“Counting Losses”

Every morning, my phone alarm pulls me awake at 7:15. I don’t linger in bed. Instead, I put on my clothes tossed onto the floor the night before and head outside to hand water both yards. This ritual sets the pace of my day. I may chat with my neighbor who has a similar routine. Most days I use the time to create a mental “TO DO” list. 

In the past, our dogs loved looping through the yard with me. Koi often grabbed the hose to battle it’s snake-like threat. Bridget would zoom through the backyard, black lightning that zipped in circles around my legs. I miss them the most when I head to the swing under our tree, book in hand. I long to see Bridget flipped onto her back, dancing against the ground. I listen for Koi’s yip to pull me inside when it gets too warm outside. Bridget’s loss, so long ago, has sharpened now that Koi’s gone.

Since January, my ability to hold onto any kind of optimism diminishes daily. I have started counting the losses that chip away at my life, the lives and livelihoods of friends and family, and our country’s democracy. I no longer feel safe if I venture out of our neighborhood. We’ve created a security bubble that snugs us into the same shops and restaurants and avoid interacting with people who still defend the monstrous, inhumane acts of this administration.

I fear, too, talking to anyone who voted for Trump. Will they still defend the madness that’s whipping through our country? Will they conjure up excuses? Will they state that this IS what they really want? I don’t think I can risk another round of losses right now. Some friendships, that I’ve cautiously and carefully nurtured back after the January 6, 2021 attack on the Capitol won’t survive another hit. I have no desire to give anyone another chance if they support this current drive to destroy our Constitution.

Instead of risking confrontations while I’m at a low point, I decided to do a major project in the back yard. With shovels, rakes, and determination, we removed vines from the spot where our cats are buried, and kneeling near their graves, my losses added up. I hefted the top soil bags into the area, dumped them and spread the dirt with my hands, intentionally ignoring my gardening gloves. My spade hollowed out spots for Mexican Heather and Fox Tale Ferns. Sweat dripped down my glasses, but I toiled until every plant found it’s new home. I robbed rocks from other spots in our yard, ringing this new garden with hope. 

Maybe by next summer, instead of counting losses, I’ll be celebrating growth and optimism again. 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

     

"Heartbreak and Horror"

            Right now, my throat tightens to fight back tears as today’s events play out. Only it isn’t some kind of game. It isn’t a distant country. It isn’t someone else’s home or problem.

            This reality is our problem caused by angry, gutless people who cultishly defended a sociopath. He twisted and manipulated with ease all of the weakest points within our society. He and his enablers stoked the discontent of racists and misogynists and fanned their smoldering embers of distrust into flames of “righteous” outrage. He had no substance. He relied on smoke and mirrors—magic tricks that never hold up in the light of day.

            In horror, I watch the evacuation of members of the House and Senate. I listen, dumbstruck, as reports come through that key people responsible for the function of our government have been swept away to safety. A woman, trying to break into one of the chambers holding congressmen, was shot. I celebrate her death. Consequences are a bitch.

            There’s no control over the Capitol right now because we have no leadership. We have a want-to-be dictator. The full measures of our legal system need to come after Trump, all of his enablers, the followers. White House officials huddle in their offices and wait for Trump to give a longer, stronger statement than a few inept tweets. 

            Biden, the President Elect, supplies a need our resident narcissist cannot fulfill. Biden renounces the insurrection and rejects the selfish interests of the anarchy and chaos spawned by Trump’s insistence that our election was fraud-filled. His call for Trump to step up will set a tone for Trump to stop the siege. “The words of a President matter.”

            However, we all know that Trump is incapable of doing what is best for anyone but himself. Instead of showing leadership, he posts a short Twitter video that continues his lies about a “landslide election” that was “stolen” and although the election was taken away from him, his followers, and the country, they should “go home in peace.” He doesn’t denounce the mob rule that spews throughout D.C. screaming, “This is Civil War!” An unstable despot-wannabe grabs hold of conspiracy theories, making them true and real while undermining evidence and data by shouting louder than anyone else, “Fake!”

           

            The optimist in me stays glued to our reconvened Congress’s speeches, and the heartbreak weighs heavily on me. Some determined words bring me hope. I listen for those who will change the horror of today into honor for tomorrow.

Frozen in place?

