From the Mayflower to Modern-Day

Photo by Jep Gambardella on Pexels.com

Did you know the Mayflower, not only transported my ancestors across the Atlantic in 1620, but landed at Plymouth Rock because, the crew feared, the Pilgrims were going through the beer too quickly?

According to Kate Julian, the ship was headed for the mouth of the Hudson River, until the beer ran low and the sailors panicked at the possibility of running out before they got home, and threatened mutiny.

So those feisty ancestors of mine were kicked ashore, short of their intended destination, and notably dry.

I have a feeling many of us are feeling some of the same threats and anxieties as those early settlers. Okay, not exactly the same, but distressing nonetheless.

Interestingly, the acting governor of Plymouth, William Bradford, complained bitterly about the lack of alcohol in his journal, which says a lot, considering only half the pilgrims survived the winter.

Before long, they were making their own beer, and importing wine and liquor like nobody’s business. My ancestors were an innovative bunch.

The CAPA held a virtual press event recently to acknowledge California Governor Gavin Newsom’s failure to make public health and safety essential by instead making alcohol essential in the state during the COVID19 pandemic.

Bradford and Newsom appear to be aligned on some things.

It was discovered that many of the early settlers died from a bacteria called leptospira, spread by rat urine of all things. They would drop dead while working the fields or raising a house. The pilgrims would bury the bodies at night in unmarked graves because they didn’t want the local tribes to know how weak they were becoming.

Crazy times, no masks, no vaccines, and almost no understanding of basic sanitation. Poor bastards.

Honestly, my very existence is a frickin miracle.

We’re in a similar boat today if you will, we’ve spent a year in isolation, with dwindling supplies of toilet paper and disinfectant, experimenting with home-brewed beer, trying to survive a deadly virus, and figure out how to reconstruct our society remotely.

These stresses have taken a collective toll on our emotional stability, not to mention the political upheaval that has scorched us as a country, and the personal trauma most of us have experienced trying to maneuver in this storm.

Unprecedented tensions have driven up our alcohol consumption like no other time in the history of America.

What has changed radically is the way in which we drink.

We’re drinking alone, in isolation, or on Zoom calls, which is not only a recipe for overindulging, but worse, it appears this type of drinking only serves to increase our anxiety and depression instead of reducing our maladies.

Although both men and women consume alcohol to cope with stress it appears women are more likely to use alcohol to numb their feelings, quell the anxieties associated with modern society, and the loss of social and family cohesion of previous generations notes Kate Julian.

Normally people drink socially which releases endorphins, decreases social anxiety, and acts as a communal unguent, in which people laugh more, make unexpected connections, experience flexibility of thought, even our creativity increases.

It’s called fun.

Remember?

A little wine is good, too much has the opposite effect, and all goes to hell and a handbag rather quickly.

But we have to acknowledge the elephant in the room, why do we drink in the first place, considering the devastating effects of alcohol abuse on our bodies, our livers, our brains?

In terms of evolution, why in the hell do we like alcohol so much?

In a recent article by Kate Julian I learned that in the evolutionary hunger games, the drunk apes beat the sober ones.

That’s right.

Julian says a mutation occurred about 10 million years ago, around the time of a major climate disruption which transformed the landscape of eastern Africa, leading to widespread extinction. In the scramble for food, our predecessors resorted to eating fermented fruit off the rain-forest floor. The animals that liked the smell and taste of alcohol, and who were good at metabolizing it, were rewarded with calories and survival.

It appears potent enzymes are the secret to our survival.

Who knew?

So we have climate change and resourceful apes to thank for our modern-day obsession.

Consider Jesus’ first miracle, changing water to wine at a community event, a wedding, where the celebrations could traditionally last for days. It makes sense not only the importance of this miracle, but how the marriage of religion and wine was put into place over 2000 years ago, and the important role it plays in our most profound sacramental practices.

