Beth Kaplan's Blog, page 20

Here comes the sun! Get On Your Knees.

Despite the dire state of the world, I’m flooded with good feelings today – because sunlight. Hot sun, on my face right now, what a difference it makes.

Incredible amounts of rain out west, in Nova Scotia a crippling snowstorm, and here, sunshine. No roses yet, but spring flowers are confused by the temperate climate. As are we.

My friend Juliet in Paris rails against social media, and I understand, it’s dangerously invasive, especially for the young. But as I’ve said before, it’s one of my great pleasures. Confession: I ditched Twitter and regretted it, am back on. My young tech helper pointed out there are two settings, For You and Following, and obviously, when the garbage started pouring in, it must have been switched, somehow, to For You, and Elon Musk decided that crap is what I wanted to see. Now I’m set on Following, which means I only see, more or less, what I want to see, and am following some interesting, thought-provoking artists, pundits, newspapers, and magazines.

But it’s FB I enjoy most — seeing what friends from high school had for lunch, what their grandchildren look like, etc. I do not so much enjoy what their Wordle scores were today, which so many post, but then when I’ve had the occasional 2 I’ve wanted to share it as well. But now, for example, we’ve been enjoined to share pictures of ourselves at age 21. Why, who knows, but there they are, my very young and lovely friends as I knew them then. I posted this, of my 21st birthday party in my parents’ backyard, wearing a stained beige silk flapper dress from Portobello Road. My mother served her fabulous cheesecake, and as the party wound down, I snuck into the kitchen and devoured chunks of the leftover cheesecake from people’s plates. So, not as serene as the photo portrays, not by a long shot. It’ll only take fifty years, but she’ll get to serene, kind of.

The other day I was out front sweeping away the wood chips from the downed tree when a Muslim woman about my age walked by with her grocery cart. And then she stopped and turned to me with tears in her eyes. Her English was not good, but I understood that I looked like her mother, who died in 2005. She threw her arms around me as she wept, and we hugged. I told her my mother died in 2012. I didn’t say that my relationship with my mum was perhaps a bit more conflicted than hers. As anyone who has read my memoirs, and particularly Midlife Solo, can ascertain.

Last night, I watched Jacqueline Novak’s Get On Your Knees, described as a comedy about blowjobs, which it is, and much more. She gets annoying, in constant motion with a screechy voice, but is very clever, obviously well-educated, quoting poetry and philosophy and using many metaphors. Her main point, how women kowtow to men, that men are in fact far more fragile than women, is important.  May many young women watch it. Much to think about.

I hope there is sun chez vous, my friends, and that your batteries are being charged as mine are, on this beautiful day. Here, below, is the story of my life. Cheers. Be well.

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Morgan Campbell, Leo Reich, and cells

The sun did come out the other day; now it has vanished again. But it’s still weirdly, extraordinarily mild. And yet things still feel heavy in my heart — family, finances, the world. Just … heavy.

But — a wonderful experience the other day. A few years ago, a young sportswriter, Morgan Campbell, walked into my Ryerson classroom, wanting to learn to tell his own story. He was eager, lively, a joy to teach; he read a powerful story at my So True reading event, with a large coterie of black Canadian and American friends and family in attendance, not my usual audience, unfortunately. And now he has published a memoir about his athletic and sportswriting careers and his feuding family — with Penguin Random-House, no less. I went to his book launch and was knocked out when he greeted me with, “Beth! My black-belt creative nonfiction sensei!” I’ll certainly carry THAT for the rest of time. Hope the book does really well for him. Bravo, Morgan.

Last night, two interesting things: I watched Literally Who Cares?, a taped stand-up show by Leo Reich, a young, Jewish, gay comedian, a bit off-putting at first, and a bit graphic about gay sex, but dazzlingly quick and clever. About organized religion: “It would give such meaning to my entire life! All I’d have to give them in return would be my grip on reality. (Pause for laughter.) Which, cards on the table, I barely use anyway.”

About gay sex: “It’s always interesting to figure out who’s what is going to go where.”

“I like fucking someone who hates me. We have so much in common.”