Copyright 2021 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Guilty on 34 Counts

           

GUILTY

GUILTY

GUILTY

            Yesterday ex-president Trump’s New York jury found him guilty on all 34 counts of  felony fraud. Trump corrupted elections by hiding information from voters. For me, this moment demonstrates that the attempts of a political party to disassemble the foundations of our democracy took a blow. Supporters of Trump couldn’t wait to get before their fan bases to try to undermine the rule of law.

            It’s important to point out that this man, his family members, and his business don’t do well once a judge and jury examine evidence provided against them. I found out recently that some of my Trump supporting friends and family members didn’t even know that he was found guilty of Defamation and Sexual Assault against E. Jean Carroll. Another jury concluded that Trump committed sexual assault and defamation with Trump having to pay $5 million and $83.3 million in damages. These same people manage to spin the $355 million plus interest fraud verdict in New York into proof that Trump’s a risk-taker, which they find admirable.

            This same group of people insists that Trump’s being unfairly persecuted when confronted with the pending 37 felony count Mar-a-Lago Documents case surrounding his removal and retention of national security documents. They explain away the Fulton County Election Subversion case because they still want to believe that Trump won 2020. One eighty-year-old relative claimed recently that if he’d been younger, he would’ve been participating in the attack on the Capitol on January 6, 2021. The Department of Justice Election Subversion felony charges, to him, are false claims against true patriots.

            What’s next for people like me, surrounded by MAGA madness?

 

                SPEAK.

            SPEAK OUT OFTEN.

            SPEAK OUT TRUTHFULLY.

       

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Finding My Voice Again”

            My way to hold onto sanity in a crazy world? Writing. My thoughts flow across the page, whether with pen to paper or fingers flying across the keyboard. Pages fill with my life observations, a narrow slice of my reality as I share bits and pieces of myself to some unknown audience. Sometimes a poem evolves, sometimes a story surfaces. Often, my thoughts and feelings, displayed over a once blank page, leave me puzzled

.

            Did I think that?

            Did I write that?

            Even when I didn’t think I had something to say, words would scatter across the page.

 

            For more than a year, the thought of writing, and sharing those words, burdened me. I realized recently that the January 6 United States Capitol attack silenced me, not immediately, but slowly as the stages of grief tangled up in relationships with family and friends. What do I take away from the friend who waved her hands skyward, praying for my soul to be saved, while she still supports a malevolent tyrant? Did I do mental bargaining with myself that this bond, now more than thirty years strong, could survive my disillusionment? Where do I go with the family members who scorn science and turn away from facts? My wallowing in anger at them changes nothing. They now reveal who and what they’ve been all along: selfish, mean, clannish, narcissists.

 

            Regaining my voice has happened slowly. The first step came with a public library card. Each visit, I select a favorite author, a totally “new-to-me” writer, and two pieces of non-fiction. My non-fiction tethers me back to my roots of in Psychology, enlarges my knowledge of physics or economics, and provides a new, better understandings of how we got to this point in history. I took another step by making certain those places I loved visiting before my years of caregiving became destinations again, like our local museums and the zoo. During the lockdown, my camera opened a view to the small details of life, and I continue focusing on my need to link photography with words.

 

            My voice comes out now because I have to write again.

 

Copyright 2024 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Run Silent”

 

            In the past, my need to fill the page whenever tragedy struck either close to home or in distant locations meant my thoughts on everything turned up in my blog. Then the January 6^th attack on the United States Capitol broke something in me. COVID-19 exploded in the homes of both family and friends, and I only recorded its impact in my personal journal, with no desire to blog again. The vital lifeline blogging provided during Mom’s endless battle with Huntington’s disease became less necessary. I didn’t feel the need to write about the troubles that everyone around me also experienced firsthand.

            On February 24^th, Russia began a brutal attack on Ukraine. I retreated into books and spent massive hours raking leaves and hauling rocks from our back yard to the front. Our television sets normally remain silent during the day, and my preference to read the news over seeing and hearing it means usually our home runs silent for the majority of each day. Yet, this today the news drives my morning, as it has daily since the war began.

            Helplessness accompanies me as I toil in my yards. Spring’s promise of rebirth hides under the leaves. As I clear each area, green draws my eyes to life’s eternal potential. I treasure my safe shelter.

 

Escaping war news

Hauling rocks, raking leaves 

Copyright 2022 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman