pIt’s not real unusual for me to runaway for a weekend. I need that time and space, on my own, enjoying the silence and the unexpected adventures. I come home with stories, unfolding new perspective in words. But this weekend’s story unfolds in pictures.
This is my hotel. Riverview Inn.
It was really old, and mostly delightful. Even the not-so-delightful parts were pretty funny. For example, my room didn’t have a chair. When I asked the desk clerk about it, hoping there was one that just needed to be returned, she almost scolded me explaining that the hotel is really old, the room is small, and there are TWO DOUBLE BEDS in there. I had to laugh, yes, I had noticed those things.
But the chair didn’t much matter, because I spent a lot of time out here instead.
Watching the river go by…
On Saturday, I took the ferry to Cumberland Island.
Cumberland Island belonged to Lucy Vanderbilt who built a mansion on it and lived there for a long time. There were wild horses on the island and she wouldn’t let anyone bother them or any of the other wild life there. The horses are still there, the mansion is now a bed and breakfast (the rooms are $500 a night.). There is no other commercial activity on the island.
Forest rangers are responsible for the upkeep – which is minimal. No garbage cans, it’s trash in, trash out. You can camp or go over for the day, which is what I did, but there are no cars, no restaurants, no vending machines. A few bathroom facilities, and some potable water stations. A few trails. That’s it, y’all.
As you can see above, I walked to the beach. Here’s a short video of the path.
I walked on the beach for few minutes. Yes, I’m talking at the beginning of this, but I can’t hear a word I’m saying over the waves and wind.
Then I headed back to the dock, because they’re very clear that if you’re not on the boat, they will leave you there. Yikes. I was taking no chances.
While I was waiting for the boat, I watched a bird catching dinner. (Sorry, it is really shaky.)
I did see a couple of wild horses, who seemed to be grazing contentedly, from the boat as we were leaving.
Back in St. Mary’s, I ate at a Greek restaurant, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Seated next to me were three older men, apparently Greek, who conversed like older Italian men I remember from my youth. I was seated facing away from them, but the cadence of their language, the way they related to each other – picture a scene from an old Greek movie and you can imagine. I eavesdropped shamelessly, savoring my pasta with portobello mushrooms as I listened.
Sunday, I wandered the streets of St. Mary.
Had eggs Benedict for breakfast, visited an art gallery, and bought souvenir bookmarks for the family and some lovely notecards for myself. Unfortunately, the submarine museum was not open on Sunday.
Then back to the hotel, where I ate dinner and had tea on the porch til time for bed. On Monday, I got up way early and drove the couple of hours home. Hardly any words to this story, but lots of sights and sounds and feelings stored inside me.
A couple of weeks ago, we got a card in the mail. It wasn’t addressed to us, but that’s not unusual. We get mail addressed to half a dozen people who lived here before us, mostly junk mail. This looked like a card, a bit late for a Christmas card, but still. And this one not only had the wrong name, it had the wrong address. Wrong street, wrong city, wrong state. In fact, it was even on the wrong coast. The card should have landed in a mailbox in California. The only thing right on the whole envelope was the house number.
The Nancy Drew in me woke up. HOW did this card end up here, in Georgia? Where was it supposed to be? Could I get it there? I quickly discarded any thought of marking it Wrong Address and putting it back in the mail box. Might as well put it in a bottle and throw it in the ocean.
I studied the envelope. The return address was somewhere in France, which made it seem more important to get the card delivered. The name of the street was clearly a mistake – Road Street. I don’t think there are any streets named Road. But – what would the magic of google do for me?
I entered the family’s name, the street address, and zip code – boom. Like magic, there it was. Broad St. Right name, right city, right everything else. Seriously, one wrong letter and the whole thing went astray?
Then I realized the family’s zip code was only one number different from ours. So apparently, the sorting machine (not working as well as the one at Hogwarts) got the zip code wrong and then focused on matching the house number. Very strange. But – now I knew where the letter was supposed to go!! Mystery solved.
So I tucked the card into another envelope, with a note explaining what happened, addressed it correctly, and sent it off. I was very pleased that my sleuthing skills had been put to good use. And I felt like there was a tiny thread of connection, like a spider web, from France to me to California.