Rather than a string of stand-up bits, it’s actually a show, in that there’s music and a narrative that weaves through and returns. Unlike anything I’ve seen before: rapid fire, thought-provoking, and very funny.

(BTW, I looked up order of adjectives to figure out how to describe Leo. So: is young, Jewish, gay correct? Is ‘gay’ a purpose or qualifier? I think so.)

Quantity or number.Quality or opinion.Size.Age.Shape.Color.Proper adjective (often nationality, other place of origin, or material)Purpose or qualifier.)

And I listened to CBC’s Ideas; it was on cells, and since I’m going to start writing about my dad, a cell biologist, I thought I should hear it. Nearly tuned out like I always did in childhood, as the familiar words flew by: mitochondria protons protein molecules ribosomes neutrons electrons messenger RNA. Etc. I never understood a word Dad said about his work.

But the program reaffirmed what an incredibly interesting field it is; how I wish Dad were here to follow the latest discoveries. What knocked me out: they know now there are 37 trillion cells in a human body. And in each microscopic cell are ten million bits of machinery doing the work of keeping the cell alive.

Which means, the host calculated, that there are 400 quintillion moving parts in our bodies.

I thought of a friend’s healthy, fit 43-year-old daughter who has recently had a stroke, and thought, It’s not surprising that sometimes things inside us go wrong. What’s surprising is that those 400 quintillion moving parts usually function as well as they do, to keep us breathing, functioning, thinking, feeling, alive. Fucking miraculous, as Leo Reich might say.

Speaking of not being well, though — younger grandson Ben has been really sick for almost two weeks. Tuesday Anna had to go to work at Council Fire which isn’t far from here, so she brought him over, and we spent the day together, he lying on the sofa near the fire and I fussing around. This boy is normally a blur of activity and motion, but instead, for the first time, I got to read him a lot of stories. Joy.

We do what we can, and sometimes, maybe, it helps, sez this black-belt sensei.

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in the gloom

A heavy heart today, with the news about the American soldiers killed by Iran, the inevitable escalation. Just what the world needs — more violence and unwinnable war. I try to go back and imagine my parents in the late 1930’s, watching the world slide into catastrophe; things have been very bad on our planet before. But the confluence now, with lunatic politics worldwide, climate change, refugees everywhere — all visible on our feeds, in a way impossible in an earlier time, so we’re confronted with it all constantly … it’s tough.

Had a little argument with Anna last night. I bought a new book to read to the boys, Dogsong, by Gary Paulsen, whose Hatchet we really enjoyed — they liked its tale of a brave lad’s survival in the woods. This one is about an Inuit boy in the north. Anna started to read it to them but told me she stopped to talk about cultural appropriation — that the book was written by a white outsider, not an Indigenous person, and they should keep that in mind as they listened.

It made me briefly furious, as these things do — isn’t the job of writers to imagine themselves into other lives and bring those experiences to light for readers? Where would world literature be if only the actual people involved were allowed to write their truths? I brought up Uncle Tom’s Cabin, white outsider Harriet Beecher Stowe writing black characters in such a way that she helped end slavery. Would she be allowed to write that today, or would she be cancelled? Or simply not published?

Yes, minority voices have long been marginalized and need to be heard, their experiences honoured, absolutely. But I do find the pendulum has swung very far in that direction, and maybe can swing back a bit, to allow writers to do what they do.

Okay, rant over. Although it’s unusually, frighteningly mild for January, it’s also Day 5792 of gloom, so my spirit has been gloomified. Apparently by this time in winter we’ve usually received something like 300 hours of sun, and this year, it’s 30. Plus the U.S. and Iran. Plus Sam Nutt of War Child on the CBC right now talking about the appalling crisis in South Sudan. Plus everything else. It feels unbearable today; my skin feels raw.

However, as always, there is art. Went to a matinee at the opera yesterday with Toronto Lynn and Monique. I rarely go, but The Cunning Little Vixen had great reviews, and it’s short. A very strange opera about a fox — wait, should Janacek have been allowed to write in the voice of a fox? Oh stop. Anyway, the costumes, music, voices were marvellous, even if it was all a bit bewildering.