Historically, the benefits of alcohol and religion for bringing communities together, encouraging cooperation, and developing strong relationships is almost impossible to tease apart. Both have advantages and disadvantages to developing and sustaining strong societies and what’s most surprising is understanding which came first?

The priest or the pour.

At the end of his life Jesus took the two most basic elements of fellowship and rapport, bread and wine, he blessed them, and shared them with the people gathered around his Passover Table.

Communion remains tethered to the creation of a strong and harmonious community, one that encourages the care, and nurturing of others.

Jesus was clearly on to something.

Over the last year, when church attendance was severely restricted, we improvised, and created new rituals around the eating, drinking, and caring for one another, befitting the rigors of our time.

“No one pours new wine into old wineskins. If he does, the wine will make the skins burst, and both the wine and the skins will be ruined. Instead, new wine is poured into fresh wineskins.” Mark 2:22

We’re cooking more, consuming copious amounts of wine, playing traditional board games with our families, not to mention Netflix and chill. There’s a lot of positives embedded in this crazy predicament along with some dour consequences.

When our local watering holes closed down, all of a sudden you could pick up margaritas to go at Una Mas, and wine taste while shopping at Safeway. People now drink at salons, movie theaters, and coffee shops and it appears some of these changes will be permanent.

Does it make you wonder about the adaptions we are currently making due to climate change and modern day deprivations?

Perhaps our survival will depend on our ability to continue innovating, which happens to be enhanced by alcohol, and camaraderie.

Maybe space travel becomes available to the common man (used inclusively), who knows where we’ll land, or who will be Governor?

In 2012, Edward Slingerland published a book called Drunk in which he says, “I started to think, alcohol is really this very useful cultural tool.” He praises it as a social lubricant and its creativity-enhancing aspects play a real role in human society and its formation. He does not overlook the dark side of alcohol consumption but he also acknowledges its prominence in the formation of society.

So after a year of social isolation, Slingerland writes, “we get drunk because we are a weird species, the awkward losers of the animal world, and we need all of the help we can get.”

So as luck would have it, some of my modern-day relatives, also ancestors from the Mayflower, are coming to Lake County in a few days! We’re gathering at the lake house, and yes, we’ll be celebrating with spirits, food, and good cheer. All in moderation mind you, but as we emerge from isolation, creative meals, sipping wine in the company of those we love, and maybe a competitive game of Cornhole seem like viable consequences of a worldwide pandemic.

Cheers.

I’m Living in the Gap, thanking my ancient ancestors for those potent enzymes, and the mysteries of evolution.

Anecdotes:

  • “Beer is proof that God loves us and wants us to be happy.” Benjamin Franklin
  • “Writer’s block is a fancy term made up by whiners so they can have an excuse to drink alcohol.” Steve Martin
  • “For art to exist, for any sort of aesthetic activity or perception to exist, a certain physiological precondition is indispensable: intoxication.” Friedrich Nietzsche
  • “It was my Uncle George who discovered alcohol was a food well in advance of modern medical thought.” P.G. Wodehouse

How To Become A Grace Graduate

“I am not a grace graduate,” I speak this out loud to an empty room, because I am continually in need of rescue, not from the world, but from myself.

That was easier to type than to finally realize.

A grace graduate knows when to let things go, she’s wise, compassionate, tolerant, and frugal with her impatience. #Aspirations

Life is stressful by nature, and as usual, I’m not handling it well. I literally checked out from all social media, social obligations, and more importantly, I took a break from writing so I could focus on what’s in front of me. 

A barren kitchen, a family wedding, and chronic rib issues.

The thing about pain is it’s constipating, I’m bloated with the need to expel my thoughts, but the words won’t come, and the discomfort is real.

I know, I’m sick of me too, but getting away from myself is difficult without copious amounts of wine and repetitive games of solitaire. I’m not proud, just honest. 

The lack of sleep along with a plethora of obligations that I’m successfully avoiding have taken a toll. I’ve doled out my sanity as if I could print lucidity without inflatable repercussions and my common-cents is in a period of temporary decline. See what I did there?  

Believe me when I say no one wants to spend time with me except my sister, and maybe the dog, but only when it’s time to eat. That applies to Shaggy not Nancy.

The kitchen remodel is essentially done and one by one I’m bringing in the boxes that have been stacked in the garage for months. Painstakingly (literally) restocking the kitchen in slow motion, rearranging my old things as if I’m rearranging myself, obsessively repositioning pots, dishes, utensils, and out-of-date accents to accommodate the new space. Amazon is filling in the gaps as if some sort of inexhaustible grout that compliments my every scheme.  

I’m having a micro identity crisis as the new improved kitchen emerges from the foundation of her former self, it’s as if a snake, slipping out of her old skin. The process of shedding skin is called ecdysis, meaning to cast off, or in my case to let go. There are many factors that affect how and when we shed, including age and weather, the applications are endless, but I’ll leave that one to your imagination.

If Amazon had gold status I would be a founding member, arriving daily (much to Larry’s duress) are packages filled with drawer organizers, rustic picture frames, farmhouse clock, colorful mixing bowls, dish towels, spice racks, garbage cans, and an adorable cake plate because I’m irrational when it comes to black and white accents. 

For Mother’s Day, the kids surprised me with a Wolf toaster for my new kitchen, it comes with these adorable red knobs, wide setting for bagels, and a warmer button if your toast needs to wait for the eggs to finish cooking. I know, it’s decadent, but please don’t judge me because I’m in love with a knob. Wait, that didn’t come out right. 

This toaster has become the new benchmark for evaluating all things relevant or irrelevant to life. As Tony claims, “for the price of sixteen toasters I purchased an entire car.” 

Larry can’t resist, “for six toasters I purchased a 70-inch flat-screen T.V.” 

Me, “I could own two Dyson vacuums for the price of one flat-screen television.” They all look at me as if I don’t understand the game, I say, “trust me, I know more than you think.”

Some things look better in the new space but most of the basics I’ve been saddled with for the past thirty years have to go. The problem is I’m loyal to my old things and I find myself not only grieving but trying to repurpose every discarded item as if St. Peter at the gates of heaven. Those deemed unworthy are directed towards the Goodwill. It’s merciless. As Shannon L. Alder claims immorality is the word we use to describe people that are not sinning the same way we are. Bahaha.

No wonder I’m wearing so much black. 

It took an hour to bring my Mom’s old KitchenAid mixer back to life. As I scrubbed away old stains and debris I couldn’t help but wonder about the last thing she made with this appliance? I’ll never know but in my head it was a batch of cookies for me. Can we all agree to agree? Excellent.  

I suppose I’ve been thinking of my Mom lately because she was the one who made things better especially when I was hurt and it’s her birthday today. She would have been 85. It’s disorienting to be in the world without my Mom because she was my mirror when I lost sight of myself, my anchor in a storm, the acme of home.

In a few days, the entire Oreglia clan will be gathering in Utah for a celebration of marriage between our godson Adam and his beautiful fiance Kiana. 

My son Tony flew in from Portugal several days ago as he’s a groomsman. Due to a series of unfortunate events it took him over 50 hours to arrive at the compound reserved for the wedding party in Hatch, Utah. He had a difficult time acclimating to the altitude which is somewhere around 8000 feet and suffered a bout of intense jet lag. 

Our daughter Kelley has been in California since late May, she spent the 4th of July with us up at the lake, and has been working remotely from our house while she catches up with family and friends from all over the state. 

Tomorrow morning Larry, Kelley, Nono, Nana, Julie, Nic, Audrey, Cora, and Sienna, and I are catching the same flight to Salt Lake City. If the plane goes down four generations will be wrangling with St. Peter! Yeah, let’s not go there. 

I’ve rented a place called the Jones Cabin which should accommodate my entire family. It’s always exciting when I have all my chicks in the same henhouse and I’ve been clucking with joy for weeks. I have this fantasy of the entire family gathered in our pajamas sipping coffee and razzing each other like the good old days. One can always dream… 

After 5 hours of driving through extraordinary scenery, we arrive at the resort in the pouring rain and race to unload our gear. The cabin is perfect, Nic ordered several pizzas, and the entire Oreglia clan gathered in our living room to shoot the shit, sip wine, and anticipate the wedding tomorrow afternoon. 

It was an intimate gathering, celebrated under the cliffs of an ancient canyon, with the sounds of a waterfall in the background, a single guitarist, and joyful guests. My granddaughters stole the show as they waltzed down the long runner spreading greenery before Kiana’s gracious arrival. The bride and groom wrote their own vows and the ceremony was presided over by Adams’s best friend Connor. It was a heartwarming service without a dry eye in the house.

Tony and I kicking it up.

The alarm went off at 6:00 am the following morning as we crammed our luggage and ourselves back into the huge van we rented and made our way to Salt Lake City and our flights home.   

My son Tony turns to me, we’re sitting side by side on a Southwest flight bound for San Jose, and somehow we scored bulkhead seats, which means we can stretch our long legs. He says, “did you know the word hypocrite comes from the Greeks? It’s what they used to call actors because acting is hypocritical to your true nature.” 

I say something profound, “interesting,” glancing down at the book he’s reading while simultaneously taking notes in a journal, I’m left wondering who sired this kid?  

Glancing out the window at the formations of clouds and blue sky I consider the word hypocrisy? It’s universally despised (unless you’re an actor of course) because hypocrite pretends to hold beliefs, feelings, standards, opinions, virtues, and other characteristics that a person does not actually hold. It’s living inauthentically because it’s always been easier to toe the party line and live out our truth in the shadows or on stage as it may be. 

If I were honest, I would admit I am guilty of this on multiple occasions, maybe we all are?  

So this morning while Tony and I are enjoying coffee I tell him about a book I want to read. It’s called, Before the Coffee Gets Cold, by Toshikazu Kawaguchi, a story about time travel. 

The premise explores the possibility of going back in time and having the opportunity to change something you’re not proud of, maybe when you were living like a hypocrite? But it turns out time travel is not so simple, and there are rules that must be followed, most important, the trip can last only as long as it takes for the coffee to get cold.

Tony says, “order two copies and we’ll read it together, sounds interesting.”

I say, “absolutely, I’m a founding member of Amazon, with a prime membership,” which gets me the look. 

The books come tomorrow, this of course got me thinking about the past, what I could possibly change in the span of time it takes for a cup of coffee to get cold? George Washington Carver claims how far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in your life you will have been all of these. 

So I consider the times I haven’t been tender, compassionate, sympathetic, or tolerant, and I lean into these memories. The failures are so intertwined with the successes they’re hard to distinguish, raising kids, harboring friends, climbing the ladder, taking care of aging parents and each other. Is forgiveness retroactive? I decide it is because a wise Jewish man said as much 2000 years ago. I proceed to process those olden moments, which doesn’t change a thing, but I’m beginning to realize you can not move forward until you release yourself from the mistakes of the past. Wish I understood this pre-wrinkle but better late than never.

It’s quite possible that everything we encounter is something identifiable within ourselves clamoring to be loved. The truth is I’ve been letting things go for months, if I had bothered to look I could have seen it for what it is, preparation for a more fulfilling life. Maybe that’s always the case but we’re blinded by the minutiae of ordering, protecting, inventorying, and rearranging our lives. I wonder if that is how forgiveness buds, says Khaled Hosseini, not with the fanfare of epiphany, but with pain gathering its things, packing up, and allowing them to slip away before the coffee gets cold. I may never become a grace graduate but I’m learning as I make my way home to let it go. 

Anecdotes:

  • “To err is human, to forgive, divine.” Alexander Pope
  • “Love like rain, can nourish from above, drenching couples with a soaking joy. But sometimes under the angry heat of life, love dries on the surface and must nourish from below, tending to its roots keeping itself alive.” Paulo Coelho
  • “Forgiveness is not an occasional act, it is a constant attitude.” Martin Luther King Jr.

“Give Me Your Tired, Your Poor, Your Huddled Masses Yearning To Breathe…”

That is the colossus of invitations, engraved on the base of the Statue of Liberty, and now that I’m feeling adrift in my infirmity (rib injury), it takes on a whole new meaning.

I’m actually shocked at the severity of the pain and the manner in which I am managing it all. Maladroit comes to mind.

Yes, it’s true, I thought the pain would significantly subside (as in a few days), my loving family would continue to serve my every need, and life would be as if a fairytale.

How did that work out you might ask?

Picture this, Cinderella’s driver decides to sprint just as the carriage turns back into a pumpkin, this results in a serious injury for Cinderella, then Prince whatshisname misplaces the glass slipper, and Cheryl Cinderella spends the rest of her days serving others instead of donning her crown and managing the staff up at the castle.

But let’s not dwell on the negative, it’s only a fairytale.

First of all, you’ll be thrilled to know you can order drugs on Amazon and they’ll deliver within 24 hours. I just ordered a mega jar of CBD lotion, yes, it’s barely legal, but it came highly recommended by a trusted friend who happens to be a psychologist, it’s not that I’m showing instability, she just doesn’t want me to suffer unnecessarily. Let me repeat, SHE DOESN’T WANT ME TO SUFFER UNNECESSARILY.

It should arrive by 10 pm tomorrow, the possibility of being pain-free is intoxicating, and I’ll be counting down the minutes, because I’m in pain, and no one seems to fully understand my pain. Is this painful to read? Good.

Rumi was totally messed up when he said the wound is the place where the light enters you, it’s where my energy drains out, and I become a blubbering idiot at least three times a day. So much for the philosophical approach to our woundedness. Yes, I made that word up.

We celebrating the 4th of July up at Lake (it’s a family tradition), in a small subdivision called Kono Tayee (means mountain point in Pomo Indian), which happens to be inundated with Oreglia’s. Currently there are 23 of us domiciled in three houses, dotting the shores of Clearlake, more are coming in a few days!

Here’s the most reliable version of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness while one is severely injured and excessively checking her Amazon order status. It keeps telling me the drugs are in process? Meaning they’ve shipped but they’ve not arrived. Story of my life.

Yesterday was painful as all the days have been since the said incident but I’m not going to belabor the point, much. We spent most of the day floating in the languid waters of Clearlake, staying cool, and hydrating with a variety of spirited beverages. This is very important as it’s hot as hell and the body is perpetually sweating. At one point I counted 18 bodies gathered on our beach in various stages of relaxation.

There are always meals to prepare, small autarches to feed, things to tidy up, and people to accommodate. The days blend into each other one unidentifiable from the next.

I decided to google best practices for healing a rib. IT SAID TO REST. It’s unfortunate the only cure is REST but what can you do?

Drugs are still in process, thanks for asking.

Speaking of resting, we’re all waiting patiently for Nic to unwrap his extraordinary pastrami that’s been resting for hours, after a killer rub, and 12-hour smoke. He’s been brining it for two weeks in his refrigerator. To say I’m excited is an understatement.

Finally, it’s ready and Nic lays out this extraordinary specimen of brined, rubbed, smoked, and rested flesh, he slices it in front of my nose, then slathers a healthy portion on toasted rye bread, mixed with homemade coleslaw, I have no words.

Did someone say time heals all wounds? Rose Fitzgerald Kennedy called bullshit on that little adage. She said in time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers it with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But the wound is never gone. NEVER! That’s what I figured.

In the meantime our neighbor Jim has a little problem he needs help with, his boat is stuck in the lift, and the lake is so low he can’t lower the dock enough to launch the boat. So the question becomes how and who? The answer is a boat, a rope, some local muscle, Jim and Larry (college roommates who now own side by side lake houses).

What could go wrong?

I’m observing from a distance because I’m already injured and my drugs are in process.