About a week later, I got something in the mail – pretty ivory colored card stock, from the family in California. It was a lovely thank you note, which made me smile, and feel like that web of connectedness had just gotten stronger. And that would have been enough. But also in the envelope was this beautiful sheet of stamps, embossed in gold Thank You.
It is such a perfect gift. Now I feel affectionately connected to those people in California. And I’m inspired to write thank you notes to people in my life. I envision taking that thread of connection and throwing it back into the air – ok, attached to an envelope, with a note, to people I love.
Don’t expect your note any time soon. I’ve been known to have that kind of impulse and take years to act on it. But know that the thought is there, the stamps put aside in my secretary, just waiting to be used. Connections, networking out into an intricate web…
Yes, the last blog post I did was about my hospital phobia. Yes, there’s some irony in me actually ending up in the hospital so quickly after that. And once I realized that I was not actually going to die in the immediate future, I could even appreciate the irony. Fortunately, after the first couple of hours, I was uncomfortable but not in pain. And now that I’m safely at home and fully recovered, I want to share some takeaways.
The Five Worst Things that Happened and What I Learned:
Worst thing #5: Spending 8 hours sitting on a stretcher in the ER hallway waiting for a bed. Stretchers are not comfortable, and it’s just odd to have my doctor and a little crew of residents “examine me” in the hall.
What I learned: Sitting on a stretcher in the ER hallway sucked, but it was interesting and I got to see what the ER was like – at least in that particular 8 hour stretch. It was reassuring. Everyone was masked practically all the time. The staff were kind and helpful. I didn’t overhear anybody talking trash about patients. I had time (lots of time) to develop trust in the staff.
Worst thing #4: Losing my autonomy. I didn’t know what was going to happen, when it would happen, or what it would be like. Everything was on the hospital’s schedule. Honestly, I got real cranky about it.
What I learned: Not having control sucks. But really, it can’t be any other way. Once, someone took my vitals and said, in the kindest tones possible, “Thanks for letting me do that.” Ever a smart ass, I popped back, “Wait – what?? It was optional?” It took her a minute to laugh, but I was amused enough for both of us.. And you know, if I were in control – well, I’m not a doctor, and I don’t even play one on TV. It probably wouldn’t work out that well. Plus, there’s a nurse shortage, we’re in the middle of a pandemic, and everyone was doing the best they could. It became a great opportunity to practice finding my zen. The magic of “MyChart” helped too. I could log on to the site and see my test results, what doctor visits to expect, and even the tests that were scheduled. I got to feel some semblance of self-determination
Worst Thing #3: Not being able to eat anything for a day and a half. I got hungry. I think they might have shorted me on the IV fluids a bit. I mean, maybe not. But I got hungry. And more cranky. When I heard myself whine, “But the doctor saaaaid he was leaving orders for liquids…” I was a bit appalled to realize I sounded just like my grandkids. Or, um, some privileged white woman who’s used to having things her own way. Damn. That’s not my favorite self-image.
What I learned: Every time I thought, “Omg, I’m starving!” the grandmother in me would respond, “How many days can a person live without food?” My daughter learned this valuable fact from some video when she was about 6, and quoted it often as a child. So we both laugh when I say this to my grandkids, and they groan as they say, “21 days,” and I often add, “So you are not actually going to starve, are you?” But I had to laugh at myself every time I thought, “How many days does it take…?” I wanted to groan too. Definitely more opportunity for zen.
Worst Thing #2: Eating the yellow jello. I don’t even like jello, I just ate it because I was excited about food. Then I was taken to an imaging thing where they asked me what I’d eaten – and just because of the stupid yellow jello, (which I don’t even like) they had to postpone the test for a few hours. I fumed. Why was the frigging jello even on my tray?!! I was so outraged and indignant. Now, understand that I have really good self-control. So me being super angry inside might look like annoyance from the outside. But in my mind, I was like the Red Queen in Alice and Wonderland. I wanted to yell, “Off with their heads!”
What I learned: The radiologist and imaging techs apologized profusely, although it wasn’t their fault. I reminded myself that they didn’t make up the rule, and whoever put the jello on my tray didn’t know it would be a problem. I thought, “It would have been better if this hadn’t happened, but it’s probably not the end of the world if I have to wait.” And I sighed. But you see it again, right? That belief that I shouldn’t be inconvenienced. That I should be comfortable and things should go the way I want them to. It was another great opportunity to find my zen. Although. I’ll probably never eat the stupid jello again.
