wendylewis-blog

[wendylewis-blog]

06.25.2020

It’s been a month today since George Floyd was murdered beneath the unrelenting knee of a dead-eyed policeman who I will not name. His fellow officers did nothing to stop him. Our city, the nation, and then—the world—exploded with rage and into activism. Everyone came together inside the nefarious embrace of a pandemic, masked and united, to protest yet another atrocity hurled into the Black community.

A powerful wave rose after that horrible event and I won’t break down all the details because we all know what happened next, and continued for many weeks, or at least, our versions of it. What I know is that Black voices and bodies came surging to the surface of the streets, in videos, podcasts and social platforms, in articles and interviews. I live in the country, relying on news, mostly via the internet, and I have learned so fucking much in the last month from the Black voices I’ve been listening to. I am a sixty-three year old white woman and I have always considered myself an ally but I remain a functioning if resisting-the-label racist and I have more to learn every day. I am getting there. I am staying as humble as I can.

Just last night, my youngest daughter called me out for a few things I said in a certain way that she took issue with. I got defensive, because I think of myself as an advocate, but she was right. Thank you, Kitty. Don’t stop! I want to continue learning to understand every minute detail from behind the blinders of my white privilege and my age, having grown up with so much white brainwash.

This is what we need to be doing, white ppl—friends, allies. We need to remain extremely humble, even if we believe we’ve been lifelong advocates for racial equity. We have not done enough or known enough and we have to do it right now and learn and listen and seek out Black voices and continue doing it until change is not only visible but viable and put into working action. Write your representatives weekly, daily if you wanna. They need to know what their constituents demand or else they will lose their jobs.

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One hidden historical event that many of my white friends agreed they had never heard about, is the massacre in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Eighteen hours of destruction rained down on a thriving Black neighborhood (May 31-June 1,1921)—eerily aligned with the murder of a Black man in Minneapolis ninety-nine years later almost to the date which spawned a worldwide revolution. In Tulsa, 300 people were killed, hundreds were hurt and thousands of buildings were destroyed. It is considered to be one of the worst incidences of racially motivated violence in the history of America. Do you wanna know what preceded this massacre? You should click on my link above, but just in case you can’t take the time, I’m gonna tell you, in brief—even though you might wanna tuck in and learn a longer version of it. Jus’sayin.

A shoeshiner, Dick Rowland, had to ride an elevator to the top floor of the Drexel building because Black people were denied access to more readily available restrooms on ground level. No one really knows what happened when he stepped into the elevator operated by 17-year-old white woman, Sarah Page, but the historical museum of Tulsa imagines he may have stepped on her foot and she screamed. I’m thinking, she probably freaked because he got onto the elevator at all! He was seen running from the elevator, I’m sure, fearing for his life because she was young, white and had screamed. He was subsequently accused of raping her.

C’mon. Let’s get real. What can happen during the course of a short elevator ride and srrsly, what Black man would EVER have taken the chance of raping a white woman, especially in 1921, when the outcome would have surely cost him his life.

Here’s the thing. The Greenwood area in 1921, was a thriving business community and was sometimes referred to as the Black Wall Street of Tulsa, serving its 10,000 Black residents. I immediately jump to the FACT that white ppl don’t wanna support Black ppl if they are doing more than surviving, when they are becoming successful and gaining access to our way of life.

The riot broke out after an article on the incident was published in the Tulsa Tribune afternoon newspaper, which also said on its editorial page that a lynching was imminent. Crowds, of both Black and white people, gathered outside the courthouse. Twice, a group of armed African American men, mostly veterans of World War I, arrived on the scene fearing a lynching and offered their assistance to the police to protect Rowland. As they were leaving the second time, a white man tried to disarm one of the Black veterans and a shot was fired, triggering the riot, with whites pouring into the all-black Greenwood district. USA Today

It took 80 years for Tulsa to acknowledge the massacre as a racial atrocity.

(pause—take that in—80 fkn years)

I had seen the Watchmen series (Hulu/HBO) months ago and thought the opening episode that set the stage for the series was fictionalized. It’s shocking and embarrassing as hell, believing myself an advocate, to not know about that horrific event. Of course, it wasn’t in the history books when I was in school and I’m gonna guess it STILL ISN’T. I really hope I’m wrong. I’ll investigate that over the weekend. Having discovered, over the last month, that the Tulsa massacre was historically documented, I revisited Watchmen and it was a totally different experience understanding the context intended. I highly recommend. I say again, I highly recommend.

Also, if you haven’t seen 13th I hope you’ll add that to your watch list.

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Meanwhile—addressing the White House cronies:

Reading this article in Medium was so difficult but I could not deny its truth. I posted a comment in protest, however, saying that there are so many of us in this country who are NOT subscribed to the darkness and confusion issuing from our nation’s capitol.

TEASER from linked article: I don’t use the term as an insult — the American idiot. I mean it in a precise way, as I try to remind people. For the Greeks, “idiot” carried a precise and special meaning. The person who was only interested in private life, private gain, private advantage. Who had no conception of a public good, common wealth, shared interest. To the Greeks, the pioneers of democracy, the creators of the demos, such a person was the most contemptible of all. Because even the Greeks seemed to understand: you can’t make a functioning democracy out of…idiots.

Consumer tip: T-shirts!  Support Black clothing lines! I love T-shirts. I’ve linked only one option and there are many more. Scroll down the main page for a list of Black-owned grocery stores, book stores, coffee shops and brunch spots—and feel free to Google the same in your location. Let me know what you find.

I’ll leave you with this. My nephew is production manager for a tap dance crew out of NYC. Enjoy! Here’s Dorrance Dance.

Please leave notes here, subscribe to my page and talk to me. We need to be communicating right now, more than ever. Keep love alive.

[wendylewis-blog]

05.18.2020 /MondayMonday

Monday Monday / can’t trust that day / Monday Monday /sometimes it just turns out that way / Oh Monday morning you gave me no warning of what was to be / Oh Monday Monday how could you leave and not take me—

Saturday was full of garden prepping and I felt pretty damn satisfied when the rain arrived Saturday night, continuing all day Sunday as predicted. Prior to the rain, I was able to get the rest of the tomato plants in, herb pots filled, and all other areas prepped with chicken manure garnered from my neighbor (who runs a thriving coop) to nourish seed potatoes, bush bean, radish, swiss chard, cuke and collard green seeds. Now that the yard has enjoyed a full soak I’ll finish planting today and watch my garden grow. Woot!

I’m not a great gardener and certainly not an obsessive one. It’s pretty much trial and error, all the time. I dunno—maybe that’s how gardening actually works. But—in the Summer of Corona, maybe I’ll have the time and energy to maintain it. In years past, I would get a garden put in, but as work increased throughout the season I’d lose interest while temperatures climbed, hornets, ground bees and weeds rivaling Little Shop of Horrors took over. I would bounce between shame and apathy, harvesting what miraculously survived my woeful neglect. In the fall, I would begrudgingly chop it all back just before the first snow, cover it with straw and forget about it until the next year when I would progressively disappoint myself for another summer. Mayyyyybe this year I’ll get it right. Plus—we’ll save money feeding ourselves. 

I’ve been pumping up the jam on cooking again, in the ebb and flow. I made a slow-roasted Korean gochujang chicken last night surrounded by smashed gold potatoes—even made the gochujang paste from scratch. I covet an Asian market closer to me in Cannon Falls, but I made do with what I had and/or could substitute and came pretty damn close to the real thing. 

That segues nicely into the topic of what I really need. More importantly, what I can make for myself instead of purchasing and/or doing without. Imagine doing without. I had a craving for French dressing this week and just made my own—like, duh! I discovered a plethora of brown mustard seeds in my spice cupboard and will make mustard once we get low—it’s crazy how easy it is and the money it will save because coarse ground mustard is expensive for a tiny jar. I’ve made myriad salsas (from borcha to verde), homemade crunchy/clumpy granola,  have been making sandwich bread for a month (saved $20 so far) and next on my list is flora-building kraut and kimchee. Clearly, cooking isn’t for everyone and tastes are varied, but you can easily even whip up a homemade Taco Bell Crunch Wrap Supreme in your own kitchen if you’re having a craving for fast food you miss. 

