Reading, writing...that's what I do.

Love for the printed word, love and belief in ideas.

TELL ME EVERYTHING a novel by Elizabeth Strout

December 15, 2024 2 Comments

In past years, if I sat down to write novels about people connected to one another in various ways; if I focussed on their peccadilloes, proclivities, while presenting the sorrows and joys of the narrator and all the other characters; and if I allowed each book to go deeper, providing more details and truths about these people’s lives…I might be approaching what Elizabeth Strout has artistically achieved in her expansive work, especially in this latest novel: TELL ME EVERYTHING.

The title is apt, Strout focusing on the walks Lucy Barton (LUCY BARTON, LUCY BY THE SEA) and Bob Burgess (THE BURGESS BOYS) have been taking in these most recent novels, starting in the Covid years when Lucy and husband William moved from New York City back to Crosby Maine. Their purpose, to be more isolated, avoid getting the virus… but even better for the creative mind of Elizabeth Strout, her Maine characters once again appearing. OLIVE KITTERIDGE, Strout’s Pulitzer Prize winning novel; because thankfully, Olive is still with us, her blunt Maine view of things forever summarizing the lives of neighbors and friends, she now living in a senior center with some of Strout’s characters from her older work…this allowing Strout to continue her magic, because every one of her characters are real, relatable.

I TAKE A CLASS WITH STROUT AT THE UNIVERSITY OF IOWA

When her career was just beginning, I took Strout’s weekend writing class at the University of Iowa. She focussed on her writing process, how she often spread drafts of one scene over a long table, walking back and froth, reading, editing. This gave her the ability to compare one section with another section, to see how her story, her themes were progressing. She did this consistently, until satisfied with the movement of prose from scene to scene. This intimate look at her writing process made me value her work even more. I saw her as a unique writer of our time; and then I read Strout…read everything she has published.

STROUT: A WRITER WHO NEVER DISAPPOINTS

It fascinates me that Strout proceeded to see her novels as springing from one or two characters. She must have loved Olive, and thus brought her back, a great choice. Certainly, I don’t know the details of Strout’s process. But I have read one book after another, admiring her decision to allow her characters to age, divorce, suffer, look back and mourn their mistakes…even die. Strout’s characters find solace in old friendships, reveal to eager readers what has propelled their lives, mistakes, and peccadilloes, and of course, their loves. Characters become more real to us when we become aware of their younger choices, older discoveries, these appearing on the last page, the final scene, as they live, yet understand their eternal regrets.

It’s a major task that Elizabeth Strout has created for herself. But as you read, you feel the love and care she has has for all of her characters. You admire her ability to take a story thread and allow it to grow, until she finally reveals it purpose, its ending. Her prose is often clipped, which only increases the reality of conversation…we get interrupted; we don’t complete a thought. That’s Strout, but done in a way that makes you feel you are part of the conversation, you are connected to these characters, their strengths, their weaknesses. Yes, read TELL ME EVERYTHING…it’s wonderful. But don’t stop there. GO BACK…her characters are waiting to tell you their stories.

P.S. If you haven’t read Strout, start with OLIVE KITTERIDGE or LUCY BARTON.

A Doctor Examines Mortality, Asks How He Can Help His Patients

December 8, 2024 1 Comment

BEING MORTAL And that is what Gawande emphasizes in this book: choice. The cases he relates are all about allowing the patient to decide: should I have another surgery when death could be less than weeks away?

We are all mortal. We are all going to die. And yet each day when we rise with that virtual list pounding in our heads as to what we have to accomplish, death is never on the list. And it shouldn’t be. But one day it will be–though it may be totally unexpected. Because–yes, we are all mortal.

In his comprehensive and helpful book Being Mortal, Dr. Atul Gawande (Complications, Better, The Checklist Manifesto) once again forges new territory as he educates physicians, other medical personnel and us about the importance of choice when one is severely ill or close to death. Because though doctors are trained to heal and to save, more and more patients and their caregivers realize that how we will be living, the quality of life we will have, should be a major consideration when making difficult decisions about surgery, chemotherapy, clinical trials, etc.

