2025 Wrap-Up: Looking Back, Looking Forward

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I’m closing out 2025 with a review of the most popular articles I’ve posted on this blog since its inception in January 2017. With All Due Respect has a limited audience of just over one hundred followers, composed chiefly of friends, former colleagues, and a few strangers who have found me through internet searches. It’s intriguing what people find interesting. 

LOOKING BACK …

…at my stats over the last nine years, the most popular post, the one with over 1.5K hits, surprisingly is Nursing Homes: Clothing and Incontinence. It has topped the list of most-read annually for the life of the blog, including in 2025. Indeed, five of the top fifteen articles are related to aging, senior health care, and nursing homes. Is this surprising? Is aging of concern just for my peers, or more generally these days?

This article on incontinence and the treatment of patient clothing in nursing facilities gets at the very heart of human dignity and the respect or lack thereof that we demonstrate toward one another. Incontinence is often viewed by those who are gradually losing control over their lives and their bodies as the last frontier, the most humiliating, debasing loss. I’m not surprised that search engines have brought readers to my humble blog post.

I imagine a reader, perhaps a daughter, exhausted by months or years of care for her elderly parents, seeking advice on what to expect if she gives in and places one or both in a nursing facility.  What would upset Mom most, she wonders. What would Dad hate the most about it? Sitting in a urine puddle in a bed or wheelchair, she suspects. So, she searches the internet to find out how nursing homes manage incontinent patients.  Up pops my post, and she is mesmerized and appalled.

Little has changed in nursing facilities in the nine years since I wrote that article. The better-funded and staffed ones do a more acceptable job of managing incontinence and clothing care. However, the direction of senior health care funding in this country does not bode well for the future of even these places. The general societal attitude toward the elderly has not improved appreciably, though end-of-life care through hospice and Death with Dignity legislation have advanced the quality of life approaching death for many.

Curiously, my second-most popular blog post is The Waterwheel, with 803 hits.  It quotes well-known and beloved poet Rumi’s wisdom and was written just a few days after the start of the COVID pandemic. Its message of taking up and letting go, embracing and relinquishing, is just as personally, socially, and politically relevant now as it was in March 2020. I suspect most readers find it by googling “Rumi” or, perhaps, “letting go,” a frequent theme in my writing.

The Anatomy of Respect, with 617 hits, comes in third. It goes to the heart and root of this blog over the last nine years by emphasizing the role of listening deeply to understand and develop respect.  I have tried to link each essay, poem, and story in the blog to the theme of respect and have encouraged my readers to share their experiences and reflections in response.  Truthfully, only a few readers have done so.

The most extensive dialogue with a reader occurred when a self-described, deeply conservative Republican, then Trump supporter, businessman, and father, Ryan, challenged me to engage in conversation about our differences after I posted the next-most-popular article (with 323 hits), Deep Listening, in December 2020. Our exchange of philosophical, political, and religious ideas, recorded in the comments following the Deep Listening article, began in February 2021. It ended in July 2022 when his family and business life became too busy and complicated for him to continue writing. It was fascinating and encouraging to see how much we had in common. Also, it was extremely challenging to be open-minded and respectful when we differed.

Often, at the beginning of a new year, I launch a new theme with the intention of focusing my writing on a particular aspect of respect throughout the year. It’s not always apparent how the theme relates to my overall subject. For instance, Practicing for the Big Let Go, begun in January 2024, initiated my reflections on letting go in everyday situations as a way of preparing for our final surrender at the time of death. What does this have to do with respect? Letting go involves engaging with the fundamental truth of impermanence—constant change. It requires respect for oneself, others, the flow of events, and our nature as human beings.

LOOKING FORWARD

As 2026 looms on the horizon, and I take stock of the world around me, close to home and farther away, I find it disingenuous to wish an uncomplicated and joyful “Happy New Year” to my friends. I wonder which aspect of respect we will encounter, reflect on, and perhaps write about in the coming year.  As I grow older, my journey toward self-awareness takes me into more vulnerable, authentic, and intuitive territory. As I approach the culmination of life, I’m confronted by my affinity, even my oneness, with those whose ideas and actions I find disturbing or even abhorrent. Painful as it sometimes is, I sense my kinship and interdependence with everyone and everything. Thich Nhat Hanh called this “interbeing.” Acknowledging our interbeing, my three-fold aim to do no harm, help everyone, and embrace life just as it is, is a perennial and unrelenting challenge.

So, instead of “Happy New Year,” here’s my wish for us all. May we seek to respect one another, and may we meet next year’s opportunities to do so with courage, accept their invitation with curiosity, and respond with compassion.

Perspective (7)

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Seventh Installment

Deborah’s heart sank. The dream of swimming free at Concord Lake was dashed, but she felt, after all the distress she had caused, that she owed it to her sister and everyone else to acquiesce. So, she promised, relieved that Meredith had not been angrier. The conversation ended with a silent hug, but the inner turmoil, for herself and, she suspected, for Meredith, would continue.

