Community, Compassion, Cooperation

Please forgive me if this post isn’t as polished as you might like. It certainly is not as polished as I would like.

I wanted to put it out there into the world, though, as it occurred to me. This is something that I’ve been thinking about a great deal especially in the last few days.

COVID-19 has shown quite a few flaws in our social systems. I could go on about healthcare, scarcity, people with such low incomes that they cannot afford to miss weeks of work, children who will not get a meal of schools are closed, and a number of other things, but I am choosing one focal point here.

Community.

In the last few days I have, by necessity, gone to the grocery store. My particular market is not a large one. It is usually quite well stocked, and often not terribly busy. I know all of the staff members there, and they greet me like a friend. Even on days when leaving the house seems like an enormous chore, a burden that I cannot bear to carry, I can go to my Publix. They have always been wonderful to me.

Today when I went the parking lot was full.  Beyond full. People were circling. At the moment I have the use of a handicapped parking placard, but it did me no good. I had to simply take whichever space opened up first. Lucky for me, one opened up only three or four spaces away.

Walking with a cane is awkward.  I can only imagine how those with worse handicaps than mine are handling these crowded conditions.

I sat down on a motorized scooter and went about my business inside. It was strange, the things that were completely sold out. Bananas? Really? Plenty of other fruits - oranges, apples, grapes, and berries galore. Plenty of fresh vegetables. But no bananas. How odd. 

The rice and pasta were almost entirely gone. Macaroni and cheese, Ramen, wiped out. No toilet paper. No facial tissue. Paper towels running low. Absolutely no bread to be found. Well, not quite true, I did find one loaf hiding at the back of the bottom shelf where almost no one could see it. I suspect I only noticed it because I was sitting on a scooter, and not standing tall. I had to reach down and back to get it as it huddled shivering against the wall. Poor, lonely, a little loaf of bread. No hamburger buns. No hotdog buns. No buns of any kind. The only bread-type items remaining were English muffins and bagels, and I suspect those will be gone by tomorrow.  Tortillas were plentiful, but will likely be gone on a day or two.

As I rolled through the store, trying to wait patiently for other shoppers to continue down the aisles so that I could as well, the crowds intrigued me. Even during pre-holiday shopping season I have never seen so many people in the store!  A few shoppers seemed to be considering their purchases carefully, but more appeared to be grabbing whatever fell under their eye as possibly useful.  

I’m belaboring the point, I know, but I found it shocking.

The sense of urgency, bordering on panic, was palpable.

And now for the thought that this inspired.

If we were a compassionate, caring, cooperative society, I don’t think we’d be having this problem right now. Yes, we’d be worried about this illness sweeping the globe. I’m not trying to downplay the seriousness of this. COVID-19 is nothing to play with. It’s more the fear of scarcity of which I speak.

I don’t think this semi-panic would be occurring if we were confident that our friends, family, and neighbors would all help look out for us as we would help look out for them. If we were a connected community, I don’t believe we’d be afraid of running out of toilet paper or going hungry even (potentially) under a two-week quarantine.

We would, instead, be confident that if we run out of something, someone, somewhere would step up and help us out, as we would help them under the same circumstances.

Instead, we are a nation of isolated souls living in crowded neighborhoods. We don’t know each other. Maybe we don’t want to know each other. We lock ourselves in our homes and remain separate. My neighbor doesn’t know that she can come to me for help if she needs groceries, or some other form of aid. She doesn’t know that I will give her a ride somewhere if the need arises. She doesn’t know that if they run out of something, she can knock on my door and ask, and if I have it I will give.

This lack of connection is what will do is in, in the end.  We are cells in a body, but we are cells each struggling in our individual ways and not working together to keep the body whole.

I find it distressing.

That separateness is what works very well for politicians, who seek to continue to divide us even as we struggle with a crisis. Politics as usual, fingers pointing, blame doled out, denial, denial, denial. Fight over doing what is simply right. Each side telling the other how wrong that they are, calling things a hoax, calling things an emergency, saying this side doesn’t care and that side wants to take away from you and give to another.

Meanwhile, those of us down here at the bottom of the power pyramid are struggling. When we reach out to help others, sometimes we’re punished, sometimes marginalized, on occasion lauded, but rarely are we recognized as simply being decently human.

Even monkeys take care of the entire troupe. They take care of those at the top and those at the bottom. The least popular monkey is still not going to be eaten by a predator because regardless of their place within the troupe, they are still a member. The troupe takes care of its own.

