Dreaming of the Polar Bears

I have an adventure fantasy to travel to the Svalbard Islands in the Arctic Ocean, midway between Norway and the North Pole. I want to see the polar bears in their natural habitat before they become extinct. I worry about the animals in the arctic, as climate change slowly steals their frozen habitat. I've been fascinated with the polar bear since first seeing one in the Bronx Zoo as a child. Her huge white furry body, her 12 inch wide paws with killer claws, yet that quizzical look in her coal black eyes and shiny nose made her seem approachable, and even huggable. I've walked with the brown bears in Katmai, Alaska, but I've never come face to face with the big white polars.

The only settlement you can travel to in the Svalbard Islands is the tiny town of Longyearbyen, on Spitsbergen island. You fly in from Oslo or Iceland, and as you can imagine, summer is the smart time to go. It's a difficult trip, challenging physical strength and testing endurance, exposing trepidation yet validating courage. The temperatures range from -40 degrees in winter to the mid 40's in summer. You can travel by small cruise ship, or arctic icebreaker, and get close to the animals using zodiacs and snowmobiles. I read, I research, I plan, I budget, I dream.

So we've become used to hearing about a person's bucket list... or wanting to do something before time runs out. I generally don't think this way or feel like I have to do something to satisfy my great quest for life before I die. I don't even think about the end of my life very much. I'm a pragmatist, believing we are born with an expiration date and time stamp and there is not much we can do to change it. I know I will not live forever, but there is no reason to worry about how and when the end will come. Yet I do want to see the polar bears, and the urgency I feel has more to do with their uncertain future than mine.

Though I may seem to procrastinate in getting to Svalbard, my excuse is an ever-present need to prioritize. There are things I want to do, things I need to do, and even the things I have got to do, on the same list as my trip up north. These days most of the items edging out the polar bears involve my children, my grandchildren, my family and my friends. And then there is the cold.... Older I get, less I like to be cold, and it is very cold in the Arctic.

I remember being cold as a child, but it didn't really stop me from getting on with day to day life; it was just part of life. Being without heat at home wasn't such a big deal, as we were without heat lots of the time in our upper Manhattan walk up. The super would turn off the furnace at night to save fuel – coal in those days - but we had wool blankets and coats layered on our beds and they kept us toasty till morning.

Mom would be up first to light the stove, then when the kitchen had lost its frosty chill, she would call my sisters and I to get up for school. We ran barefoot across the cold linoleum floor to the kitchen where we huddled around the oven's open-door like campers around a campfire on a cold night. There would be big pots of water boiling on the stove, and taking turns, we would each carry one back to the bathroom for washing up.

A great deal of time was spent bundling up and trying to keep warm. Snowstorm or not, there were socks and shoes that slipped into rubber boots. There were snow pants which I was required to wear under my school uniform jumper. There were sweaters, wool coats and of course gloves, hats and scarves. And when it snowed, it snowed big. We stayed outside rolling in the snow, fighting snowball fights, making igloos on the sidewalk until our clothes were soaked to the skin, and only went in to get warm when the sun went down and mom called from the window.

After high school there were the great blizzards in New York that stopped cars, busses and trains. I lumbered over snow piles and drifts to walk most of the way to my office in midtown only to find that the building was closed and have to turn back. It was an adventure, it was fun, and although I was chilled to the bone, that would never stop me.

Later on, in my 30s and 40s, my childhood bundling activity resumed when skiing with my kids. Uncomfortable, clumsy, overdressed indoors, underdressed on the lift, painfully frozen toes and fingertips, we trudged on for the thrill of zooming down the mountainside over and over – again till the sun went down. It could be bitter cold, my lips and cheeks were chapped, but I just slathered on the old chap-stick and went out again the next morning. These were some of the most exciting days of my life and these beautiful memories with my children remain.

Seriously... I have been cold, I have overcome cold. Is it really the cold that stops me from my Svalbard fantasy? Is it the difficulty of getting there, traveling around on snowmobiles with old bones? Is it really priorities at home, is it laziness? Is it fear of those giant beasts? They attack you know, they even kill, as they search for unavailable food as the ice floes melt. Is it the probability of losing my imaginary, cuddly, huggable big teddy bear to the reality of a huge, dangerous carnivore?  

We all have dreams and fantasies. Some can be achieved, and maybe, just maybe, it is fine for others to remain in our minds and hearts – for a little while, or even forever. Yet, at this moment, I think if I don't re-prioritize today's hopeful goals, I might never achieve tomorrow's astonishing memories.

The temperature has dropped into the low 40's today which is the average temperature in Svalbard in summer. I will find my warm boots, hat and gloves, and when I get home later I will pour myself a cup of hot tea, I will get out my list and I will rethink my priorities.  