Swimming back and forth along the shoreline, with everyone watching her like a hawk, had no appeal whatsoever, but she decided to take one last swim before the vacation ended. She had heard that Alex lost his favorite T-shirt in his brief attempt to swim to her rescue. When he tore it off and flung it toward the dock, it had been carried by the wind and sucked under by the waves. All attempts to find it had failed. It was black and had sunk out of sight to the mucky bottom of the lake.

But Deborah wasn’t ready to give up. No one else had goggles. Hers might give her a better chance. Without telling anyone what she was doing, she donned her bathing suit, lime green cap, and Speedo goggles and waded out into the lake. The sun sparkled on the gentle waves, relaxed voices echoed from the cabin porch, and Jiffy sat alert beside Roxy’s chair at the tip of the dock. She paddled around for a few minutes and then began diving beneath the surface, going as deep as she could and staying under as long as she dared. She interspersed the dives with gentle stroking, checked to see if Roxy looked comfortable, and then dived again. It took fifteen minutes until she saw something out of place in the mud—a wrinkle, not a stick or a rock. When her pale hand reached through the murky water and clutched it, it came away from the bottom in a cloud of muck. She swam slowly to the dock and held the balled-up shirt before Roxy, smiling and placing a dripping finger on her closed lips. Roxy grinned.

Deborah rinsed out the shirt in the shallow water near the shore and held it up as she walked toward the porch. Alex stood as she approached. At first, he looked puzzled, but then recognition spread across his face. He said nothing, but reaching for the shirt, he wrung it tightly and walked silently to the clothesline. Meredith smiled, Tony looked sideways at Jason, who was playing games on his iPad, and Trisha got up to join Alex at the clothesline.

Deborah, also smiling, returned to the water to float on her back in the shallows, looking up at the deep blue sky and puffy white clouds.

The End

Perspective (6)

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Sixth Installment

“I know you thought you were doing something safe and reasonable from your point of view, but did you consider how it might look and feel to the rest of us. If you had drowned at the cabin, I would never have been able to enjoy it again. I would have been forced to sell it or let it fall into ruin because I could not bear the memories it would bring up.

“And Alex? Did you have any idea of the predicament you put him in? He was desperately torn between Jason, because of his terror of thunderstorms, Trisha, who would never have forgiven him if Jason were hurt in any way, and his fear of losing you and failing me. It was an impossible position for him. Alex said he learned one important thing: that Roxy is of no use whatsoever in a crisis. He felt so alone and scared. And, afterward, terribly angry. That’s why he doesn’t want to talk to you about it. He’s afraid of what he might say.

“Why didn’t you go to the cottage on the other side of the lake and ask for help? They could have called us; we would have known so much sooner that you were safe, and we could have come to pick you up. I wanted to throttle Tony for not dropping everything and going to rescue you immediately. I was so angry at you and at him, so scared that you might have drowned.” 

*************************

All this poured forth from Meredith, but more calmly than Deborah had expected. Meredith now seemed reflective rather than angry. So, Deborah took the risk of describing the incident from her point of view.

“I had no idea when I started to swim that such a huge storm was coming. Before I knew it, I couldn’t see the shore in any direction. I’m a good swimmer, so I wasn’t scared, but I realize now you didn’t know that I have been swimming three times a week in a pool for the last year. I hoped that neither Alex nor Roxy would do anything to try to rescue me, putting themselves in danger. I worried about that a lot as I swam. I’m sorry I didn’t call from the opposite shore but chose, unwisely, to swim back across the lake. That was a mistake…” she trailed off.

*************************

Meredith listened without interrupting. She didn’t argue or try to persuade. She was sure of the rightness of her point of view, so felt no need to defend it. But she was determined to make Deborah promise. “Do not ever do this again. Don’t swim out towards the center of the lake. Swim back and forth along the shore at a depth that allows you to put your feet on the bottom at any moment. And don’t swim unless someone is watching. No solitary swimming!”  Her fists were clenched as she delivered the last command.

last installment tomorrow

Perspective (5)

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Fifth Installment

Meredith strode into the cabin with her usual quick, in-charge stride. She carried a large pot containing potatoes, beans, peas, and carrots that she would boil and add cream to, making the local dish called “hodgepodge,” a family favorite. She went straight to the stove, added water, and turned on the burner, not even glancing in her sister’s direction, but knowing Deborah was standing immobile in the bedroom doorway.

She heard Deborah’s unsteady voice start, “I’m sorry…,” and commanded evenly but firmly, “We won’t talk about it now or at dinner. We’ll focus on the meal and being together as a family. We will talk about this later.”  Inside, Meredith was barely holding it together, but outside, she was in charge of the situation—her jaw set, her back straight, her eyes focused. She was intent on containing her anger, but how could Deborah have been so self-absorbed and clueless about the impact of her reckless actions? Meredith’s overwhelming fear of Deborah drowning had immediately transformed into rage the moment she heard her sister was safe.