And I watched a movie free through Kanopy, Their Finest, about WWII in Britain and the Blitz, especially interested now because I’m going to start writing my parents’ story. It’s a slight film but charming, and I discovered a new handsomeness, Sam Clafin, who went to the same London theatre school as moi, though unfortunately not at the same time. Mmm.

My friend Ron Hume, who at 91 is becoming the writer he has always wanted to be, has a new Substack, and today’s post is about mindfulness. Breathing in the world, actually stopping to see, smell, listen — something I do far too rarely. I will try to do it today. Because otherwise I feel my head and heart might split wide open.

https://pathfindernewsletter.substack.com/p/an-everyday-exercise-to-keep-stress?utm_campaign=email-half-post&r=3d8wo&utm_source=substack&utm_medium=email

However, recently I saw a photo I’ve never seen before. There’s always this to cheer me up, this eternal partnership of joy.

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Free at last. Almost.

Finally! After waiting nearly two years, I just had a call from the U.S. consulate and now have an appointment in April to renounce my American citizenship. I have to go to Ottawa to do it. I lived for not even three months in the U.S. after my birth in NYC before we emigrated to Canada; though I’ve never since lived or worked there, I had to spend thousands of dollars in accountant’s fees to file five years back taxes and will have to hand over a money order for over $3000 to be released. The injustice and expense make me furious. But what a relief it will be to be free of that country. Yes, there are many marvellous Americans, all my remaining extended family live there and I love them, but ye gods, could a nation be more lunatic than that one right now? Listening to the countless Trump supporters is like being in an alternate reality, a Twilight Zone where black is white, up is down, and definitely, wrong is right. Get me out, asap.

Further to that, I’ve just deleted my Twitter account. I hung on despite Musk because there were some good people there, but these past few weeks, the site has been flooded with shocking quantities of garbage. The last straw: something came up that purported to be a video of passengers in one of the planes headed for the towers on 9/11. I moved past as quickly as possible once I realized what it was. Can you imagine watching such a thing, or posting it? The level of depravity. Gone!

What other poison should I rid myself of, while I’m at it? I do still listen to and read the news. Sigh.

On a more cheerful note, however, it’s so mild out, it’s like March, not January, so I rushed about on the bike doing errands. Yesterday, I was interviewed by Vancouver book podcaster Joe Planta, who’d read Midlife Solo thoroughly, asked the best questions, and said the nicest things. “Incredibly relatable,” he said. “It was like sitting with someone I’ve known for a long time.” We talked about the many people profiled in the book — Dorothy, Penny, Babs, Len, Bob, and others — how honoured and glad I am to bring them back, to introduce them to readers, though they’re no longer here.

Julia Zarankin, a wonderful writer herself, emailed today: “I’m reading your book slowly — savoring the essays and your voice. I appreciate your honesty and good humor! I adore your blog, & everything I love about your blog is in the book! Fun, thoughtful & such a testament to your resilience, empathy and capacity for reinvention.”

And Ruth Miller, another great writer: “There wasn’t a moment when I wasn’t engaged in the story of your rich and eventful life, so beautifully told in your unique voice … Your honesty is a gift to your readers; you unpacked quite a few suitcases with feeling, candour and humour. There is no superficiality in your story-telling and all of it conveys lessons you have learned and shared with us so generously. We learn from your essays and recognize our own foibles and triumphs and regrets in many of them.”

So kind, such welcome words, thank you very, very much.

Yesterday evening, I watched On Broadway, a documentary about the Great White Way, that made me want to jump on a plane for New York (though I will certainly wait for my citizenship to be sorted first!) It made me think of my ex and I seeing Amadeus on New Year’s Eve 1981, I pregnant with Anna, not realizing we were watching the brilliant Ian McKellen as Salieri. The incredible Nicholas Nickleby that Ed and I flew in from Vancouver with 6-month-old Anna to see. The show was 8 1/2 hours long in two parts, and we had one ticket; I went to the first half while Ed stayed with Anna, then I rushed back with the ticket to my uncle’s where we were staying, and Ed cabbed down to take in the second half.