Beyond that, what can I do without? Well, I can do without a lot. I’ve honed this skill as an artist over my lifetime, but it’s fast becoming an alarming, spotlit political platform instead. I’ve been making some noise lately (a previous post in this blog) about monopolizing bullies like Amazon (Frontline investigative report linked again if you missed it), who not only underserves their employees but also targets independent book and music stores in addition to myriad local goods providers, swallowing friendly competition like a nefarious grey whale scoops up krill. (Not dissing on you, grey whale...just using you anecdotally.)

The pandemic is revealing, in harsh and glaring light, a trend that has been becoming normalized in our society for decades without us really noticing—until now. When my kids were babies in the late 80′s, I remember politics employing integrity on either side of the aisle (OpEd by MN Republican Dave Durenberger I recently posted on FB). But, over the decades, deregulated  capitalism + consumerism has led us into a full scale war with—ourselves! Financial gain rests on one side of the justice scale and the sustainability of humanity rests on the other. 

That’s what it looks like to me—the brainwash is so greedy and stealthy. I grew up in a religious cult so I know something about it after living through it and spending years of therapy in an effort to recover from it. Some of us are demanding to return to work recently, packing restaurants and bars (Wisconsin) long before it’s safe to do so and against the advice of medical experts who are only trying to save our lives! I get it—the frustration—but it’s really dangerous, ppl. 

This smells like social suicide to me. 

Why would we take the risk to jump into that emotionally charged fog just to prove a point? There is too much to lose. 

I fkn really truly feel for every small biz owner, every self-employed person (me) every restaurant owner and their employees (my daughter) who are struggling—it’s difficult and scary. I don’t know how it will look six months from now. I hope communities will pull together and creative solutions will be instigated. I believe in human beings. 

None of us in the middle/lower-middle class will escape the brunt of this. Those with money will have a different anxiety that I can’t understand, but at least they can pay for services, enjoy good health care benefits and houses that aren’t compromised. Still, they will lose their security and retirement, which I’m sure feels terrifying for them. I have neither, so at least I don’t have to suffer that loss. 

Is it possible we are evolving away from our innate survival instincts though, attaching like weasels to a political stance vs staying alive? Not looking good right now. America is not attuned to humility or losing. Is it more worthy to be right vs embracing truth? Ahhhh—sorry, I guess “truth” is another sticky wicket—what each and everyone thinks that means. Slippery slopes. We might be doomed if we continue on this way. Fuck. It feels really dark right now. 

The virus doesn’t give a flying fk if we choose to flip off the rules of our governors screaming instead for our “rights”—our “freedom”—our “livelihoods” and flood into the streets, unmasked and angry. The virus will win, every time. It laughs at our arrogance and ego mad gesticulating. 

Hm. Well. I guess it’s gonna play out one way or another. I really hope I’m wrong and that everyone’s pride wins and doesn’t spread the virus. But it’s not likely. 

So. I’ll return to my garden. Hoe the weeds. Tend to the plants. Hope for the best. 

Be brave. Stay safe. Wear your mask. Lovelove. 

[wendylewis-blog]

05.14.2020 /MamasDay+M-Th

Mamas’ Day

My friend Annie sent me a link this morning. I’m embarrassed that I never knew the actual history of Mothers’ Day.  I’ve made the grave mistake for years, it appears as of this morning, dismissing the event as just another Hallmark holiday created to ramp up national consumerism—out of sincerity or duty. Actually, the bigger story has been omitted from American history. The patriarchy (not YOU, men I love) strikes again! There is real feminist significance attached to this day, which deserves not only our attention—but also, our reverence. 

Teaser. “Mothers’ Day”—with the apostrophe not in the singular spot, but in the plural—actually started in the 1870s, when the sheer enormity of the death caused by the Civil War and the Franco-Prussian War convinced American women that women must take control of politics from the men who had permitted such carnage. Mothers’ Day was not designed to encourage people to be nice to their mothers. It was part of women’s effort to gain power to change modern society.  

Thank you, Heather Cox Richardson. I suggest following her with an easy click at the end of the link and/or follow her on Twitter. She posts daily, is politically savvy and keeps it concise/in-depth/readable. 

After canceling the initial Mothers’ Day plan with H/G/bbE/K because of bad weather, which would have put us inside the house, Kitty ended up in CF anyway to grab items I’d purchased for her at Costco. We spent an hour outside in the chilly grey afternoon by the fire pit after gathering kindling and firewood. She brought me brownies, a herby Italian verde sauce she’d made and a bottle of rye whiskey. H/G/bbE surprised me an hour later with a request via text to come into the yard in five minutes and brought tomato and pepper plants (woot!) for my garden. We all watched Ezra TV in the driveway for an hour. We especially enjoyed the episode featuring him teething on the steering wheel. Creative work, little man! 

After they left, I poured myself a stiff drink and stared out the studio window into early evening. A gentle rain was falling. I let circumstance go, let sadness and angst go. I washed my turgid blackboard down and tried to embrace some peaceful emptiness. I was in bed long before 10pm, sliding willingly into the time warp sleep provides for me lately. It was another bittersweet time with my people—not touching, not sitting at a table together, not able to relax into each other the way we would have a couple months ago. But, they are my family and it is never a diminishing return to be with them. Thank you for driving down to see us even though we had called the gathering off. It was a good Mothers’ Day. I love you all more than I can express!

My dreams that night were flush with all things post-apocalyptic. I was in an office building transformed into a flophouse of endless lonely cubicles, bare mattresses thrown down on synthetic grey carpet, bland tan fabric divider walls too short and porous to provide any privacy, a random empty chair here and there—askew, the bathroom’s flickering florescent light pulsing numbly through its plastic diamond-textured ceiling panel. I felt a disconnected calm inside me—a dead calm as I moved through the building. Everyone I saw in there was a stranger—except for an old bandmate I ended up in bed with— so impossible and surreal. It wasn’t the act, gratefully omitted, but the aftermath scenario instead—exposed, mannequin-esque bodies, no desire, no connection, no tenderness—only his crushing possessiveness after I explained that I had many other lovers even though I knew they didn’t matter either. I turned his noise off undramatically, easily as his panic escalated—the click of a switch—like turning off bad radio. He vanished, seemed to dematerialize on the dark street, leaving only strangers hanging on the corners, propped against buildings, inert yet somehow, guardian—but I felt nothing—nothing at all. Alive but dead inside. 

Mon

I woke up at 4:30AM. Shared dream details with B before he headed off to a fresh pot of coffee and work. I always benefit from his insightful (often hilarious) perspective on my intrepid darknesses, asleep or awake. In a previous issue of Lockdown, I’d queried how the virus and physical distancing might affect our intimacies going forward, the dream standing as the latest metaphor. I laid back down, folding into the quiet of my bed and may have slept awhile longer, still rising before dawn. 

Hours were spent in my garden that morning turning over soil in the crisp air, laying straw tiles separated from the bale in the wheelbarrow after cutting the blue plastic string. I laid them over the mulch that had cooked over the summer of 2019, which I’d lovingly spread a few days prior, prepping the ground for seeds that are en route to me: bush beans, marigolds, arugula, mustard, zinnia and nasturtium seeds from my sister, cilantro and basil from Etsy and those MD tomato and pepper seedlings from H+G. It’s been difficult to find non-GMO seeds around here—the same way it’s still hard to find TP, hand sanitizer, and lately, yeast and flour. I planted cilantro, Mexican tarragon, and basil plants I’d found in Northfield in pots, thyme and mint along garden edge that meets my front stoop. 

