A treat for you
Seckou Keita, to prove there is still beauty in the world
I’ve been struggling with bad-mood disorder.
I read today that there’s a new psychological category: people who grieve too long.
When a beloved died last year, my boss said I couldn’t take bereavement because it wasn’t “an immediate family member.”
Whatever.
Lol. Right?
You gotta laugh.
It doesn’t surprise me that there is some kind of condition where people aren’t grieving fully, correctly, long enough, or even at all.
Gotta go to work, after all! Gotta get to the “lubricated matrix,” (LOL) as our CEO literally said in a meeting a couple of months ago while announcing some new order or re-order of some kind. ProjectNext, I think it’s called. (And, no, I don’t work for a kink company.)
It’s okay.
I don’t mean to mock my (ultimate) boss, or my job, or my company.
I work for a great company, even if it’s riven with such corporate nonsense.
But, there is something wrong with a country, or a work culture, that dictates who you can and can’t take time to grieve for.
I’m not sure why I set off on this particular foot, and I don’t want to bitch and moan.
The truth is, I’m finding myself beset by anxiety. That’s probably because I’m watching too much news. I’m aggrieved, as all of us are, by what is happening in Ukraine. I’m aware of the problematic language around it… saying things like, “but they look just like us!” I realize it represents a blind spot in myself, but I also find myself in disbelief, feeling, believing, that a “modern” society means brutal warfare is off-limits.
Obviously, that is not the case. But, it does seem surreal to me.
(Why? It’s worth asking the question. But, getting to the root of that is not what this post is about. This entry is about trying to find the will to live again, in vibrancy, in juiciness, in love, and… yes, even in the lubricated matrix. Why not?)
Lol.
At least I’m cracking myself up.
The only hope for me, and maybe for you too, is to locate and honor the beauty that remains. Stop mourning, stop seizing, stop the indignation, even though it is warranted, God knows. It’s making me bitter, closed, and repetitive.
The only hope is to “accentuate the positive,” as my father used to say.
Yesterday, my friend C.’s husband reminded those of us at the table that for most of mankind’s history, we had no running water, heat, light, reliable food source. Our life spans were half or less what they are now. We are ridiculously, fantastically spoiled. We don’t even realize that hot water coming out of the tap is a miracle.
The piper is coming to be paid, I’m afraid.
I am afraid. It’s true.
At an important “All-Hands” company meeting this week, rah-rah employees were gushing about how excited they were to start traveling again for in-person meetings.
I was literally almost sick.
I typed into the chat window, “Within reason, surely! The UN just published a report saying it’s almost too later to do anything at all about global warming.”
No one acknowledged my comment. I hope I don’t get fired. This was our first “in-person” meeting since the beginning of the pandemic. I was supposed to drive 90 minutes to listen to our vaunted speakers. Then drive 90 minutes back to my home.
I didn’t. I called in instead.
No one has said anything. Yet.
But, I’m scared.
And Christ. It’s incredibly diminishing to feel scared at this age, on the eve of 54. Good God, if I’m ever going to own my life, when will it be?
Yeah, but that’s the financial conversation—an important topic, but not one for this post. (All I will say, young ‘uns, is SAVE YOUR FUCK-YOU MONEY. You will need it.)
Music is saving me tonight. Beautiful, raw, totally unique music from the African continent. Seckou Keita’s breath-taking Kana-Sila brought peace to my heart and tears to my eyes.
This beautiful music from the African continent inspires me.
Tony Allen’s deep, hypnotic, horn-based jazz number “Politely” is very different. It’s slinky, sexy, ominous… and just as beautiful.
It’s fun, luscious. It’s hope.
A tax attorney once said to me, “You may feel like you have no money, but you already have so much more than your great-grandparents, who probably had a dirt floor, had.”
He’s right, of course.
What I want to say here is, It’s obvious the world is changing fast, and it’s scary. Texas is on fire in mid-March, with 50 homes and 45,000 acres incinerated as of this evening.
Multiple cities in Ukraine are being bombed to smithereens, and I still can’t believe that the full-term pregnant mother on the stretcher topped by a bright, playful red and white design is dead, along with her baby, because this guy thinks it’s okay to bomb maternity hospitals, oncology hospitals, churches, theaters (where hundreds remain buried, dead or alive), and apartment buildings.
It’s also true some of us still have safety, security, knowledge, art, and beauty. Food, and a means to cook it. And music. The beauty of music.
Now’s a time to turn to artists who draw from deep within themselves to produce raw expressons of the elementals of life: happiness, sorrow, humility, a little attention on the beauty that remains in the world.
Because the world will go on, with or without us. Now, while we are here, we are invited to notice and respond to the occurrences around us, from the full moon turning the field blue to your trusty retriever finding a ball every time you walk her, to pasta in the pot, perfectly al dente.
Seek, and ye shall find. In this case, Nuru Kane’s Toub. Take a listen. You’re in for a treat.