My Heart Is Bleeding

People occasionally ask me, or ask generally in groups I am part of, “how is everyone?”. And today more than ever I am grateful for people like that who stop to ask. I am finding out more and more each day that it’s harder and harder to think of others, which is quite the opposite of what the world needs now. If anything, we need more compassion, more togetherness, less vile-ness and definitely, infinitely more respect. So, if you’re reading this: how are you?! Drop me a note, comment on this link – whatever you feel comfortable with … How are you?

To answer those who have asked: we are doing fine. Our hearts are bleeding and our minds are wound up with concern and worry and fright of what tomorrow might bring or how today might morph into something worse, but we are, generally speaking, in the scheme of things, fine. We have been grateful that we and our immediate families are healthy, protected from harm and those of us who work have kept their jobs. These are not small blessings.

But my heart is bleeding, a little more each day. I just cannot believe that all the evil of the world has decided to all come out at the same time all in one year. Every day I am more and more stunned by how everything, and everyone is falling apart. I knew the world needed “a  moment”, needed an inspiration, needed a hero, and a purpose, but  I never dreamed that that moment would be all evil, all dirty, all dark and inhumane, all hopeless, a big whirlpool of vitriol, poison, and desperation.

Tonight is one of those nights where I cannot stop my blood pressure from climbing because my heart is bleeding for everything around me … These are only a handful of things that I can think of right now that make my heart bleed. Every day. 

My heart’s been bleeding for the soul of the American nation, for the loss of the values they hold dear. For how our troubled past is following us into our present. A past that I thought we left behind for good.

My heart has been bleeding for the loss of humanity and respect in our country, at every level but especially at the leadership level. There are days when I see no end to it. My heart’s been bleeding for the injustices I witness every day, whether viewing them on TV, or reading about them, or hearing them retold by my friends. My heart’s been bleeding for all the innocent people being killed and gassed in our streets; my heart’s been bleeding for the death of the belief that “every person is innocent before proved guilty”, the policy of firing a gun to everything that stands in one’s way before better judgement is applied. My heart has been bleeding for the useless violence in our world. Every day.

My heart’s been bleeding for those who die or suffer life-long complications from Covid19. My heart’s been bleeding for not being able to see my family. Not being able to know when seeing my family will eventually be possible. When this exile will end.

My heart’s bleeding for all those who have kids to feed and lost their jobs to the Covid19 depression. My heart’s bleeding for every business owner closing their business, their dream, because they can’t pay the bills anymore.

My heart’s been bleeding for all those who take a knee.

My heart’s bleeding for all those killed in fires caused by a raging climate. My heart’s bleeding for all those who try to teach us to be better and get laughed in the face, dismissed.

My heart’s been bleeding for those stuck at the border, trapped in cages like animals, with no respect to their humanity. When all they wanted was to be free …

My heart’s been bleeding for all the babies dragged away from their parents …

My heart’s bleeding for all those who don’t read anything except for Facebook and Twitter … Especially those who also have the power to change things for good.

My heart’s been bleeding for the loss of our critical thinking. And of compassion.

My heart’s been bleeding after driving around in several counties this weekend and seeing 80% (my humble estimation, it could very well be more) of the electoral signs having the wrong person’s name on them. It’s not the wrong person because it’s wrong to me. I seldom, if ever, make an absolute truth statement, but this is an absolute truth statement: it is the wrong person, if you have one ounce of decency and humanity left in your body. 80%. My heart and eyes are bleeding ….

My heart is still bleeding for losing John McCain. My heart bleeds for losing RBG.

And tonight, I add my beautiful Armenian friends to this list of horrible tragedies that make my soul bleed and my heart stop … I have worked with the folks from our Armenian office for close to ten years now. They are beautiful, smart like I have never met before, selfless, and fragile people. The thought of losing coworkers or their families to their mandatory draft to fight the recent war against Azerbaijan there makes me scream … Some of these people are close friends, part of a larger family I hold dear to my soul. My heart bleeds for them tonight, too … Regardless of which side you're on, the civilians of a country, the ones who ultimately suffer more because they didn't invite the evil in, are always the wrong ones to pay the cost of it. And that makes my heart bleed ... 

I don’t ask “what else can go wrong this year”, because I know: a lot can still go very, very wrong. This moment, I don’t ask for much. I just watch everything helplessly and pray that humanity will find its way …

I was in an online seminar recently and they reminded me of something that I think about tonight, as I write this: “When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love have always won. There have been tyrants and murderers, and for a time, they can seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall. Think of it--always.” (Gandhi)

Tonight, I think of this. And I pray that I one day, in my lifetime, I see this become truth …

 

 

In Cautarea Toamnelor de Altadata

De ziua mamei ...  

“A fost odata ca niciodata …” incepea, probabil, povestea pe care o citea sora mea la ora aceea tarzie de seara; una din cele cateva povesti pe care le citea, si poate recitea, zilnic din culegerea “Povesti cu zane” – o carte care o pasiona la cei 4-5 ani cati avea in seara care imi revine in minte acum, rascolind prin amintiri …  

Maia, mama mamei, statea intr-un fotoliu vechi si lucra la ceva “de mana” ca sa termine vreo haina noua pe care o avea de predat vreunui client. Mama statea pe pat cu mine si sora mea, in aceeasi camera, in sufrageria maiei, si impletea niste hanorace de lana pentru noi doua, fetele. Mama ne impletise doua hanorace pentru toamna, din lana naturala, aspra, care iti dadea mancarime la piele (dar asa stiai ca e “lana adevarata”, zicea mama). Hanoracele acelea mi-au ramas (si cred ca si sorei mele) in minte intiparite ca si cum ar fi in fata ochilor mei si astazi: materialul cu care le impletea mama avea culoarea naturala a lanei, un fel de bej deschis. La imbinari, mama folosea crosetul sa uneasca partile componente ale hanoracului si croseta cu un fir rosu aprins care dadea hanoracelor un fler de modern si sofisticat, mi se parea mie. Hanoracele nu erau impletite intr-un model prea complicat, dar si el era la fel de interesant: un model “de sah”, ziceam noi, in patratele, ca o plansa de sah, un patrat pe fata si unul pe dos. Ca sa nu ne certam, cele doua pulovere erau identice. Singura diferenta era marimea, unul mai mic si unul, pentru mine, mai mare. 