Worst Thing #1 Walking out of my hospital room post discharge, with my daughter, Julia, having decided not to wait for the wheelchair, we passed a small group of residents who began to exclaim, “You’re bleeding! You’re bleeding! Go back to your room!!” I suddenly realized that my IV site was bleeding profusely, and I was leaving a trail of blood in my wake.
What I learned: Julia and I went back to my room and grabbed a towel to soak up the blood. We waited, thinking the doctors were going to send someone to us. But no. We just sat there, in the room that was no longer really mine, while I hoped I didn’t bleed out. Finally, we realized this was not helpful and pushed the call button. Julia said, “Ok, so the doctors don’t really care if you’re bleeding, as long as you do it in your room.” Right? And we both started giggling. The nurse who responded was a tall Black man who said, “What? What happened here?” to which Julia said, “I know, we’re just up here causing a disturbance in your hospital, making a big mess!” and we all cracked up. Turns out that the shot they gave me a couple of hours earlier (in my stomach!) was a blood thinner. So when they removed the IV… yeah. Lots of blood. Cleaned up and with a new, thicker pad of gauze taped on my arm, I waited for the wheelchair this time. (So THIS is why they want to wheel you out.) But Julia and I are still laughing about the gaggle of doctors in the hallway. “Go back to your room,” may be a new forever catch phrase in the family.
This might have been a different story if I’d been in pain, groggy on pain pills, or in there longer than a day and a half. My context is “already super lucky.” Even so, feeling cranky and demanding and angry wasn’t wrong, of course I felt that way. I was just being human, like every one else. It did put a big hole in my delusion of being this totally laid-back, calm and collected person. And that’s ok.
My mother used to say, “We spend the first two years of our life learning that the world revolves around us, and the rest of our lives learning that it doesn’t.” I’m glad I’ve had years of practice at that, or I might actually have been stomping my feet and screaming “Off with their Heads!!” It sure helped me understand how easy it is to get caught up in feeling rage about being cheated, deprived, neglected and overlooked. Even when that’s not actually what’s happening.
Knowing how easy it is to be enraged, my anxiety starts rising. What does this mean for our country? Omg, all those white nationalists out there… this is awful… how can things ever get better?
Then I remember. THIS is why I want everyone to learn mindfulness and emotion regulation, to learn that our thoughts aren’t necessarily facts, and that all feelings are valid but we don’t have to act on them. I don’t have to fix the world, but I need to tend to my own corner of it – starting with myself!
My friend, Gail, just released a new episode on her podcast, Wildscape. This 5th episode is called “Where’s Beauty.” Gail’s podcasts often speak to me in some deeply personal way, and this one is no exception. She starts with her “hospital phobia,” and those words trigger a rush of affectionate kinship. Hospital phobia? Me too!
She moves beyond that and into the rest of her story pretty quickly, but the thought lingers with me and I find myself ruminating a bit on my own hospital trauma. I have always been uncomfortable with the idea of hospitals, cringe at the thought of visiting someone there, although I do put in an appearance when needed. I used to say that I’d never been hospitalized myself, and that was true – as an adult, I never had been.
I was three when I was hospitalized. I don’t remember it at all, not consciously anyhow, and the stories I’ve heard don’t seem quite real. I had been – not really sick, but tired. My parents were worried; they took me to the doctor. I was still an only child at three, and I can imagine their worry.
The doctor explained that my iron level was low, I had anemia, they were afraid I might have leukemia. I would have to be hospitalized for more tests. Of course my parents agreed, what else would they have done in 1959?
So, the story goes, they took me out for ice cream and explained to me that I would have to go to the hospital. I don’t remember any of this. But I can imagine me enthusiastically eating my ice cream with no real idea of what they were talking about. I do love ice cream, so I guess there isn’t any lingering sense of betrayal connected with that.
Of course, in those days, parents weren’t allowed to stay with their children in the hospital. When they left me there, late that afternoon, my mother says she started to cry. I patted her cheek and told her not to cry, assured her I would be ok.
