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We did this to ourselves

/ C.B. Kent / Leave a comment

The thing of it is, we created this mess.

It’s easy to blame, villainize, point fingers and condemn. We’ve taken sides, and we all know our side is the right one, in our heart-of-hearts we know.

Like many of you (ok, none – I know I’m writing this purely for my own amusement and no one is actually reading this blather but me), I’m sitting here in my bubble, hidden away from society behind a keyboard which gives me safety and anonymity to spew forth whatever drivel I choose. Lies, truths, it doesn’t matter. No one is going to hold me accountable. No one cares. And that’s how we’ve gotten here. We just don’t care about one another. We sort of co-exist but it’s not a community, and it’s certainly not the kind of existence that fosters growth and understanding. We are all alien to one another, strange and indifferent, and it’s because we do not have to actually interact with one another in any meaningful way. We share that we are human, but, maybe that’s being generous. We are homo sapiens who happen to occupy the same piece of rock out of the some-quantity-larger-than-the-largest-number-I-can-comprehend of rocks there are in what we casually call “space”. We have taken something unique, wonderful, and maybe even somewhat miraculous, and turned our existence, our humanity, into something quite trivial.

We are heading toward extinction.

Okay, maybe I’m being melodramatic. It’s hard to look out of the bubble and not see the hate, the hate-breeding, the awfulness of our human nature, and still be hopeful. It is painful to know that we are allowing our “have vs have-not” culture to take over and continue to sow discontent among us. It is painful to see how we are destroying one another instead of working harder to build each other up. It shouldn’t be about me winning and you losing; it should be about me winning and ALSO you winning, and maybe you even come out ahead of me. Imagine that, me putting you first, or better, by putting you first I, too, stand to gain?

Isn’t that what loving thy neighbor is about?

We seem to have forgotten what it is to be a neighbor, not just in the “my house is next to your house separated by a fence” way. Being a neighbor is being mindful and aware that you are NOT the only person around and you HAVE to co-exist with other people, not just the ones immediately next to you but ALL of them. You are my neighbor in the grocery store, in the mall, six states away, six countries away. You are only a stranger when I choose to see you that way. 

Co-existing, loving your neighbor, or not, all of this is a choice. And this is why I am terrified of where we are and why I am struggling to see a way forward. We got ourselves here and we desperately need to find a way out.

A reminder to my future self

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Dear future self,

Remember how it feels to be among friends. Remember how meeting strangers and asking them questions about themselves connects you to them. Remember how it feels to hear your friends tell you they miss you. Remember the joy seeing your friends recognized for their achievements, remember the pride you feel for the artisans.

Remember what you need, remember that what fills your tank. It’s not your job, no, it was never your job.

Love,

Me

Fear

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I am afraid.

I’m feeling time, and that makes me afraid.

I’m afraid of what I know, and afraid of what I don’t.

My mother died a year to the day “When the levee breaks” was written. I am still dealing with the loss, the aftermath, today.

I feel like I am both running and running out of my own time. A hamster on a wheel, no direction, just going to keep going. There is no outrunning time, it is always there, it is always one step ahead of me. And so I run, neither towards nor away, with time keeping pace for a while and then, zoom, gone. Sometimes I catch up but that’s the exception not the rule; I can’t keep pace.

And so I am afraid of the time that I am losing, time that even as I write this post is already gone. And I am looking at where I am now, and where I was when my mother died, and I am keenly aware of my time, and of how limited it is, and of how precious it is.

And I want more than just to run for the sake of running. I want to run to something. To joy. To fulfillment. To love. To places I’ve never been and experiences I’ve never had, and to the places and things I’ve loved and want to return to. I want to feel the ache of desire, the pull of longing. I want to remember what it was like to live deliberately. And more than anything I do not want to be afraid anymore.

When the levee breaks

/ C.B. Kent / 2 Comments

When you know an inevitable thing like death is going to happen, you put it out of your mind.

When the inevitable thing, without warning or prompt, gets a timetable, it becomes the centerpiece of your life, on display where you can’t avoid it, no matter which direction you turn.

I accepted that my mother would die long ago; as she aged, I knew the time was getting closer, but I hadn’t considered that other forces would intervene, bringing closer to soon.

The prognosis isn’t great. It’s not the worst it could be, no, and that’s likely coming eventually. I’m angry at the idea that she could suffer. No matter my disagreement with her, I never wished her harm. I never wished a fate such as the one she has before her.

I’ve always known my mother’s eventual death would force my hand in some way. My decisions now have another influential factor now that I know my time with her is actually short.

I can do what I can, which is spend more time with her, get her house in order, take care of things as they happen. Relocation isn’t an option but a more frequent visit schedule is. My life is going to be impacted, this is a fact. I just hope that my absence isn’t going to estrange me from my loved ones. I hope the ones I love will understand this is a temporary thing, and that I need them now more than ever before.

Weathering the storm

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Living in the Northeast, I brace myself for the inevitable every winter. It’s gotten easier over the years; planning and prepping in advance make a huge difference in my ability to cope. Mastering the snowblower doesn’t seem like a big deal but it is when your 3-car driveway is covered in a foot-and-a-half layer of snow. Today’s storm brings me here.