**********************

Deborah knew better than to fan the flames of Meredith’s anger. She felt both relief and a sense of absurdity when her sister said they would talk later, but she did not argue.

***********************

Trish hugged Jason, asked if he was okay, and received a simple “Sure!” in his big boy voice. She exchanged a cautious glance with Alex, who, without a word, went out to unload more food from the car, while Meredith started the grill. Trish predicted that she and Alex would be up late that night, processing everything in whispers behind the door of their bedroom on the second floor of her in-laws’ house. Alex would need lots of calming before either of them could get any sleep. She could well imagine what he must have gone through in the half hour or so that Deborah was missing.

**********************

Deborah busied herself setting the table as she was instructed. She felt calm and quiet inside. They would all pretend nothing had happened and that everyone felt happy and “normal.”  They would be polite, laugh, make jokes, focus on Jason, and enjoy the hodgepodge, grilled steak, and hamburgers. It was 5 p.m., and a glint of sunshine was peeking through the clouds. Soon her brother-in-law would arrive, his hip-mounted firefighter radio crackling, and they would sit down at the table. Roxy would get up from her nap, and Deborah would be gentle and attentive to her. Everything would, indeed, be normal for this family.

It was two days before Deborah and Meredith talked. In the intervening days, no one from the family dropped in at the cabin to visit. Roxy read and slept, and Deborah took refuge in meditation and solitude. She sank into her sadness and loneliness rather than pushing them away or blaming herself for them. She carefully reflected on her own motivations and tried to understand the others’ feelings and reactions. Her depression gradually lifted. The sadness also eased, and her resentment that no one took care of her after the ordeal receded, as she had known it would as time passed. She felt calm but guarded—buttressed against the anger she expected Meredith to express. Her sister had a temper, and Deborah had been surprised that no explosive outburst had yet occurred. Meredith had some errands in the village, so Deborah offered to drive her to the post office and elsewhere. They bantered in the car as they went. After the post office, Deborah pulled into the United Church parking lot. Meredith was puzzled, “Why are you stopping here?” 

“I wanted to give you the opportunity, since we are alone, to tell me how you felt about my swimming in the storm the other day.”

Meredith took a deep breath. Here it comes! Deborah thought.

to be continued tomorrow

Perspective (4)

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Fourth Installment

Roxy’s eyes registered Deborah’s blue suit and green bathing cap striding through the shallow water toward the pier. She saw the living, moving body, but her brain did not process the reality that Deborah was alive. Crippling sadness and overwhelming loss still gripped her. The rain had plastered her short hair to her head; soaked clothing clung to her shivering body. Her face was expressionless, and her eyes were black and empty. She watched blankly and numbly as Deborah climbed onto the dock and came towards her, making soothing sounds. She could not recognize the words.

*******************

Lifting her goggles and wiping the water from her face, Deborah saw right away that Roxy was in shock. Alex was nowhere to be seen. She walked slowly toward her shivering partner and put her dripping arms around her, murmuring, “It’s all right. I’m fine. Don’t worry; everything will be all right.”  Roxy was like a statue in her arms; rigid and cold. She needed to be warmed as quickly as possible. With an arm around Roxy’s shoulder, Deborah led her across the lawn and into the cabin. Jiffy bounced along behind them, trying to get Deborah’s attention, then, just inside the door, shook himself happily, sending spray flying everywhere. Alex was standing in a puddle holding his phone, and Jason was still playing with his iPad.

“I need to get Roxy dry and warm first, and then we can talk,” Deborah said hesitantly.

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Did you call your mom to let her know I am okay?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry to worry you so much, Alex. “

“Why didn’t you come right in when the storm started?”

“By that time, I was far enough away that I couldn’t see the shore through the rain.”

“Well, you just wait until Mom gets here. She is going to be furious with you.”

“I know. I’d better get Roxy dry.”

Deborah led the still-shivering Roxy into the bedroom and began removing her clothing while Jiffy hopped on and off the bed. She toweled her off, found warm, dry sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, and tugged them over Roxy’s limbs, then led her to the bed and covered her with a warm blanket. “You’ll feel better soon, once you warm up,” she soothed.

“I thought you were dead,” Roxy spoke for the first time in a dull monotone. “I thought that was it. Dead.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Deborah apologized, touching her face and kissing her on the lips. A tear rolled down Roxy’s cheek.

Outside, Deborah could hear a vehicle approaching. Through the window, she saw a flashing light, visible against the still-dark sky. Jason woke from his iPad trance as a search-and-rescue truck pulled into the driveway.

Deborah, still in her wet bathing suit, hair askew, and Jiffy at her heels, went out to the porch to see who was on the rescue team. Jason, with his love of fire and rescue trucks, was already there, mesmerized by the flashing lights. Her brother-in-law, Tony, climbed down from the driver’s seat and smiled at her, then ruffled his grandson’s hair.

