"Defense Mechanisms"

David Chapman-artist

Defend and Protect at all costs    
bury unpleasant thoughts and feelings under, down, below    
refuse to accept reality    
deny, deny, deny    
change existence and rewrite your life    
fabricate your lies until they morph into your new reality    
regress or act out    
childishly punch the wall of your frustration    
disconnect from your follies    
forget, forget, forget    
place each dissonant thought into a strongbox    
locked away even from yourself    
project your pettiness and bitterness onto the wholesome    
react in opposition with your infantile impulses    
blockade your imperfections behind fantasy    
beat your spouse, kick the dog—never harm yourself    
Defend and Protect at all costs   

 
Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Our Red Oak"

Spring 2013

When we bought our house, an annoying Chinaberry Tree arched over the driveway, dripping its sap and dropping toxic berries every year over anything under its branches. The original homeowner didn’t realize the tree rested right above the house’s plumbing, and it didn’t take long for the roots to invade our pipes. The budget hit convinced us that whatever tree we planted in the front yard, it would reside a safe distance from causing damage to anything buried beneath the ground. 

Two families in our neighborhood planted rows of matching trees one spring with the idea that eventually the branches would form a arc over the separating road. The second year, once the leaves turned a brilliant red, we knew they planted Red Oaks. A year of two later, the neighbor on the corner of our street also planted two Red Oaks. We appreciated their bright leaves every fall and winter. 

When it came time to plant a new tree in our front yard, we didn’t think twice about adding another Red Oak to our street. Our tree, once small and unassuming, now umbrellas over the entire yard. I haven’t taken time to study why some years the trees leaves turn deep, blood red while other years a brown undertone dominate the color. I do know that I watch carefully for the first sign of red. Over the last couple of years, I’ve first caught the change with my iPhone camera as it’s alway nearby. I also make certain to bring out my better camera and lenses to capture the beauty as it flames. 

I thought it would be fun to look at all of those photographs, from that first year the small tree cast only a little shade over the yard to this year’s splendor. Searching through old photo-files brought contentment to me. Documenting such a simple treasure each year lets me appreciate the roots we’ve planted in this spot. 

Spring 2014

First "really red" 2014

Spring 2015

Brown fall 2015

Brilliant red Dec. 2019

January 2023

Dec. 2023

Fall 2024

Dec. 2025

December 2025

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Afraid to Sleep”

My new nighttime routine shifted a few months ago into finding something on television that lulls my worried brain into falling asleep with ease. Old childhood shows, familiar in their characters and simple themes, settled into background sounds. Most nights, I drift off before the opening titles play across the screen. Some nights, an episode had me laughing right as I’d drift off. 

This determination to find something innocuous at bedtime wove into my life as the anxiety of waking up torments me. When the alarm sounds now, I think “What nightmare happened while I slept.” 

I could sit and write endlessly of the abuses occurring at this moment by this regime, but I posted the Project 2025 document daily for weeks and warned about the brutality of its goals. I heard rationalizations from the people I warned that I just didn’t like Trump. To be frank, a narcissistic sociopath in charge of any country should disturb any reasonable and intelligent person. The cult of Trump, though, embraces his corruption and destruction.

For me, waking up each morning reveals another level of the cult’s inhumanity. I shot out a post on Facebook recently, asking for people who voted for this man to PM me if they now regret their vote. I also stated that if they still believe in this administration to leave me out of their lives.   

Not a single person contacted me to say they regret their vote. Silence. 

It took me until this week to realize that some of the cult members didn’t bother to send their usual holiday greetings via mail, email, or text. I think they feel righteous in cutting me out of their lives as I gave them my permission to leave me alone. 

As we enter this year, we hit the anniversary of the Insurrection of January 6th. At least I won’t have to hear these disciples sing his praise. My faith in so many people, both friends and family, has been battered and broken since that day. 

If the world “rights itself” after this interlude with hell, will I still be afraid to go to sleep in dread of what mornings will bring? The main lesson I’ve learned over the last few years is that many people hide their cruelty and hatred under patriotism and religion. They won’t change. This is who they’ve always been. It is who they will alway be. They are the Bogeyman.

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“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

 

     

"Beginning Again"

Windows 11 won’t load onto my ancient PC, which leaves me vulnerable to all of the nastiness that flows beyond my secure bubble world. Although I don’t  use my PC for tons of online applications, the few I access daily would wave a brilliant red flag to hackers everywhere. 

A quick online search and even faster view of my current budget revealed that my PC couldn’t be modified, which forced me to examine all options and decide to go back to embracing an iMac again as my son didn’t need his Mac mini. Over the years, my son’s generosity gave me access to iPads and a laptop I loved for many years before he built me my own PC. 

Each time I change between a PC and iMac, the learning curve increases. Technology never stays still, and what each platform offers from one year to the next means I’m having to learn how to access all of the “bells and whistles” as I shift from Word to Pages. As I write this passage, I’m unable to locate a thesaurus although I cannot imagine one not being an easy click away. 

My optimistic nature reminds me that learning something new always proves beneficial to my mental health and wellbeing. Beginning again will challenge me with every word written and every photograph taken. At the moment, I can't figure out how to download a picture to this post!  Oh! Here it goes!! 

        What’s not to like?

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman