After the Storm

The sun shines most days here in Arizona. Day after day, the sky is first yellow behind the Santa Catalina Mountains to the east of us, then briefly pale green, then blue, blue, true blue, for the rest of the day until evening when yellow, orange and pink precede sunset to the west. 

Ten years ago, September 11, 2001 was a perfectly clear day in Anchorage and for several days after, the evening TV weather showed those happy yellow suns all across the USA, from Anchorage to New York, Florida to Montana. I sat on the sloping grass in Elderberry Park looking out at the water and mountains across Cook Inlet, wondering "how can the sun be shining everywhere when the world has just ended?" Many people were out, just wandering around in the sun, perhaps exhausted from watching the Towers fall again, and again on the news, perhaps drawn by instinct into the sunlight that we so seldom enjoyed. I remember the clear blue sky and hungering for the 'normal' sight of a plane passing through it. The bright light of vulnerability shone on us; our naïve innocence melted in its glare. It was dawn; we did not know what that day, or future days, would bring. 

It's hard to start over. We are young as a nation, and like any youth, we take ourselves so seriously. After ten years, I am like many Americans, still trying to find myself in the ashes of grief and powerlessness. That is my word for 9-11 – powerlessness. The powerlessness of the passengers on the planes, the powerlessness or the men and women in the Towers, the powerless of firefighters in the stair wells, and police officers in the streets who went to work that day, pulsing, free, living beings. And the powerlessness we all felt as we watched them evaporate and rise to heaven in the spiral of souls we called 'smoke.' We lost them. They disappeared. And with them, they took what we so innocently called "freedom."

We are still struggling. We watch in dismay as those we've elected devote their time to political gamesmanship instead of working together to help us move on. If the passengers on Flight 93 could vote to die to save others; why can't they vote on a debt limit increase? These are good people, who begin their careers in public service with high ideals. It would be easy to judge them, but perhaps compassion is more appropriate. We are still at a crossroads. Their struggle, as superficial and self-serving as it appears, is the heart of our dilemma. Which way do we go? Is there a place of safety? How do we get back to 'normal'? Is there a choice that will move us away from powerlessness?

Luckily, it's not just up to them. In the book 1861, Adam Goodheart writes about events that led up to the Civil War. He compares it to 9-11, an event that 'changed the past as much as the future; rewriting not only our expectations of what was to come but also our sense of what had gone before." His impetus for the book was a collection of letters written just prior to the War, in which a career officer in the US Army stationed in Far West Indian Country, wrestles with his decision of which side to choose in the impending battle that would determine whether we would maintain this union called the United States of America. Though these letters, and his research, Goodheart determined "history is decided not just on battlefields and in cabinet meetings, but in individual hearts and minds."

I think we are most powerful when we focus our hearts and minds on the Four Fundamental Freedoms Franklin D. Roosevelt said everyone in the world should enjoy in his 1941 State of the Union address. These are the paths back to Freedom.

Though our "Freedom of speech and expression" was buried by the dark convergence of electronic media and governmental proclamations of 'right speech' and dissent equated to treason in the years after 9-11, it can be reclaimed. I am a member of the last generation that will remember personal privacy – there are no secrets now. I am a member of the 60's generation that marched with fearless anonymity to protest racism and the Viet Nam war. In my heart, I know privacy and anonymity are gone; but not Freedom. My freedom is recovered if I simply accept that cost of acting on individual conviction is much higher now but the benefit of individual conviction turned into action remains the same.

Though "Freedom of Worship" has been suppressed by the resurgence of fundamentalism, it can be reclaimed. In my world, it's as simple as averting my eyes when I see a woman in Target bearing a burka, instead of staring. I don't need to judge her, or feel sorry for her. In my mind, I know that is Freedom for me, and for her.

Our "Freedom from Want" suppressed by the economic penalty of isolationism and unbridled greed can be reclaimed. My Freedom from Want is regained when I am generous with my time and give to those less fortunate when I can. I can do so because it's good for me, not because they are good enough to warrant it. In my heart, I know that is the true meaning of Freedom from Want.