The morning felt hushed, orderly—my act of civility engaging with living things that don’t speak but offer company and require only my willingness to share a piece of earth with them. Before the sun reached over the garden, I decided to put in one cherry tomato plant because a tomato cage represented future sustenance. I could imagine the little plant growing tall to fill the cage, yellow flowers appearing before the fruit. It felt romantic and I succumbed. I watered everything, filled the bird feeder and headed off to Redwing to run an errand.

It felt good to drive the winding two-lane roads between overwintered, as yet unturned spring fields, slipping down the bluff lines along the Cannon River, the sun all full of itself. The sky was cerulean blue with tiny cotton ball clusters of clouds. The world beyond my windshield seemed serene and normal—even pastoral—a momentary ruse worth believing against the numbing dripdripdrip of our internment. Returning home, I cleaned the kitchen with a similar communion felt with the garden and highways. FaceTimed with a friend and planned a fire pit hootenanny with him and a few friends soon, walked the dog and sat on the stoop overlooking the yard. We ate soup from B’s mama for dinner (thank you, Helen), brought in the tender herb pots for the night and was ready to sleep before 8:30, a rarity for me. I have to say, it felt like a pretty good day! I count them all, good or not. 

Tues

It dipped just below freezing again last night and I really thought that sweet li’l cherry tomato plant that looked so sturdy yesterday could handle it but, ooof!—it’s droopy, quietly murdered overnight. Another casualty of Corona Times, like a broken promise, a breach of trust. I jerked it out of the ground without any tenderness and tossed it into the yard where it will eventually make love with mower blades and clipped grasses. I was mad at myself, of course. It’s just one tomato plant and I have more perched on the radiator under the south facing window, lined up like fresh recruitments ready for service. Still, each seedling, especially this year, feels like an individual. 

I’m alarmed with the message being conveyed by the White House in recent days—normalizing the loss of life, the US population being at least encouraged and possibly forced back into a virulent world with the expectation that we can save the collapsing economy. The grim reaper is leaning casually on his sickle next to my dead tomato plant, the one I exposed to the elements too soon, the one I planted with careless impunity to serve my immediate desire. 

Please listen to this conversation on Pema Chodron’s book When Things Fall Apart. I ordered it after years of intending to and it’s on the way. I will set it on the bookshelf next to my worn copies of Rilke’s Letters to a Young Poet, the Tao te Ching and Dillard’s For the Time Being. Reference books for being alive, human and uncertain. 

JFTR. On Being continues to win me over. Here’s another one if you decide to check it out. She’s really smart and this guest, Ocean Vuong—brilliant. 

Wed 

A beautiful essay penned by Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s son Rodrigo. Thanks, C, for sending—and for the seeds which arrived today. I didn’t plant more today because still freezing overnight. 

My college roommate long friend Toni linked me to this article over the weekend. It was SO fkn HELPFUL. It breaks down how the virus gets spread in a very practical way that you can use every day. This article is exactly why my fam and I reeled ourselves back from having lunch inside my house on Mothers’ Day. Everyone agreed.

Colbert has been killing it, as always and this one—so spot on. Also, Seth Meyers’ latest episode—I mean, please! Trump’s Mothers’ Day bit is truly—uhhnbelievable. Waking up to the absurdity of what is happening right now as it rolls and rolls. I also truly live for these socially distanced performances with Jimmy Fallon and The Roots. They make me joy-cry. 

There are good ppl out there doing their best. We are all trying to do our best, even on our hardest days. Beating the zombies back one by one. Don’t believe that the angry gun-toting ppl are coming for us. They are few. We are many. It’s time to activate.

I’ve noticed lately I’m getting a sense for when Jimmy Fallon or Stephen Colbert, for example, might be having a bad day. They aren’t on stage anymore, they don’t have a responsive audience to pump them up, they are people like we are, broadcasting from their homes. They struggle with life under the pandemic just the way we do. I can feel when they are having to get up for another broadcast from home or lapsing in attention, disengaging or losing the thread with someone they are interviewing. It’s an subtle nuance to notice, and it makes me feel as if I am getting a brief peek into their humanity instead of simply watching them put on the show.

I’ve also been making... um, haha... bread—the kind of bread you have to knead and let rise and punch down and knead and let rise again and so on. I finally got some active dry yeast and made two sandwich loaves a week ago. On my second round yesterday, I pushed my 20+ year old Kitchen Aide stand mixer beyond its limit. Smoke drifting from the housing, dough hook seizing up, goodbye trusty appliance. 

While the dough was going through its rising process, I searched DIY fixes which were plentiful and also searched for parts through the Kitchen Aide website, discovering they—are—not—selling—them. Really? Boo on you, Kitchen Aide. You won’t force me to buy a $400 mixer ever again. Double boo on you, assumed capitalism. Until I’m able to find the parts I need via Etsy or wherever (NOT Amazon ever again), I’ll use the mixer my mother-in-law offered me since she doesn’t use it much and remind myself of the days when I used to knead bread by hand—that ancient task. Again—get it together, Lewis! 

I’ll leave you with this brilliant essay from The Paris Review called Fuck the Bread. The Bread is Over. Thank you, Byrdie, for tagging me on this one. I’m still gonna make the bread one way or another because it saves money but I’ll keep the wise words from the authors mother closest to my heart, which translates loosely into stop holding on so tight to what you think you need.

Thurs

So, I’ve been writing today and editing and writing more and editing more. It’s all about thinking and re-thinking everything with nothing on my plate but time staring up at me. There is a strange blessing that has a chance to bloom inside this isolation. 

Go gently, my friends, family and any strangers who may be stopping by. Thanks for being here with me. I really appreciate you, wherever you are today.

Stay safe. Be strong. Fall apart. Know you aren’t alone. Lovelove. 

[wendylewis-blog]

05.01.2020 /The Weekend

I feel more animal. I sleep when it’s dark and get up with daylight. I forage my house for food when I’m hungry and often, let myself feel that hunger without satiating it. I’m more acutely aware of what’s around me—wandering the woods, walking the river, sitting in the dry prairie grasses. The wind, pollen scattering from the trees, birdsong, chattering squirrels, elegant deer and awkward turkeys. Hoards of gnats swarm in tiny tornados near the water—I wonder if they hold a consciousness about their purpose here. I wonder if I do. 

I talk to people much less than I did in the beginning. Everything has been said too many times over. Exhausting and erosive. It’s becoming more personal now; taking each other’s spiritual temperature, reconnecting with some ppl I’ve lost over time, like a woman in NYC and another in San Franciso, both with new babies. Sometimes, we’re cynical, sometimes laughing, sometimes weeping. I’m quieter than ever and if you know me, I’m not prone to silence. It feels like getting to know a part of myself less explored. Not a bad thing. Listening more, talking less. 

This morning’s soundtrack. 

There is rain moving in. I’m sitting in my dining room facing the south side of the yard watching the sturdiness of trees against a grey backdrop. They wave their branches a little. I’ve looked at these trees out this window for twenty-two years. They give me a false sense of permanence but unless virulent summer weather takes them down some time, I will lean into that ruse. 

It’s the first day of May. My oldest daughter Hannah will turn 34 in a week. She and her husband Geoffrey and g-bb Ezra came down to our house last Saturday. I hugged them both with a bedsheet between us. I had so many conflicting feelings seeing them after almost two months and keeping prescribed distance for the afternoon—the full range existing between joy and grief. I suffered an emotional hangover the next day. It’s so hard to explain. It’s surreal to watch them from across the yard while the dogs romp together and not get gob-smacked about this new reality we are saddled up into—how this contagion (and the ones that will surely follow) will distort/contort, forever changing our intimacies. I’ll have to think more about this. 

We have always been such a tactile family and this is taking time to get used to and it’s only just begun. I’m gonna give myself all the time necessary to acclimate. It was so incredible to see them after so long, if bittersweet. 