I guess I was ok. I don’t remember any of it. I was there for several days.- three or four anyhow. I can’t imagine why, when I think about it now. Why would it take that long to do tests? I don’t know. But I was there for several days. I don’t remember it at all, but when I think about being in the hospital, I feel my guts twist, my heart aches, I want to run away.
Parents were allowed to visit once a day. My mother tells me that she and my father were always the first ones in, rushing to my bed. That I was so happy to see them, and so sad when the time was up and they had to leave. I had never been away from them overnight before. She says the nurses would tell her how good I was, how brave. I wonder now what the hell that meant.
The story goes that one time, just as my parents got there, they saw one of my doctors. That was rare, and they stopped him to ask him some questions. Because they had stopped, the other parents had already arrived when mine entered the ward. They hurried to my bed, but instead of greeting them with joy, I was lying curled up on my side and didn’t even lift my head. When they tried to get me to sit up, I said, quietly, barely moving my lips, “I have to lie here.”
A nurse was passing by and saw me, saw them, and stopped. She patted me reassuringly, told me it was ok to get up. To my parents, she explained that when the other parents came in and they weren’t in that first rush, I had started to cry. Sobbing loudly. One of the doctors on his way out had stopped long enough to tell me I’d better be quiet and lie right there if I wanted my parents to come. Apparently, I had taken his words to heart.
I was three. I don’t remember any of that. I did not have leukemia, and whatever was wrong with me, I got better.
I think I had already become a therapist, immersed in trauma work, before it occurred to me that my extreme avoidance of hospitals might be connected to that experience. I could barely stand to visit family or friends, and was pretty sure that made me a terrible person. When I got pregnant, I was delighted that to be able to have a midwife and go to a birthing center, but didn’t quite realize that I was mostly relieved to avoid a hospital.
Listening to my friend Gail’s podcast was actually the first time it occurred to me that hospitals might be redeemable. That they were not necessarily places of terror, pain, and oppression. Ok, I might still think they are, but I can acknowledge that I might be wrong.
Somewhat ironically, a dear friend of mine recently invited me to join them for a meal at a hospital cafeteria, just like Gail’s grandparent. Maybe it would have been a transformative experience, but, unlike Gail, I could not be persuaded. Eat in a hospital??? Omg, no, that’s a hard no, absolutely not. Just no.
It’s interesting watching how the trauma sits with me now, or how I sit with it. My heart aches for that little girl that was me, and I can almost touch her sadness, her terror, feeling abandoned in a strange and scary place for some indefinite time. But when I think about that, I also think about children removed from their parents by Child Protective Services, immigrant children separated at the border, each individual child traumatized in so many ways. And how many of those children won’t be returned to their home, won’t be returned to their parents. Trying to hold all of that is too much, too heavy
So I back off a bit. I notice those feelings and remind myself that most of us have experienced those feelings. “Common humanity.” That’s what we call it in Mindful Self Compassion, knowing that we all have the same feelings, even if we don’t have the same experiences. I remind myself that some children are feeling this with all the intensity right now, and that I’m called – we are all called – to alleviate that suffering as best we can.
That’s at the heart of compassion – knowing that people are suffering, feeling the urge to end the suffering, and then acting on it. We recognize suffering in others because we have felt it ourselves. What each of us chooses to do with that knowing spins together like threads on a loom and creates the world.
Apparently, it’s really helpful for me to start a blog post here and then discover it belongs on my professional blog. That’s kind of cool. I think it takes the pressure off and eases my perfectionism. (Yes, I’m supposed to be a recovering perfectionist, but you know how it is.).
My trip to the beach today sparked the post. Here are a couple of pictures from that. It was lovely. Also, you can see there are no crowds of people there at 8 a.m. on a Sunday morning.
In other news… we’re working on getting our pool usable again. Yes, it would have been nice if we’d done it in the spring. It would have been nice if I hadn’t neglected it in the first place. But we’re getting it done, and that’s what counts. (Yes, this is another anti-perfectionism moment.)