How is it that we can’t do something that even monkeys do?

You can see from the above that I am fumbling with these thoughts, these ideas. It’s difficult for me to boil it down, to place it in a nutshell. For me personally, it is a huge idea. It is a big deal. I see my fellow humans struggling, and my instinct is to reach out and offer a hand. I may not be the strongest member of society, but I don’t think I’m the weakest either.

I have something to offer, whether it be a ride somewhere, an extra bag of rice, or reassuring word and a warm, comforting smile.

If the least of us strive to have something to offer, why can’t those considered the greatest of us do the same?

If the least of us felt confident that they would be taken care of in times of great need, I believe we would be a stronger society as a whole.

If everyone knew, absolutely knew, that they would be taken care of, that the web would catch them, that they would not fall very far before society grabbed hold and held them up, how much better off would we be?

I truly believe that we would not have empty shelves that used to hold paper goods. That we would not have empty shelves that used to hold rice, or pasta. That we would not have people in grocery stores around the nation, around the world, fighting over resources, if we weren’t afraid of running out because we knew that we would take care of each other.

Whatever happened to cause this sense of separateness, this aloneness, isolation even in cities and crowded places, it is now showing it self to be devastating. The feeling of being on our own, unable to rely on our fellows, will destroy us faster than any virus can.

I apologize if this seems to be scattered, lengthy, or completely incoherent. It is simply a thought that has been rattling around inside my head, and I felt the need to get it out.

COVID-19, for me, is more than a virus. It is an opportunity to see where I need to reach out a little more, where I need to connect a little better, where I need to reassure, to show compassion and kindness, to show love.  If nothing else, I can drive to reinforce my part of the web. It is my hope that many others will do the same, and that we will emerge on the other side of this a little stronger for it.

So...how can I help?

She Won

Having lived, she won.

Having loved, she won.

Having born and raised four beautiful children, she won.

Having fought valiantly for so long, she won.

Having her life stolen away by cancer's insidious, creeping horror, she's still a winner.

Win Susan...

Fatty, I've been reading you for a while, rarely commented...but I cheered when she could sit up, eat, drink, make jewelry, live a little more. I am so very sorry...

A Mutt for Monday

Help save Trevor the dog from what is, essentially, murder. Animals should not be punished for their human's mistakes! Go sign an online petition that is aimed at the Yukon Supreme Court, which will be hearing Trevor's case on (hopefully) August sixth.

It's a small thing, the life of a dog...such a very small thing in human terms...but on the Universal scale, it is tremendous, because it's a LIFE. I've been following Trevor's story since my friend Rachel first began telling it (when Trevor was brought to the shelter as a rescue case with a chain embedded in his neck).

Click the picture - it will take you to the petition page, where you can sign your name (anonymously, if you like) and leave a message as well.

Bits of Yesterday

I was online last night, talking to a friend. It was an odd juxtaposition of primitive - campsite, woods, darkness punctuated with stars - and modern - computer, cell phone charging at the wall, fairy lights along the ceiling.

I wrote some thoughts I wanted to share, things from yesterday, but never blogged them last night - so today, it is!

There was music, yesterday. Throughout the day, music. The Birembau in the morning. A man strolling the road along the Merchant's walk, playing a jaunty little tune on his concertina.

A woman stopping by our booth, two little girls in tow, offering to take Bird along with them to play. I didn't know her name, nor she mine, but I let him go, because...well...youd have to be here, part of this odd, annual community, to understand. I did introduce myself to her, at least. Bird walked away with her two girls, holding hands with the youngest, a happy little boy. He came back for dinner and was just fine.

After dinner, he stood beside the road outside the booth, blowing bubbles. He offered lessons to anyone who wanted them, and asked all passersby "Hey, would you like to blow some bubbles?" He stopped a pod of pirates (Is that what a group of them is called? If it wasn't before, it is now...) and chatted with them in the middle of the road. They were game. Bless 'em. No one is a stranger, to him, and here? Everyone is a friend. Adults intent on some business or another still stopped, talked to him, and an astonishing number of them paused and blew a few bubbles.

After he went to bed, I wandered to the cafe and plugged in, linked up, and talked with my friend for a couple of hours. In the distance, the drums were pounding, people were singing, dancing, enjoying the fire. I was enjoying the beat, the rhythm, and the solitude of the dark cafe. While I sat and typed, people wandered by and chatted, moved on, sat, left, came back, ebbed and flowed. One of the farm cats paid a visit and hung about, hoping for pets and food. A raccoon waddled across the stage in the corner, intent upon the trash cans to one side and hardly paying us a glance.