I had similar feelings when daughter Kitty and her roommate Anna came down the following Monday to gather kindling, take a walk and stay for dinner. I spent a couple hours prior to their arrival instigating a yearly ritual—opening the porch! We put all the leaves in the table to properly distance ourselves. I thought about how to share the food. I ladled the soup into the sitting bowls, split the French bread loaf in half and wrapped separately, gave them their own dish of salt and plate of butter. We made mistakes—shared the pepper grinder and all touched the tubs of yogurt and sour cream. Ohhh well—we washed our hands afterwards. We also talked and laughed our asses off until dark. When they were leaving, Kitty and I looked at each other and suddenly hugged without the sheet, turning our faces away, not breathing. The next morning I woke up and had a moment of subdued panic until I remembered that every time I leave my house and go to the grocery store, it’s a risk. 

These are the inescapable truths we are all being forced to reckon with in one way or another. In that moment, the gain was well worth the risk. I am gonna get more used to this eventually and do my best taming the wild range of emotional geography to something less painful and more often flushed with gratefulness that we are all alive and love each other. Pull it together, Lewis! 

I’ve been trying to order seeds on line for weeks. Most of the organic sites were filling commercial orders in lieu of home gardeners’ requests, stalling us until May. Now, most everything is unavailable, especially herbs, which are expensive to buy in the produce section. I guess I have to take a deep breath and roll with it. There’s a lot we all have to roll with. I’m not an avid gardener anyway but I did love how the bush beans grew last year and fed us all summer long, planted in succession. 

I’ve emerged, at least for now, from the hopeless/helpless place I’d been in last week. I decided to curb my drinking habits, which had become something of a crutch a couple weeks ago that collapsed under my own weight and fed my sad monster. I’m going to need all my available faculties to get to the next day and the next one, not fall victim to laziness or inflamed feeling, already tender. So, cutting back. It’s been pretty easy so far. 

Meanwhile, there are important issues to focus my anger and intention towards when it rears up—an endless stream, most recently; Pence not wearing a mask when he visited the Mayo Clinic in Rochester MN, Trump suggesting ultra violate rays and disinfectant injections as a cure and then later saying he was being sarcastic (!**/?!#@%!!?), joining up with Stacy Abrams out of GA and the Fair Fight organization to protect our voting rights and democracy in the upcoming election. I also watched (Michael Moore presents) Planet of the Humans written/directed by Jeff Gibbs. Warning: brutal, informative, a li’l craycray (fact checking review here as ballast). 

Also, watched a Frontline piece on Amazon’s Jeff Bezos. What a supreme, soulless dick! Yikes! I knew, kinda, but have never gone in for the longer story. I know—it would be difficult for some, because—so convenient—but what if we just stopped ordering from that megalomaniac, ceased to fill the pockets of the richest man in the world whose mistreatment of his workers is legendary? He would be the best first place to start reorienting our rote thinking about capitalism. Done with him. 

What if we supported our local stores, local restaurant take-out, local clothing and sundries stores (most sell online now) or shopped directly to companies online instead of going through the infamous Amazon? What if we used this time to begin to unhook from the corporate rank and file consumerism we have all been brainwashed with, and started supporting each other and small businesses? Hearing that Tyson is suffering an enormous rise in workers infected with Covid due to cramped and unsafe working conditions (!!!) what if we supported local co-ops even part of the time? I know they are a little more expensive, but if you go local and not Whole Foods, you’ll do better. I did hear that Farmers Markets may open soon and those offer the most affordable options to Cub or Rainbow. I’ve lived and shopped this way for a long time and never made much money so I’m just sayin’, you actually can afford it. 

Every time we spend our money, we are casting a vote, so this is a good time to explore and support the neighborhood both near us and small companies online instead of supporting the giant corporate machine. They are not helping us as much as they make it appear. Other than Costco (my only big box store), who pay their workers a living wage with good benefits and safe work environments (in addition to offering remarkable dry goods, produce, meats and cheeses, the rest are forever off my list. They offer so many organic options and I save so much $$ there. I admit, it’s not much fun to go there—especially right now in terms of exposure—but when I’m out of paper towels and coffee or need a bag of lemons for $6 and organic ground beef, they are my go-to. 

This week’s movie recommendations. Kitty brought The Midnight Gospel, an animated, spirited, crazy, philosophical ride on the human condition from the makers of Adventure Time. You don’t have to be a Dylan fan to enjoy No Direction Home, a documentary that centers on Dylan’s trajectory (copious interview time with him and others around him) from late 50′s-70′s and beyond. If that’s not your cup of tea, check out Ricky Gervais’ AfterLife in which he deals with the fallout of grieving his beloved wife in that sweet/irreverent way he is known for—the second season now available. Also, Devs (recommended by Al Church) is really good, but if you can’t do violence, steer clear. All of these are streaming on Netflix. 

Last post, I was thinking hard about employing more acceptance and open-mindedness. I’m still there and working on it as I wrestle my uncaged  sometimes savage emotions. I check in on many of you via our only source of communication and it seems we are all on the same rollercoaster. It’s a rough ride—hang on and, when you’re fed up or feel brave or are awash in a weird kind of joy, raise your hands off the bar and into the air. 

While we may be isolated, we are not alone. 

Lovelove. 

[wendylewis-blog]

04.21.2020 /Trying on Tues

Here we go—into another week. I haven’t written here in a couple. The days have been going by so fast. I can’t figure that out. It seems so counter intuitive that endless days strung together with little to do go by so quickly. But really, if I’m gonna be honest, I’ve been falling apart and giving up. 

Lately, I’m just pissed as hell and I haven’t been able to pinpoint a viable source of my anger which has driven me into my bed. I mean, of course, there is a long list of reasons stemming from the pandemic, but those don’t feel quite accurate. It’s something else. The fact that my rage has no viable target, I think I’ve been turning it on myself. Talking with my brother yesterday I was able to pinpoint some triggers from our cultist upbringing, which made some sense—like, what our learned fear responses are. Mine is lashing out and this time it’s returning like a boomerang and beating me up. 

I used the word grief in a conversation with Kopacz a week or so ago. Maybe it’s global grief, more accurately, since we are all in the same boat right now. Around the entire world we have all been stripped, at the very least, of our freedom to move around at will: to work, to crowd onto sidewalks, streets, airplanes, trains, buses, grocery stores or in entertainment venues, to hug and kiss the people we love, to sit at tables together, to visit our sick or newly born in hospital. It is an enormous loss. 

So—anger and grief—slippery slope. You want it darker? 

Presently, thousands of people are dying alone without loved ones standing by, without a familiar hand to hold as the death toll mounts. Those who have lost friends and family to this virus cannot even gather to mourn. It’s beyond heartbreaking. 

We have lost our functionality as pack animals. The fact that we are experiencing this grief simultaneously, worldwide—feels profound to me and lately, I want desperately to think of it as having an opportunity built into it. There have been past pandemics which cost millions and millions of lives. This one feels far more sinister, or at least seems so right now, until we clearly define the truth of its clandestine and highly infectious transmission. I really do hope testing becomes widely available. 

Meanwhile, other pack animals are venturing out into our previous gathering places. My friend Kevin sent me a quote from Mother Jones. Coyotes, normally timid of traffic, have been spotted on the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco. Deer are grazing near Washington homes a few miles from the White House. Wild boar are becoming bolder in Barcelona and Bergamo, Italy. In Wales, peacocks have strutted through Bangor, goats through Llandudno and sheep have been filmed on roundabouts in a deserted playground in Monmouthshire.  

Not much good news here, ppl. I’m inclined to apologize—but I guess I started this blog as a way to track and share my personal trajectory through this difficult time, not as a way to cheer myself or anyone else up. Just for the record, I really hate when someone tries to cheer me up. 

Yesterday, I did a bunch of reading and viewing in an effort to challenge myself to understand this mounting cultural and political divide we have been experiencing in our country for awhile. It has become folded inexorably into the current pandemic and is worse than ever. All we do is fight! It’s exhausting. 

