Lady Justice

First of all, aren't you glad she's a Lady!  Not to be stereotypical and all, but it somehow just feels…just.  

Don't you wonder who decided that?  And why?  [There's a Lord Justice, too, of course, but he's in England and/or Wales, an 'ordinary' Justice of Appeal.  We're not talking about him.] 

She actually has a name, Justitia, the Roman goddess of Justice:
  

Justitia is most often depicted with a set of scales typically suspended from her left hand,upon which she measures the strengths of a case's support and opposition. 

She is also often seen carrying a double-edged sword in her right hand, symbolizing the power of Reason and Justice, which may be wielded either for or against any party.

She wears a blindfold in order to indicate that justice is (or should be) meted out objectively, without fear or favor, regardless of identity, money, power, or weakness; blind justice and impartiality.  (Wiki)

I've been thinking of Her a lot lately, since the horrific attacks in Norway and the alleged Dominique Strauss-Kahn assault.  Since all the civil-war atrocities coming out of the Middle East.  Since all the rapes, genocides, child abductions, suicide bombings and...political bickerings?!

Is there anywhere in the world these days where She is alive and well?  Has there ever been?  Do we still believe “what goes around comes around”…that people can get away with murder but only for so long?  That even our own sins will catch up with us?  

Don't get me wrong.  I believe in Mercy--not getting what we deserve.  Knowing that if we did, we'd probably all be dead by now.  I also believe in Grace--being given 'gifts' we don't derseve.  Two good words from my preacher-home days. 

I believe transformation, though rare, is possible.  I believe people can change from bad to good.  I believe even I can change and that I can forgive and be forgiven.  I believe anyone can see the Light and learn to understand and accept Truth.  I believe.

But this post isn't about Mercy or Grace.  It's about Justice.  It's about wanting that Lady, with Her set of scales, the double-edged sword and the blindfold, to become a bit more visible.  Wanting to believe she exists in our world today, draped in Her long, flowing robes, mature but not old or out of touch...symbolizing the fair and equal administration of the law, without corruption, avarice, prejudice, or favor.
 
Even if she is rarely seen or heard these days, I'm glad the thought of her exists...and continues to  instill awe and reverence, like here at the front of City Hall in Breda, Netherlands, seen a year ago.  I can't really explain it but I'm REALLY glad she's a woman.  If we had a bit more of HER, maybe we'd be living in a better world?

Home Sweet Home

[One of my favorite houses near where I live in The Netherlands.]

On the heels of my last post, A Stitch in Time, I'm dying to give you a follow-up...you who went before me and prepared the way for my trip to the family cottage in Michigan, alone without Astrid.  THANK YOU.

There and back again, with a smile on my face.  Why, you ask?  Because something happened to me.  I was more ME with my family than I can ever recall.  I was comfortable in my own skin.  I was not shame-based (as so often happens to us in the gay community).  And because I'm in the best place and time of my life, I was 'at home' with me, myself and I.

That translated into my reaching out to each of my 5 siblings present, as well as to several of their kids, the Cousins.  I was intentional about it:  "Tell me how you're doing and what's happening in your life!"  And because most people like to talk about themselves, they did.  One on one, in the lake, on the grassy shore, in the cottage, on the deck or the screened-in porch, over 3 days of the holiday weekend, I caught up 30-45 minutes at a time.  Filling in all the cracks.  Catching up on the stories.  THEIR stories.

Interestingly, no one in return asked the same of me.  A couple mentioned it was too bad Astrid couldn't be there.  But it was okay.  For some reason, this time I didn't need them to catch up on me.  I needed to catch up on them and let them know I cared.  Quality, intentional, uninterrupted, focused time.

A stitch in time with my family.  I was the one doing the mending and it felt good and right.  Next time, Astrid will be with me (the plan is for next May during cottage workday) and THEN it will be my time.  Our time.  THEN it will be their turn to catch up on me/us.

I didn't expect it would happen like this.  That I would be selfless.  That I would NOT be worried about what they were thinking of me.  Here I am, living on the other side of the world with a Dutch woman they have never met (most of them).  I didn't give a hoot.  I only cared about them.

As I drove my turn in the dark of night back to Atlanta, I mulled over the gracious comments you had sent beforehand, wishing me god-speed.  I marveled over the effectual mindfulness we have for one another in our hour of need.  Thank you.

You know how we say "Home is where the heart is."  In the same breath we might also add "I left my heart in San Francisco."  Even though I missed Astrid terribly and have no intention to ever make this trip again without her, I did not leave my heart in The Netherlands when I left her...nor in Michigan when I left my family.  I realized, perhaps for the first time, that my heart, which is here inside me, is my home.  As long as I am true to my heart, I am 'at home.'

There's no other Home Sweet Home as good as that.  My heart, my home.  But still, as daughter Amy says, coming home is always the best part of going away!  There's no place like home.  There's no place like home. 

A Stitch in Time

A stitch in time saves nine.