Gawande recounts the story of a daughter whose father was hospitalized with cancer–a tumor growing and filling his spinal column. While driving across the Golden Gate Bridge to her home, she was thinking about her father’s surgery that was scheduled for the following morning and all that the doctor had said. It was almost midnight. But she suddenly realized that she didn’t really know what her father wanted. Yes, the doctor had talked about possible outcomes–but nothing had been settled. She turned around and drove back to the hospital, waking her father and asking him: If the surgery results in you gradually becoming a quadriplegic is that really acceptable? He thought for a while, and finally answered yes. As long as he could eat chocolate ice cream and read he would accept the gradual loss of movement that might occur. The doctor was removing some of the spinal tumor but had stressed that he couldn’t get it all, and the chances of it growing back were strong. So they talked! The daughter and her father had the conversation so that depending on the results of the surgery — if he woke up or if for some unknown reason he didn’t wake up — she knew — no intubation, no Intensive Care Unit for months and months…because that would mean no chocolate ice cream, no reading.

AN ADVERTISEMENT

Gawande writes about Keren Brown Wilson who is credited with creating the model and the term assisted living. She fought for funding and was finally able in 1981 to open Park Place in Oregon, utilizing the following definition of the type of care the facility was offering: Assisted living… is a program that promotes resident self-direction and participation in decisions that emphasize choice, dignity, privacy, individuality, independence and homelike surroundings.

One of the things Wilson assured her clients, something they had asked for: each home or unit would have a lock on its door. Because nursing homes were more like large wards where people had little that they could identify as theirs, and staff had access to their “space” whenever they considered it necessary. Wilson’s experiment was a huge success and assisted living facilities sprung up all over the United States. Some statistics: since 1981 there are 40,000 more assisted living facilities. http://www.assistedlivinghistory.com

The assisted living model includes 24 hour staffing so there is always someone “in house” to provide needed care. Residents have their own home or apartment and they can prepare meals if they choose to, but there is often a community area for eating meals and participating in activities. Today, many senior living residences have a variety of living options: independent and assisted living areas; special care units, so as a client ages or health deteriorates, there is 24 hour nursing care; and also a locked unit for Alzheimer’s and dementia.

The most affecting portion of the book is Gawande’s open discussion of helping his father who also developed a tumor in his spine and slowly found his independent life as a doctor, husband and father slipping away. The irony of researching and writing this book and then being faced with the very same difficult and personal issues of those he had interviewed underlines the strength of this physician-writer.

Certainly, suffering at the end of life is sometimes unavoidable and unbearable, and helping people end their misery may be necessary. Given the opportunity, I would support laws to provide these kinds of prescriptions to people. About half don’t even use their prescription. They are reassured just to know they have this control if they need it. But we damage entire societies if we let providing this capability divert us from improving the lives of the ill. Assisted living is far harder than assisted death, but its possibilities are far greater, as well.

The last sentence rang true for me as I watched my mother experience living alone in her condo, then losing her ability to drive, then finally agreeing to move to a senior center. She did so with the hope that she could reside in independent living. But the beginning of her dementia signaled that assisted living would be her destination. As the months piled on, I often had to remind her to go to dinner or to take her medication. Soon the nurse was in control of that, and as the disease progressed Mom finally lived in the memory unit, something that was very hard for me and my family. There was no other solution. Her dementia prevented her from living with us as she could never be left alone near a stove or other appliance that might do her harm or worse. Reading Gawande’s BEING MORTAL underlined for me that my brothers and I made the right choices.

And that is what Gawande emphasizes in this book: choice. The cases he relates are all about allowing the patient to decide: should I have another surgery when death could be less than weeks away? Decision: no. Hospice: yes. Gawande takes us on his own personal journey of watching Hospice nurses do their work. He is amazed at how they approach a dying client and how they are able to help this person choose what they need as the last journey begins.

Gawande writes: When it is hard to know what will happen, it is hard to know what to do. But the challenge, I’ve come to see, is more fundamental than that. One has to decide whether one’s fears or one’s hopes are what should matter most.