Eventually, I unplugged, chatted a while longer, and went back to camp - hours later than I'd intended, but that seems to happen here. The cat followed me, and I believe she would have slept with me if I'd let her.

This morning I woke to the sound of happy singing and the truck that comes to clean the port-a-potties, another odd juxtaposition.

Bird has been enjoying his first morning of child care, and I'm about to go collect him. As I typed this post, a good dozen people have stopped to chat. It has taken me more than an hour to write this, but I don't mind.

I wish you were here...somehow, writing about it just doesn't express the oddity, the beauty, the grace of being in a community so free, so loving, so welcoming...and I wish you could be here to understand...to grok, as it were...but since you can't, I'll keep trying to capture bits and pieces and send them along the wires to the Blue Nowhere and my online community, Blogopolis.

Connection

Connected. Joined. In touch.

I've found a place to plug in, sit, and type, connected again to my electronic world.

While it's no bad thing to be disconnected from the Blue Nowhere on occasion, this is not one of the times I relish the distance.

I am connected to my Blue Nowhere, and I am in my annual Summer Community, connected to the land here by time, habit, history, and Song. Last night, I slept deep and well, if not over long - I'm surrounded by morning people (I wish they were connected to my need to sleep late), but I have hopes of naps during the day to sustain me...and if none, well...no worries, I can sleep next week.

The connection to this community is a good one - we all seem to fall into an easy camaraderie, as if a year had not passed between our last meeting and this one. Although the event is a different one, many of the same people are here, so the energy, the feeling, is much the same.

The community supports my connection to it, and to them ,and...and helps me reconnect with my spirit and my Song. So long out of touch, so long distant from my own spiritual source, my spiritual life, I have felt bereft - and now I am recharging. Rites of Spring was a good start, but...it was a new community, a new connection, one I could not lean on, lean into, for strength and support as I can this one. I will, I hope, come home the stronger for having been here.

Here where I sit, I am surrounded by people laughing, enjoying their morning meal, reconnecting with each other. There's a man playing a berimbau at the next table, and the moon is visible in the clear blue sky before me. Trees reach upward, the smell of coffee drifts through the air, and the camp is slowly coming awake, coming to life, connecting to itself and the day.

We Live, We Laugh, We Dance, We Are Purple

I am alive. I breathe, I weep, I sing, I hold my son close and rejoice in his aliveness.

I dance. I dance in the rain, in the sun, beneath the moon; I spin, circling, circling, circling, dizzy, joyful, and throw wide my arms to embrace it...what it?...all of it, everything. I am a mote of dust, a mote of light, tossed into the wind, floating on a sunbeam. I open my mouth, and from me pours the music of the Universe, the music of Creation, the one note, the many notes, the Song.

We honor the dead by living. Certainly, there is sorrow to be borne. Certainly there are hard moments, hard days to endure...but we live, you and me, we are ineffably thrumming with our own vitality.

Today, I am wearing purple to honor a bright little light that winked out last week. Does it matter that I never met her, or her parents, or any of the scores of other people doing the same thing? Nope, not a whit.

Today, together, we live, we laugh, we dance, and we wear purple while her family says farewell.