And finally, I stopped at the little fruit market on the way home today. They had tomatoes that look lovely. With tomatoes like these, can BLTs be far behind? No! (I only eat BLTs twice a year, once at the beginning of tomato season and once at the end, so that’s a real treat.). But aren’t they beauties? And they don’t have that greenhouse ripened feel, so they’re going to taste great too. Now all I need is some green beans and maybe little red potatoes… or corn.
Up too early this morning, but I figure I’ll go back to bed in a couple of hours. The quiet in the house at this hour is lovely.
I’ve been thinking about the protests, especially in Louisville, and how overwhelming it feels. It’s hard to imagine how we can come to terms with the police and the political systems at this point, and that worries me. At the same time, I think about how long we’ve known that our systems are inherently biased to favor white people and how little we’ve done to remedy it in systemic ways.
I think about Dr. Joy DeGruy Leary, who has been talking about Post-Traumatic Slavery Syndrome for at least 15 years. We have made some progress in some places on offering support for black people around that. Not surprisingly, that’s happening in the context of mental health, so the work of healing is on the people that our systems have oppressed.
Healing is great, but when we offer services and maintain the systems that cause harm then we’re just creating a never ending stream of people who need those services. I think those services are necessary and important. It seems that the work is often being done by black people, which is good. But “providing services” is almost never a solution.
I think about the documentary “Uncommon Causes,” which was released nationally in 2008 and explores the social determinants of health and how race and class are factors that contribute to disparities regardless of individual health choices. I remember seeing a preview of the part of it that focuses on Louisville in 2005 or 2006 and thinking this would bring about huge changes in how we do things.
Of course, that has not happened. What has happened is that we point out the disparities over and over. Headlines read, “Black Americans more likely to get cancer/ get diabetes/ have high blood pressure/ die in childbirth/ die younger.” Over and over, we trumpet that news without the context of social determinants. Without changing the systems that maintain the disparities.
We have heard and seen, over and over, data that shows how racism plays out in the world. Disparities in school suspensions, racial profiling of black drivers, differences in arrest rates and sentence length, job opportunities, and so much more. Over and over, we have seen this and haven’t responded with real change.
We don’t change things because we – white people – benefit from the system as it is. The police tend to protect us – even if we just say, “There’s a black person here and I’m scared.”
We know that our social services such as Child Protective Services treat people differently based on race. Black people are more likely to have their children removed; white people are more likely to be offered supportive services. We have data that shows us this, and have had for a long time. It can be argued that this isn’t always a benefit for white kids, but in general it benefits white families.
The school system favors us. I heard that a black educator talking about schools was saying that white parents needed to give up the idea of “choice” with our charter schools and magnet programs and allow more room for black people to define what the education system looks like to meet the needs of black children. And my first thought? “Oh, but I love the Montessori program at my grandkids school! Surely I don’t have to give that up!”
Well, maybe not. Maybe my grandkids will still get to attend the charter school we love. But we’re going to have to give up something. We can’t end a racist system that’s existed in one form or another for hundreds of years, a system that benefits us white people, without giving up something.
Let me say this again. As things stand, the systems we have generally benefit white people. No, not all the time, not every single white person in every situation. Not all cops are bastards, not all men are sexist, not all white people are evil racists. It is almost never all or nothing. But in general, it is really clear that we white folks are more likely to get benefits and accommodations, support and protection. But only as long as we go along with the program.
You can see what’s happening with the protesters. Once white people step outside of the system, once we refuse to accept the status quo, we begin to lose privilege. Not all at once and not completely. But the unspoken agreement is that in order to benefit from white privilege, we pretty much need to maintain the system. The horrible, unfair, racist system that we say we don’t want.
I don’t have a great ending for this. Don’t have the perfect call to action. I guess the challenge, if you’re white, is to ask yourself what you are willing to give up to create a more equitable society. What are we willing to do?
This is the path ahead of us. Unclear. Unmarked. What do we do?
It’s been over 2 years since I posted here. I think I’ve completely changed my life since that last post about visiting museums with my sister and brother-in-law. It’s occurred to me that I need a space where I can talk. Just talk about what’s going on with me and how I experience it. Hardly anybody reads me here, and the people who do are friends, so this seems like a good place to do it. At some point, I might make this private with invited readers only.
But for now, I’m just going to leave my thoughts here. Things I might talk about:
- Surviving the pandemic with my daughter, grandkids, and significant other, Dee.