Our Early Loves Can Take Us Places

December 1, 2024 2 Comments

When I was in grade school, I wrote a story about an avalanche. What did I know about that frightening weather occurrence? Very little, except what I had learned from a short description in my geography book. But that’s how writers begin. Amazed by something I knew nothing about, I wanted to ENTER that experience, write about it as if I were a reporter. My version made sure that everyone was OKAY…a happy ending, reflecting what I was reading at the time: Little Women, biographies of English queens…books that carried me away from the couch in our living room.

THE POINT: I was writing. I saved that early work for many years, but then finally let it go. One piece of notebook paper, with a star on it…given to me by my teacher, who probably told her someone: I’ve got this student in my third grade class. She thinks this is what writers do; probably copied most of the words from our geography book, but it was an attempt, so I tried to encourage her.

THE AFTERMATH

And yes, I kept writing. I had a best friend and we created a story about ourselves: The Two Tornadoes of Wood Street and Our Country: Jean and Beth. And I TRULY BELIEVE….that is how a writer begins. You make stuff up. So I did, falling asleep at night, eventually keeping a diary, moving on to short stories when I was in high school. Was I good at this? My creative writing teacher did encourage me. BUT EVEN THEN, there were students in my class that eclipsed what I wrote. THE STRUGGLE had begun. And yes, I am still writing, still getting rejections, but also being told I have a voice and need to keep going. That I will do.

FINDING A PATHWAY

And Dear Readers, you probably remember a particular moment when the trajectory of your life took shape: you knew what path you wanted to explore. Sometimes it occurs out of necessity: you need a job, an income. I have friends from early years who became doctors, lawyers. But there were also nurses, researchers, artists, musicians, teachers, scientists, lawyers, rock music composers and entrepreneurs in so many different fields.

And it is definitely true, that what we are exposed to in our youth can often help create a final decision, though we are also allowed to change our minds. I went from teaching to nursing…two careers demanding lots of reading, studying, preparation…not to mention patience and love. My final take: both were awesome choices.

AND NOW? I write. Articles, book reviews, novels…I have written three, all unpublished. Two of them I have not read for years, but still think of their characters, their lives, asking myself: is there good writing in those early attempts? Maybe, probably.

But in this moment, I am fulfilled when you read my posts…thanks so much. Writing will always take me places. And as for the photos above: my book of short stories; also a novel and a nonfiction work that I highly recommend.

When You Don’t Get the Window Seat

November 24, 2024 11 Comments

This post recalls an experience many of us have had. And lately, when I fly, I never get a window seat–my husband is on the aisle, me in the middle…

But I have memories of being in the window seat, traveling alone from the Midwest to California to see my grandchildren…watching the land drop away, the green fields of Iowa, the mountains of the west. And when flying to Chicago, the sight of Lake Michigan and the skyline so thrilling…beauty from the air.

But on this particular trip, the woman in the window seat kept the shade down EVEN DURING LANDING. Nothing to do, I told myself. This is America, where tolerance needs to apply in many situations. Just let it go, even if travel might make you cranky and eager to say “Don’t you want to look out at Chicago, watch us glide over this amazing city and land?” But I stay quiet, though on some issues, maybe I need to offer some words.

So when flying from the west coast to Chicago–I did do something.

I read a book. I read Ta-Nehisi Coates, BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME.

And the truth…I will never be the same.

BETWEEN THE WOLRD AND ME begins…

And one morning while in the woods, I stumbled suddenly upon the thing, Stumbled upon it in a grassy clearing guarded by scaly oaks and elms, And the sooty details of the scene rose, thrusting themselves “between the world and me”...(those words) taken from a Richard Wright poem.

We all know Richard Wright. We read NATIVE SON in high school. And in this particular poem, Wright comes upon the remains of a tar feathering/burning, only to grasp that his future might be the same. And Coates, writing this book to his son, leaps from the scene to the present day. Some things are now outlawed. Some are not.

This is a book about Coates’ fear for his black body. And for me, this book is a WINDOW on white privilege, on the impact of words that have come from my mouth: bad neighborhood, ghetto, white flight, gangs with guns and drugs, working the system…

SO WHAT ABOUT YOUR HISTORY, MY HISTORY…

Ask yourself what language you might unconsciously use to denigrate a group of people–and do it casually, like it’s really no big deal. Because it’s so a part of most of us we don’t hear it or see it.