Blessed be, little girl, sweet child, small wonder...I hope your journey around the spiral is swift, and the ones who knew and loved you will know and love you again when you return.
~~~~~

Reposted from last week



I don't know the Spohrs, not even a little...but I have read their blog from time to time, and I read many people who read them, and they were dealt a stunning blow yesterday...and this is all I can think of to show support, compassion, and love to a family that walked off the edge of a cliff without warning. If you have some time and a few bucks to spare, let them know you're out here in the Blue Nowhere, part of their community, part of their web.

Sweet dreams, baby girl.

Update - the Spohrs, like many people in this world today, did not expect to be seeing their daughter through the veil. They could use some help with funeral costs. If you know me you probably don't know them...but don't let that stop you. Even a dollar is a blessing to parents who weren't expecting to lay out a bunch of cash for something that is definitely NOT a first bicycle, summer camp, driving lessons, a prom dress, a wedding gown...so please go to: http://babyonbored.blogspot.com/2009/04/if-youre-asking-yourself-what-can-i-do.html and look on the lower right part of the page for the Paypal link that says "For Maddie" with her darling picture on it, and donate what you can.

Blessed Be, Little One

I don't know the Spohrs, not even a little...but I have read their blog from time to time, and I read many people who read them, and they were dealt a stunning blow yesterday...and this is all I can think of to show support, compassion, and love to a family that walked off the edge of a cliff without warning. If you have some time and a few bucks to spare, let them know you're out here in the Blue Nowhere, part of their community, part of their web.

Sweet dreams, baby girl.

Update - the Spohrs, like many people in this world today, did not expect to be seeing their daughter through the veil. They could use some help with funeral costs. If you know me you probably don't know them...but don't let that stop you. Even a dollar is a blessing to parents who weren't expecting to lay out a bunch of cash for something that is definitely NOT a first bicycle, summer camp, driving lessons, a prom dress, a wedding gown...so please go to: http://babyonbored.blogspot.com/2009/04/if-youre-asking-yourself-what-can-i-do.html and look on the lower right part of the page for the Paypal link that says "For Maddie" with her darling picture on it, and donate what you can.

Of Time and Tide

But mostly Tide.

I was over at Suzy's blog (thanks for following, Mizz Suzy - soon I'll have enough minions to take over Blogopolis...or at least the corner cafe) reading about a fund-raising program, and even though I am not part of the BlogHer network...what the hey...I figured I'd play along anyway.

P&G (Proctor and Gamble for folks who don't speak Initials or Abbreviations) has a nifty program going on, wherein they are selling vintage-look Tide T-shirts to help fund Loads of Hope.

I've seen blurbs about Loads of Hope before, and I must say - ingenious. When you see nature pounding the crap out of a community, laundry is the last thing you think they may need doing. Probably, you think food, water, shelter, maybe pets or evacuation...but clean clothes? Hmm...not so much.

But think about it. When you have been out in foul weather, playing or tarping the roof, or just trying to get into the house from the car, and you get inside all wet and cold and mucky...do you want to sit around in those clothes, or do you want to slip into something cozy, clean, and warm? So if families, communities, are covered in muck, wet, cold, devastated...wouldn't clean things just be a blessing? I think so. So, to the point. Click the t-shirt link or go to Suzy's and click hers (it's bigger) - if you use these specific links, you help show how useful social networking and blogging can be, and apparently there's a friendly rivalry going on between networks...and since one day I'd like to suckle at the BlogHer teat (yes, yes I did type that), I'm using their link.

And now a little Tide-back-in-time story.

A long time ago, when the world was new and working as a corner marshall (back then we called it "F&C") was still fun, we worked just about every weekend at Road Atlanta. Back then, they didn't have the cement walls, Jersey barriers, fencing, and widened track - it was raw, rough, often dusty, muddy, and filthy. Corner workers wear white in order to be more visible than the terrain, the flags, and the spectators.

Road Atlanta is in Georgia. North-ish Georgia. North-ish Georgia is famous for several things - the Mayfield visitor's center where you can get fresh-scooped ice cream cones that are the size of a cat's head for a quarter, chicken farms and the smell they perfume the early morning air with, small towns selling themselves to mediocre actresses, and red clay soil.

The old track had many, many banks which workers would run along and then slide down to reach "incidents", a fancy word for "wrecks".

I repeat - we wore white clothing, played at a greasy, grimy, dirty track, and slid down red clay embankments to reach dirty, nasty race cars that had likely spilled fluids, were possible in flames, and definitely landed in the most difficult places to reach.

When it was a dry day, the clay turned into a fine, fine dust. When cars drove off course, they would kick up a cloud that floated for ages before settling back down - only to be kicked up again by another car. We breathed that dust in, squinted through it, and knew we'd be sneezing red and scrubbing dust off our faces for days.

When it was wet, the clay got slick, sticky, and nasty. No matter where we worked a race in the world, people knew we'd been at Road Atlanta by the clay stains on our whites.