You are welcome to check any of this out—or not. Some of it required some patience and re-reading to move past my resistance and embrace a new idea. I hope to go deeper and will share more if that happens. It started here with a recent IG post from comedian Sarah Silverman. She’s offering something that gave me pause. 

The next one was an interior link from an article that Brent sent me called Exiting the Vampire Castle from 2013. It’s challenging and I’m thinking about it. Within this article reference was made to an interview of Russell Brand on the BBC by Jeremy Paxman (2013)—seven years ago, but still so relevant right now. So I’m thinking a lot about class division and how we became so polarized. 

Tangentially, there is a Netflix comedy special from Dave Chappelle that is addressing some of the same concepts with his raw, brilliant brand of humor. Dude pushes it way beyond the edges, no doubt. He’s my modern day philosopher—but if I can’t laugh at the dark comedy, even if it feels inappropriate, I will lose all hope. If you choose to watch the Chappelle piece (Equanimity & The Bird Chronicles), watch it to the end or you’ll miss the whole point. The content might piss some of you off and/or offend, but—in 2020, we have strayed far too far away from having a debate or discussion without vilifying certain actions or beliefs and the people who hold them—from either side of the issue. Both sides are employing sanctimonious, judgmental and angry POVs. We are all being delivered a curated news feed that social media has vetted on the left and the right. We all know this, it feeds our anger and it denies both sides the possibility of stumbling on something that might represent some real truth, some clue, some hint towards a spark of understanding each other. 

If Chappelle is just way too much for you, try The Best of Enemies. I watched it on Showtime but it might be elsewhere. It’s the true story of a black female activist in Durham NC in 1971 and the local chapter Grand Wizard of the KKK. They come together through a set of unavoidable circumstances and, of course, things happen. 

The deal is, if we never even try to come together—nothing will ever happen. 

I dragged my pathetic body out of bed this morning and did some online yoga, begrudgingly. I cried pretty hard at the end, which I really needed, and felt a wee bit of relief. I’m gonna go on a walk later today, which I’ve avoided for a week or more. Why? I don’t know. I think I just gave up in there somewhere and went to the dark side. 

Over the roar of protests and everyone hollering cliche opinions and tired arguments at each other and the swell of blame sloshing between the national and local leaders—I guess this week, I’m going to do my best to walk into a different room. 

[wendylewis-blog]

04.05.2020 / April ain’t foolin

Friday

I listened to Paul Westerberg this morning, shaking some yang-yangs out’mah head. Hello, grey day—I love you right now. This low cloud cover makes me feel cozy and want to write. It’s 8:03am. 

Didn’t sleep well, got up around 3am but made use of it, sorta. Steeped some tea, stared into the yard after letting the dog out with the door open, allowing the chilly morning to swirl around me in the entryway. Started to write this post. Teared up a little listening to Wally, Egon & Models in the Studio (Rachels) —affronting sentimentalism and tweaking it up, all the same. It’s here, in our faces. Splatttt! Really? Yep. 

What have we been building for the last three decades?

Pine branches sway as the sky grows lighter. I imagine they are waving to me. I wave back.

Saturday

Last night I rewatched The Matrix, took a three minute break at 10pm to sing a song with Al Church on Uncancelled Music Festival, which alarmingly wtf? has very few women slated, I’ve heard. That was not lost on Al, so he invited me and Diane Miller to join him during his set. Wish I could have heard the set (jury-rigged in via FaceTime for my song)—still, it was was nice to feel like I was performing. I covered Mr Rabbit, a folk song written in the early 1900s—every little soul must shine—like, we all matter, okay? 

Always—stories, poems and songs lighten a load, convey a message, scream out loud, or cry into the lightless maw of injustice, as it goes and goes...ugh. Keep it allll comin, artists of every kind. It’s up to us to leave stories behind for future generations and nothing would matter at all if no one was listening or watching or saying. 

I had a remarkable dream a few nights ago. Everything was warm, and felt almost combustible, just beneath the surface. I wiped my hand across a table creating a swath of fire, left footprints of fire, everything I touched lit up in a graceful trail of blue/orange flame < it looked just like that. It wasn’t hot or painful—I was never burned. It was just there, like surfaces, like me. 

Today is my mother’s bday. She flew long ago. The longer she is dead, the more I come to understand her, at least in my own way. It’s one-sided now but I get to work it out until I make my exit. 

Sunday

It’s afternoon. The sun is shining. I’ve had a fairly good week and barely listening to the news likely had much to do with that. I’ve made some good meals. The soup last night was tasty (thanks, Kitty!) and this morning, I ground up the last of my homegrown, dried and over-wintered in a Ball jar cayenne peppers and poured them into the shaker. It’s stupid how much I loved that—haha! Small triumphs?

I stumbled on a brand new podcast, Sugar Calling, in which host Cheryl Strayed has conversations with writers. In this first episode, her discussion was with one of my favorites, George Saunders. He had been her professor when she was getting her writing degree years prior. He is a gentle, kind and amusingly/cynical (hmmm... that’s the closest I can come, sorta Vonnegut?) and insanely creative, challenging writer. Highly recommended but, you have to stop to listen. Don’t be doing your dishes or cleaning out a closet. 

Speaking of writers, my friend Karissa linked me to a quote from Arundhati Roy (posted on Instagram here). I love Roy’s brain wrapped around any topic, unleashing her always razor-sharp elegance around both a concept and the written word. I tried to find where the essay came from and, I did. I’m linking you to the essay she wrote in Financial Times (pay only $1 for 4 weeks, cheap for a test drive). Anyway, I was able to grab a bit of it before they cut me off, pasted below. 

I’ll leave you here, within her sturdy, powerfully honest and vulnerable perspective. Think on it. 

Be well, take care, talk soon. Lovelove. 

Who can use the term “gone viral” now without shuddering a little? Who can look at anything any more — a door handle, a cardboard carton, a bag of vegetables — without imagining it swarming with those unseeable, undead, unliving blobs dotted with suction pads waiting to fasten themselves on to our lungs? 

Who can think of kissing a stranger, jumping on to a bus or sending their child to school without feeling real fear? Who can think of ordinary pleasure and not assess its risk? Who among us is not a quack epidemiologist, virologist, statistician and prophet? Which scientist or doctor is not secretly praying for a miracle? Which priest is not — secretly, at least — submitting to science? 

And even while the virus proliferates, who could not be thrilled by the swell of birdsong in cities, peacocks dancing at traffic crossings and the silence in the skies? 

The number of cases worldwide this week crept over a million. More than 50,000 people have died already. Projections suggest that number will swell to hundreds of thousands, perhaps more. The virus has moved freely along the pathways of trade and international capital, and the terrible illness it has brought in its wake has locked humans down in their countries, their cities and their homes. But unlike the flow of capital, this virus seeks proliferation, not profit, and has, therefore, inadvertently, to some extent, reversed the direction of the flow. 

It has mocked immigration controls, biometrics, digital surveillance and every other kind of data analytics, and struck hardest — thus far — in the richest, most powerful nations of the world, bringing the engine of capitalism to a juddering halt. Temporarily perhaps, but at least long enough for us to examine its parts, make an assessment and decide whether we want to help fix it, or look for a better engine. 

The mandarins who are managing this pandemic are fond of speaking of war. They don’t even use war as a metaphor, they use it literally. But if it really were a war, then who would be better prepared than the US? If it were not masks and gloves that its frontline soldiers needed, but guns, smart bombs, bunker busters, submarines, fighter jets and nuclear bombs, would there be a shortage? 

Arundhati Roy APRIL 3 2020 

[wendylewis-blog]

03.31.2020 /tues

Inspired by my friend Sara, I’ve been bingeing on back seasons of Ozark for the last couple days, a thorough refresh. I am now poised for Season 3, which just came out. Eeeep! I’ll be going here today. Fictional mayhem—within our present day mayhem. The construct conjures my bravery—like, when I’m really depressed I watch The Deerhunter because it makes me feel grateful for what I have not had to endure. Obviously, not for everyone.

I cleaned the kitchen this morning after making carbonara (for the first time!) last night, brought up laundry and might do some sashiko embroidery on a favorite pair of jeans to shore up the intentional tear that grew too big. That is a metaphor.

I walked a few miles along the river late afternoon yesterday, returning on the railway bed along the bluffs and through the pines, cedar, cottonwood and oak trees. It was 58 degrees and breezy—balmy for MN in March. Birds are returning daily and busy in the branches, building their nests. Hawks and eagles circled, robins pecked the ground for worms.

Sonny got to chase a few deer escaping across the prairie after we startled them. He chases them just for fun, giving up pretty quickly and returning to me because I am his job—I guess. :) My dog Jack would chase them beyond his utter fatigue—for miles. He’d return home sometimes an hour later, purple tongued, heaving and spent. I’m sure he never caught up but he gave it his very best effort. That dog had so much heart. I miss him.

Cottonwood trees, belonging to the poplar family, are the fastest growing trees in the United States, populating along rivers or lake shore lines with a healthy canopy providing ample shade and housing for forest creatures. Because of their rapid growth (6ft a year) their wood is weak but they easily rise to 100 feet or more with enormous trunk diameters. The Native Americans used their trunks for dugout canoes, the bark for a bitter, medicinal tea. There are so many of them below the railway bed that have fallen over and cracked open, offering a perfect habitat for many varieties of mushrooms. They are the gentle giants of the forest. And, they tip over when they get too big and top-heavy. Hm. Seems topical.

Found out yesterday that John Prine has contracted the Covid19. Goddammit! Joan Baez sang/dedicated one of his songs to him and his wife Fiona from her kitchen, linked in the article. She is so beautiful and humble and fierce, as she always has been.

Walked again tonight with Sonny on the railway bed. The sun has been coaxing mosses onto the trail. The tiny green tendrils reach up like arms, palms open, grateful.

[wendylewis-blog]

03.27.2020 /fryday

Hello. Hi. Hey. 

I’ve had a slow, quiet, kinda lost and sad day so far. Made a real breakfast for B when he came home his 6:30-9:30am shift at work before leaving for his 1-4pm shift. That’s my new job—what’s keeping me grounded daily—cooking. So, I’m obsessing over cooking shows, videos, cookbooks, and making good meals for us. Keeps the spirits up. It’s a daily adventure to reinvent what’s on the plate. 

Friend Alex Ward, who returned to the states a couple months ago after two and half years living in Vietnam, sent me this amazing video today. One of his young students there, Minh Man, sent it to him and according to her, the song praises girls—young, hardworking, brave. The title translates to The Girl Paved the Way. Thanks, Alex. I’ll send the dark, haunting one to y’all another time. 

It’s day-to-day, as it goes. I messaged with (aforementioned) Alex for quite awhile, listened to the news until I couldn’t anymore, added to a tiny grocery list, texted with a few too many ppl until my spelling got jacked as my hands cramped. I’m sick of texting, probably gonna just call instead. Or, BETTER—writing letters by hand. Maybe tomorrow. That’ll be a different kind of hand cramp. 

There are so many musicians putting plentiful live Instagram videos up, which I’m sure you’ve seen but keep it up, if you are WFH, donate a little if you can. Full time musicians are really struggling. One of my faves lately has been from Lydia Liza Music, who has been singing a song or two but also acting out scripts and screenplays with varying reading partners. The last one I saw was Austin Powers. Fuuhhhnnny! 

I’m sure I’m not alone in this query, but a few days ago I thought, which billionaire is gonna step up? Who’s gonna be the first one, the one who breaks through the 1% borderline wall and does something that matters? 

Which brings to mind a moment I had with a cashier at my local grocery store a couple days ago. 

Did you find what you needed? 

Well, not exactly because, hoarders. (smirk)

Ya know, I stand here all day long and watch people taking more than their fair share—and, guess what? I know who they are! 

Hahahaha—yeah. We’re gonna figure out who is who as we go through this crisis and sometimes, it’s gonna hurt, watching people you thought you knew make really unflattering moves. 

No kidding. It’s really disappointing. Do you get the senior discount? 

Ummm... what’s the age qualification?

In my line, it’s 55! I figure you’ve earned a kickback by then. (grin)

That tiny exchange made my day. I wanted to say, Hey—let’s go get a drink! This pandemic will challenge us to manage fear, be generous and patient, be grateful, have real feelings instead putting on a mask, allowing others to have theirs, reach out, be kind and fair—realize we live in a community, a state, a country and a world. It’s a revealing struggle already, for all of us, and it’s gonna get more difficult and possibly, hopefully—more illuminating in the days and months to come. 

I’ve had a couple days of crying off and on, but when the sun sets, I feel better for having been real with my own self. I’ve also had some days when I feel more on task, getting a few things done, taking a long walk by the rising river with Sonny the Dog, listening to the birds sing. Some nights I get sleep. Other nights, I just don’t. 

Movie recommendation: Juliet, Naked. I don’t care much for Ethan Hawke and Rose Byrne has never really knocked me out, but I took a chance and this film is sooo well written/acted. It didn’t let me down at any predictable turn (esp for a kinda rom/com) and delivered. PLUS, importantly, it portrays a has-been musician in pretty believable way: the whatever and the shit, I fucked that up and the difficulty of being worshipped when it’s not, nor ever had been, about that. 

I’m gonna write my friend Anna back now. She sent me a lusciously long email and I’m sure it will help my mood right now. Ugh. It’s been a day. But, tomorrow will be another one and I have no idea what will happen. 

Be back soonish. :\

[wendylewis-blog]

03.24.2020 /random tues

You gotta love this!  Spanish police leaping from their cop cars, singing and dancing to residents from the streets. Nothing better to see than a cop bounding around with a guitar strapped to his chest and crew cop background dance line. In comparison, I can’t help but think of the rigid hierarchy existing in our country: we are pigeon-holed into our jobs, our economic placement, into the color of our skins or our varying gender preferences. We are judged and rated, scorned and hated. It’s not cool. 

But, there is hope. My sister told me a story that feels related when I was walking Sonny today. When she was living in NYC in the 80′s, one morning she was walking her 35 blocks to work on Madison Ave, there was a cop standing in a shop door way singing “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning”. Police can be illuminated sometimes. Why? Because they are people. 

Anyway, honoring our global neighbors today!  Yay Spain for your show of humanity. America is the spoiled brat of the globe. We have so much to learn, we need so much illumination to that freedom we espouse to own. Gah. Global bitchslap. Bam. Wake up! Srrrsly.  

On that topic, have you considered how, as we have strolled through the grocery stores prior to February 2020, we barely noticed shelf-stockers, deli or meat counter servers, those running the registers. Yeah, ppl—THEY ARE NOW ON THE FRONTLINE! These are the workers risking their safety EVERY DAYUM DAY to fill our grocery carts. They are as vulnerable as medical staff. They are in the trenches of this viral war. Thank them... say thank you. Like, thank you for your service. 

On the topic of food, here’s a dinner idea I landed on today. Clearly, there are millions of choices but I obsessively watch cooking shows when my mind is getting sucked into the nefarious suckholes of gloom and doom. We have to eat so let’s try to improve our skillz at home and have a dinner that really feeds us, body and soul. Other nights, we might only have the energy to have soup from a can, cook up some oatmeal or simply, make toast. It’s all good. We have to be where we are. Most important. 

And, I stumbled on this last night. Like, this man still sings like an angel. Art just keeps delivering over and over for all of us, even as it gets sidelined from school budgets or trapped into unaffordable museums. Art is what saves our souls in times like these, and we’ve never seen a time like this one. It’s an important reminder to support the arts in our community and schools. 