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"Action expresses priorities"
--  Mahatma Gandhi

Be thou at Peace Ma'am

Her mom died when she was just a little girl, just six or seven years old. She wanted to go to West Point and made it happen. She served in Iraq and then served in Afghanistan twice, where she was killed by enemy fire Saturday, June 8, 2013. Maj. Jaimie Oberst Leonard was 39. Those who knew her say she was loyal, dedicated, and a “shining example” to those served with her.

The news came to me from her uncle, my first cousin, Tommy Oberst. My dad and Jaimie's grandmother were sister and brother. So I'm linked to Jaimie by childhood memories of hanging out with her mom and our generation of cousins in the Bronx at my Grandmother's house, and our weekends in the country at the Oberst house in Scarsdale, New York. The Breen sisters, Patsy, (Jaimie's mom) Muffet (Alice), Bobby, Tommy and Laurie.  

My heart breaks for her siblings, her aunts and uncles, her cousins and her incredible life-long West Point family of soldiers and officers. We will all honor her at West Point next week where she will be buried.

I've been watching the news, and from what I've seen, only News 12 Westchester has covered Jaimie's story the attack in treacherous Paktika. There have been short print articles in The Times, The News and a few local newspapers, but our network news shows seem to shy away from the disturbing reality of our country's war in Afghanistan. Interestingly, I've talked with family and friends in the past about the fact that the only TV news show announcing the names of soldiers killed each week is Sunday Morning's “This Week” with George Stephanopoulis.

Yes, every week soldiers are killed in this war. As a society, we continue to be shielded from the news of our best and brightest falling in a war we've been talking about ending for a long time. We only become acutely aware of what's going on when it touches us personally, and then we experience the blow, the terrible shock, the monumental grief and the rage.

Over the last Memorial Day, a debate erupted about the meaning of the holiday. It seems to have morphed and blended a little with Veteran's Day since it has become politically correct to thank our soldiers for their service when we meet them here in the US. I used to think this was a good thing, that every time we can honor a soldier we should. But.... I've changed my mind--I agree that Veteran's Day and Memorial Day are two very different holidays. I will make sure next Memorial Day I honor Maj. Jaimie Leonard and all the officers and soldiers who have made the ultimate sacrifice, and keep the meaning of the day close to my heart.

I'll repeat what a friend posted for Jaimie on the FaceBook page West Point Women, “Be thou at Peace Ma'am”.

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"I'm going to go in and do my best." I believe when you do that, people recognize your talent.

– General Ann E. Dunwoody

Four-star general, U.S. Army
(First Woman Four-Star General)

Why I have excommunicated myself from the Catholic Church

“The problem is not with God, but with an all-male clerical culture that views women as lesser than men.”

I've always felt like I lived on the fringes of the Catholic Church. After all, even as a very young girl growing up Catholic in a parish in upper Manhattan, I had a very hard time accepting all I was taught. I was troubled by the discrepancy in the way the priests and nuns lived up to the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. The priests had cars, ate out in restaurants, dressed in street clothes to go to the beach, or hang out at the park, and had money in their pockets for entertainment. The nuns, except for mass and teaching, rarely left the convent or the square block of the school and chapel. Some of my friends and I volunteered to grocery shop for the nuns because they were not allowed to venture out three or four blocks to the A & P. The unfairness of it all disturbed me, and as a result, I never really respected the priests in the way that we Catholics are supposed to. On the other hand, I admired the nuns' spirituality and the simple and devout way they quietly lived their vocation.

As an adolescent, I became aware of the rage that some nuns and priests would direct at their students in the classroom. By seventh grade, a few of the nuns were physically beating up on the boys and shrilly threatening the girls with fear tactics. This was both surprising and frightening, as I viewed the Sisters as my teachers and confidants.   As we have subsequently learned, some of the priests were sexually abusing boys in the back of the chapel and in the locker room. In the classroom we were being taught about martyrs who gave their lives defending the teaching of Jesus Christ. We were taught the new testament stories of miracles while being physically, mentally and sexually threatened and assaulted. Silently I questioned everything I was taught. I didn't know who to trust any longer.  Most of all, I questioned an authority that would tolerate, even encourage, their intolerably bad behavior. I began to believe in nothing.

Through my adult years I still considered myself Catholic, saying when asked, “Yes, I'm baptized Catholic, but I don't practice anymore”. I would say this because I was embarrassed by my Church. Embarrassed by the church that would continue to protect child abuse felons without accountability; the church that was so out of step with women's issues and insuring woman's health; and the church that has shut its doors to divorced catholics, gay catholics and to anyone who would defend them. 

