We are in the midst of a perfect storm.
Those who seek perfection, especially
a perfection to match themselves,
which they consider the norm,
relish the chaos which leads astray
a nation once dedicated to the proposition
that “all men are created equal
and endowed by their creator with the right
to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”
What a lovely concept in sunny weather,
on a clear blue day.
But, those seeing red over perceived imperfection
cannot tolerate those who refuse to let the imperfect
get in the way of the possible.
They prefer to cut programs and taxes,
to keep their money in their own pockets,
show their personal largesse to those deemed worthy.
If only, they could see their own imperfections clearly.
We would not be in this frightful storm.
The winds of fascism and authoritarianism stir wildly
every manner, moral tome, and rule of law, and norm.
The rain of terror by masked militia in our streets
is more costly than housing the homeless,
feeding the hungry, educating our young people
who live with expectations of defeat.
The young see their pursuit of happiness and their freedom
being washed away, with inequality laid at their feet.
I do not believe in perfection.
There are few perfect days.
Clouds are born by winds unseen
shadowing perfection and laying it aside
while violent storms brew.
I do not seek the impossible.
It is too costly and uncontrollable.
I know no policy nor program is perfect, as is no man.
Nothing makes us greater than to simply understand
we are all flawed human beings doing the best we can.
There can be no apology for silently marveling
and supporting these dark days.
The perfect see no reason to apologize
for the greater wisdom of their ways.
We are left to raise umbrellas
to protect as many as we can.
But, umbrellas are no match for perfect storms
created by our fellow man.
annarino writes 
Another Milestone Reached,Louise Annarino,2-10-2014
Another Milestone Reached,Louise Annarino,2-10-2014
Today, I joined the medicare ranks, celebrating my sixty-fifth birthday. Like all milestones, it forced me to consider the significance of my life. Why was I born? What accomplishment did the milestone celebrate? What did reaching this milestone portend?
Over the past weeks, as my birthday approached, I consider past milestones. I am not speaking about my personal milestones; only about universal American milestones.
What are those milestones? At age 13 I became a teenager. My bobby-soxer days were finally beginning. I could claim ownership of American Bandstand, wear nylon stockings, and call my Father “Daddio”. Little did I know that wearing stockings was a miserable experience. As suspected, I managed one “Daddio” before my Father put a stop to such disrespect. Still, I felt older.
At age 16 I was allowed to date. This was a total waste in my case. Unless one was invited to be someone’s date it made no difference. The boys around me did not quite measure up to the someones of my imagination; nor I to their imaginary siren. Sixteen was not so sweet after all. Rather, a time of facing the unrealistic nature of teenage dreams. Still, I felt older.
At age 18 I could drink 3.2 beer. I was not permitted to go into any bar except the Center Cafe owned by my dad and uncles. My great-uncle George served me my first beer, perched on a Center cafe bar stool, surrounded by Angelo,Frank,Joe and John. Their advice freely flowed and took the excitement down several notches. I went back to Coca-Cola. At age 21, the scene repeated itself when Uncle George served me my first drink, Johnny Walker. After choking it down with back slaps from dad and uncles, I again returned to Coca-Cola. Still, each time, I felt older.
At age 21 I could also register to vote. I registered on my birthday, joined both the Young Republicans and Young Democrats, missing the only primary I ever missed by refusing to declare a party until I was sure which one spoke for me. The next primary, I declared myself a Democrat. It has taken a lifetime to see the changes my vote has wrought. Still, that day, I felt older.
At age 50 I entered what we commonly accept as middle age. The addition makes no sense and the event itself is more a Hallmark moment than any meaningful accomplishment. At least I became eligible for my Golden Buckeye card, and happily if guiltily use its discounts for the “aging”. I wondered how I could be middle aged and a senior citizen at the same time. Still, I felt older.
Finally, at age 65 I received my medicare card, became an official old person, turned my sneakers silver, and can freely wear purple with a red hat. I am sure that is all my parents hoped for me 65 years ago. The strangest thing is I feel younger.
It is good thing to feel younger because I have been considering what the next universal American milestone is and came to an uncomfortable conclusion. The next milestone is death, or perhaps hospice for a while. As a milestone it leaves a lot to be desired. I am not eager to reach it, I can assure you.
The beauty of 65 is that I can now pursue my personal milestones, those things one delays until any number of events occur. For some it is retirement from a job. For others, it is knowing one’s children are settled and able to care for themselves and their children. And, for many, it is the freedom to speak more freely, explore geographies of the mind and of the earth, stay up all night and sleep in the next day. At 65, it is time to live in the moment.
Age 65 allows us to become kids at play again, challenge the status quo as we did as teenagers, use our true voice for change as we did through our vote, make more mature decisions with wisdom gained through our middle years. Age 65 allows us the time and freedom to become all we can be. We are reborn. We are young again. Today, and every day after this I am younger than I was yesterday. This is going to be a fun time! Want to come along with me?
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