She’s back.

My daughter did 3 solid weeks in two summer camps.

She was very glad to get home, and I was glad to have her.

It’s summer. She’s free and I’m unemployed.

We watched the Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth. The Only True version of pride and prejudice—from 1995

Wait..what? Thirty years ago?

My husband has sucked up different movies and TV shows for the family on a server. When I asked him to include all period drama shows, he found several versions of Pride and Prejudice. It would seem that the Austen novel is remade for the screen very frequently. I accidentally opened a BBC version from the 70s.

We watched the dialogue-heavy version for a bit before I gave up, promising her a better one.

Firth, frozen in time, seemed as brooding and romantic a leading man as ever.

But my Gen Z girl didn’t see it quite the same way. Then again, she didn’t even know the story. I’d read the novel as a book, so I followed along knowing all the twists to come.

She was sure that Mr. Darcy was unforgivable.

The pause button allowed for a lot of discussion of the characters.

“Remember, this novel is written by a master author. Jane Austen wrote these characters to have a dynamic arc.”

She was riveted by the family, Mr. Collins and Lady Catherine de Burgh. I pointed out which characters didn’t really change.

Mr. Darcy changed and so did Elizabeth Bennet. Most of the people stayed the same. The snooty Bingley sisters were mean the whole way through.

Veronica had no respect for the mother.

Spending this extra time on the series, I was having more and more respect for the actors, as well as how Austen created these timeless characters.

Timelessness is always flavored by the moment it was captured. Yes, the period houses and dresses refer to a real thing. But the later interpretation is from new perspective. The people who made their version of a classic put their stamp on it.

And I will see it through many different eyes. I see it the way I experienced it when I read it—which was when I was my daughter’s age. And then I remember when I first saw this version.

I also remember how others talked about this version, even Bridget Jones’ Diary.

And then I get to enjoy it again from the uninitiated perspective of my Gen Z daughter. She was not prejudiced about any of the characters in the story–unless I prejudiced her.

It was the timeless summer, lazily experiencing the beautiful story together.

It’s an election year. This last week has been riveting, beginning with an assassination attempt on Trump, the Republican party presidential candidate. Only one week later ended with a first-time-in-history change—Biden as the sitting president and the democrat party candidate stepped down.

That was this week. The week before, as I’ve been sharing with you all, I was exploring America. I was not riveted to the news, because I was looking at the natural world around me.

With the election, I am reminded of April 2020. I remember how the news was all I looked at during the start of the pandemic. I check the news on TV and on my phone trying to verify the latest death surges. Where was it bad? Who knew what?

I HAD TO KNOW!!!

Even though I eventually caught the virus later that year, the pain of COVID for me was that separation from myself. I don’t want to hold my attention in my pocket. A few inches of screen is not enough of a window into the world.

The fact is, with all my medical poisoning, I narrowed my world again to that screen. Well, really to the speaker. My eyes were too tired to stay open and my mind was often too weak to lift weightier subjects.

I spent hours and hours lying down in the dark, sleepless but listening to books or comedy podcasts. I got very used to this link to entertainment.

But just as I had in 2020 I have begun to feel the creeping ick of prepackaged jokes and opinions. I want to get away from this dependency.

I’ve talked about this with Veronica. She shared this song “Welcome to the Internet!”

(Language warning)

Could I interest you in everything? 

All of the time?

A little bit of everything 

All of the time

Apathy’s a tragedy 

and 

boredom is a crime

Anything and everything

All of the time.

This is my kid’s life. She is fully in this world

But who am I kidding? I’m even more in it.

I am supposed to be online. It’s my job and I’m a grownup. I’m supposed to know what is good for me.

Right. I sit here drinking my coffee with sugar at the Panera about to order a cinnamon roll instead of dinner and I’m the one who has to call a halt on myself. Should I feel superior that I’m in Panera and not McDonalds? 

Of such small differences

While we were in the hotel on our trip we three collapsed after our day of travel and excursions. Separate phones separate screens. 

What are we doing?

No. What am *I* doing?

I’m the designer of my life. What could I do? 

I pulled out a deck of cards and set up a game of solitaire on the bedspread.

This is a familiar addiction. I don’t like the path it takes me on.

I might be alone in my determination to cut the constant connection to the everything all of the time. I’m not going to lecture others to do the same. 

But when I put it down, at least my husband started telling me what he was reading. We were connected even though I wasn’t looking at the screen.

And just like Winnie the Pooh I am going to step through the screen right now. Yes, I’m talking to you now. I know you are reading this very sentence on a screen. I’m writing on one, after all.

I write these weekly wonders as a way of observing myself and my thoughts. I am glad that you, dear reader come along and connect with me. My intention is not to be a little bit of everything, but to be a little bit of my authentic person shared with you all.

I didn’t buy that Cinnamon roll after all. I am writing this (rather lengthy) essay about my hopes, weaknesses and do-overs.

In this election season, I’d like to step away from the grimy drama and remember what I appreciate about the people around me. I’d like to give hugs. I want to pass a bit of watermelon than pass judgment.

The city of Santa Fe has rules.  

It is an old city with the oldest church in the nation. I could feel the history there. This is a rare feeling for a West Coast American.

The air is thin at this high elevation. I felt things were surreal bordering on the mystical.

What do people do here—I found myself wondering. 

I couldn’t see signs of industry.

When I met a government official at the hotel, he said their industry was art.