There was a book I read as a child and read to my children. I’m frustrated that I can’t remember the title and can’t find the book in my shelves. wtf? The gist of it is that while all the mice are gathering provisions of nuts and seeds and stuffing their nests with fluff to endure the long, cold winter, this one guy is just laying around in the grasses, looking up at the clouds, dreamy and seemingly unproductive. They are mad at him, malign him, until the end of winter is growing untenable in the skanky dens they have been languishing in for months with dwindling food supplies. Then, he starts telling stories and singing songs, saving them from their frustration and gloom, they get up and laugh and dance and sing. So. There’s that. 

I watched a crazy movie from 1972 this morning. I’m finding, after two weeks of self-quarantine, that waking up (whenever I do) it’s not been helping in the long run to turn on NPR right away. So, since I have no one at home after B goes to his very safe workplace, I’ve been trying this lately—watching a movie to start my day.

In the 70′s so many movie scripts were adapted for film from playwrights, hence, the conversation is generally more deeply crafted. Honestly, I’ve never been a huge Jack Lemmon fan, but I noticed, while watching Avanti (Amazon Prime), that his acting style reminded me so much of Jim Carey—there’s a physical comedy aspect there which Carey monopolized upon, maybe. It’s a weird movie, with lots of annoying clichés relevant to the times, but in the end there is a payoff. Jus’sayin. 

I’ve also been thinking A LOT about friends/family who are living alone right now. Like, not being hugged, no one in the house to sleep with, cry with, laugh or rage with. Some of them have pets, which helps, but, reach out to your solo friends—FaceTime or Skype them. It’s virtual, but it helps to see a face, hear a voice, share the echo in a room. 

We are gonna get through this, one way or another. Fck! Some days will just not be good, no matter what you do to save it. Don’t try to save it. That’s okay. It’s okay. It’s most important to be where each of us are in the real moment. Pushing down feelings isn’t a good or emotionally profitable idea. Embrace the sadness and disconnection that is our world right now. 

That being said, I’ve had some really good days so far. Inspiring conversations with loved ones or podcasts with truth and hope (I sorta hate that word but I’m caving into it right now) or music and especially walks to clear the head. Keep reaching out to your friends and fam. It will get us through this. 

Yeah. This is weird—back to my initial post. The way we have functioned on a day to day basis has been halted in its tracks. The weather is warming. There will be more rain, but on those days, take to movies or cook or draw something. Paint a room. Sleep. You can just sleep. Do whatever you must do. And then, call me. xoxo

[wendylewis-blog]

03.23.2020 /mon

NPR reported last week that Burr, a Republican from Winston-Salem, told a small group of North Carolina constituents three weeks ago that he was seriously concerned about the impact of the coronavirus in the United States. “There’s one thing that I can tell you about this: It is much more aggressive in its transmission than anything that we have seen in recent history,” Burr warned at the Feb. 27 gathering of a bipartisan group called the Tar Heel Circle. “It is probably more akin to the 1918 pandemic.” 

Furthermore... This was quickly followed by a report from ProPublica that Burr sold about $1 million in stocks on Feb. 13 after writing a Feb. 7 op-ed saying that the U.S. was equipped to combat COVID-19. This suggests that Burr not only didn’t inform the public of his concerns but may have used the knowledge to personally benefit himself.   [Winston-Salem Journal]

Guess what? Senator Richard Burr was a classmate of mine at Reynold’s High School in Winston-Salem NC, class of 1974. Booya! 

Like, who does that? Apparently, Senator Burr does and did. He’s aware of the virus coming to get us, has been tasked to national leadership and makes sure to profit. Wow—stunning. I wonder if he signed my yearbook? I’ll have to check.

Meanwhile, my best work crew problem solving doods Paul and Jeremy shared a homemade hand sanitizer recipe which is more appealing than the chemical-heavy options that are (actually NOT) on the shelves. Jeremy said, if you don’t have glycerin, you can substitute aloe which works just as well, and Everclear can stand in for alcohol as long as it’s 151 proof or higher.  Add a couple drops of essential oil to make it smell nice. Thanks, guys! Miss you. 

It was nice to talk to a long time friend who lives upstate NY late last night. He couldn’t sleep, I wasn’t asleep yet, so we entertained each other for awhile. I’ve been talking to a lot of people over the last twelve days. One day last week, I swear I was on the phone almost the entire time I was awake. And every time I talk with someone, I learn something new either about or not about the virus. 

Here are two unrelated but utterly related links my nephew shared with me in the last 24 hours, including two extensive and deep conversations. The first is an On Being podcast when Krista Tippett interviewed Joanna Macy, entitled A Wild Love for the World. Extraordinary. Highly recommended especially given our present circumstances. It was recorded before the pandemic but the perspective Joanna offers on living and dying is stunning. Relatable. Plus, she has a deep relationship with the poems of RM Rilke, possibly my favorite poet, and reads many of his poems during the interview. 

The other is an NPR story about a black musician named Daryl Davis who after an initial event, has spent the last 30 years sitting down with KKK members with no intention to convert anyone. He’s ended up collecting 200 robes from Klan members who have left the organization. It’s important to listen to each other, sitting down with your perceived enemy, understanding their point of view. Knowledge is power and can create peace. We are going to need a lot of this kind of energy as the months go by. 

We’re in lockdown and the Corona virus has no political, racial, or gender preferences. That’s the most amazing thing about what is happening around the world right now. This is the great equalizer. We are all vulnerable and we will be forced during this pandemic to help each other in ways we cannot imagine. 

#staystrong #staysafe #stayhome #nohoarding #bekind #reachout 

[wendylewis-blog]

03.22.2020 /bad.morning.

I woke up around 6:30 am. The sky was getting lighter through the brown blinds hung on the south side bedroom window. It looked so peaceful peeking through the slats. Pink smeared with grey, the next day arriving. Here it is. The next day. When I let Sonny out, I saw a skim of snow had fallen overnight, covering the ground. It felt like a clouded metaphor. 

A reply in FB this morning from a NC high school friend sorta clarified that metaphor in some way. Donna said, Most all of the cherry trees in Winston-Salem have been replaced with Bradford Pears and, while beautiful when they bloom, they have a pungent, unpleasant odor . . . maybe a sign that beauty is truly only skin deep. Thank you, Donna. 

And maybe truth is only skin deep? At least, the truth being espoused by our government lately? I dunno, huh? Politicians are only saving themselves right now and it feels exceedingly shallow, skin deep and dirty. There is no real leadership on top but plenty of ego and fairytales spinning. Gah. Fk. We are all being rendered helpless for so many reasons, ones I cannot possibly enumerate. I’m not even gonna try. That’s not the point. 

Meanwhile, in my state of MN, I’m gonna take a minute to applaud our Gov Tim Walz. He is in touch with us, speaking hard truths without lip gloss, and working to come up with survival plans and simply—good solid advice for our state going forward. I am sure he is working hard for us.

Meanwhile, I honestly don’t give a shit about the stock market (sorry for those of you who are losing your investments and retirement :((( ) but am very much more concerned about those working in service industries; restaurants, small businesses and retailers, vintage stores, musicians and performers of every kind, daycare workers, delivery drivers and so many more I’m not able to list right now—it’s too enormous, all of us hinged with each other on any working calendar day. Bless all of you. Hang in there... be in touch. I want to hear from you.

OK. Pulling myself together a little more. My personal deal is, I’m away from my children and my 6-month old grandson, Ezra. I don’t know when I’ll see them in person again. Fk. But I am gratefully in place with my amazing husband and that guy makes me laugh every damn day. Like, what would I do without him? We DO have to keep laughing, it’s a Vonnegut thing. I also recommend all of you following Tony Baker on Instagram. If you don’t have Instagram, just GET IT. In addition to my husband, Tony is keeping me afloat all day every day. He’s posting like a maniac. Skiddlety-paps! Thanks to my friend Annie who connected me. 

OK! Pulling myself together even a little more. Today is a Sunday. It helps to talk with anyone who is reading this. It might be a bit warmer today and at some point I will venture out onto the prairie and walk along the river with my trusted companion, Sonny. I’ll probably cry my face off. That will help. 

