My 2022 To Do List
PROLOGUE
In January 2020, I made a To Do List, setting out my intentions for the coming year. Sadly, I abandoned it — or did it abandon me ?— when mid-March’s shelter-in-place waylaid most of my plans. For 2021, I didn’t even bother. For 2022, I’m like, what the hell? So here goes.
MY TO DO LIST FOR 2022 (In No Particular Order)
1. I will decide the fate of the books I’m writing, which exist in perpetual and varied states of completion:
a. Poetry — I have enough to fill 5 volumes, though most should not see the light of day lest they burn the eyeballs of unsuspecting readers.
b. Mom’s Ashes — During her lifetime, my mother lived in 36 different places. She selected 7 of them to for us to take her ashes to after her passing. I’ve written about our journey to fulfill her last wishes, telling the story of our family’s life in each of those places.
c. Family Epic History Aka The History of the Americas — From the 1670s to the present, tracing our family migrations from 3 islands — Sicily, Cuba, and the Channel Isle of Jersey.
d. Cuba — My writings on 10 years living and working on the island and decades of traveling there. What I’ve written so far fits best into the humor genre.
2. For the umpteenth time, clear off the arts and crafts table in the laundry room, which, thanks to the shelves my bro-in-law Bill put up at Christmas time, I have a real shot at having a space for arts and craft projects. Oh, to watercolor again! Oh, to paper mâché all the cool containers that weed comes in that I’ve saved.
3. For the umpteenth time, promise to take my daily vitamins, use moisturizer on my face, eat more vegetables, expand Qi Gong from 15 minutes a day to 20, expand daily walks from 20 minutes a day to 30, and generally get my health shit together.
“Mom, I have a feeling you’re going to be around another 20 years,” says my daughter, Amalia.
“Til I’m 100?!” says I, demonstrating how terrible I am at math.
“No mom, 90!” says Amalia, demonstrating how she was always good at math.
4. Accentuate the positive. To explain, let me give you some background ‘cuz this one’s important:
A couple months back, we held a memorial on the one-year anniversary of my friend Steve’s passing, outdoors, with masks, and socially distancing (more or less). All the people who spoke emphasized how positive Steve always was, how strong his sense of hope, how he always figured out ways to overcome bad situations with a smile and can-do spirit. And in that moment, I thought to myself, “That is not something people will say at my memorial.” Which I think that kinda sucks.
Regrettably, I am a glass half-empty person. I can immediately find problems in any situation. I look for looming disasters, downplay small achievements. I don’t just have an earthquake kit; I have a whole friggin’ earthquake shed in the backyard.
I don’t fully trust anyone (or barely anyone). I take most of what people say with a tablespoon of salt, and, often, I’m surprised that I have so many friends who say they love me.
I guess that’s what comes from being raised by a mother who told us not to trust cops, priests, or any man really, since they may rape you. No away camps for Justine’s children, no spending the night at friends, no getting in the car with another teenager at the wheel, or even with another adult, for that matter. And no drive-in movies ‘cuz that’s where girls get pregnant. Doom and gloom were around every corner, like a lion just waiting to pounce. “You’re gonna crack your head open!” was a common refrain when kitchen cupboards were left ajar, or you were caught running in flip flops.
This disaster parenting was further reinforced by my Sicilian grandmother who told us that all our bad luck (and there was quite a bit) was due to our being descendants of Pontius Pilate and well, we all know what he did, which is why, Nana would say, we were being punished. So yeah, positivity is not one of my characteristics.
So, when people ask me if I have hope for the future, I lie. “Yes, of course,” I tell them. Because I don’t want to poison anyone’s enthusiasm for changing the world with my own dire prediction that it’s not going to change.
If the person asking about hope is a close friend, I might tell them what I really think, “No, this society is too far gone. Its foundation is too weak — built on genocide and the enslavement of human beings. The empire is collapsing.” And then they follow up with the inevitable question, “Well then, why do you do all this work for social justice if you don’t believe things are actually going to change?” My response? “It’s to soften the fall.”
Those most impacted by society’s collapse — Black, Indigenous, and other people of color, poor people, queer people, disabled people — will suffer the most. The rich and powerful have the resources to escape or mitigate the disasters of their own making. But the majority of the global family do not. I work for them, and their yet-to-be-born children.
Don’t get me wrong. I really want to believe that after the collapse, people will rebuild a society that is humane and equitable, one that completely counters the premise of pretty much every dystopian-future novel, TV show, or movie. I want to believe that the seeds we are planting today will burst forth from the ashes and rubble. I want art and music and stories to survive, and the memory of what it means to be human — before greed, hatred, and fear infected more people than the global pandemic — when there was love and joy and kinship.