In the past, the rhyme, Eeny, meeny, miny, moe, Catch a–the object of which was changed to tiger. And if at any time I knew or even thought the original word, it horrifies me.

Blame our culture, inbred in daily living. Life without thought. Ignorance! Do we ever stop to ask ourselves why we say or once said…. these things? No. Did my white body prevent me from digging through decades of pre-judgment, from seeing clearly that some of my choices smacked of fear? Yes. And then finally I had to ask, why?

Because it was ingrained by ancestors, forebears, the populace that came before me. They handed out a well-crafted picture–just handed it over and said: “Here, believe this, because this is how it is for you and how it will always be.” Were they good, loving people? Maybe. Were they ignorant, the product of the times, the whispered words, the judgments. Definitely. Christians also. (Think of the election of Barak Obama and how those old tropes played out, sometimes disguised…but certainly there.)

FIGHT WHAT IS HANDED DOWN

Separation. Fear. Build a wall–don’t drive there after dark; don’t shop there. Don’t take the bus. My husband took the bus to college. NEVER an incident. So now our grandchildren might ask WHY NOT TAKE THE BUS? And since reading BETWEEN THE WORLD AND ME, these phrases, these tossed off and accepted ideas that are still part of the nomenclature…they stand out in my mind like darts of poison.

But what can I do when my policeman relative used to toss it off casually–those Chicago neighborhoods, etc? I can try to understand, and he’ll claim experience, though that works on both sides–my black brother-in-law from South Africa, when he was still alive, saw the big picture. He was a physician, drove an expensive car, and thus was often stopped…DWB–driving while black.

AND WHAT DID I DO?

I taught in a high school with a diverse population (one of the best things that ever happened to me). But regardless, this being something I could not help…I brought a few pre-conceived ideas with me, until my dear friend Linda M. helped wake me up. Her mantra: WE NEED TO SHARE THE LAND. Yes!

And not just share a dying neighborhood or a crumbling public housing building, which was often scorned by those who had so much more. Better to wake up, understand the economics, never make general assumptions. Try to discern WHY some things happened to others, whey they were blamed, despite their every effort to change things.

My older daughter’s master’s thesis in Urban Planning examined the rationale behind housing projects in Chicago–many of which have been torn down, thank God, but some do still remain. I read portions of her reference books that pointed to a major fact: a human being needs to have a say, needs to identify with a dwelling, a doorway, a garden. That builds pride, leads to care. Pushed in one direction without agency of choice will present attachment. Ever read RAISIN IN THE SUN? Ever think about living in a building 20 stories high with no sunlight in the stairwell, one or two windows lighting your abode, and the inability to step outside on a deck or a patio, feel the sun on your face? Sounds a bit like a prison. It was.

Many of us believe we have struggled for safety. Coates writes: To survive the neighborhoods and shield my body, I learned another language consisting of a basic complement of head nods and handshakes. I memorized a list of prohibited blocks. I learned the smell and feel of fighting weather…I recall learning these laws clearer than I recall learning my colors and shapes, because these laws were essential to the security of my body.

Coates fears that someone will destroy his body, because he is black–and for no other reason. He references the firm and physical discipline of his parents. The LESSON all black mothers and fathers teach their children: avoid the police when walking the streets. Be careful. Watch yourself. Your life depends on it.

DID YOU ONCE SEE THIS?

What thoughts went through your mind, Dear Reader, when you saw a black mother scolding her child in a store, or pulling that child toward her? Negative right? Now read this from Coates as he addresses his son:

Now I understood it all…black people love their children with a kind of obsession. You are all we have, and you come to us endangered. I think we would like to kill you ourselves before seeing you killed by the streets that America made. That is a philosophy of the disembodied,of a people who control nothing, who can protect nothing, who are made to fear not just the criminals among them but the police who lord over them with all the moral authority of a protective racket. It was only after you that I understood this love, that I understood the grip of my mother’s hand. She knew that the galaxy itself could kill me, that all of me could be shattered and all of her legacy spilled upon the curb like bum wine. And no one would be brought to account…because my death would not be the falt of any human but the fault of some unfortunate but immutable fact of “race”…

