Trauma around the world

As I travel around, I'm popping into other people's lives and then out again.  For an intense week or month or long weekend, I'm immersed in figuring out the workings of a house I did not organize, with animals I did not train.  I do some wandering in the area, but am usually severely limited by the needs of the sit or the lack of transportation...or my own sloth.  No, that's not fair, I'm usually at work when I'm at "home," writing or tutoring or reading or knitting or caring for the house and pets.  All of these things are necessary.

Meanwhile the world continues to be at war (Middle East and Spain particularly), the Dotard-in-Chief continues to try to distract a gullible public and media from the heinous things going on in Washington DC, and natural disasters attack everywhere.  In decreasing order of devastation, Puerto Rico,  the Caribbean, Florida and Ireland are hit by hurricanes:  the former is still reeling.  In today's news, US Government agencies are still fighting over the contracts being awarded in the recovery effort.  At the same time, per one news source:

• Nearly 50 days after Hurricane Maria made landfall, more than half of Puerto Rico is still powerless.
• Officials warn it could be weeks or months before all power is restored.
• Thousands have left the island for the U.S. mainland in the wake of the storm.

A few weeks earlier, as I was visiting my London cousins, I received an early morning text from a wide-awake friend in New Mexico (7 hours earlier):  Tell me you weren't in that Tube station!  I hastily wrote back, no, I'm home and drinking coffee, and then started checking the news.  Apparently, someone had left an IED in an outlying Tube station.  No injuries, just a snarled morning commute, and a lot of fear.  I tell my friend, you KNOW I would never be out and about at that hour, but of course, one wants to be reassured.  As in:  please tell me you weren't there.

Often, the first I hear about a tragedy is via social media, and that makes it personal.  JMR posted an "I'm safe" message in the wake of last week's NYC shooting, and added, I'm not in that area, but not everyone knows that, and I wrote back, you could have been passing through!  This week I was texting with friends about my day, and P suddenly texted, oh shit, another mass shooting.  This one was in a small town church in Texas.  So, both size and location of targets seem totally random.  How can we prevent these attacks?  London has a solution...maybe.

.A few days ago, as I left the Tate Modern for a late afternoon stroll down the Thames, I was struck by the number of yellow-jacketed London City police milling about under the Millennium Bridge and talking to people.  I paused, and one tall young blue-eyed cop handed me a flyer and engaged me in a long conversation, explaining that they were part of a community policing program called Servator that is "starting today and here to stay."  It's London's response to the various terrorist attacks.  They send out plain clothes police to suss out high risk areas like the Tate, which is iconic, next to an iconic bridge and an iconic historic site (the Globe Theatre), and filled to bursting with kids and tourists.  If the plain clothes cops deem it necessary, the more visible yellow coats appear, establishing a presence, chatting up civilians and asking them to tweet about Servator or report anything suspicious, and generally making it clear to potential terrorists that this is no place to be (also making it difficult for them to plan an attack.)  I was not reassured to find that I was in a Condition Yellow environment and that every person around me was a possible threat. Nor do I think this is a solution to our daily state of terror, especially since so many attacks seem personal and small.  But I don't know what the solution is.  Hopefully, things like Servator are there to appease the public (we're doing something, you can help), and there is something more robust in place or being planned.

The train system has a similar campaign with a more catchy slogan:  "See it, say it, sorted!"  But, sorting something is a little less scary:  it implies a lost kid, a passed-out bum, an abandoned bag.  It's potentially life-threatening for the kid and the bum, potentially a bomb in the bag, but most likely just a nuisance or a scare, easily handled by the proper authorities.

Then, there are the fires in California.  Just a few months ago, I was happily exploring the wine country and beaches near Santa Rosa, living in a beautiful home with a lush back yard and a park nearby.  Rudy the cutie and I took two daily walks around the middle-class neighborhood, replete with beautiful homes and gardens, kids with a water stand, and fellow dog-walkers.  I left happy, giving and receive a 5-star review on the Trusted Housesitters website,  and occasionally thinking fondly back to my Very First Housesit.  However.... Just a few weeks ago, I receive another text from my wide-awake NM friend, "Santa Rosa's on fire."  I check the news and the maps:  my 2-week home is right on the edge of a major burn.  I call J in nearby Petaluma:  they are fine, except for the smoke, but her sister and partner have been evacuated from their Santa Rosa home and are staying with her; no one knows about their home.  I write to J, my host and Rudy's mom:  are you okay?  No answer.  A few days later, I start looking up her Facebook friends and writing to those who seem most likely to have news and not be affected themselves.  Finally, two weeks later, I try again and get an immediate response:  the gent's wife is in communication, all is well with J.  Huge relief!  And I send off a message and post two haiku to FB.  It's all I can do at this distance.