Most of us women, I'm guessing, know exactly what this means.  Well, the women of our age that is.  My grown daughter doesn't.  She may know the meaning but not the experience.  It was always too easy for Mom to give in and just do it for her.

If you mend it now, it'll save a bigger rip and more sewing later, right?!

Back in the 60s when Bill and I decided we would get married, the question of the engagement ring came up.  Without any ado, I told him I did NOT want a diamond ring (sorry Eliza).  All I ever wanted on my left finger was a wide, gold wedding band.  IF there was to be an engagement gift, I'd much prefer a sewing machine.  More practical.  Diamonds meant nothing to me and would be a waste of money, I declared.

Now a sewing machine.  That's different!  Even with rust on it, look how beautiful it is (no, silly, that's not mine!).  So, since Bill and I were on the same page, I received a Singer sewing machine for my wedding engagement.  I never used it to make clothes for me or my kids...but for Bill himself.  Remember when polyester was the new sliced bread?  I took a men's-wear sewing class and made all his dress slacks and sports jackets.  He loved them and made me proud.

Switch gears now to my spontaneous trip to America this Wednesday for a week with my kids and extended family.  I was NOT planning to be at the Michigan family cottage for our annual reunion this year because it didn't seem the right time to introduce Astrid, my new Dutch wife, to the family.  Most were still smarting over the 2008 break-up with my past partner, so I made the executive decison:  we don't have to do this now.  Give them time.

Then suddenly, three weeks ago, I found out my 2 kids and grandson would be driving up from Atlanta, just like we always did.  They hadn't planned on it till their schedules unexpectedly changed, and when I found out, I wanted to be with them to help with the driving and expense.  Actually, I just wanted to BE with them.  In the process, I would also be with my family...but without Astrid.

A stitch in time saves nine?

To be honest, I never dreamed of this possiblilty, to mend the initial rip and perhaps help keep it from getting bigger by going to my family alone without Astrid.  There's a part of me that says if you don't want her than you don't get me.  But I know this isn't about her.  It's about me and about how my family perceives me.  It's about mending whatever I can now to make her introduction better later.  A stitch in time.

So, please wish me godspeed as I venture off once again.  It takes a village, you know.  And my rusty seamtress skills could use a bit of fine-tuning!

A Pentecost Birthday

The Holy Spirit descends on the disciples of Jesus Christ
after the Resurrection.
[Pentecost image from the Hammerfest Church, Norway.]

In The Netherlands there are 3 national holidays that are 2 days each:  Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost (Pinksteren in Dutch).  For each it's important that you distinguish which day you're talking about.  The 2nd Christmas day would be 26 December, for instance. Today is the 2nd Pentecost day, which is always Monday...not Sunday, and because it's a national holiday, Astrid is off work.

It's also my 66th birthday.  How many of us get to post here at V&V on our birthday AND on a holiday!  WooHoo.

Here's the thing:  I've never ever minded any of my birthday numbers.  The ones ending in zero and five were always the best milestones, especially last year's when I became an official senior citizen.  All those discounts, remember?

In fact, I especially anticipated my 50s and 60s.  I know, weird.  But so many women I esteemed were that age and I aspired to be like them.  It was like the numbers were magic.  They would bring sage and wise gifts, right?  Automatically, of course.

Now that they're almost gone and I'm staring down the barrel at 70...gulp...I told Astrid I'm now closer to 70 than to 60 and that feels, yup, weird.  I've never felt that way about a birthday number before.  Brother Nelson, the oldest of us 8 kids, will turn 70 in January.  Sister Susan two years later.  And then a year later, 2015, moi.  The whole tribe is following suit, with sister Ruth bringing up the rear in 2026.

Oh, and by the way, I've had 10 Friday the 13th birthdays thus far, all good, which is why I'm not superstitious.  My favorite was when I turned 24 in the foothills of the Peruvian Andes and walked by myself 1-1/2 hours through the jungle to the airstrip to pick up our weekly mail.  I had exactly 24 pieces of mail, 3 from my husband-to-be at that time.

And listen to this:  my next Friday the 13th is in 2014, the day I turn 69.  My last year in the 60s.  HA!  Remember, I'm not superstitious!

Don't get me wrong.  I still feel pretty darn-tootin' proud of 66.  Sixty-six.  I like the sound of it.  66.  What a sexy number, don't you think?  [No, not 666, in case someone has a warped sense of humor.  This is a PENTECOST birthday!]

I know what you're thinking:  we're as young as we feel.  Exactly.  That's my point.  As I see 70 around the corner, I suddenly feel 'the number' for the first time in my life.  Did I mention weird?

Remember Route 66 ?  She ain't what she used to be either (have you seen it lately?) but she sure covered a lot of mileage in her day, originally from Chicago to Los Angeles:  2,448 miles (3,940 km) to be exact.  At my rate, based on all our photo hunts and travels, Astrid and I will easily cover that this year alone.

So when I look at it that way, I suddenly feel hot-to-trot.  Sixty-six and a holiday to celebrate it.  I feel 'descended upon' and very blessed.