As sometimes happens in life, as I mark the anniversary of the deaths of two significant people in my life, today I learned about two more deaths. From Facebook posts I read about Ann Sullivan’s death. She lived her whole life in Vergennes, the town where I grew up. She was born and raised there, and raised her own five kids there. She was a reading specialist and eventually became the vice principal at our high school, and she was great at her job. She knew the students, she knew their parents, and she likely knew their grandparents. No kid was going to pull anything over on Mrs. Sullivan. She had a no-nonsense way about her. She also played Pomp and Circumstance on the piano every year for high school graduation, and played the organ for likely hundreds of weddings and funerals at St. Peter’s Catholic Church. She officiated at weddings as a Justice of the Peace, and organized the annual Memorial Day parade in town. She never needed a microphone at a school assembly. She was a force of service and compassion.
   And a phone call today from a Lancaster, NH friend let me know about the death of Bob Fink, another remarkable person. When I worked at Hospice of the Lancaster Area, my office was in the Weeks Medical Center’s Home Health & Hospice building. Bob supervised the Home Health & Hospice staff, probably about 25 nurses and administrative people, all women. Not too many men, or women, could pull that off with the ease that Bob did. Patient care and the wellbeing of his staff were his priorities, above policies and procedures. He worked hard to support Democratic candidates in a very Red corner of a Red state, mentored many social workers, and built boats with his friend Pan. He was a force of goodwill and kindness.
   A few weeks ago was the first anniversary of my dad’s death. It’s one of those days that’s difficult to know what to do with. He was in the hospital in Burlington when he died. It was early on a Saturday morning. My twin sister, Ann, and I were headed back to the hospital to be with him as he would be transferred to the hospice house later that morning. He had agreed to go to the hospice house just the day before, but during the conversation with the hematology-oncologist, he had tried to make a deal - one of his favorite things to do. He said he would go to the hospice house, but not until Monday. He said he needed to go home for the weekend, and although he was 88 and frail, he said he needed to get back to his office to “get some things done,” and fully intended to. The doctor said he couldn’t safely allow Dad to go home. This may have been the first time in nearly two years of caring for my dad that the doctor did not allow my dad to make the decision for the next step in his plan of care. We said our goodbyes and told him we’d be there first thing in the morning before he was transferred to the hospice house. He, or his body, decided there would be no going the hospice house and he died before it was light out, before we left for Burlington. My dad was a complicated force in my life, that came with a lesson about how people often struggle to do their best.
   In a few days it will also be the first anniversary of the death of my childhood friend’s dad. For more than 50 years, Dr. Bicknell provided care to an entire community. He was as beloved as a man can be, and cherished by the community that he was devoted to. He and my dad were childhood friends, growing up in Richford together where Dr. Bicknell’s dad was the teaching principal of their small high school. Life led the two friends to Vergennes where they raised their families and where their kids became friends. Dr. Bicknell was, for me, a force of caring and love.
  Those are my four right now. It’s likely that you have your own four that you’re thinking of these days; these people that we remember and honor, and hold close to our hearts. They remain forces in our lives. In my weekly poetry-conversation phone call with my friend Anne, in Damariscotta, Maine (not Portland as I mistakenly wrote in a previous column) we recently talked about a poem, “Flare,” by Mary Oliver. In part it reads: “Scatter the flowers over the graves, and walk away. Be good natured and untidy in your exuberance.” I love the idea of living on, moving ahead, with “untidy exuberance,” but the walking away part is most difficult. Perhaps we can do it, knowing that we are supported by the forces, their forces of service, love, compassion and trying one’s best.
  