It was only a matter of time before we instituted The Tide Challenge. It was very simple - the worker who had the nastiest, most clay/dust smirched whites at the end of the weekend won a jumbo bottle of Tide. It did a fine job of getting most of the clay out, better than anything else, really...but nothing can get all of the stuff out in the wash. I won a few bottle, myself, thanks to some spectacular incidents, a few wobbly tire walls full of water and ick, and more than one really long slide down a bank.

The smell of Tide is indelibly linked in my mind to the smell of Nomex, racing fuel, clay, and the unique perfume of a road-racing course on a summer's day when the biggest worry I had was whether I could make the bus back to school and would the professor mind if there were clay stains on my homework.

It's What I Have to Give

Last night I did something of which my father would thoroughly disapprove. It was so much fun, I intend to keep right on doing it, too. Sorry, Daddy...but not that sorry.

I am, you may have noticed, somewhat fond of writing (primarily fiction, but also poetry and prose when the mood strikes)(and my blog, of course, which is as honest as can be because why would I lie about this stuff??). I have even fancied myself a Writer (of sorts), and offered my services as a freelance writer to assorted folks. I often write for friends who need resumes tweaked (if you think those aren't fiction, you're doing them wrong) or website content, or blurbs, outlines, and whatnot written about their various businesses, hobbies, whatever. In those cases, emphasize the "free" in freelance.

I don't mind, though - it helps keep me sharp, and I love my friends and family, even when they are cranky with me because I give my time away (unless I'm giving it to them).

So last night, I hung out at Borders near the Mall of Georgia (Dear Borders Corporate Offices, please don't ever close my Borders near the mall, because then I wouldn't have anywhere to contain the crazy...er...write my stories and drink tea, I mean. Thank you.) with BeBop. You'd have to meet BeBop to understand the scope of the woman. She's a whirlwind with a huge laugh. She's relentless, with a grin. She's...she's a force of nature she is!

Bebop created a charity - Troop BeBop, USA - which she runs full tilt, non-stop, with what I've come to believe is her characteristic drive and enthusiasm. She's supposed to be retired, but I figure she'll retire when we don't have any more troops to support...so, like, never. Her charity, you see, is designed to provide phone cards and personal care items to our overseas troops - men and women who can't just pop out to the Evil Empire to fetch soap, tampons, socks, and Slim Jims whenever they feel the need. She primarily raises these funds through coffee drives (Thank you, Mall of Georgia Borders - one more reason I adore you), rallies, and benefit concerts.

I may have also mentioned here and there that I am usually a hair past broke on a regular basis. Much as I would dearly love to donate a thousand phone cards to the troops, and socks, and bubbles, and tickets home, and world peace...I don't have those things, nor have I the dosh to buy the ones that are for sale. Heck, I don't even really have the funds to fix T's poor Jimmy so he can drive it again (and I'd really like him to be able to drive it again, because he keeps changing my radio stations in the van, and that's grounds for homicide, isn't it??). Dang.

What I have got are words. So many words. Hundreds, thousands, million of words, building upon each other into edifices of thought, feeling, communication. Dictionopolis has nothing on me. Taken individually, words don't mean much to the world, anymore. Just look at text-speech and you'll know what I mean. Used properly, though, they build bridges, bludgeons, and blessings, they bemuse, bewilder, and bedazzle.

Last week, we were discussing...something. She mentioned that her website's a mess (it isn't, really - it's a beautiful reflection of the vital, vibrant woman who built it with love, compassion, verve, and no idea how to design a website) and I mentioned that I've been dipping my toes in the freelance waters. She mourned the fact that she doesn't have funds to pay a writer or site designer (because every donation goes to the troops, all of her administrative costs come out of her pocket).

So I did the thing my father hates (but, really, I don't care) and gave away my time and such skills I possess to help BeBop out with a little bit of writing. It's a start. She's looking for donors and working on some sponsorships and things I don't feel comfortable revealing because they are hers - I'm just the writer, she's the doer - and she needed some begging letters written.

Initially, I offered to help write content for her site - notices about upcoming events, schedules, things of that nature. I could, if pressed, learn how to write a proper press release, too. Last night, she offered me the opportunity to help her craft some special letters asking for sponsorship. I wrote, we tweaked, and she was a happy woman. I believe we have begun what could become a fine working relationship, two people content with what they're doing to help service men and women remember why they're over there - wherever "over there" is - picking sand out of their...toes...sweating, freezing, aching, missing their families, and generally questioning their sanity on a regular basis while doing jobs most of us cannot fathom.

I haven't gotten to her site content, yet, but I will. Meanwhile, yesterday went from blue (I was having a rough day) to red, white, and blue, and I felt (for the first time in a very long time) that my words made a positive difference to someone. I believe that this is going to be a delightful (and, I hope, continuing) collaboration, and I'm happy to have something to contribute, a way to thank the people putting it all on the line so I can sit at Borders and write whatever I wish without fear of censure or worse from the folks I may be writing about.