Joy. Many more wonderful times, and some not so wonderful, including going down for Ed’s own productions on Broadway which unfortunately did not last long.

And then I watched the end of Nature on PBS, showing a female chameleon laying her eggs and dying immediately afterwards, her skin a kaleidoscope as she died, electric, neon, vivid changing colours, an incredible miraculous thing.

Oh – and our beloved Jon Stewart is coming back to the Daily Show in February. We need you, Jon!

It’s an amazing world, my friends. It’s good to say yes. Yes to my first baking in years: lemon blueberry muffins with lemon glaze, a recipe from the NYT. Never too much lemon. MMMM.

And sometimes, it is also a very good thing to say NO. No more. Begone!

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raccoon sex

An exciting morning: the city forestry men came, at last, to deal with a city tree in my front yard. It had a huge branch extending over the street and its hydro wires, and I’ve waited two years for them to come. I thought they would only cut the branch, but they said the tree is dead and took it right down. Much chain-sawing with great skill. The vast mama maple is still there, but her baby is no more. And that’s a relief.

While all that happened, Tiggy and I watched another spectacle: raccoons mating in a neighbour’s tree. They found it awkward to find the right position way up there, but once they started, they went at it for some time, much writhing and quivering. Apparently the males mate widely but the females will only mate with one male per season. There will be some Cabbagetown babes in two months.

Sam came over briefly on his way to a sleep clinic nearby. He has physical troubles at night, and they’re checking his heart and other parts. Thank you, Tommy Douglas.

And yesterday I had an hour-long interview with Lisa Lucca, who has a radio show in New Mexico – where it’s warm. She’s a memoirist and writing coach too, an interesting, lively woman. Link here soon.

Second class of Life Stories I last night, first class of Life Stories II tonight. Fabulous. In sweatpants in my kitchen.

A card from dear friend Nick Rice about Midlife Solo: “Thank you for a beautiful, moving, funny, and effortless read in your inimitable voice. It is fabulous. I didn’t want it to end.” Thank you! Several people have said the same thing, which is immensely satisfying. Let’s hope they feel the same about the next book, which I’ve very tentatively begun.

Anna’s boys are both very sick with flu. It’s snowing. But there are many birds clustered at the feeder. We are all alive.

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How to survive winter: Beth’s invaluable tip

The tip? Art! Patronize artists. Go to bookstores and buy books. Go to the theatre, film, galleries, dance. Time will fly, and the cold outside, while still there, will shrink to manageable size.

Last night, Monique, our mutual friend Jacqueline Swartz and I had dinner at Monique’s and went to see the Mark Morris choreography of Burt Bacharach songs. It was a lovely way to spend a very cold night, though I have to say that my appreciation of choreography has been forever changed by the brilliant Crystal Pite, whose “Assembly Hall” I saw recently. Last night the songs were marvellous, so familiar: I say a little prayer, Raindrops keep falling on my head, I’ll never fall in love again, Close to you — what a sublimely talented composer he was. The dancers were good. But I found the choreography to be repetitious and shallow. Mark Morris is a famous American dance master, but Crystal Pite’s work is, IMHO, far richer, deeper, better.

So there.

Today, a cold grey Saturday with not much planned beyond work, I read two great reviews of a new play with an odd title: The shadow whose prey the hunter becomes. There was a matinee at a theatre not far away, so I bought a ticket, swathed myself in warm clothes, leapt on my bike, and twenty minutes later I was watching an unforgettable piece of theatre. It was written and presented by three people with disabilities – neuro-divergent, they prefer – talking to themselves and to us about our preconceptions of disability, and how people like them have been mistreated, often appallingly, through the ages. And then, the devastating premise: when AI takes over the world, as it will, we will ALL be treated like they are now, as inferior and damaged, needing to be controlled. Prey, in fact.