I’m listening to NPR right now, Michelle Lee in Alexandria, VA—a store owner. She’s on the front lines the same way the medical industry is. Honor them! They are putting themselves at risk, ALL DAY EVERY DAY, to check us out at the register with our provisions and stay as risk free as possible or treat us at the doors of clinics and hospitals. 

I thought about that yesterday as I paid cash for a purchase and felt like I was pouring contagion change into my wallet. Yikes! But, dood had hand sanitizer at the ready and was cleaning his hands after every customer came through. Way to GO! Soooo maybe my wallet isn’t a virus breeding container. Still, when I got home, I washed it. :) We can actually wash cash as well, if we are being uber careful, and soak our change in white vinegar. NOTE: There are more ways to disinfect than buying Clorox Bleach wipes which are utterly unavailable on the shelves. 

For those of you who care at all about cooking, and lately, we all might be, since we are stuck at home (but DO support your local restaurants with curb service take-out if you are WFH and financially able) you might wanna visit BonAppetit vids on YouTube. Super entertaining, instructive and FREE. If you go there and like beans (which are extremely available dried), check out Carla making the perfect pot of beans. I made them last week and they are still in my refrigerator—delivering for quesadillas, soup, cold from the fridge next to kraut, arugula, and cottage cheese (haha... me and my weird small cold plates)—and you can always freeze them in bags or containers. Super delicious and nutritious. Once you click on my BonAppetit link, you can scroll through endless other videos, go into that rabbit hole, calm yourself, trance out. After I finish this post, that’s what I’m gonna do. 

Final note. Friend Alissa wrote me on FB this morning and said this, in regard to cherry blossoms mentioned in my previous post: I just got my mom in touch with her family in Japan today after a long hiatus. and they were like pass this message on to her. which basically translated to the cherry blossoms are in season... (thanking my friend Kevin in Bed Stuy who sent me the link via FB mssngr)

It will be warmer today and—rain is coming. I might just take a walk in the rain with my deep sadness that I am trying to beat back. Thanks for listening, ppl. We all have our own worry and pain and separation from our loved ones. One day we’ll feel okay and the next, annihilated. It’s all good—we have to stay real and let our frustration and sadness be there and hopefully, later, be released. 

Let’s stick together. We have to, right? We do. YES. We do. I’ll be back sooner than you want me to. Hahaha. Gotcha. 

[wendylewis-blog]

03.21.2020/todayLater

A friend from Bed Stuy, NY sent me this link today. It swept me gently back to my younger days growing up in North Carolina. The cherry trees signaled the coming of spring and the entire city of Winston-Salem was filled with their sweet, delicate fragrance. And it’s a deeper Japanese thing, so click that link, cause it’s important to go there and read about it. You have time. Do it.

It was a perfect longing to revel in on my drive to Red Wing early afternoon, a satellite city to Cannon Falls, where I sometimes shop. The highways from my house begin with dirt to blacktop two lanes opening onto sweeping four lanes that dip and dump gloriously into the river valley. That was nice ride after four days staying in place.

I had to pick up a few things; cat litter, a giant jug of vinegar, some tomatoes. I didn’t over-buy but so much was missing from the shelves. The Family Fare in Red Wing was fairly busy and I noticed immediately the difficulty of staying six feet from anyone in the store. I mean, hell, the aisles in grocery stores aren’t built for safe distancing, not that we knew this necessity before a few weeks or months ago. Americans are slow to catch up, because shitty, confusing federal governing. Whoa! Modern problems, right there. I found myself holding my breath if I got squeezed too close to another shopper. I’m learning, slowly—but really really quickly. And, not freaking out. We can’t freak out. Not allowed.

I’m one of those people who, while small in stature, am skilled at s p r e a d ing out. I’m an irrepressible hugger and toucher—like, can’t stop myself. If I sit in a chair or on a stoop, my feet are separated and my legs are splayed wide open. Not a very good photograph, as I’ve learned. I knock glasses over frequently on tables, because—gesticulating. I’m always stepping on peoples’ feet (just ask my daughters) and when I come into a room or a house, I have a tendency to drop my shit everywhere and usually leave something where I can’t find it either at home or away. Gratefully, my husband is an excellent finder. Jussayin.

So. That being said, this distancing thing is gonna be a serious challenge for me. Staying home all the time eliminates the problem. Ugh, yeah. You know, right? But I’m doing it and we need to do it. Staying home most all the time other than necessary exits to gather food and inevitably mix up with other ppl gathering food. We’re all potential contagion carriers, at the center of it all. And—we’re all fkn beautiful. Yes, we are.

I hope food keeps being available.

#survival #humanity #stayhome #besmart #bestrong #givelove #keepvirusdown

[wendylewis-blog]

03.21.2020 /4:23 am

When I wake up in the middle of the night—I just get up. No reason to toss/turn or fret/overthink anything.

These are weird times. I’ve been seeing and hearing that particular word a lot over the last week or so in texts, on FB or Twitter or Instagram posts, during phone calls to friends and family as we acclimate to our current reality. Weird. Yeah, it is weird—so I guess until what is happening globally gets more legs under it, becomes more familiar and understood, weird seems appropriately defining.

We are all a little lost right now trying to figure out what to do in the seemingly endless hours and days of work at home or no work in sight, staying put in our houses, being in touch with those we love—from a distance. We creep out to the (gratefully open and somewhat stocked) grocery stores. Hopefully, we are not hoarding food or cleaning products because we all need access to both. We have to stay human and civil.

I’ve been home since 03.12.2020, after finishing my styling job in the Target studio. I live in a small community less than an hour from Minneapolis/St Paul MN. Today it occurred to me that our little town of Cannon Falls might fold up: restaurants and pizza parlors and bars might go out of business, the all-too-many insurance companies closing their doors, maybe the eye clinic, the lone chiropractor, that ice cream parlor which serves grilled cheese sandwiches + soup in winter. Maybe Cannon Auto will close, maybe the three dentists will shutter down. I don’t attend church, but—I wonder how all the congregations will fare in the months to come.

This is new ground for all of us. I feel for all of us. We can’t hang out! I miss my daughters, my young grandson, my friends, my music venues and bars and restaurants, the bustle of the city. Granted, we stay in touch, but it’s not the same.

We are in lockdown.

It’s weird.

I’ve been taking a walk most every day with our dog, Sonny. The snow is melting as the days and nights warm and the Cannon River rises, running cold and fast. Every day, I see eagles and hawks circling the sky, deer running across the prairie, robins pecking the thawing earth around my house for worms. It all seems normal even though the world is far from normal.

I’ve cleaned both my bathrooms, vacuumed floors, keep the kitchen clean daily and keep on top of what we might have available for meals. I watch a lot of movies and cooking shows and check in occasionally with social media. I listen to the news enough to stay on top of what weird and weirder things are happening every day, across the country and around the world. My heart is breaking for Italy right now, and Seattle and San Francisco. So far, I’m keeping my spirits up. And—I’m not sick, at least not yet. :)

This feels like a never-ending stay-cation. But, spring is coming and the equinox went by almost unnoticed. I wondered today if I’ll be able to buy seeds to plant in my garden or if they’ll be over-shopped and/or too expensive. I researched Thieves Oil, read about how the virus lives on packaging and just re-subscribed to The New Yorker at a much cheaper price.

Anyway, we are all in this together, as gets repeated endlessly on the news. But, we are actually truly all in this together. We have to be kind, move slowly, stay informed and safe, get sleep, eat well, exercise. Sometimes, we can just stay in bed all day. It’s okay. We have to do and be who and where we are when we are there. Keep it real, ppl.

I’ve started yet another blog here—with this post. It’s gonna be a lot of things as time ticks by over the next year. It might feel brutal some days and restorative other days. I guess whomever reads this is now is joining me in the collective journey we are on together, for better and worse.

I’m with you, from a distance.