Thanks, BeBop!

A Kind Word

I have been following Fat Cyclist on his blog for a while now. His wife has cancer. She is near the end. I am heartsick for this man I don't know, and his family I've never met. I've been through so many cancer deaths...

I wish I could make it go away.

I wish I could manifest my chosen super-power, Mom's Kiss, and make it all better.

I don't often hate. Hatred is a waste of time, energy, and spirit. I hate cancer.

My aunt D will die of cancer...by year's end, or soon after.

If you have a moment and a little love or compassion to spare, go see Fatty and say a kind word...he and his children are dangling over a very dark abyss and could use all the hands that will reach to hold them up.

The Community We Build

Blogs are such amazing tools. Yes, they provide a place to vent, to share, to giggle, but most importantly? They provide a place to connect. Humans, even loners and misanthropes, need connection. Blogs let us connect without having to leave home and make ourselves more vulnerable than we want to be. How grand is that? Want to talk to folks about your love of classic cars? Go for it - someone out there will read you, understand you, and make the connection. Angry about politics? Boy, have we got some blogs for you!! I know that, through e-mail, I connect with women from all over the world. I have friends (yes, friends - I love these women just as well as if we lived next door instead of never having met) in New Zealand, Australia, Canada, many of the United States, and all over Europe. We support each other through rough times, share our laughter and heartache equally, give each other the heads up on new products, laws, people, and places. We are a parenting resource for each other, and I know I've told them many times over the years that they are welcome in my house if they need a place for a day or a year. When I win the lottery, I'm buying a bus, painting it up in crazy beautiful colors, and going on a tour to finally, finally meet all these amazing, inspiring, and deeply moving woman. Heh, several of them are even blogging now so we have the double connections of e-mail and blog space.

Through blogging, I have "met" some terrifc folks, men and women both, who are as much a part of my daily life as breakfast is. And you should know from reading my posts about cooking, I don't often miss breakfast! Some of them are listed over to the right, if you're interested.

So I was reading Mommy Wants Vodka (I just can't bring myself to refer to people casually by name when we haven't met in person - how old-fashioned am I??) and she has this post up, which led me to page-hop a bit to check out and ultimately donate money to Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. Sniff. They're beautiful. This? Is building a community, making those precious connections, finding a need and meeting it. This is humanity finding a way to shine, despite how weary we are, despite how isolated we are, despite how pessimistic we have become as a race.

In a semi-related bit of news, Georgia has been considering the "No Heartbeat" Act, an act that would permit mothers of stillborn infants to receive birth certificates for their little ones. I am not surprised as much as horrified that they've been denied this simple, compassionate thing that acknowledges they carried a life, they labored, and they delivered body if not soul.

SB 381 was heard on March 28 in the Rules Committee meeting, and I don't know if it passed...but I hope, oh, I hope it did. I know it's only a bit of paper...but even if it said "Certificate of Still Birth" instead of "Certificate of Live Birth", it could help give some closure.

I know, I know, giving birth certificates to non-viable fetuses (one of the terms I've heard used for stillbirths, isn't it just awful??) could open up a can of worms for all sorts of other issues I won't discuss here, but I just can't seem to indulge in my doom-and-gloom tendencies with this. It's about compassion, about love, and about recognizing that there are women (and men) who grieve deeply and might find a bit of peace having that simple official recognition of their labor and loss. We are a world of documentation, of "official" existence, and there are those who crave that for their lost loves as well. What good comes of denying them this small solace??

I added a link to Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep over to the side, if you're interested. I've never lost a pregnancy, having just had the one, but I hurt all the way down to the bone over other women's losses. I feel them keenly, and I mourn. All the hope, fear, and love that comes with being pregnant doesn't just go away when the child is born still and silent. Imagine going through that labor, that strain, pain, indignity, only to have loss and sorrow at the end of it instead of a wriggling, squalling, amazing bit of wonder. Imagine having to tell people who ask after the baby, opening up that wound over and over again. The very least a mum should have is that stupid certificate saying that the government, that the legal community, recognizes that she went through that, and maybe a few sweet, beautiful, poignant photographs to put in the album that won't hold anything else. Is it really too much to ask??

How's this for synchronicity? As I was writing this, I got another bit of semi-related news - my preemie nephew is now up to two pounds, twelve ounces!!! His mum has finally been able to hold him!! He is breathing on his own, and they've decided not to transfer him to another hospital because by the time he met that hospital's criteria for transfer...he could just go home!!!! Keep up the good work, little guy...I'm banking on you being a six foot, three inch tall pain in the ass for your parents one day!

Welcome to blogopolis, the community we're constantly evolving.