Our "Freedom from Fear" has been suppressed, not just by the realization that we are not exempt from terror, but by an addiction to adrenalin fed by the media.   My most sobering realization and most dramatic resolution during this month of remembrance is that I must turn off the news. Before 9-11, I admit I seldom watched or read anything but local news. Since then, I have checked three internet news sites several times a day – maybe hourly – not to see what was newsworthy, but as subconsciously assuring myself that we have not been attacked again. Words like "Car bomb", "torture", "evacuate", "flee", "victim", "suicide bomber", "molestation", "devastation", "destroyed", "weakened" and "genocide" are available every day to keep my adrenalin levels high. I suspect they are the key words that increase readership – not the key words that describe world news. These words and the evolution of 'news' into opinions speeches telling us how to think about them hide our Freedom. In my mind, I know Freedom from Fear is choosing my own thoughts and not being confused or controlled by institutionalized fear mongering.

A big storm passed through Tucson last night – layers of dark clouds rushed by; winds ripped branches off trees; rumbles of thunder rattled the dishes in the cupboard; water rushed down parched dry arroya. We even had a rare tornado warning.  Roxy shivered and crept under the covers and I watched lightning flashes through the blinds before we went to sleep.

Big storms are frightening and it is hard to accept that storms (and war) are a natural part of our existence. They do not mean The End even though they can change what has been.   I awoke in the night. The clouds had moved on and the full moon was so bright, I could make out cholla and prickly pears in the open space beyond our back yard. I imagined small critters out there saying "Whew! We made it through another one." Some were undoubtedly swept away by flash flooding, but others survived the torrent. And so will we. We are confused – not weak.

And today here in Tucson, the sun will shine – not because there will never be another storm; but because good times and bad are a natural part of life. Some things I can change and others not. If I hold that one small thought in my heart, and don't spend my day looking for dark clouds on the horizon, then I am free.

All Good, Sister

I’ve been feeling a small anxiety associated with pending retirement. After so many years of thinking about the same big things, I’ve wondered what I’d do with all my time. Will I be depressed? Bored? Right now I’m practicing retirement on a six-week vacation just before my last 12 days of work, and, for all of you who’ve wondered, here’s how it goes.

By 932 AM this morning, I’d listened to the entire podcast of Terry Gross interviewing country singer Rodney Crowell about his new memoir on Fresh Air ; had a cup of coffee with my beloved baby brother, Pat, who’d miraculously spent two days with me before he drove to Phoenix to catch the plane home; stood in the back yard to take photos of rose-colored clouds that nestled on the mountain tops as the sun rose in the east and the full golden moon set in the west; listened to doves, a cardinal and a woodpecker; spotted bunnies with orange ears chomping grass on the golf green; taken Roxy for a 1.2 mile walk (the remnants of a technical career live in my iPhone GPS); enjoyed Greek yogurt and fresh blueberries at my new round dining room table; discovered that the high ceiling in my living room holds great acoustics when I sing “I Know Love is All I Need” along with Rodney; sang as loud as I wanted because I didn't have to worry about bothering the neighbors in a condo; cried a little because those cowboy lyrics told the story of the love I feel for my brother and my whole family, how lucky I am to share life with wonderful friends, the death of my parents, passing of my childhood and life in general; practiced hula dancing (I took my first lesson last week) and put a load of towels and sheets in the washer. There was time for all this before 932 AM.

It’s evening now, and the dark clouds that have been swooping by in the bluster all day are stacking up on the west side of the Catalina’s. The air smells rich and pregnant with possibility. And I wonder where the day went. Time, time, time. So far, what’s different about retirement is having the time to consider the love of family and friends, to breath in the softness of pink clouds and sunrise, to smile at bird songs in cactus and bunnies on the green, to sing along with country songs, and smell the promise of rain in the desert. If that’s all it is, then I think that will be good enough to keep me busy for a long time.

Tomorrow, I just might look for a used guitar on Craigslist so that next time Pat visits, we can sing together. Music was a big in our family because we were part of the pre-TV generation. It's also one of the things that I haven't had much time for in the past 25 years. Now I have time to practice up.

Time, time. Time slowed and stretched to encompass family and friends, memories and dreams, learning to hula (ha!) Time to think slowly. It feels like time for everything.

The cycle of pink skies and moonbeams in the morning, followed by dark clouds and wind at night, reminds me that life just keeps changing. As Rodney says in his song, change happens to us all. "Just like the sun will rise, the night will fall." But that also means that even in the desert, there is always the possibility of rain.

Love is all we need. And as brother Pat is so fond of saying, "It's all good, sister, it's all good."

Keep On Keepin' On -- Arizona, Louis Hastings and the Bill of Rights

They were only 19. Fifty years ago this month, Charlayne Hunter-Gault and Hamilton Holmes, walked across campus at the University of Georgia, the first African Americans to enroll in classes. Imagine the courage it took for these two, whom I would today consider to be children, to walk past cruel and bitter voices of intolerance, to open the door of freedom for all those who followed.

"Vitriol" -- meaning either sulfuric acid or cruel and bitter criticism -- is written in headlines this morning, not related to civil rights, but about whether politicians are inciting violence through vitriolic websites and debates. This obvious question was prompted by a mad man in Tucson, an assassin who aimed for Representative Gabriella Giffords, and did injure her, and also killed John, Christina, Gabe, Dorwan, Phyllis, and Dorothy -- a respected judge, a small girl with great promise, a young man committed to public service, a retired man described as a 'jack of all trades,' a grandmother from New Jersey who sewed for church fundraisers, a woman who married her high school sweetheart who was injured in the shooting.

To attribute political intent to this crime is inappropriate; this killer is more closely related to Louis Hastings who in 1983, set out to 'kill' the remote village of McCarthy, Alaska (he did kill 6 of its 22 residents) than he is to Lee Harvey Oswald. But the question of the responsibility of leaders in their communications is valid. The power of words and their possible unintended consequences is a key element of leadership. I wonder how Arizona, which seems to have become the front line for debate about real and imagined issues related to the constitution, will step up to this new topic.

Turning this over in my mind, I realized I could second-guess our decision to move to Arizona when we retire. But instead, I read the Bill of Rights this morning. The right of assembly, the right to bear arms, trial by jury, cruel and unusual punishment, due process, search and seizure, federal vs. states rights, remain part of our national identity and national debate. And I recall the words of Charlayne Hunter-Gault quoted on NPR when asked how she would like people in 2011 — especially today's college students — to view the civil rights era.

"I think that the thing that we learned back in the day of the civil rights movement is that you do have to keep on keeping on."

I think I'll do that too, in my own small way. Rather than being cowed by vitriol or fear, I will put them in their proper place. When I look at the photos of Charlayne and Hamilton from 1961, I focus on their eyes, not the vitriolic expressions around them. I will keep my eyes on dreams and plans for a happy fruitful future in a wild and beautiful place called Arizona which at times is as prickly as the prickly pear in this photo; I will stand up for what I believe to be right and true but also respect those who see things differently; I will keep family and friends at the forefront, always.

If I keep on keeping on, I will live into the promise that Charlayne and Hamilton, and many others, had in mind when they acted. To do less would be to dishonor their courage and contribution.

Good Morning Starshine!

Sunrise in December, originally uploaded by aryllascott.

Isn't it amazing how song lyrics from our youth just stick with us? I was listening to Oldies while driving around here in Tucson and was amazed that I could easily sing along with early Beatles and Rolling Stones songs that I hadn't heard in years. Lyrics emerged from musty brain-drawers closed forty years ago. How could it be? I could see the long play record spinning on my turntable.

And late last year, when I sneaked outside in my nightie in the cool morning air to look at this sunrise, I smiled, "Good Morning Starshine, it's so good to have you back again" even after just one night. I'm sure there have been many songs written about sunrise since Hair in 1967, but this is the one that comes to my mind. My teenage years are the imprint that defines the poetry of my life.

Good morning 20-11. I think I shall call this year twenty-eleven, not two thousand eleven, as I've done with 2010...there's something about that one extra syllable that makes me just want to drop it. A lot of things will drop away this year -- a long career -- I'm retiring, and my definition of 'home' -- we are moving from Alaska to Arizona. You gotta let go if you want to grab on to new things.

What will all these changes be like? Who knows. But good morning 20-11. Hurray for sunrise, and beginnings.