Again, Deborah started with apologies. “I’m sorry to trouble you and the fire department,” she said. “No worries,” Tony responded, with a slight chuckle as a stranger emerged from the other side of the truck. Deborah explained the drama that had unfolded only half an hour before. “As you can see, I am perfectly all right and not in need of rescuing.”

“That’s a happy ending,” Tony quipped. “We were on another call and couldn’t get here right away, but that one had a happy ending, too. Well, we’d better get this truck back. See you later.”  Deborah waved as they turned off the flashing light and pulled out of the driveway. Jason stood beside her on the porch, also waving goodbye to his grandfather.

Inside again, she found some dry clothes, dressed, and took the wet things – hers and Roxy’s – out to the line to hang. Having done all that she could to ease the effects of her selfish miscalculation, she noticed her depletion. Not just physical but mental. She felt lonely and depressed. Roxy was incapable of offering her any comfort. Alex was silent and angry, again absorbed in his phone, while Jason stared at the iPad. Meredith would return soon. With dread, she anticipated the sound of her sister’s car. She crawled under the spread on the bed next to Roxy, with Jiffy snuggling between them, and, closing her eyes, gave in to her sadness.

No one had expressed relief at her survival. No one had given her any credit for her level-headedness and strength in the ordeal. No one had “taken care” of her in any way once she was onshore, except for that small smile from her brother-in-law. They all seemed absorbed in their own take on what had happened and how it had affected them. She felt profoundly tired and alone. Automatically, she began breathing deeply and slowly. Eventually, she felt sleepy.

But before she drifted off, she heard a car approaching the cabin. It would be Meredith with the family’s supper fixings, and Trisha, Jason’s mother. She lifted her heavy body from the bed, sighed deeply, and, straightening her shoulders, opened the bedroom door.

to be continued tomorrow

Perspective (3)

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Third Installment

Meredith speed-dialed her husband, Tony, a senior firefighter in the local volunteer fire department. He picked up immediately, “What’s up?” 

“You need to get to the lake right away. Deborah went swimming in the storm, and they can’t find her.”

 “Okay, who’s there with her? Where are you?”

 “Alex and Roxy are there, but they can’t swim well enough to look for her. I’m at home.” 

“I’m on another rescue call right now, but I’ll get there as soon as I can,” Tony responded.

“Damn it!” thought Meredith, but Tony hung up before she could argue.

She dialed Alex back, “They are on their way.”  She put down her phone, gave in to her fear, and began to cry.

*******************

Roxy stood like a statue at the end of the dock, frozen, drenched, her mind filled with darkness. Her only thought was, “I’ll never see her again; she’s dead.” Each time these words cycled through her brain, a gushing torrent of sorrow denser than the sheets of rain around her washed through her. Though she remained upright, she was completely unaware of her body.

*********************

Alex paced back and forth on the porch, cell phone in hand, mumbling to himself, “Hurry up, hurry up.”  Minutes were like hours. Jason took out his earbuds and played the cartoon on his iPad’s speaker. Silly, childish tunes filled the cabin.

**********************

Deborah stroked steadily, stopping every minute or so to look around. Sometimes she felt closer to the flag, and at others, she could see she had veered to the left or right. She needed to touch shore on the small stone beach beneath the flag. On either side of that beach, she knew, were trees and large rocks at the shoreline—no place to climb out of the water. She checked her direction and swam forward again. Stopping to look around broke her rhythm and slowed her progress. But gradually, stroke by stroke, she neared the dock with the flag at its tip.

Twenty feet from shore, she gingerly lowered her foot to test the depth, and it sank into the muck on the bottom of the lake. A few more strokes and she touched coarse sand. She pulled her tired body up from the water and waded slowly toward shore, larger rocks on the lake’s bottom bruising her unsteady feet.

Through the rain, she saw, with a sinking heart, a man who was standing in the doorway of the cottage withdraw inside and close the door. A flicker of confusion flared in her mind. She refocused on breathing deeply, slowing her pulse, and relaxing her tense muscles. The downpour had let up enough that she could dimly see her sister’s cabin on the opposite shore. Imagining that Alex and Roxy might be able to see her, especially her bright green bathing cap, she turned and waved both arms in hopes they would see she was okay.

As she rested in the lighter downpour, Deborah considered her options. Why had the man gone inside instead of coming to the shore to help her? Did he not see her? Should she knock on his door? She felt physically exposed in her dripping suit and shy about knocking on a stranger’s door. If the man opened it, would he help, only to later broadcast the incident throughout her sister’s small community?

Her sense of independence and self-reliance asserted itself. This was up to her. She had never been able to rely on anyone else, anyway. When she tried, they’d let her down. So, if she couldn’t seek help from the man, should she try to walk barefoot, on the muddy woods road, out to the highway to flag someone down? Did she have enough energy to swim back across the lake once the storm let up? The answer to the last question was clear. Already, after just a few minutes of rest, she felt alert, renewed, and confident.