I feel so helpless, and conversely so blessed.  I am miles away from the trauma, which means that I can do nothing to help, but also means that so far I am safe.  Fortunately, the people dear to me remain safe as well. But, for how long?

Small words, private and personal and social, are all I seem to have.  The larger stage and the actions are beyond me.  If it's true that "holding" people is an answer, then my arms must be spread wide to embrace a globe.  But it's too big for me.  I return to the small and personal;  it will have to be enough:

In tragedy's wake,
Why expect empathy from
A sociopath?

Is this what they mean
by tears of joy? So relieved
All are safe and well. #SantaRosafire

To J: I have been following the news and studying maps and worrying so much about you and Rudy.  Finally I started reaching out to your Facebook family.  My apologies for the stalking behavior, but I had to know you were okay.  SN came through this morning with the good news that you and your home made it through, and the bad news that your worksite and neighbors were damaged.  I will continue to hold you and yours in my thoughts during this difficult time.

fyi, right now I'm in Bath, England.  I love this place!  I spent September in the Dartmoor area and have since been wandering the countryside with a home base in London with my cousins.  This is my first cat-only sit, and it feels weird to not have a required walk in my near future.  But, of course, I'll be going out even without the dog imperative.

btw, my cousins are into the Great British Bake Off, so I've been watching it.  Sadly, our favorite, young Liam, had to leave this week.  :(

Note: (J was watching last season's final episode on my 1st night in her home.)

 

Scent and Memory

When I came back from Australia, I was loath to do my trip laundry.  As I slowly put each garment in the washer, I inhaled deeply the scents that meant Australia to me, knowing that after I pushed the start button, all physical ties to that magical month would be gone, rinsed out with the laundry soap.  All I would have left would be the journals and the photographs....and the memories.  The spicy aromatic smell of eucalyptus, the sharp earthy sneeze of dust, the salty tang (was that from the ocean, or a stray bit of the marmite I had dutifully tasted and rinsed out with beer?):  all were going, going gone.

It's long been known that scents bring back memories more vividly than anything else.  I'm lucky that most of the scents I encounter bring back good memories:  old spice means my first love, cinnamon is firmly attached to the rolls my mom taught me to make, cardamom brings thoughts of julecaga and Christmas.  When I return to the ocean, the first thing I do is roll down the window and breath deeply of the salty breeze.  When I smell the sweet spice of Daphne, in memory I'm walking around SE Portland with Carbon on the lead.

So, today, as I walk with Rudy the Cutie, I breath in California:  sweet lemon blossoms, even sweeter jasmine, and dusty eucalyptus, that graceful invasive tree that is now as evocative of California as it is of its native home, Australia.  No wonder I'm remembering Australia, I think.

Rudy too is following scents, and leaving his own.  I watch his alert old man's face with the short floppy poodle ears held straight out from his head:  he is focused and a little severe.  If he were larger, I might be intimidated, but with his summer haircut and the long waving plume of a tail, it's hard to find him anything but charming.

Last night J taught me the walking routes for morning and evening, and today I am following them faithfully.  But tonight I notice that the leaf-covered trail into the park branches to the left into huge trees, up a hill and around mossy grey boulders.  I wonder where the enticing path goes, but follow the right-hand fork into the park, entering a boring cement walk circling a grassy field with a play structure on the far end.  When we reach the street on the other side, I see the end of the trail I had noticed and start walking up it, but Rudy is having none of this break from routine.  He lags behind me, not recalcitrant, but not willing either. I turn back to the street and he trots gaily ahead of me, reassured.

The park is empty tonight.  24 hours ago, eight teenagers were grouped around a table, flinging something into the air, talking and laughing.  J hazarded a guess:  "a portable ping pong table?  that's clever," but as we approached, we saw it was no such thing.  It was a plain white rectangular table, no net, with brightly colored plastic glasses set precisely in each corner.  We ccouldn't tell what the kids are throwing, nor to what end.  As we drew level, I said, "I have to ask:  what are you doing?"

The nearest boy answered readily enough:  "We throw it and it has to bounce on the table and land on the other side."  Hmmm.  "Oh, I thought you were aiming for the glasses."  "Well, yes, we get extra points for that."  "You're throwing quarters?"  "No, dice," he said, showing me tiny white cubes in his hand.  I asked what the game was called and he didn't have an answer:  apparently it was a game they had created.

We walked on and I picked a eucalyptus leaf from the large trees lining the path, separating park from schoolyard.  I bent it and sniffed, bent it again, sniffed again, a little ritual I repeated until the leaf was a limp folded square and the scent had begun to fade with repetition.  We passed a huge patch of jasmine encircling an even huger tree.  Rudy added his own scent.

I don't know what scents he is remembering as we walk the route tonight, but I suspect that his memory of the route is more about scent than sight. Despite my theory about scents, I know that my path is driven my sight.  I still want to walk that path, wandering in the late afternoon dappled sunlight through the tall trees.