My little sister says, “Was there really ever a society filled with love and joy and kinship? Is the human species even capable of such things? I don’t think so.” While at the same time she holds this opinion, she is also the ever-positive, happy-go-lucky, glass half-full, gleeful adult child who spends hours each week hiking through beautiful landscapes or seeing theater or making art or traveling or meeting friends at Disneyland. She is in a perpetual state of childhood awe. She is a perfect example of being able to hold both hope and despair. And it’s also thanks to the fact that my disaster-focused mother was more chill with her fourth-born.
I want to be more like my little sister. I don’t want to be known for my negativity. But mostly I just don’t want to be negative. Negativity fuels more negativity and is generally not good for your health (say hello to my little friend, high blood pressure). In 2022, I’m working on flipping the script.
5. Make flight reservations to visit Sicily (since we had to cancel the 2021 trip to celebrate my 70th birthday) even though I know in the back of my head, it may not happen. But it’s frequent flyer miles so they’ll just go back into my account. Waiting for the day we can travel again.
6. Watch less TV! Ha!
7. Rekindle the Magic. There was a time when magic was part of my life, when I felt connected to the ancestors, to the spiritual, to the unknown that made itself known to me from time to time. A wise friend once told me, “If you listen, you will hear them.” And when I did open myself up and listen, I did. They lit candles, guided me on journeys, and pointed to the possibilities. I haven’t been listening for a few years now, and I want to start again so the magical moments can emerge. And as my little sis pointed out, when you are in touch with the magical, it’s easier to be positive (see #4 above ;)
8. Live each day to the fullest. As if it’s your last. Because it might be. The odds are higher now. I know this applies to any age, but something happened to me when I hit 70, literally on that very day. For the first time, I actually felt old. (Even though all the young’uns tell me I don’t look 70 at all, but then what do they know.) And I began to have a hyper-awareness of deaths, especially of those around my age. “He died of a massive coronary at age 72.” “She died of a brain aneurysm at 71.”
Our culture has taught us to spend most of our lives as if we are immortal and then, when confronted with the reality of an end, we are confounded. Death. There I said it. I’m also now able to discuss the topic with my daughter. She used to push back, change the subject. She once confessed to me that when she was in grade school, where everyone’s parents were much younger than me, she constantly worried that I would die.
I’m grateful that we’ve finally been able to broach the subject of my passing. After all, there will be things she’ll need to deal with. We even began reviewing books for this purpose and landed on the one entitled I’m Dead, Now What? It’s a planner where you fill in all kinds of info about bank accounts, personal belongings, legal and financial matters, health, all your passwords (LOL), personal wishes, etc. I’ve begun filling it in.
I don’t know when my time will come, but I want to remember to live each day as if it is my last. Now I ask myself, “Do you really want to spend your last day on this earth binge-watching shows on Netflix?”
IN CONCLUSION
This is a mighty prayer. This is an incantation. This is a time of cleansing and moving forward, no matter what lies ahead. This is a yearly declaration that I am still here and a plea for more time because:
· I love watching my daughter bloom.
· I want to meet my grandchildren.
· I miss my friends, family, my community, and want to make up for time lost these past two plus years.
· I want to see more of other lands and the people who inhabit them, who, like me, laugh and cry, dream and despair, but who are also different than me and mine, living in ways both unfamiliar and appealing. Traveling touches all my senses, awakens my imagination, tickles my heart, teaches me to breath deeper. Plus, I now have enough frequent flyers miles for at least four trips abroad!
· I want to see small victories in our work for racial and social justice. One huge victory will be passing the baton to the next generation of activists who will carry on after I’m gone.
It’s beautiful to see the world
With eyes that have not yet been born
And know yourself victorious
When all around you, it’s still so cold, so dark.
— Otto René Castillo
EPILOGUE
I dreamt we took down the Christmas tree and instead of plopping it in front of the house to await the machines that will chew it into mulch, I dug a small hole in the backyard and stuck the tree in the ground. Then a miracle happened. Great roots emerged from the tiny stump that had held her aloft in our living room, anchoring her to the earth from where she could be nourished and grow. The roots spread underground, meeting and greeting the roots of all the neighborhood trees. And she was happy and no longer shedding needles. Instead, she grew tall and flourished for years to come.
All that you touch
You Change.
All that you Change
Changes you.
The only lasting truth
is Change.
— Octavia Butler