Food for thought, indeed. The show took me back to my months living and working with men with disabilities at L’Arche, how it changed me. I’ve almost finished Rona Maynard’s lovely memoir Starter Dog, in which she describes how her dog Casey opened her heart to the world. For me, as written in my memoir Loose Woman, it was Jean-Luc, Patrick, Yannick, and the others, who taught me to slow down and listen, to pay attention and care and be open. I was reminded of that valuable lesson today, in an hour, at Canadian Stage’s Berkeley Street Theatre.

Lucky!

Go take in some art. Because, otherwise, the world looks a bit like this:

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hearing from friends

Peter Blais wrote yesterday. He and his partner Tom Alway run the Maritime Painted Saltbox in Nova Scotia, to display their bright, brilliant art. Peter was a terrific actor first; I’ve known him since 1967.

He wrote, “Just finished ‘Solo’ – what a wonderful read. Two sittings. Distracted as you know – painting pictures – tryin’ to pay the rent. Beth – it was so good. Even if I had never known you – these essays would have hit one nerve/ touchstone after another. About…..everything. Childhood, parents, siblings, careers, partners, kids and every other wonderful fucking catastrophe. Thanks for the laughs and a few tears and a couple of OMG’s.”

Thank you, dear friend. If I sell some more books, I’ll buy one of your paintings!

But the bad news: another dear old friend wrote that her daughter, a lithe healthy 43-year old with two small children, has had a stroke. We are waiting on tenterhooks to find out what’s next.

And more bad news, or odd news: a woman I’ve known since childhood unfriended me a long time ago, for reasons I can only guess. I went online today, curious to see what has become of her kids, who are the same age as mine. And found, to my astonishment, that they are rabid anti-vaxxer conspiracy theorists; one posted a photo of himself at the trucker convoy in 2022, wrapped in a Canadian flag, with “freedom fighter” below. My friend and her husband were vaguely lefty, in the arts. How could they have raised two such angry men? Their posts are full of rage.

I blame Trump for everything; like Pandora he lifted the lid on human anger and grievance, self-pity, greed, prejudice, cruelty, and, yes, blind stupidity. Evil-doers around the world looked at him and thought, Look at that guy, breaking every law, stamping on every human decency and still powerful and popular — what am I waiting for? And not just the Putins and the Netanyahus, but young people like this woman’s sons. A friend informed me that in a recent poll, more Canadians under 35 supported Trump than Trudeau. It’s terrifying.

Okay, enough, it’s cold enough without terror in my heart. The good news is that yesterday, my son visited; he is rebuilding his life and has very little money right now, and I was able to give him thrifted treasures – a sweater, a wool jacket and an Eddie Bauer down vest – that cost a total of $20. Miraculous that they all fitted, considering that he’s six foot eight with very long arms. Plus it was garbage day and I saw what looked like a perfectly nice rug in a garbage bag next door. He took it home – and it fits perfectly in his little apartment. Dumpster diving with Mum, he calls it. Makes me proud.

Every other wonderful fucking catastrophe. Love it, Peter. Ain’t that life.

Tomorrow, a podcast interview with Lisa Lucca, and my home class reconvenes after our Xmas break. There’s life in these cold bones yet.

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Manifesto to My Face

After all those dire warnings – 10 centimetres at least! Prepare! Snowplows at the ready! – there was almost no snow, just a thin scattering. It’s cold – -6 right now, at dusk – but nothing like the polar vortex out west, which my poor friends are suffering – -45 in Edmonton! But we are Canadians and this is winter, so bring it on. The power went out yesterday, and I thought, well, if it lasts, no problem, I can put everything from the fridge and freezer on the deck. But after an hour or two we regained light and heat.

While waiting, I went to the Y and had a hot shower. After, I looked at my hair, cut by Monique who has never cut hair (and yet has quite the skill), and laughed. Took a selfie to celebrate that I really don’t care that much any more how I look, how an indifferent world sees me. As I’ve just posted on FB and IG, an op-ed in the NYT, written by a woman in her thirties about feeling compelled to have Botox, made me sad. At 73, a pleasant release from all that. It doesn’t mean that if I could magically erase some of my wrinkles and sags, I wouldn’t – but only with magic, not with poisonous injections to freeze my face.

