary.com

Irrational. Unreasonable.

And yet... So prevalent.

It's not a modern thing, a product of our globalized era. Xenophobia has been around from the beginning of time, so much so that I'm beginning to think it's a key ingredient of the human psyche. Us And Them. Insiders vs. Outsiders. Black vs. White. Old vs. Young. Me vs. You.

A to Z: Oracle

Do you really want to know what your future holds?

Really?

A to Z: Negligence (Warning: Morose & Morbid)

Frida died Saturday afternoon. It was my fault.

A to Z: Motherhood and its consequences

I choose not to be a mother. Why? Pfff... Many reasons. One: I'd suck at it. Two: I'm not really a fan of tiny humans. Three: I love my life the way it is--sleep in when I want to, be a couch potato if I feel like it, travel on a whim.

Yeah. I'm selfish. So sue me.