He was not Eli

The News of Elijah Cummings's death sent me into a spiral. Some parts of me awaited a miracle to be worked by his due diligence. A man of bedrock values and faith with an appropriate namesake. He was not Eli he was Elijah. He was working on what was right until he had no more breath.

Today I was easily angered by the trolls and Christians of a different tone than he. Those that do not see equals nor understand equity. That preach but fail to protect innocence as they see themselves doing.

I do not have the energy to even express my anx. My wishes that others both local and national were in the Headlines with such News. To think I actually have these kinds of thoughts out of exhaustion. To know I am not alone, with such depression.

Over.Out.TBD.

Roots and Redemption

Is it possible to step out of our past enough to not be defined by it?

I hear myself whisper "Christ have mercy." yet I am no longer a believer. A protective reflex, like hands without Tai Chi Mastery.

On my last day of being young, culturally rooted in eligibility for socially engineered benefits for aging, I attempt reflection. Ironically it took nine months before scribble moved from save-to-publish. I certainly knew 65 was old when age ten, today - not so much.

The octogenarians at Silver Sneakers, move more nimbly than I. Others run the local historic society and young 90-somethings making guest appearances on MidLife Matters. Age, I have come to understand is relative. Even so, it is a cultural milestone some are not fortunate to make. I am grateful that I now see 88 as my age horizon. 

Tear Triggers
When Kavanaugh was voted to the highest court, when three real former Secretaries of State had a conversation in the TV drama Madam Secretary , when I was Yaya's grandma; I teared up. They each touched something different in me reminding me of a meme about variation in our saltwater tears supported by real research. Indeed there are three major types of emotionally triggered tears: basal, reflex, and psychic.

In the Fall I attended a law symposium. The presenter raised the question of redemption; its potential and challenges within the #MeToo movement.  I recently began a poem (also incomplete) with the lines.

The line between seduction and coercion shifts rightly

a chase, a thrill

assault 

I did approach the symposium speaker at the end of the session to share an insight. As I write this I can not remember that insight or from which #MeToo incident I thought I gained it. Failure to recall torments me to near tears often. This inability to make a connection sometimes triggers Eschler-like dreams for days. Me, lost in a winding world of symbols, numbness and terror. I wake. I return to the same: enigma on steroids yet I will not get up. These are the days I appear to sleep in, but I am not sleeping, I am seeking.

On my life celebration day walk, I encountered the commander of the local VFW who is more senior than me, a Vietnam Era Veteran. He had aged much since we met a decade earlier. He was under siege for enabling a 50-something veteran to move up the ranks of the VFW organization. He knew the veteran through his service, through is recent five years of dedication. He looked past the publicly available former affiliation with a hate organization and his former hate crimes. He looked for his own relief and what seemed to be the potential for the organization's sustainability with younger leadership. He gave a blind eye to the roots of hate that might still define this younger man. How far do we go to see? Will our past always define us? Is redemption possible? In this case, the offending past was affirmed to be ever-present and the organization remains in search of younger care-takers. 

The gathering of former Secretaries of State (Hillary Clinton, Madeleine Albright, and General Colin Powell each of which I classify as heroes) and the great writer's of drama put a conversation before me: 

We want to feel safe. They suggest that what unites us even in a time of nationalist threat is our democratic values: Out of many, one. 

My tears begin after ''safety" is invoked. In these times it feels ironic that the phrase E pluribus unum is on the POTUS Seal and our money. That topic is one I am not worthy of exploring but my gut feels a tearless irony. 

My daily role in administering a nonprofit makes me curious about the others run by aging members. The institutional knowledge is one step away from lethal accidents of age. Should I be curating this knowledge on behalf of the community? I flood with the overwhelmed endorphins and dismiss the idea. 

I need to regroup within my own being to determine how my choices define me and if I will make room for redemption, the clearing of broken innocence, and get to a place where outbursts will find no place.

ps: Yaya is what my husband's grandchildren call him. Upon encountering me, one blurted "Are you Yaya's grandma?" Still not sure how to process that or any related circumstance. 


Note:
1)#MeToo, Time's Up, & Theories of Justice speaker Lesley Wexler, University of Illinois College of Law.