Coates recounts his first trip to Paris, a joyful-sad experience for a man bursting from the historical bonds of American society. Sitting in a Parisian garden he writes: At that moment a strange loneliness took hold…It occurred to me that I really was in someone else’s country and yet, in some necessary way, I was outside of their country. In America, I was part of an equation–even if it wasn’t a part I relished. I was the one the police stopped on 23rd Street in the middle of a workday…I was not just a father but the father of a black boy. I was not just a spouse but the husband of a black woman, a freighted symbol of black love. But sitting in the garden, for the first time I was an alien, a sailor–landless and disconnected. And I was sorry I had never felt this particular loneliness before–far outside of someone else’s dream.

Yes, we all have dreams. But they have to be ours. SHARE THE LAND, let others have their dreams without a catch. J Beckett says in his Goodreads Review of Coates’s book: The tears came because Coates, in a few pages, captured, exposed, unlocked and translated what so many people of color, so many frustrated and frightened parents, and so many disenfranchised and nomadic youth found so difficult to dictate and explain. For them, the feelings were there but the words simply would not come. I wept because Coates’ story was my story..

And part of Coates’ story is my story–it’s my inability to fully see and understand. I have a bigger window now on that story, even though what I saw was not my plane landing at O’Hare in Chicago, but the words on the page bright and vivid calling out to me. Read this book. Let me know if his words touch you also.

Adjusting to New Developments

November 18, 2024 5 Comments

Dear Readers: some of you have seen this piece, as it was posted last week…but most of you have NOT, because of a glitch in the mailing process. So thanks for reading.

Photos of the meal you’re eating, the dress you might buy, the garbage cans left out on a neighbors’ driveway, the rash developing on your face–all are examples of photos that will probably be deleted from your phone, after they have fulfilled their purpose. Because now, in the age of the cell phone, the ability to carry a camera has changed the way we think about photos, and how we use them. It was a new development in our society, but now it is common to almost everyone. But is that always a good thing?

A BOOK ABOUT FACEBOOK PHOTOS and MORE

In his book, TERMS OF SERVICE, Jacob Silverman, (who has been cited as a “thoughtful critic of our evolving digital lifestyles”) points out the negatives (excuse the pun) in our picture-snapping culture: “Photos become less about memorializing a moment than communicating the reality of that moment to others.”

He expands this idea, claiming that often the purpose of the picture is not to live in and capture the moment, but to deal with the anxiety we may feel at that moment–others doing things more interesting, more fulfilling than we are. Thus the photo has entered into a timeless competition. Silverman also believes that party-goers may forget about experiencing fun, preferring to get into a Facebook Photo that announces online: YES, I’M HAVING FUN. LOOK AT ME!

And I find it interesting, that in this current time (which will probably become even more frenetic and not disappear) we feel the need, NOT ONLY to send photos of all that we do, BUT we ALSO go somewhere to practice MINDFULNESS, to be still, listen to our breathing, so we can learn to live in the moment. REALLY? How ironic.

A BRIEF HISTORY OF THE PHOTO

So let’s take a step back, because before all of THIS, the constant need to capture an action or a moment in time and shout it to the world–there was the mind, there was thought. So can we look at it this way:

1. The purpose of a photo was to PRESERVE a human’s image: to help us know that person and to remember them. Previously, those with wealth sat for a portrait painted by either a really good artist or an itinerant one–but the job got done, and thus we know what Elizabeth the First of England supposedly looked like, as well as George Washington etc. You get the picture!

2. The purpose of a photo also became its ability to record history. Yes, there are paintings of battles, coronations, but they took months. Photographs were more immediate and allowed for a variety of views. Think Mathew B. Brady (May 18, 1822 – January 15, 1896) a photo-journalist, one of the first American photographers, whose name became synonymous with photos of the Civil War.

