Phoebe Kate

“Don’t sweat the small stuff,” the popular adage tells us — and for a great many situations, it’s probably good advice…but not if you’ve had less than a day to slam some stuff in a suitcase and move many miles away from home with not much chance of getting back there in the foreseeable future.  I felt like a refugee, except I wasn’t fleeing to find safety and relief, but rather racing toward a situation I desperately wished I could avoid.    

I forgot I was going upstate, where it’s at least 1o degrees cooler than at the coast.  I brought summer clothes to a place where fall has decisively fallen.  I brought the wrong shoes — I forgot that two out of the four pairs I packed hurt my feet if I’m walking any further than from the bar to the table I’ve been waiting for in a restaurant.  I neglected to take books I wanted to read, my slippers, my favorite pair of dark glasses, my special pillow, my address book, the quilt I always nap under and about a dozen other things that would give me comfort in a very uncomfortable situation.  In my haste, I even left behind my two talismen – a small antique brass elephant that belonged to my father and a garnet cross that I often wear during times of adversity.   

Yes, slippers and dark glasses and sensible shoes and a sweater coat can be bought, but the newness of the items only emphasizes the transitory quality of my life at this juncture of time — and shopping (one of my favorite forms of therapy) has no power to lift my spirits in an unremediable situation.  I put on these new things and feel like a stranger in somebody else’s clothes.

Our lives are like a mosaic, comprised largely of small things and small pleasures that give us a sense of security and continuity.  When the trappings of the familiar are gone, all that’s left is the reality of transience and the frailty of self.

–phoebe kate        

On September 8th, my life suddenly changed — and changed forever. 

The reasons for the change aren’t relevant here; suffice to say that they were dire and a bolt out of the proverbial blue.  Since that day three weeks ago, I have become a gypsy without no wagon, only a suitcase and a borrowed laptop.  I encamp in hospital waiting rooms, and in hotel rooms and rented houses that will be mine for a week, maybe two, and then I’ll be moving again to who knows where – and then moving again and again and again to places unseen, unplanned. 

Who knows when and where my journey will finally end — perhaps never.  What I used to call “home” — for the past five years, at least — is hundreds of miles away in a past that will never be again.   

In the meantime, I’m discovering that home is wherever you find yourself and you can be happy in spite of whatever is going on around you.  

And maybe that’s the best survival skill any of us can ever learn.

–phoebe kate

A family emergency has taken me out of town and offline for a while.  Keep checking back in — I’ll return as soon as possible.

–phoebe kate  

Well, I’m a week late with this month’s causes for celebration, but we didn’t miss much in the first seven days — except for September 2, which is National Beheading Day.  I have no idea how anyone is supposed to commemorate this — maybe pretend we’re the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland and shout, “Off with their heads!” at those who irritate us?

• 9/8: Pardon Day.  For those who took National Beheading Day too literally?
• 9/9:  Teddy Bear Day.  Everybody needs a teddy bear — and adults need them more than kids, if you ask me.  They’re comforting, an inexpensive form of therapy and a lot better for you than cheering yourself up with six scoops of Haagen Daz or a whole package of Oreos or a pint of Jack Daniel’s.  
• 9/12:  Pet Memorial Day.  I’ll be remembering Mertie, Benjie, Hildy, Blaise, Faust, Quilt, Lanny, Muffin Man, Mandy Moose, Theodore, Clementine, Chessie and Harmony.
• 9/13:  Defy Superstition Day.  Walk under that ladder boldly.  Seek out black cats to cross your path.  Break a mirror — heck, break two mirrors.
• 9/16:  Stay Away from Seattle Day.  Who thinks up these national days?  And what do they have against a perfectly lovely city?
• 9/20:  National Punch Day.  Are we talking about a fruity drink or decking someone? 
• 9/21:  World Gratitude Day.  If everybody all across the globe spent more time counting their blessings, the world would be a very different place to live.
• 9/22:  National Hobbit Day.  Hobbits love parties and feasting and drinking and dancing and singing.  Enjoy the day as Frodo and Bilbo would.  Hairy feet are optional; having a good time isn’t.
• 9/26:  National Good Neighbor Day.  Everybody’s your neighbor, if you think about it.  Smile at people on the bus or in the elevator or at the store.   Hold doors open for strangers.  Refrain from using your cell phone in restaurants where others are trying to enjoy a pleasant meal.  Be a courteous driver who doesn’t tailgate, blast his horn, make rude gestures at other drivers, speed up when the light turns yellow and disregard pedestrian crosswalks.
• 9/28:  Ask a Stupid Question Day.  Why is Greenland called green if it’s covered with ice?  Why does Donald Duck wear a towel when he comes out of the shower but wears nothing the rest of the time?  Why is the window at fast food places called a “drive through” if you have to stop?  If you mated a bull dog with a shitsu, would it be called a bullshit?

And on that note, I wish you all a good September.

–phoebe kate

With a disturbing degree of regularity, I hear people on TV state that “60 is the new 40.”  If we believe that one, folks, we’re a benighted crowd indeed. 

Yes, we’re living longer, but are we really happier or healthier?  Statistics don’t show that we are.  We’re clinically depressed, suffering from anxiety and hypertension and sexual dysfunctions and obesity and are so riddled with ailments from A to Z that we need a national health care program to take care of us. 

We can Botox and liposuction to our heart’s content, and though we may kid ourselves into thinking we’re still young, we can’t fool Mother Nature.  Our bodies are machines and over time, despite the best of care, they start to wear out — and all the blueberries, nuts, garlic, tomatoes (or whatever foods are supposed to give us longevity) aren’t going to change that reality.

So, I was thinking: if 60 is the new 40, then 50 is the new 30.  I don’t know any 50-year-olds — including myself – who feel like they’re 30, but in the world of catchphrases and buzzwords, reality doesn’t count for anything…unless it’s a TV show, of course.

Anyway, if we continue to pursue this bizarre concept, 40 is now the new 20 — and that means  30 is the new 10, 20 is the new neonate and 10-year-olds aren’t born yet and are two decades away from even being a gleam in their father’s eye.

Taking it in the other direction, it certainly stretches credulity to propose in all seriousness that 70 is the new 50, 80 is the new 60 and 90 is the new 70.  Trust me, I know whereof I speak.  My mother-in-law is 92 and as far as I can see, she’s the new 112 — and I’m being charitable here.

Maybe, sometime in the future, our culture will remember and embrace what growing old is all about.  It’s not trying to find the Fountain of Youth or be a foxy babe or a stud muffin forever.  It’s about gaining wisdom and knowledge from a lifetime of experiences that allows us to see life — and death – in the proper perspective.

“To everything there is a season,” the Book of Ecclesiastes warns us — and yes, I think it is a warning.  To know — and accept – what season you’re in is an important piece of business.  Not easy, to be sure, but necessary if we’re to fulfill our purposes in this life and have peace of mind when the final curtain falls.    

–phoebe kate