- Getting more healthy and fit.
- Learning how to teach Mindful Self Compassion
- Building my business as a Trauma Sensitive Consultant and Coach
- The protests and the need for structural changes to move toward racial equity
- The adventures Dee and I have riding electric trikes
- Trips to the beach
- Who knows what else?
These are not going to be carefully planned and crafted, it’s more like a journal. Just talking about what’s on my mind. Probably short, cause who has time for more? Comments and discussion are welcome.
Sure, you’ve heard of the Super Bowl, and it happens on a Sunday, but it’s not nearly as exciting as Super Museum Sunday in Savannah. On this Sunday, many, many museums offer free admission. It’s a chance to visit art and history on the cheap – always a plus.
It being my first year in Savannah, I decided to take full advantage of it. Dee and I started out with the Mighty Eighth Air Force Museum. The Eighth Air Force was instrumental in the Allies winning World War II, so you can imagine how much history there is to be shared. And airplanes to look at.
I discovered that I am apparently the only person in my family that didn’t already know Jimmy Stewart was in the Air Force. But I was excited about that story. Good ole Jimmy Stewart, right?
I’m not really a fan of airplanes (who knew?) but this snippet of history was fascinating. Apparently there was a comics character called Lace or “Miss Lace,” created by Milton Caniff, the same person who gave us Terry and the Pirates and Steve Canyon. (You would have to be old to remember them – I barely do, and wasn’t a big fan of them.) But Miss Lace was developed for GI’s in WWII and her character seems to have walked the line between sex siren and girl next door. I could write a whole essay on that, from today perspective.
We were about to leave the museum when I noticed a table with books and a woman seated behind it with a pen – yes! An author signing! Of course I had to stop. The books are an adventure, time-travel series – the main characters are in middle school, and there are four books – The Snipesville Chronicles. I only bought the first one, Don’t Know Where, Don’t Know When. ($11.00, well spent.) Just reading the foreword has been delightful, and I have a feeling I’ll have to buy the other three.
After we had exhausted the pleasures of the Mighty Eight Museum, Dee dropped me off downtown to meet up with Julia and Terry to check out some other places (while he pursued other Sunday afternoon interests.) While waiting, I discovered this tasty treat.
Yes, it’s a milkshake – vanilla – with two shots of espresso Could not have been lovelier. And only $5.50!!
Having finished that quickly, I was ready to visit the home of Juliet Gordon Low, aka Daisy, founder of the Girl Scouts. I had a book about her when I was a child, so it was like visiting an old friend. I did learn some new things – or things I had forgotten.
Juliet became deaf in one ear following an incident with a piece of rice thrown at her wedding. I am not making this up. The piece of rice lodged itself in her ear and would not budge. Eventually, in the efforts to get it out, the doctor (presumably) punctured her eardrum. Her friends often commented, laughing, that if you tried to tell Juliet “no,” she just “turned her deaf ear to you so she couldn’t hear you.”
Juliet was an adventurer, and one of my childhood heroes.
(Drawing of a car about to slide backwards off a cliff. In Daisy’s handwriting, it reads, “It was a perfect miracle that I was not killed, love to Anna and to you, yours, Daisy. Below that, typed, it says, “Daisy was quite the traveler. In this 1923 letter to Mary Gale Carter, she illustrates a harrowing adventure.)
I had not realized there was actually a comic book about her, but was so delighted by it that I had to buy a copy in the book store. (I know, free museum, $16 for books, and $5.50 for the coffee milkshake, and another $8 for girl scout cookies…) I posted a page from the comic book below – they have a large one on display. But you can check out the whole comic book here.
(Picture is a page from a comic book, picturing Juliet in England as a nurse and a creator of iron gates.)
Juliet was an artist – she painted and sculpted and did iron work and many other things, but most importantly for us, she was driven to create a program for girls that would teach them how to do all the things themselves.
(My sister and I standing behind the statue of Juliet Low in the garden.)
You might think that we were worn out from all the museum-ing, and we did need a small snack to refresh our energy, but we still had a couple of good museums left in us. I will pause here and come back later to tell you about the King-Tisdel Cottage and the Beach Institute (named after Alfred Ely Beach, and not the sandy area by the ocean.)