Case in point: Father Roy Bourgeois, who was recently expelled from the Maryknoll Priests because of his public support for the ordination of women. He had been excommunicated four years earlier, but finally expelled in November 2012. Yes, he was excommunicated because he publicly supported the idea of women ordained as priests.

And how about Sister Simone Campbell and the 'Nuns on the Bus' who went on a nine state tour protesting federal cuts in programs for the poor. The Vatican tried to silence them and the Leadership Conference of Women Religious, for speaking out without permission of Rome. These women are just too uppity (and even called 'radical feminists'!) and were assigned a bishop to oversee all their future activities.

Now in the many years since I was a child the Catholic church has struggled with declining numbers of priests and nuns; Catholic churches are without pastors and Catholic schools have been closing due to declining enrollment and fewer clergy to run them. We might also note that most Catholics would be happy to see the inclusion of married priests, women priests, and a church which would welcome homosexual and divorced people. Most Catholics want to see offending priests held accountable for the abuse of children.  Ignoring these realities, the Cardinals in Rome, with pride and disregard for the faithful, announced recently that their laws and methods have not changed in over 600 years and will not change.

So today, I stand beside Father Roy Bourgeois, and Sister Simone Campbell, who live by their conscience, in spite of the non-inclusive, noncompassionate, and rigid church leaders, and I excommunicate myself.  Fearlessly, I say I am not a Catholic.

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Read Father Roy Bourgeois' story: My Prayer: Let Women Be Priests

http://www.nytimes.com/2013/03/21/opinion/my-prayer-let-women-be-priests.html?smid=pl-share

One Wednesday's Commute

So I step down to the Metro North platform as the 7:23 AM express to Grand Central pulls in, and I decide to get into the last car instead of running for the cars in the front of the train. I'm thinking this is a smart thing to do to get a seat, maybe it will not be so crowded... you know. Well the last car is packed tight with seats few and far between, but I do find one by the window and ask a commuter if he would be so kind as to move his briefcase from the seat next to him so that I could sit down. He seems perturbed, looks around first, and then grudgingly surrenders the seat. It crosses my mind to ask him if maybe he had purchased a ticket for his briefcase, but... I am practicing being less confrontational with strangers, so instead I smile a closed-lip smile and sit down.

Train pulls into GC, and every single person in the last car starts walking in the opposite direction from the terminal. Good follower that I am, I try to blend in so I do exactly the same. I see a tunnel up ahead and stairs going down (which seems wrong somehow ) but I continue, knowing that these daily commuters know more than me, a casual traveler.

We emerge in an office building on Madison and 48^th Street! Moving along like sheep on a giant conveyor belt, I follow along and grab the door someone is holding open for me, then do the same for the person behind me. It is sleeting outside but I must keep walking or be trampled. Of course I need to head downtown, not up, and west, not east, but I have just managed to empty out into the farthest northeast exit of Grand Central. I am truly truly an amateur, and a poser.

Rather than admit defeat, I walk to the corner and stop into a deli to a) get out of the sleet and b) buy a bottle of water. The guy at the counter says “$1.24”, so I give him a five and a quarter and say, “you can keep the penny”. He hands me back four dollars and says with a smirk, “thank you, I'll make sure I give the penny to my boss.” Once again, I practice my square breathing and do not respond because I am trying really really hard to be less confrontational with strangers.

Outside of the deli LO and BEHOLD, someone is getting out of a cab. I grab the door and jump in and tell the driver my destination, feeling so relieved that I am out of the cold rain. As I settle back into the seat and search for the seat belt, he opens the sliding window between the front and back seats of the cab, and starts a long, rambling monologue. I won't say it is a conversation, because he really does not want me to talk, just listen. OMG here we go. For the endless stop-and-go drive downtown he tells me his life's story. Didn't stop for a breath, I swear.... But when he said he hated Mayor Bloomberg, I tried hard to just tune him out. All I can remember is him telling me the stunning fact that he spends six to eight weeks each summer in Dubai, because driving a cab in New York is so stressful, and that I should definitely go to Dubai for my next vacation. I ask him what he does in Dubai, and he says “Oh, EVERYTHING!” and gives me a knowing smile in the rear view mirror, which totally creeps me out. I smile and nod, thinking this guy must be loaded to spend eight weeks in Dubai every summer, but I do not speak because… well, you know.

Thankfully, just as I start to break out in an anxious sweat, we pull up to my destination. I hand him a $20 for the $17.50 trip and say “keep the change” – and hey, I get a smile instead of a scowl.  In the elevator up to my grandson's apartment, I think, hmmm, maybe I should look for an apartment in Manhattan... I could just walk everywhere! HA!

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"Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."
-- Abraham Lincoln