3. As the decades progressed, the daguerreotype and the tintype gave way to a process where a dry gel on paper or film, replaced the photographic plate, so a photographer could take photos without the boxes of plates and toxic chemicals previously needed. Film was developed by George Eastman, of Rochester, New York, in 1884. As early as 1888, Eastman’s Kodak camera was available to consumers. His slogan: “You press the button, we do the rest.” By 1901 the public could take photos using the famous Kodak Brownie, a great little camera that took pretty decent photos.

4. And that truly was the beginning–because you didn’t need to hire someone to paint your portrait. Families could frame photographs, hang them in their homes, honoring grandparents, remembering weddings, births, or to help the aching heart missing those who were miles away. In some cultures, people even took photos of their loved ones in coffins surrounded by flowers. All of this being about remembering, preserving, honoring: but also BEING IN THAT MOMENT.

A TALISMAN OF MEMORY – MINDFULNESS ANYONE?

You could say that holding a photo of your sweetheart as a GI during World War II or glancing at one taped to your flight deck as a pilot during any conflict, became a moment of memory but also mindfulness. The photo carried you away from the trauma, and for brief moments you could be present to the person you loved. Photos were, and for many still are a talisman of memory. Photos ignite thought.

But maybe not as much now. The ability to take photos of things truly worthy of remembering, but also of things you might forget in 15 minutes–has changed our attitudes toward the photos themselves. We take a photo and delete. Why? Because we worry about how we look–we probably always did, but film was costly and you didn’t SEE the photo until after it was developed. Photo phones changed that process, and truly changed what picture-taking meant in the moment. Because it’s not a moment–it’s a photo-shopped or deleted moment until the right moment comes along!

THE POLAROID OR LET’S GET NAKED

First we had the Polaroid. Now we have the cell phone! The Polaroid saved folks from taking your roll of film to the local drugstore to be developed…and when you return for it, you have to meet with a manager or maybe even a policeman. (This happened to a friend of mine as recently as the 90’s. She took some photos of her children naked in the bathtub, too much anatomy showing. Her children, but they had to make sure…)

The Polaroid did allow people to take such photos–you developed them right in your home. Now the concept of privacy isn’t on anyone’s radar, some people having been labeled sex offenders, because they were not aware of the dangers of clicking without thinking first…their images being traced back to them. Such images could hardly fit into some nostalgia category or talisman of memory. Again–change change change.

PHOTO HISTORY

I have taken photos forever, and have been extremely grateful to my husband who’s a great photographer. I love our family, want to remember them at all their amazing stages. I also treasure the homes we have lived in. But I didn’t take these photos so everyone would say WOW. I believe photos of family should be protected and treasured. I don’t think everyone needs to see them, and I’m sure we are not that protected online.

Jacob Silverman would probably agree with me. He writes: Social networking is a staple of modern life, but its continued evolution is becoming increasingly detrimental to our lives. Shifts in communication, identity, and privacy are affecting us more than we realize or understand…(he discusses) the identity-validating pleasures and perils of online visibility; our newly adopted view of daily life through the lens of what’s share-worthy; and the…(ability of ) social media platforms—Facebook, Google, Twitter (X), and more—to mine our personal data for advertising revenue…POINT: (is invading our privacy)

I treasure the photo albums I have been keeping for years, and our children enjoy seeing themselves at any age, and in many different places. If I share online, it is infrequent, and I am judicious as to what I share. My photos mean something to me. They stir up memories, create thought. The photo leaps beyond to the smells, sounds and feelings of that day, that moment.

What do your photos mean to you? As a dear and wonderful friend of mine once told me in her practical and knowing way: if your house catches on fire, grab your photos albums. Everything else can be replaced. Well readers, maybe the message is: take better care of your printed photos, but also watch what you take on your phones!

Are We “Trailing Clouds of Glory”?

November 3, 2024 5 Comments

Sometimes I yearn for an answer, and thus would love your thoughts concerning this: why is it that as we age, our ability to accept change becomes harder and harder. Is it the long span of health and independence that we take for granted…or does our human functioning disallow us from accepting our mortality? As Wordsworth wrote in his poem, Intimation of Immortality, children might arrive in the world: But trailing clouds of glory do we come From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!