For a short while, Deborah stood, resting in the shallow water. From time to time, she waved at the opposite shore but could see no movement there. The thunder and lightning had ended, but the rain had only diminished slightly. She knew the longer she was gone, the more worried they would be. Soon she felt ready to start back. She waded out to the edge of the mucky bottom and lifted her legs, surging forward with strong arms. “Take it slow,” she said to herself, “you can do this.”

Minutes passed, and she frequently stopped to get her bearings, but each time she checked and reoriented, she was nearer home shore. About halfway across, she could see Roxy standing stock still on the pier. A few seconds later, Alex appeared beside her. Deborah shouted and waved. No response from Roxy, but Alex’s angry voice boomed across the waves. “You get in here, right now!”  A flicker of dread rose in her chest. She had been right; they were mad at her. Alex shouted again. Deborah called out that she was coming as fast as she could and strained to pick up her pace. What would she face when she reached shore? She almost wanted to stay in the water, but that was not an option. Soon, she put her feet down on the pebbly bottom of her sister’s beach and dragged her utterly exhausted body out of Concord Lake. The rain had finally stopped.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective (2)

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Second Installment

Roxy’s shout penetrated Alex’s absorption with his iPhone. Next, he heard a loud clap of thunder and immediately glanced at his son, who had his earphones in and was listening to a cartoon on his iPad. Jason was terrified of thunderstorms, but could not hear the rain or the noise above the voices and music in the cartoon scene in front of him. He was okay. Roxy’s cry had sounded hysterical, though. Alex slammed his phone down on the coffee table, jumped up, and pulled the baby gate from the door. Jiffy slipped through, dashing toward Roxy and the lakefront.

From the porch, Alex could see Roxy standing on the dock, drenched, staring at the lake. But where was Deborah? A current of fear shot through him. He started to run and reached the dock in a few strides. It was clear from Roxy’s terror and from the storm surrounding them that Deborah was in danger of drowning. He couldn’t see anything beyond a couple of feet. The rain was a dense curtain, the waves churned, the thunder was deafening, and the lightning sizzled. Jiffy ran frantically along the edge of the water, then forward and backward on the dock, barking hysterically.

Alex turned to Roxy and shouted, “Call 911!” He heard the flatness in her voice as she responded that her mobile did not have international service. “Use my phone!” he screamed. “I don’t know how,” she stammered as if in a trance. “Well then, at least get that damn dog back in the cabin!” Roxy noticed Jiffy for the first time. He was pawing at her wet pant legs, trying to get her attention. While he scanned the roiling water in front of him, out of the corner of his eye, Alex saw Roxy take hold of the dog’s collar and drag him back to the cabin, closing the glass door on him. He could hear the Jiffy whining pitifully, as Roxy, with blank eyes, joined him on the dock again.

“I’m alone,” Alex thought, “there is no other responsible person here. Roxy is in shock and useless. It’s my job to save Deborah, take care of Jason, Roxy, and Jiffy, too.”  He was terrified and confused. What should he do first? His mother would never forgive him if her sister drowned and he had not tried to save her. What if Jason suddenly heard the thunder and, seeing that his father wasn’t next to him, freaked out? Trisha had left him in charge of their son. She would be furious if anything happened to Jason. Two demands battled within him. Save Deborah, protect his son. Alex could swim, but he wasn’t a trained rescuer. Besides, he could see nothing through the rain. Finding Deborah in this downpour was impossible, and what if he drowned trying? Despite the confusion of his thoughts, he shook off his sandals and strode into the water. Tearing off his T-shirt, he dove in and flailed away from shore.

Thirty seconds in, Alex knew it was hopeless and turned back, dragging himself, soaked, across the lawn and into the cabin. As he opened the door, Jiffy darted through and returned to Roxy’s side on the dock, whimpering and staring out into the storm. Alex retrieved his mobile and automatically dialed his mother’s number instead of 911. She picked up on the first ring. “Call Search and Rescue. Deborah went swimming and is missing,” he gasped. Meredith was silent, but Alex knew she was not falling apart. Her competent, hyper-organized mind would be rehearsing the most practical steps before she flew into action. She would stay calm, call his father, who was a member of the local volunteer fire department, and help would come quickly. But would it be too late? He had done what he could.

The line clicked as Meredith hung up. Alex looked over at Jason, who, addicted to his iPad since he was three, sat placidly in front of it, not even noticing that anything was wrong or that his father was pacing back and forth, dripping water everywhere.

*************************

Deborah stopped swimming and, treading water, peered around her. She couldn’t see a shoreline in any direction. Instead, she saw rain slapping the water on all sides. A lightning spear shot toward the lake, and thunder boomed, vibrating in her ears. She wasn’t afraid. A fleeting thought that water is a superconductor of electricity passed through her mind, but she said to herself, “Oh well, I can’t do anything about that.” 

As she circled in place, looking for a glimpse of a shoreline, any shoreline, Deborah did not feel in danger. The lake was small, and she knew she had become a strong swimmer during her year of training at the community pool. When she began lessons, she had not swum for 40 years. Work and other responsibilities had intervened, and there was no nearby lake or pool. When she and Roxy retired and moved to New Hampshire, their town had a YMCA pool, so she started swimming again. Characteristically, she didn’t do so casually. She set goals, pushed herself, and gained back her strength and technique.

Her stamina had increased dramatically in the last year. She could easily reach some shore, any shore of this small lake, if she could see one. She felt confident in her ability to survive the storm. Her primary concern was those she had left back at the cabin. Roxy would be terrified. Alex might put himself in danger trying to rescue her. She hoped they would stay rational and do nothing foolish. Surviving this was up to her, and it was a challenge she felt she could meet, even welcome. A niggling worry crouched in the corner of her mind. They would be angry with her. They would see her determination to swim in dangerous weather as reckless and would blame her for frightening them.

“But I need to focus!” she thought. So, pushing this worry further back into her consciousness, she circled again, looking for shore. A slight slowing of the rain revealed a Canadian flag in the distance. It was blowing frantically, but the pure red and white maple leaf was a beacon. She knew from previous vacations that there was a dock beneath that flag and that a couple who lived in her sister’s village owned a cottage there. She took a deep breath, relaxed, and started stroking slowly and rhythmically toward the flag. As she did so, she felt the joy of swimming surge within her.

To be continued tomorrow

Perspective

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by Moriah Freeman

Letter to my Readers

Because I started writing creatively later in life, I’ve permitted myself to experiment with poetry, essays, nonfiction, and fiction, knowing I may never master any one genre.    My late start and lack of a fine arts degree have also made it impossible for me to get published, at least so far. I’ve self-published three books and 89 blog posts over the past nearly 10 years.  Having one poem, “The World Is Coming Apart at the Seams,” included in one poetry collection, does not a published author make!

Last summer, I attended a couple of book festivals and saw self-published and co-published authors promoting their work. Very few of the potential customers who walked by my display or others actually made a purchase. I came away feeling uncomfortable contributing to the increasing cascade of words, pages, and books flooding the world, or, more accurately, sitting in boxes on storage room shelves, or in garages and attics.

Yet, I can’t stop writing, and though I have no illusions about my talent, I still want to share my words and thoughts—share, not try to force them upon readers.  So, I’ve hit upon a new, or rather, quite old idea. I will publish my fiction along with my essays and poetry on my blog in installments. This way, they are free, both for me to publish and for readers to read. If they are found and found meaningful, how delightful!  If they are not, I’ve still enjoyed the writing and the sharing.  I will put them out there and let go of the outcome.

Perspective is my first experiment in this new venture. It’s a short story about how the various people involved in one incident each see it through their own unique lenses. Let me know what you think.

Moriah

************************

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe.

For months, Deborah had imagined swimming at one of her favorite places – her family’s retreat on Concord Lake in Nova Scotia. When she was a child, her parents built the cabin on the lakeshore, and she and her siblings splashed, swam, canoed, and boated in its warm, shining waters. Now her parents were gone, and her sister Meredith owned the property. Deborah and her partner visited every couple of years for vacations and family gatherings.

During the journey, Deborah had daydreamed about this swim. As she stroked out from shore, she felt like she had been set free. No narrow lane confined her; no black line on the bottom of the pool insisted she swim straight; no wall demanded that she turn every thirty-two strokes. As she headed out into the open expanse of water, the murky lake’s bottom was no guide. She had imagined how it would feel to swim without a goal: no pressure from the clock; no fellow swimmers with whom to compare her strokes, her speed, or her form. Relaxed, slow arms sliced through the tepid water like a lazy knife through soft butter. No resistance. Legs gently waving like the tail of a mermaid. She felt calm, at ease in her body and the world, at home.

A minute or two after the swim began, she felt tiny pinpricks of raindrops on her shoulders. Though she had been determined to swim on this first day of vacation, the clouds she glimpsed while wading into the lake had conjured both defiant and cautious impulses in her.

“The hell with the rain, I’ve waited long enough, I am swimming regardless,” was countered by, “If it starts to rain hard, I will get out.”

***********************

Roxy, Deborah’s partner, lounged in the Adirondack chair on the cabin porch, her Kindle beside her on the chair’s yellow arm. Jiffy, their standard black poodle, perched at alert behind the bars of the baby gate just inside the cabin door. They both watched Deborah wade into the lake, Roxy wondering how Deborah could have the energy to swim after driving for two days. Older and less fit than Deborah, Roxy tired more easily and moved more slowly. They had only arrived at the cabin on Concord Lake a couple of hours before, and all Roxy wanted at this moment was some quiet to read and to nap. Jiffy was whining off and on and pawing at the gate. No surprise. Any separation from Deborah made him anxious.