I am, uncomfortably, keenly aware of the isolating feeling a storm creates. There’s no one to make me a cup of tea or pour me a drink when I walk into the house, snow-covered and shivering. It’s worse when the power goes out; sitting in the dark and cold (my next house will have a fireplace) is bearable during the day, but at night, reading by candlelight under a pile of blankets only goes so far. One night like that can be fun. More than that, and all I want to do is sleep to pass the time, and even then, I don’t sleep well or much. I envy my friends living in communities where gathering together is the norm, not the exception.

I think about how privileged I am, to have a solid roof over my head and walls that keep the wind and most of the cold out. I think about my ancestors and how they might have survived brutal conditions. Were they truly of hardier stock? How did the poorest among them survive? Did the poorest, those truly suffering with no support, survive? In the coldest place on earth people choose to live there. Or maybe they don’t have a choice, and they accept, and adapt. Together.

Other people make it easier. As a friend taught me recently, shared pain is lessened; shared joy increased. I would happily plow snow every day for the rest of my life if there was someone on the other side of the door, waiting for me with a cup of tea and a kiss.

 

 

Je suis Nice

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Nine months ago I was walking along the Promenade des Anglais in Nice with a coworker, taking photos of the unbelievably blue Mediterranean with my cellphone. We stopped for a bite at one of the many restaurants under the boardwalk, and we were guided to a table right on the beach. I took a photo of my wine glass casting a shadow on the table, lounges, sand and water in the background. Rarely do my business trips afford me the kind of down-time that permits me to relax, but there, I relaxed, and I stayed that way for all the days I was there. It was remarkable. I vowed to return as soon and as often as possible.

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This photo could be of anywhere, but when the feeling of contentment envelopes me, I know it was taken in Nice.

The evil people of this world will not take that from me.

 

You can’t take it with you

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“Designated beneficiary”. The space on the financial form stumped me. With no heirs, no spouse, no family, who do you leave your “wealth” to? I’m using the term “wealth” here somewhat tongue-in-cheekily, but if I step back for a moment and assess my financial situation, while it’s not considerable, it’s still wealth. It has value. It’s money that I’ve paid into a 401K or an IRA or even a simple savings account. It’s money I hope to have when I eventually retire, and it’s money I won’t need when I’m dead. Unlike the Pharaohs, I don’t plan on having a memorial built into which all my worldly possessions will go, to be someday dug up by a fedora-wearing adventurer.

The reality is that I need an estate plan. Money left in retirement accounts is one small (for me) part of my estate – my “stuff” is another. And then there are things I haven’t even thought of yet. So, for now, let’s talk about getting started.

When should I start estate planning?  This sums it up quite simply, and the answer is “now”. Forbes goes so far as to show you, in eight steps (with pictures!), how to start a conversation about estate planning with others

I’d go so far as to say, have that conversation with yourself first. Step one: “take stock of all your assets”, which may be a daunting process. I do believe you need to set aside time with minimal distraction to do this, and I found that treating it like a brainstorming session helped. Write it all down, in detail, whether on a piece of paper or to a file in Evernote (Jamie Todd Rubin gave some great tips on how to do this the other day: Going Paperless: 6 Steps for Life Continuity Planning in Evernote). If you’re going to go the paper route, just make sure you put that paper somewhere you’ll find it later (or, scan it to a file and shred the paper). If putting details down makes you feel uncomfortable, think about where the details “live” and whether or not the important people in your life can access it in an emergency. If it’s all in your head, and you become incapacitated, how will they get it? It’s something you need to take into consideration.

While it wasn’t specifically estate planning, the financial planner I’m working with had me “take stock” as part of the process. No, it wasn’t easy, but it forced me to look at the whole of it, and to think about how I could better organize it in such a way that I wouldn’t have to go through the “taking stock” every time something changed or needed to change. A job change, for example, may result in a new 401K plan that is managed by a different investment firm, which results in more information you need to keep track of.

Which brings me back to answering the question of “designated beneficiary”. After some consideration and talking to some friends, I decided to designate someone I’m not related to but who I consider family. While we all hope that this designation doesn’t come into play sooner than expected, I feel better for having made this decision on my terms, knowing full well what I was doing, and with an eye to the future.

Death and Vegas

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Perhaps the Sodom and Gomorrah nature of Vegas was why some of my thoughts and conversations this weekend revolved around life and death.

My friend and I were having breakfast one morning and the topic of death came up. Well, of burial, specifically. My mother has already pre-paid for her burial (grave, interment, casket, I think); she’ll be buried next to her mother. I’m sure the necessary paperwork is somewhere I’ll never find it when the time comes.  My understanding is that it’s better (read: more economical) to plan your/your loved ones burial well in advance. And once she’s buried there, and the house sold, the likelihood of me returning to that area will increasingly diminish as time passes. I’ve no love for Florida, and “paying my respects” is an interesting practice that I can’t seem to wrap my brain around. It’s not like the dead “know” you came to say hello (or cry, or shout, or curse or tell stories, or lay flowers or small stones). I realize the ritual is for the living, part of the mourning process for many. We place markers, also not for the dead but for the living; monuments, tributes, “I was here, once” your sign says to those who care to read it. You were here, once, and this is who you were: someone’s mother, daughter, you were loved, you were important to someone or some many someones enough for them to erect a stone for others to see. You Were Here. You Are Gone, Now.

Flying also brings about anxiety of a premature death, and the events of the past week, of the downing of the Malaysian airliner over the Ukraine, had me white knuckling the armrests every time the planes pitched and wobbled.  Reminds me it’s time to get my affairs in order.