Ruth Bader Ginsburg 1933- 2020

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“I don’t say women’s rights—I say the constitutional principle of the equal citizenship stature of men and women.”
― Ruth Bader Ginsburg

“the greatest menace to freedom is an inert people; …public discussion is a political duty; and… should be a fundamental principle of the American government.”
― Brandeis concurring with Holmes in Whitney vs. California, 1927

“He (Nabokov) used words to paint pictures. Even today, when I read, I notice with pleasure when an author has chosen a particular word, a particular place, for the picture it will convey to the reader.”
― Ruth Bader Ginsburg

Quotations from Goodreads in a review of Ginsburg’s book, My Own Words (2016)

https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/49756700-my-own-words

Silver Linings

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The silver lining in our Covid story almost didn’t happen. My son responded to a Facebook post. A Michigan friend, who was stationed in Afghanistan, posted a message from a Sacramento friend who had housing for herself, but not her pets. Through social media, they spanned the world to locate a fostering contact point. 

It was a risk. Little was known about animal-human transmission, so we were leery of the multiple moves the dogs had made on their way to us. Potential virus vectors. But when Max noses in or Kohnan sings opera, I’m glad we took the chance. 

John Lewis- 1940 to 2020

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John Lewis was buried this week in Atlanta. He grew up in Troy, Alabama, where using a public library was for whites only in 1956. Sixteen years old, he sent the city council a letter, the first of many times he protested Jim Crow.

Arrested 45 times in civil rights demonstrations, he was known for making “good trouble.” Also for mobilizing political action with the phrase, “We’re going to march.” In 1987, he marched into Congress representing Atlanta.

Can’t stomach an unfair legal system? Can’t accept people getting arrested for exercising the First Amendment? Stand with John Lewis’s legacy. Support change. Vote justice.

Writing in a Pandemic

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For the past month, a Tarot card that means reprieve has consistently found its way into my weekly story prompt. Sometimes it defines the question. Sometimes it’s the unknown quantity that might determine the outcome. Either way, reprieve is in the cards.

I find this comforting. Whether a reprieve from a broken Washington, a reprieve through self-knowledge or a reprieve via creative insight, all of it seems good. And I see this theme cropping up in places besides my Celtic Cross spreads. My writing group met on Zoom this week. We are normally very disciplined, sticking to the text of the pieces we are discussing, offering useful comments about improving our stories. This week, the sense of loss evoked in the writing provoked a different response that reverberated through the group.

I find myself wondering how much of it was the fictional stories we reviewed and how much of it was the proximity of loss all around us that bled into our comments. In e-mails after the group, one member revealed that a family member had died of the virus. Another commented that we may need to be prepared for more losses as this pandemic runs its course. And though it is unusual to discuss personal issues in our group, the underlying impetus for much writing is personal loss.

My husband tells a story that may be germane here. A friend of his from college, an English major, saw his first snow during his freshman year at an Eastern college. They were walking across campus, white flakes drifting into piles of white flakes. The African student said, “You know that snow means death.” Such a normal phenomenon across most of the United States is a literary symbol which becomes potent when it overcomes the barriers that we erect against it. Heated buildings, roaring fires, protective snow gear, all the ways that man overcomes nature. Until, as in Jack London’s To Build a Fire, nature overcomes man.

As a culture, we have celebrated rugged individualism. We’ve gone into the wilderness, positive that we would return, sure of being protected from the worst by our pluck, ingenuity, entrepreneurship and free market economy. But some things require a group and to be a group, we need to pull together. We need to listen to the advice of people who know more than we do. That means finding some other song to sing besides America First.

We do need America to come together, but that’s not enough. The virus is here. The means to fight it are spread around the world. Isolation is the first defense. But cooperation can’t be far behind or we risk freezing to death as a result of our own stubborn denial regarding the risks. And unlike a man freezing in the wild, we will take others with us if we can’t admit that we need each other.

There are two versions of To Build a Fire. In one version, the protagonist dies. In the other, he sustains frostbite and becomes a wiser person. We could use a little wisdom as we fight our battle with nature. Reprieve is in the cards, the question is how we go about making that happen and how much damage we sustain before the pandemic is over.

In Cold Blood

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A moth fluttered from the folds of my favorite silk scarf. Seeing multiple holes, I shrieked. It was down to tenting the house or murder. I chose murder. Moth murder.

Once committed, it became an obsession. Scanning the walls for tiny oblong specks of black, I stopped for every one. A trail of smudges showed my progress through the house. I averaged ten a day.

But a spider’s web had trapped many more. I had planned to dust the corners soon but I’m keeping the spiders. Though they bite me at night, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

‘Til Debt Do Us Part

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When the Titanic sank, it was accompanied by the strains of the orchestra playing Nearer My God to Thee. The music calmed survivors and doomed alike. Maybe the musicians thought there would be enough lifeboats to get away at the last minute. They clearly felt an obligation to provide art as a bromide for the fear of imminent catastrophe.

Once the damage was all sorted out, the musician’s families received bills from the ship’s booking agency for the tuxedos that went down with the ship. Come hell or high water, they would collect what was owed them. Business as usual.

Thinking About Birthdays

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Agapanthus always seem too big for the vase at the cemetery. So I bring something smaller, something that doesn’t grow in the yard.

Samuel’s life was brief. Before he died, he held my finger. Breathing through a respirator, breathing through pain, breathing away the last hours of his life; he loosened his grip. The tight fists that fought to stay alive loosened so his cold hand held my finger once before he passed.

I’m glad we had that contact, just like I’m glad to be part of my two son’s lives. Still, I sometimes wonder who Samuel might have become.

Notre Dame- Fiction Interrupted

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Word Ladder, Death and Taxes, will continue next week.

We left Paris on Easter of 2015, after ten days of being tourists. Though we hadn’t intended to, we witnessed the veneration of relics from the passion of Christ ̶ the crown of thorns, a piece of wood and a nail from the cross ̶ at Notre Dame Cathedral. This is how that happened. My husband and I were standing in an apse, whispering about how difficult it would be for photo recognition software to distinguish between the apostles pictured in the stained glass ̶ their faces are virtually the same ̶ when a deacon indicated we should move and shushed us with a finger to the lip. A little puzzled, we complied. Looking around, we saw a procession moving along the aisle. A priest (most likely the bishop) held aloft a reliquary containing the glinting gold crown. Assistants on either side held the other relics. For about twenty minutes, they moved slowly through the church as people crossed themselves and bowed their heads.

It is this scene that came to mind when I heard on the radio a few days ago that Notre Dame was burning. My first thought was to hope that it was not the result of a terrorist attack. Following the story in the news during the next few days, I was relieved to hear that the fire was accidental. As information has come in, it seems that someone miscalculated. Things got out of control. Often they do. This might be true for political conflagrations as well. If so, let’s hope that we can get those under control and that a respect for the accomplishments of the past can rescue the future. Notre Dame has been rescued and rebuilt several times.

The Easter Week commemorations for Good Friday and Holy Saturday will be held at Sainte Sulpice and Easter Mass will be celebrated at Sainte Eustache. Sunday organ concerts are held each week at Sainte Sulpice, though I’ve never been. The organ at Sainte Eustache is is quite powerful. I’ve heard it. The seating is spartan, consisting of folding chairs. But this is true of most churches we visited in Paris.

The organ at Notre Dame was spared from fire by a stone roof. When we were there in 2015, a sign was posted on a collection box requesting donations to make a few repairs to that organ. Perhaps now that people have opened their pocketbooks to rebuild the cathedral, the organ can be restored completely. This is how things progress, in fits and starts, forwards and backwards, with a crisis often required to concentrate the mind.