That made sense. I had glanced over the many art shops because it seemed to rich for my blood, but there were so many of them they must be doing some business to stay open.

The thing I noticed about this NEW Mexico culture—unlike the OLD Mexico I was familiar with in California—is their buidings were very plain. Pueblo style, slightly melted squares of adobe mud. 

Now, the old buildings I could believe were original pueblo style.

But the parking garage?

I learned that this was the rule. This style of architecture and no other was permitted in the whole area. More than a hundred years ago, the city had decided to have only this pueblo style for anyt building.

It gave a peace to the eye as I looked over the downtown streets. No jarring corners or edges, smooth and neutral color.

It blended in with the trees in a comfortable way.

How startling for a town with so much art, to choose this conformity.

I’d always thought of artists as eclectic, and messy. Bright colors, things that caught the eye. 

Not here. The town had chosen a strict style. 

Could it be that the discipline placed on the city cramped the artists possibilities? I would think that artists would avoid these kind of rules.

And yet, the culture and the business of the town proved me wrong. The artists came and created there, were drawn to it. Perhaps the constraint inspire the art, like a poet might choose a tiny Haiku to express a large idea.

My family watched Dr. Strangelove o the Fourth of July. It was a timecapsule of Cold War absurdity. The competitive stances between the Soviet Unions and America was highlighted as the story had them racing to find a way to save people from the detonation of a nuclear doomsday device

The only way to survive would be to hide in deep mine shafts for a hundred years or so.

The next day we all flew to New Mexico, where Chris and I visited once of the largest caves in the world : Carlsbad caverns.

We got the full experience of this natural wonder, arriving just before sunset to join with the other nature tourists in an ampitheatre of local stone to watch and wait for the moment

The moment when the first—then many thousands— of bats emerged from the cave to go eat.

They do not eat us, the ranger assured the children. THESE bats don’t eat blood.

The group was surprisingly quiet as the bats zoomed out of the cave in a fast fluttery black spiral.

When we returned the next day, that uncharacteristic quiet returned as we descended into the cave.

The mystery and majesty of these vast caverns inspired us to restrain our voices.

“There are a lot of kids here,” I said to Chris. “But I don’t here them making much noise. I don’t even hear babies crying.”

“Who would take a baby in a cave?” He asked.

“I don’t know, I’ve seen peopel take babies in all kinds of strange places. But you are right. I don’t see any babies being carried.”

“They would be stolen by goblins,” he smiled.

THe power of the babe.

I had been thinking of goblins and dwarves from stories this whole time. 

“We have to listen for drums” i replied.

But aside from fantasy legends, I wondered about caves.

What are caves used for? 

“What do you think would have happened if a cave like this had been discovered in Germany in 1200? Or China? Or Africa?”

I had just been told what happens in 1900 when this cave had been discovered. They drilled down to “mine” the guano from all the bats for fertilizer. 

And then it was turned tourist destination and the government put it under protection.

They made the smooth paths that I could walk down in the dark, with an elevator to get back up.

Would Germany have turned it into a fort?

I think the ancient Greeks would have turned it into a shrine to consult Oracles.

After we got out of the cave I asked the internet about it.

Carlsbad caverns is 9th of the top ten caves of the world. Number one is in Kentucky and was discovered in 1791.

THe next biggest cave is in Mexico—underwater! 

There is an enormous cave in Switzerland that was discovered in 1875.

It seems that big caves were mostly discovered after the 20th century. But from what I can tell, big caves are not practically useful.

We walked through the cavern, the water tracing through the caves for centuries and making their marks. 

The sun did not shine there. No algae grew in the small pools of water.

Gollum would not have found a fish in these pools No life can be here!

But how could I forget the bats? They live even deeper in this cave than I could get to.

There are many mysteries still in this world.

You have to be 35 to be president.

Like a boundary marker, this one stands out. 

Most of adulthood is unmapped. There are sea monsters and dragons in the blanks. I will have to fill in those spaces with discoveries from my own discoveries and interpretations.

My year and a half of cancer fighting is behind me, but the experience jolted the timeline and I fell into an alternate universe. I was poisoned which made me sick and stupid and I was not myself.

But the fight is behind me, right? 

Isn’t it? 

I am trying to populate in the part where I merge back.

Is it there a back to get to? Or did the reroute of the integration plan take me to a completely new alternative universe?

What familiar milestones would tell me if I am on the map of myself?

I already wrote about this experience making me 80 years old before my time. I want to exit the era of premature elderliness and become the age I am now.

Somehow, though, the current moment remains unmapped.

I’m turned around and lost track of the landmarks.

When it comes to adulthood, there is a literature on how to live your life and achieve goals.

Some books say ‘remember what you liked to do when you were little. The child person was able to be joyful and not hesitate to do fun things.’

I can have fun, sure. But even as a little kid I did have people I wanted to stay connected to, that took care of me and whom I took care of.

I’m thinking of that 35-year-old. That person might be thinking about becoming president. More frequently, that person is not on the presidential track. Either way,  a 35-year-old is expected to be capable of read a situation and make choices.

I meet that requirement to be president, even if I’m not running. I will have to be the leader of myself, although I do feel lost and turned around. I’d better look for the sea monsters to avoid

This is unfamiliar territory, and it’s not what I expected. Nevertheless, I will have to identify or create the milestones that let me know what I’m aiming towards. I have to look for the treasure islands I want to land on.