What I see is Larry’s boat connected to Jim’s boat by a ski rope. Perfect. Chris and Nic (the son-in-laws) are stationed on the dock, their job is to push the boat in the water, simple enough. Jim is in the boat moving about with no identifiable purpose. As we all know Larry is well-practiced at gunning the boat, so on Jim’s word, “hit it” Larry accelerates. I hold my rib and have 911 pre-dialed into my phone.

I see the dock bend and groan as the wedged boat refuses to move. For a second I thought the entire dock was going down and I’d have to dive in the water and rescue someone with my broken rib. Really? But no, Larry and Jim refuse to give up, Chris and Nic continue to strain against the wedged boat. Jim is now using his entire body weight to rock the obstinate vessel.

I hope someone is filming this?

There’s a lot of testosterone, taunt muscles, rocking, engine revving action before the little boat pops off of the lift and into the water. As Robert Jordan claims there is one rule, above all others, for being a man. Whatever comes, face it on your feet. Well just about everyone sprung to their feet cheering, whistling, and back-slapping before we return to our floating and hydrating.

Tonight we enjoyed an early dinner, which is unusual at the lake, normally if we finish dinner before 10 pm we consider it an accomplishment, and I’ll admit my daughters did all the dishes while I sat there licking my plate.

After dinner, we sashay over to the neighbors through the GO (Goudreau/Oreglia) gate, a passageway we created for our convenience, and it has become the Route 66 between our houses. The Goudreau’s also have a full house, it’s the way we like it, and besides you can always find someone to chat with or complain about your woundedness.

Lounging on their new patio set, we sip wine, and humorously review the events of the day which takes a while because there’s so much material.

Now keep in mind our houses are right next to each other, our patios are practically connected, except for a row of privacy bushes, and a small fence. So when Julie and Nic finally get all the kids down, they grab a beverage, and join us. All is pleasant and calm until the screaming starts.

“Mom, Dad, you can not leave us alone in the house, it’s against the law,” Audrey is bellowing as she rounds the corner, holding Sienna by the hand, who is wailing as if she has a rib injury.

The two of them are scolding us something fierce, claiming they could have been kidnapped, or worse? Julie and Nic race over to negotiate a plea bargain. Apparently, Cora decided to nibble on Sienna’s ear, there was a dispute over baby dolls, and it went downhill from there.

Most mornings Audrey and I lounge in my bed and watch icarly reruns from 6:00 am to waffle time around 9:00 am. I’m enamored with this old Nickelodeon show, it’s indefensible, but exceedingly therapeutic because there is always a happy ending no matter what happens. I like that.

Tonight is our highly anticipated seafood boil! Jim and Nic have been collaborating for weeks on the ingredients. It includes lobster, shrimp, clams, sausage, corn, asparagus, entire cloves of garlic, onions, oranges, mushrooms, butter, and spicy seasonings. We have this huge pot and burner which we set up on the beach and then we cover two picnic tables with butcher paper and pour the ingredients onto the table. Add a couple of baskets of garlic bread and we sit down to eat with our hands. It’s primitive, not for mannerly types, the messier your hands and face the better.

After dinner, we gather around the fire pit, and shoot the shit as people peel off to bed. Day is done.

Oh, my drugs? They’re still in process.

Today is the fourth of July! It starts off with a fire alarm going off at 5:00 am, battery issue, after Larry removes the culprit from Kelley’s room, we lay our weary heads on the pillow, and the grandchildren start arriving one by one. Cora and Sienna can’t stop saying, “happy birdday America,” (th is tricky when you’re 4) and we all snuggle in our bed while I desperately try to protect my bad rib. Larry slips out to make coffee.

Bless him.

By 10:00 am the entire family is decked out in red, white, and blue, waving American flags curbside as we await the parade of decorated golf carts, bicycles, and scooters. Yeah, it’s that kind of place, hookey but fun. My sister-in-law Rachel hands out Bloody Mary’s on a rolling cart to all the participants and neighbors as we cheer on the procession.