Eu stateam langa mama care imi explica nu numai cum impletise pana atunci hanoracele dar ma si invata si pe mine sa impletesc. Intai ma invata cum sa fac un ghem dintr-un scul de lana. Apoi imi punea andrelele in mana si ma invata diferite metode de a impleti diferite modele.

“Un ochi pe fata si unul pe dos.”

“Mama, dar cand impletesc randul urmator, cum am sa stiu pe care ochi sa il fac pe fata si pe care pe dos?”

“Lana iti spune, draga! Uita-te la lana si vezi daca vine din spatele andrelei sau din fata. Daca vine din spate, il faci pe fata, daca vine din fata, il faci pe dos.”

“Dar cum se face bobul de orez?” – intrebam eu, pentru ca trebuia sa invat pentru scoala cum se face. 

“Ei, la bobul de orez faci invers decat la unul pe fata si unul pe dos. Pe cel pe care trebuie sa il iei pe fata, il iei de fapt pe dos …”   Mama are un dar deosebit de a explica lucrurile extrem de clar. 

Toate patru fetele se adunau din cand in cand la cate o claca, mai ales in serile reci ale toamnelor sau iernilor din Romania.

Maia, care era croitoreasa de profesie, avea mereu ceva de lucru: o rochie pentru vreo doamna, un deux-pieces pentru mama, “sa il poarte la servici”, niste pantaloni pentru “Gheorghe Ion” care era destinatia vaga a oricarui obiect de imbracaminte pe care il facea sa il vanda cui avea bani sa il cumpere.

Mama avea si ea mereu cate un lucru de mana cu ea: ori ceva de impletit, cum erau hanoracele, ori ceva de crosetat. Tin minte un set de mileuri pe care le croseta si mi se parea absolut imposibil de invatat asa o aptitudine de ciudata si de grea. Mai tarziu, cand eram deja adulte noi doua, s-a invatat singura sa coase goblene si a umplut o casa cu capodopere o vreme indelungata … De la ea am invatat si eu sa fac goblen, sa impletesc si sa crosetez, si in ziua de azi am cate vreun “proiect” inceput care isi asteapta incheierea  prin cate o camera … 

Sora mea nu era prea interesata de lucrurile manuale dar completa cvartetul fetelor cu vreo carte in care se pierdea cu ore in sir. Serile acestea aveau aroma de placinta de mere si temperatura radiatorului pe care cu siguranta il aveam deschis. Eram adunate toate patru, trei generatii de fete, intr-o camera mica, plina de mobilier vechi care mirosea a timp trecut si intelepciune si ne comunicam durerile, placerile, parerile, invatand una de la alta si avand ceva de aratat, un lucru “gata” la sfarsitul sederii la claca. Invatam nu numai despre lucruri casnice, sau retete pentru tot felul de mancaruri, dar invatam si despre stramosi, rude departate, drame ascunse, povesti de dragoste reale, de durere si de boala care se intamplau sau se intamplasera inainte de venirea noastra pe lume. La urma urmei invatam despre cine eram si incotro ne indreptam ... 

Pe langa legatura de sange pe care o stiam ca exista formam acum o legatura si mai adanca, a unor experiente impartasite, a unor sfaturi date fara conditie si fara motiv. In final, aceasta apropriere ne lega si unea mai puternic. Era un mediu intim si restrans, in care totul era permis, si desi nimeni nu folosea atunci cuvinte ca “dragoste” sau “iubire”, toate stiam, din instinct, ca dragostea dintre noi era subinteleasa si neconditionata si plutea in aerul inchis al camerei de la una la alta, nestingherita. Firul invizibil de dragoste care ne unea de la nastere se ingrosa in acele seri si avea a persista in vietile si constiinta noastra pana in ziua de azi, si mai departe …

Frunzele se fugaresc pe drum in cercuri nebune si clopoteii agatati de streasina suna in bataia vantului insistent. Lumina soarelui a palit si varfurile copacilor se unduiesc in culori deocamdata timide, de galben si rosu. Vecinii si-au scos gavanoasele de crizanteme pe scarile din fata caselor. Acestea sunt primele semne ca e septembrie. Primele semne ca e toamna. Primele semne ca e ziua mamei. E din nou vremea puloverelor si a hanoracelor. Acum imi revin navalnic amintirile de altadata, cand eram toate sub acelasi acoperis, cu mama in centru, legand vechea generatie a bunicii de generatia noastra, ca un pod suspendat, organic, real si puternic, invatandu-ne aptitudini casnice care ne pregateau pentru “casa noastra” si definind, chiar daca nu isi dadea atunci seama, cine eram si cine vom fi in viata de mai tarziu.

Azi, de ziua ei, nu cred ca exista ceva pe lume pe care sa il doresc mai mult decat sa fiu in aceeasi camera cu ea si sa ne spunem pasurile si sa ma invete despre lucruri manuale, retete, sa ne facem amandoua unghiile in acelasi timp, si sa o ascult cum impartaseste cu drag detalii despre viata in genere, despre cine este ea si cine sunt cei dinaintea ei, si … despre viata care a fost odata … ca niciodata …

La multi ani sanatosi si buni, mama, cu multa dragoste, de departe …