Roxy was relieved to be here at last, but was nonetheless slightly uncomfortable. This cabin stay was not her idea of a dream vacation. Mosquitoes, uncomfortable beds, the outdoor shower, and Deborah’s sister, nephews, and their families dropping in unannounced meant that this visit would require more patience and extroversion from her than a vacation should. Roxy liked ease and privacy.

The sky looked ominous. “Why the hell couldn’t Deborah wait for better swimming weather?”  Roxy grumbled internally. She felt obligated to watch the lake and Deborah in case anything happened – a cramp, for instance.

******************

Inside the cabin, Alex, Deborah’s 35-year-old nephew, tapped the screen on his mobile while his five-year-old son, Jason, fiddled with his iPad. Jason, Alex, and his wife, Trisha, had made the trip from Quebec to Nova Scotia for a partial family reunion—partial because some family members were not attending due to a recent misunderstanding. When they arrived a couple of days ago, the air was already charged with tension as everyone tried to make the best of things. He was tired of trying to be upbeat and sociable. Surfing the net and zoning out for a few minutes while everyone else was occupied would, he hoped, renew his patience for his role of family go-between and peacemaker. He, Trisha, and Jason were staying at his parents’ house in the village, a 15-minute drive away. His mother and Trisha had just left the cabin to prepare for the evening meal in its better-equipped kitchen.

****************************

The raindrops started slowly and gently. Jiffy whined and yelped. Roxy uttered a firm “Quiet!” and turned to make sure that the baby gate was securely fastened. All she needed was for him to get loose and go dashing into the water, looking for his mistress. When she turned back to the lake only a few seconds later, she could see Deborah’s lime green bathing cap far out from shore. Rain pelted now, and thunder rumbled in the distance. She shouted. “Alex!” and dashed down to the lakefront. In the seconds it took to cross the narrow strip of lawn and arrive drenched at the dock, the bathing cap disappeared. Torrents of rain pounded the surface of the lake, thunder roared overhead, and a vicious spear of lightning punctuated the dark sky.

To be continued tomorrow

Love in All Seasons

Posted on by respectful.com

“Farewell to thee! but not farewell
To all my fondest thoughts of thee:
Within my heart they still shall dwell;
And they shall cheer and comfort me.”

—Anne Brontë

One morning, a couple of years ago, as I accompanied my dog on his first walk of the day along a well-worn trail through the woods near my home, I was surprised by something I had not noticed before. I saw a path, intentionally bordered on either side by clean barkless branches, which led away from the beaten track over dead leaves, broken sticks, and brown ferns shriveled by frost.

 It was the height of tick season in Maine, so I hesitated to step into the underbrush, trailing my dog on his lead, but my eyes followed the branch borders of the path deeper into the woods.  There, on a stick wedged between two conjoined tree trunks, something brown and out of place dangled.  I couldn’t believe my eyes, so I had to get closer to be sure. 

Taking a deep breath and hoping no deer ticks would crawl up my legs or bury themselves in my dog’s curious muzzle, I stepped onto the path and gingerly picked my way about twenty paces into the woods.  My eyes had not deceived me.  A sturdy pair of men’s walking shoes hung by their laces, artfully draped over the stick. What could this mean?  Who would leave their shoes behind in the woods?  These lace-ups still had a lot of life in them.

Something prevented me from touching them—some intuition that this was a holy place.  I took a picture of them, and retraced my steps, my dog tugging me back to our usual route. However, the image of the shoes stayed with me for the rest of our morning walk, and the place where they hung became the destination for frequent pilgrimages in days to come.

After several visits, I began to suspect that these were my neighbor Simon’s shoes, and that they had been lovingly arranged in the woods where he frequently walked, his camera dangling from his neck.  Simon had died several months before, and I surmised that his widow deposited the shoes in a setting he loved near their home, where she could visit them often to commune with her husband.  I took the risk of asking her if I had guessed correctly, and she, blushing but shyly pleased that someone else had discovered her memorial, confirmed it. 

Over the last couple of years, my pup and I have visited Simon’s shoes countless times.  Cynthia, Simon’s wife, adds bits of flora to mark the seasons—sometimes delicate wildflowers in spring, ferns in summer, red, yellow, and golden leaves in fall, and, of course, winter provides its own decoration. Each time I set out on my pilgrimage, I look forward to discovering these simple but artful adornments.

All I know of Simon are these shoes and the few memories of her beloved husband that Cynthia has shared with me. By the time the couple moved into my neighborhood, he had already begun to decline.  I would pass him on my afternoon walks and receive a silent smile in response to my cheerful hello.  He was, by then, not much of a conversationalist, especially with strangers.  His soft-spoken words were sparing, but the few I heard were direct and gentle. 

I marveled that the memorial shoes were in such good shape.  According to his wife, Simon had worn them on hikes all over Europe and America.  Once, on a walking trip in Ireland, amid a powerful wind and rainstorm, he and Cynthia took refuge in a farmhouse along their way.  The family welcomed them to warm up and dry off at the hearth. So, Simon propped his feet in front of the open fire, scorching the soles of his shoes before he realized what was happening. Thrifty as he was, he saw no reason to replace the singed footwear. Like his shoes, Simon was humble, loyal, and resilient.

Simon’s memorial shoes, their constancy, adaptation, and beauty in every season, have become an icon for me.  A symbol for the humility that embraces and accepts what is, even when the reality is absence. Gradually, these old shoes will succumb to the elements and disintegrate, but not before they have taught many passersby a profound lesson.  We continue after death, transformed surely, but ultimately, reunited with the elements that made us, enlivened us, warmed us, fed us, cleansed us, and sheltered us. Finally, we come home.

Simon and Cynthia are not the real names of my neighbors.

Ageism-A Word for the Wise

Posted on by respectful.com

Old people and children are two of the most vulnerable groups in American society.  Non-whites, the poor, immigrants, LGBTQ+ persons, the disabled, and women are also exceptionally vulnerable. 

While those of us old folks who can afford to live in retirement communities recognize that we are privileged, if we are realistic, we also acknowledge our vulnerability. Though we may not have thought about it in these terms, vulnerability is the very reason we are here, willingly or not. Perhaps, as in my case, physical limitations and loss of energy made it difficult to maintain or live safely in a single-family dwelling. After the loss of a partner or the deaths of many friends of a similar age, social isolation may become a problem. Many are overwhelmed by exhaustion from caring for a spouse who is ill or dying, and they can no longer carry that burden alone. Some struggle with the subtle shift from taking care of their children to needing support and care from them, and they move to a retirement community to make their lives and the children’s more manageable and less stressful.

Some of us feel more vulnerable than others. Some of us may be in complete denial about our vulnerability. 

The elderly are often considered childlike and are treated like children.  Like children, we may have, or may believe we have, little ability to defend ourselves, and so others can easily exploit or take advantage of us.  We are often considered less intelligent than those in the prime of life due to the stereotype of decreasing cognitive abilities, and therefore, are popular targets for scams and theft. If we are retired, we are regarded as unproductive and, therefore, are considered less valuable to society. In a zero-sum culture, we are viewed as a drain on scarce resources. Of course, these negative views of old people may be mitigated somewhat if we are financially secure, famous, have a long list of accomplishments, or have very accomplished grandchildren!

 The above-listed common attitudes toward old people constitute ageism—discrimination against older people because of negative and inaccurate stereotypes. They lump all older people into a homogeneous category, ignoring the wide variety of strengths and weaknesses of seniors.

Still, whether we admit it or not, the older we get, the more defenseless we become.  We may be able to delay some forms of weakness or decline by eating well, exercising, staying mentally and socially active, or by exerting our formidable power of denial. Still, we ultimately succumb to our powerlessness as we look death in the face.

Most of us succumb to our limitations before then, though.  We appreciate the support we pay for when we move to a retirement community.  Most likely, we moved there expecting life to become easier as the services we have been promised, for the hefty fees, are delivered.  We take it for granted that we will be respected. After all, we’ve worked hard, been esteemed for our achievements, planned carefully, made difficult decisions, and gained some wisdom.  We don’t expect to give up agency in our lives. We assume that an institution ostensibly created to foster graceful aging and funded by the savings of old people will understand and accommodate the needs of the aged in all their variety, subtlety, and complexity. Or we don’t think about this at all. Retirement communities, especially those marketed as independent or active living, may be the last places we expect to find ageism.

However, retirement communities are often owned and managed by those who have not yet faced the vulnerability of aging in their own lives.  The law of averages predicts that some will be run by people motivated by greed, hunger for power, personal and professional insecurity, inexperience, grudges, ignorance, and prejudice. Those who oversee retirement communities are sometimes completely unaware of their ageist attitudes, the subtle and not-so-subtle ways in which they disrespect and take advantage of the elderly.

So, a word of caution to the old and the not-so-old.  First, old folks, don’t be naïve.  Keep your eyes and ears open, assume nothing, and continue to exercise your critical thinking. Don’t take it for granted that your increasing limitations render you powerless. Be on the lookout for ageism in the healthcare system, end-of-life support networks, home care agencies, advocacy groups, and even in the place you call home, such as your retirement community or senior housing complex.  And when you identify it, don’t hesitate to call it what it is and to support one another in resisting it.

Also, be on the lookout for ageist attitudes in and among yourselves.  Statements like “I’m having a senior moment” may seem harmless and may ease an embarrassing situation, but they contribute to the incorrect characterization of all seniors as forgetful and incompetent. Some of us use the mythic forgetfulness of old age as an excuse for our lifelong laziness and carelessness in remembering names. I could be one of those!

Finally, those of you who are not yet old.  Surprise!  You will be one day!  You, too, will be limited and vulnerable.  You will require some degree of support, however minimal. If you foster a culture of disrespect for the elderly now, you will be a victim of that culture yourself one day.  Crass as it may sound, what goes around really does come around.