The essay called “Manifesto to My Face,” toward the end of Midlife Solo, is about accepting what we have, what we were given, and who we have grown into. And I do. It’s funny, after I posted this pic and the essay on social media, people have been writing about how beautiful they think I am. That’s nonsense — kind, but nonsense. One of my great victories is that because I’ve never been remotely beautiful — interesting, lively, sure, but not beautiful — I’m free to have my own face and not worry (too much) about it.

Could use an eyebrow pencil, though, I see.

Finished Lessons in Chemistry – that is, I skimmed a bunch and read the last chapters. I can see why it’s had such success – great characters, a fiercely feminist perspective, lots of humour, and, yes, chemistry. But still, there was something formulaic and a bit glib about it. Enjoyable, though. I started an Australian series called Fisk yesterday, really enjoyable.

Watching a doc on the extremely beautiful, talented, and engaged Sinéad O’Connor, I learned how much her relentless activism harmed her life and career. My daughter spent the day in the deep freeze protesting Israel. I asked her please not to get arrested. She’s a single mother. Her boys need her, and so do I.

It’s a scary, cruelly cold world.

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waiting for the storm

After that last extremely perky post, life settled down into its regular rhythm, which includes accomplishing not very much in a day. I’m still reading to the boys in the evening, still loving The Eyes and the Impossible, full of unforgettable animal characters with lovely names: besides Johannes our hero, the wild and wise dog, we meet Bertrand the feisty seagull, Sonja the squirrel, Yolanda the pelican, Meredith the bison, Angus the raccoon with his useful opposable thumbs. Although there’s some squirming on the other end of the phone, it feels like we’re all immersed.

Yesterday, my friend Christopher Moore interviewed me for the CNFC newsletter. We discussed how Midlife Solo came about and how to put together an essay compilation, useful information, we hope, for our fellow writers of nonfiction. Then I made a delicious red lentil soup and Toronto Lynn came for dinner by the fire. She said that at my book launch, someone asked her name and when told, exclaimed, “Are you France Lynn or Toronto Lynn?” Readers know me too well.

Olga, my downstairs tenant, is visiting Calgary, and wrote that it’s -35, feeling like -47 with the wind chill. Polar vortex! Here not too cold, but we’re waiting for a big snowstorm tonight; I spent the morning rushing about getting in essential supplies: 4 loaves of bread and 2 bags of coffee from St. John’s Bakery, then kitty litter and birdseed. Prepared shovels and salt, and pruned off the hydrangea’s heavy heads so the snow doesn’t break the stems. We’re ready.

Yesterday’s excitement was finally booking my trip to Europe, entirely with points. Landing in Paris early Monday April 1, flying out from London Friday April 19. In between, visits with friends in those cities and also in Amsterdam and Liverpool. I hope. God willing. Inshallah. France Lynn has found us a nice affordable apartment in the 12th, a northern part of Paris I’ve never visited. So, a new adventure.

And now, as the sky darkens threateningly, time for a nap. I’ll cuddle in beside my cat. Tomorrow, with 5 to 10 centimetres of snow predicted, some serious hunkering.

Below, the usual brilliance from Canadian artist Barry Blitt. I’d laugh if it weren’t so seriously unfunny.

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Beth’s really good excellent terrific day, and changing the world

It didn’t start well. I microwave my oatmeal in a Pyrex bowl, and that morning the bottom fell out. After many heatings, it just cracked and fell. I tried eating the porridge anyway, didn’t want to waste those blueberries, but thought better of it.

From there, things soared. I went to meet my son at Toronto Western Hospital for a consultation with a surgeon about the damaged right wrist that’s causing him a lot of pain. Was dreading a long, chaotic morning, since Premier Ford is smashing public healthcare with defunding and neglect. Hospitals are overrun; staff are quitting, drained.

But the professionals working there are heroes. We were whisked through – he had an x-ray in record time, saw the surgeon’s intern, then the surgeon himself, a forthright man, instantly trustworthy. The issue isn’t solved but it’s being dealt with. We were out in just over an hour, after thanking both of them profusely. Miraculous. Could we be more grateful for public healthcare? No. As always – thank you, Tommy Douglas.