Thinking of those words, maybe it is because children do not have as firm a stake in the world as adults do. Throughout life, all of us must compensate and adapt. Sometimes it is only for a short while. Example: At the age of five, after eye surgery, I wore bandages on both eyes for a week. But a friend who is in her sixties, recently developed MS, Multiple Sclerosis. Now her ability to compensate and adapt will color the rest of her life. If we lose an arm, we are still the same person, that hasn’t changed us, though for the rest of life we need to learn to compensate with a prothesis.

And even if we live with the scars from a traffic accident or a fire–we are integrally the same person, though often feeling great sorrow over our loss. And though we might struggle to adjust, learn to love the altered person we now present to the world, within we have not truly changed. Which makes it so wrong when someone might label us, the speaker doing so to distance himself or herself from what they might experience in the future–because it is there…that deep-seated human fear, some more than others disallowing it when they risk life and limb regardless.

DEALING WITH PHYSICAL DIFFERENCES

It is possible, that we instinctively know our bodies are fragile, and being human, we crave distance from the pain and suffering of others. But even as a child, I began to realize that I might give pain to someone else when I wanted to look away from their suffering. (Children know and often say right out…what happened to you?)

Maybe I found my way into nursing to better understand that human reaction, to acknowledge and be more caring. I believe each of us, no matter the shape of our body, the losses or problems we might live with, deserves the acknowledgement of a whole human being. And because I believe this, I have learned not to run and open doors for the handicapped, unless explicitly asked to do so. Once, I approached a blind man, telling him that the usual entrance to the mall was blocked by decorations. He whirled on me, told me he knew exactly where he was going. I learned that day that I had invaded his space, and in that particular situation, I was wrong.

BUT DO WE TAKE FOR GRANTED OUT BODIES, HOW WE CARE FOR THEM?

Like lingerie. Don’t even try being innocent in certain bras—immediately you’re a tigress. To push the fantasy, the models’ photos are air-brushed into perfection, revealing completely bared buttocks in thongs, and facial expressions that looked pre-, post- or in medias res orgasm. Now that’s some lingerie! And yes, the time-line has crashed over the edge of the flow chart.

So where do we go from here? A scary question that makes me acutely aware of the attributes I have or more accurately, don’t have. The women peering out from magazines, television, the internet have perfect skin, defined arms and legs, breathtaking décolletage, slim stomachs, firm breasts and buttocks, incredible flowing hair, sexy everything. How can I be happy with my aging self when the world around me has raised the bar to unattainable heights?

In my twenties, the bar just wasn’t that high. I wore ordinary bras. Everyone did. I can’t even remember the nondescript panties. If you did shop Fredericks of Hollywood, you were close to being a slut, though there was the trousseau lingerie you received at wedding showers—considered totally acceptable by your girlfriends. But Grandma Harriet? She’d have a seizure now. Because why do we have to look like we all work in a bordello? I’m aging, but also concerned as to how to encase my anatomy. What’s a girl to do?

GET OVER IT!

Maybe take the sad trip to VS or some other lingerie department. We’ve all been there, standing in the dressing room naked, looking at sagging breasts, and for some, baby-making tummies, and for others, I-like-desserts-too-much tummies. You check out the fine wrinkles in your knees and the occasional spider-veins, and either cry or just keep sighing as the fluorescent light transforms your skin into a lovely grey, revealing every facial flaw. (Advice: don’t ever bend your face over your mirror—gravity will allow you to see where you’ll be at 90, sans Botox. HELP!!! ) So you stifle the urge to break the full-length mirror, telling yourself: stay cool. Then you suck everything in and try on THE BRA. At VS it’s probably called the “I feel sexy bra,” though you don’t. Because this is the sad trip, the one you take when your lover drops you despite the surprise party you threw him complete with stripper. Or your longtime boyfriend was relieved to get transferred to Australia, or your husband has revealed he’s doing it with the dog trainer. JUST KIDDING! But you’re familiar with the drill. Time will always win!

P.S. My readers know, that the love and help you give those close to you is truly the beauty in your life. But ever so often, we look in the mirror…and just wonder. SO SMILE and thanks for reading

Reading, writing...that's what I do.

TELL ME EVERYTHING a novel by Elizabeth Strout