Bifocals
 
    I’ve been using reading glasses for years now, and am continually surprised by how little I can see without them. Menus, text messages, newspaper articles are all just fuzzy symbols without my glasses these days. And I hope the secret to life’s happiness is not written on the back of shampoo bottles. Lately I’ve noticed that I’m having some trouble seeing things at a distance as well. The setting on my car radio was first. Then words on the tv screen. Then a sign in a store window.
   This all led me to wonder if I’m headed for bifocals. At my recent annual physical I found out that I’ve shrunk half an inch. So maybe bifocals aren’t that far off. As I thought about my need to see things clearly both close up and at a distance, it led me to think about how we all see things up close and also at a distance, often all at the same time.
   In the wake of the violence at the Capitol last month, I’ve spent a good amount of time the last few weeks in conversation (in person, on Zoom, through email), talking about what’s happening in our country. Much of the concern boils down to – is there any way to overcome the hatred and division? The responses to that question usually fit into two categories. Some of my friends and family espoused some variation of “we’re dealing with Christian Nationalists and White Supremacists here; there’s no way to change their minds. They believe they’re right, as strongly as we believe we’re right. And they believe God is on their side.” The other type of response dealt more with root causes of hatred, discrimination and violence. “How do we have a conversation with people who are so hate-filled, and what led them to be like that?” All the thoughtful answers and reflections I heard, took in the very big picture and asked big questions. “Did people think they were really going to overturn the election by storming the Capitol? Are anti-semitism and racism really now considered acceptable, if not preordained, by nearly half of all Americans? How did we get this way as a country? What can we do about it?” All important, heady questions.
    And at the same time that Washington’s politics, Amanda Gorman’s eloquence and Bernie’s mittens captured our attention, there were moments closer to home that eclipsed all of that, if only briefly. On Saturday I had breakfast with my friends Rene and Sierra. We are from three different generations, but share a strong love and admiration for one another. As Rene said, it was a “nourishing” morning in many ways.
   I took a Sunday morning walk with my friend Hilary and talked about mysteries of life that we can’t understand, but struggle to. And how we are still both affected by the lives of our moms, although I knew my mom for 20 years and she knew hers for more than 60. I am as content as I can be when in close conversation with a trusted friend, and so on a beautiful, blue sky winter day, walking in conversation with Hilary was a true gift. Later that night I was on phone call with my friend Anne, in Portland, Maine, for our weekly poetry conversation. We are reading through Mary Oliver’s “Devotions” together and each Sunday at seven o’clock we talk about the poems we have read that week. Anne is a longtime friend and high on my list of things I treasure in this world, along with poetry. We chat, and read the poems out loud and laugh about how we inevitably are drawn to the same poems.
   Monday night I was on a Zoom gathering of extended family. There were siblings and cousins from three generations and five states. We’ve done this every two weeks since the pandemic started. There are two cute little boys in Virginia who were experiencing snow to play in, a rarity for them. A newly turned 25-year-old cousin making his way his way in the world in Boston, just got a new puppy. And two more cousins in Denver showed us their new hairless kitten. The best announcement yet, another young cousin, a nurse from North Carolina, introduced her new fiancé to the rest of the family. It certainly isn’t the same as gathering in person, but to see those familiar faces is a highlight of the week for me.
    So, while my mind is straining to take in, analyze and process the turmoil and transition going on in Washington, I am relieved to have these moments that narrowed my world to a small group of family members, or two friends, or just one other person, and focus on what makes my heart happy. I know that I am obligated to pay attention to the bigger picture and determine how I can best contribute to making our world a better place (like Miss Rumphius), but I’ve learned that I also need to not lose focus on what is right in front of me and what brings joy and balance to my world. There are no perfect lives, but there are perfect moments, and we need to see those for what they are – the beautiful, calligraphed words in the stories of our lives. But the demanding, bold print of the world is there too. So, in a way, I’m already seeing with a bifocal perspective.
 
 
P.S. In some of my recent conversations about White Supremacy, I’ve talked with others about who can best reach people who consider themselves to be White Supremacists. If there are people who have left White Supremacist groups, why and how did they leave? Are they in the best position to change others’ minds? I looked for organizations that do this and found one, Parents for Peace (parents4peace.org). According to the website, Parents for Peace is a non-governmental public health, non-profit which works to empower families, friends and communities to prevent radicalization, violence and extremism.