On the way to the Y I stopped at Winners where in my large ungainly unpopular size there was for once a terrific pair of sneakers, half price.

My Y class is like a club, we know each other so well. Two classmates bought the books I’d brought in at their request. Cathy who bought it last week effused about how much she loved it. Art is reading it slowly and asks me questions each class. Best of all, a friend who was suicidal earlier this year is now recovered and full of energy and thanked me for standing by her. All I did, when she made clear she didn’t want cheery pep talks, was to email regularly to remind her she is loved.

At home, my editor Ellie had returned a 2000-word essay I’d sent for her sharp eye; I re-edited and submitted to a literary magazine. One of my own editing clients sent a 35-page manuscript for MY sharp eye. I practiced the piano a bit. Supper was delicious, because I’d actually cooked yesterday so for once there was good food in the fridge.

Two things were best of all. One, dearest Chris called. A few years ago, just after retiring from his very busy life, he had a nervous breakdown and has been suffering ever since with seizures and, often, lack of speech. My diagnosis was that once he was no longer filling his days with overwork, his childhood with two abusive adoptive parents, a past he’d never confronted or even admitted, had surfaced to haunt him. He refused to consider this, not wanting to seem weak, though I assured him, over and over, there’s nothing weak about having survived a terrible childhood.

Finally, on Sunday night, he had an astonishing breakthrough and acknowledged, at last, that his breakdown was linked to his childhood. He phoned to say that he now understands and that has made a huge difference; he feels light and happy. What joy. I sent him this:

Not necessarily true, but often, it is. Or at least, a lonely and thoughtful child.

At 9, Anna Facetimed; she got the boys into bed, and I read into the phone some chapters from The Eyes and the Impossible. I was sitting by my fire and they were lying in bed on the other side of town, listening to Dave Eggers’s marvellously vivid stories about Johannes the dog. Eli is eleven going on sixteen; Anna cried recently, “Mum, he has underarm hair!” Soon he won’t be up for bedtime stories. But he is now.

It was grey and cold outside, and the world is hurting in infinite ways. But that was the best day I’ve had in a very long time, and much of it, it turned out, involved being there for other people. Roger Rosenblatt, a favourite writer, had a beautiful op-ed in the NYT on Sunday to say he has resolved to change the world, one small step at a time. He writes:

“In “Leaves of Grass,” Walt Whitman writes: “This is what you shall do: Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to everyone who asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy.”

So there. If you’re looking for a worthwhile resolution, Whitman is not a bad place to start. The task of improving the world may seem impossible, but it isn’t. All it takes is the proper sequence of correct discrete decisions.

An editor of mine told me a story from his childhood on his grandparents’ farm in Iowa. The little boy, looking out over acres and acres of corn, asked his grandfather, “How are we going to shuck all that corn?” His grandfather said, “One row at a time.”

This, too, is how to improve the world. And we can start small.

Personally, I vow that I will frequently visit a children’s hospital and try to distract kids with stories, the funnier the better. I vow that I will phone every lonely person I know — and there are plenty — at least twice a week, just to chat and make them feel part of the living world. I vow to give alms to everyone who asks, and to those who don’t, and to stand up for the stupid and crazy, the stupider and crazier, the better. I promise to keep an eye out for strays (cats, dogs and people) and bring them safety and comfort. I vow to see every wrong as a menace, every wound an opportunity.

What will you do — right now, this week, this month — to make a better world? Stage a protest. Send a letter to right a wrong, or to proffer friendship. (A thoughtful, sympathetic letter to a friend in sorrow or distress is a powerful thing.) Lend a hand. Offer a word of comfort or inspiration or support or love. Donate money or, most valuable of all, time. There are so many ways to move this world, right within reach.

The great beautiful irony of all this, of course, is that selflessness is not the opposite of self-improvement. Selflessness is self-improvement — the most meaningful and lasting kind.”

What Roger said.

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/26/opinion/new-years-resolutions.html?searchResultPosition=2

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