“Freedom is the atmosphere in which humanity thrives. Breathe it in.” Richelle E. Goodrich

Just as the parade ends, Dante drives up the street, and the entire block cheers the late arrival. This is his favorite holiday and I’m so glad he was able to make it. He goes about setting up the music system off the back deck, the cousins (I think 8 of the twelve are here this year) gather round, and spend the day doing what young people do? I have absolutely no idea, you’ll have to use your imagination.

By some act of the divine, the drugs finally arrived! Thank God because after the parade, kitchen clean up, food shopping, and Dante’s arrival, I start to lose it. I can’t stop crying, my ribs are throbbing, I can’t breathe, and the family is not sure what to do with me. Julie directs me to bed, Kelley slaps on some CBD lotion, and they demand I wash down two extra-strength Tylenol, as Larry walks around the house claiming, “there’s nothing you can do for a rib injury.”

Guess what? The CBD lotion is cool and refreshing but the pain does not magically disappear. I slept for three hours, and by the way, I NEVER nap.

I’m a wee bit drowsy when I wake up, walking into the family room I feel as if I’m in the twilight zone, the first person I see sleeping on the couch is Tim! Kelley’s husband was able to slip in a quick trip to the west coast from Boston and surprised us all. He took a redeye, so he’s been up all night, and he’s catching a few winks before dinner. I’m so happy to have almost all of my children with me. Makes me miss Tony all the more.

Additional guests arrive at the main house, aunts, uncles, cousins, came to spend the day with family. Larry and I mosey over to say hello, and a group of us end up gathered in the shade on the beach, enjoying the familiarity of extended family. It’s been years since we’ve all been together.

For Dante’s only meal with us he requested hamburgers and we are happy to oblige. At around 5:00 Jim shows up with coffee martini’s (his specialty) and we gather with the Goudreau’s for cocktails. Everyone has a job, Larry made the patties, Julie is feeding the exhausted, sun-kissed children, Nic is grilling, Tim is being interviewed on some radio station (seriously, he’s a celebrity), Kelley is toasting the buns, Dante is providing the music, and I’m resting.

This firework display is hosted every year by the Lakeport City Council so at dusk all the families load up their boats and head over to the main lake to watch the show. I stayed behind this year. The ribs couldn’t take a rough boat ride, but I took advantage of the quiet, went to bed with my icepack, and barely legal drugs!

Laying in my bed, alone in the dark, I wonder about the deeper meaning of pain? Yeah, that’s where my mind goes when I’m left to my own devices. Oprah says turn your wounds into wisdom. Maybe pain is meant to wake us up because I certainly can’t sleep. We’re taught to hide our pain, but that’s not feasible when it’s all-consuming, and honestly, I feel weak in its exhaustive presence.

We’re forced to carry our pain, I suppose the more severe the wound, the heavier the burden. Pain is part of everyone’s reality, no one gets a hall pass, and how we manage our pain is fairly indicative of how we manage our life. I can try to ignore it, ice it, slather it with CBD lotion, but it’s still there, demanding time, patience, and rest. In my experience the only thing that can heal pain is love, self-love if need be.

In the endless quiet, I hear the boats returning to our dock, and that timeless invitation rattles through my brain, “The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Happy Birdday, America!

I’m Living in the Gap, on the mend, join me in the comments.

Anecdotes:

  • “Pain insists upon being attended to. God whispers to us in our pleasures, speaks in our consciences, but shouts in our pains. It is his megaphone to rouse a deaf world.” C.S. Lewis
  • “Face your life, its pain, its pleasure, leave no path untaken.” Neil Gaiman
  • “But who can remember pain, once it’s over? All that remains of it is a shadow, not in the mind even, in the flesh. Pain marks you, but too deep to see. Out of sight, out of mind.” Margaret Atwood

Aside:

  • Posthumously famous for her sonnet, “The New Colossus,” which is engraved on the base of the Statue of Liberty, Emma Lazarus is considered America’s first important Jewish poet.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”