Thistles & Thoughts

We have a thistle issue in our yard, and have had for quite some time. This weekend, I spent a lot of time and energy working to clear a ridiculously large patch of them from our backyard.

Spending this time digging in the dirt, largely away from the noise of social media and my family; I had the opportunity to form some deep thoughts about thistles. None of said thoughts were earth shattering or even a little bit original, but I found them striking nonetheless.

1. Roots are amazing on countless levels, thistle roots perhaps more so than others. When you start to pull or dig one of these thistles out of the ground, what’s directly underneath is not a given; and getting the entire root is essentially impossible.

There are very few that seemingly resemble a tap root (very possibly the only term I remember from college botany) that goes straight down, and can simply be pulled straight up. But in reality, even with these seemingly straightforward removals, if I really look at the tip of what I extract from the earth, there will be a break. Meaning, i think, that instead of eliminating the weed, I simply mowed it. So, given a little time, sunlight, and rainfall; the thistle will rise again.

Far more frequently, as I dug down trying (ultimately in futility) to get to the very tip of the plant, I found roots that, instead of going straight down, made a sharp turn.

Why would a root pivot in such a manner? I can only imagine it’s to increase its chances for survival. These plants felt more anchored, harder to remove with simple a good strong tug.

And, there were lots of these.

Before looking below the soil, I assumed these to be completely separate entities. Upon close examination, I found them to be birds of a feather, so to speak. Holding onto one another in a symbiotic relationship, each helping to anchor the other making it harder for either to be removed.

After lots of digging, both literally in the dirt and figuratively on the internet, I learned these plants deveolp an extensive horizontal root system that works relentlessly and effectively to allow these plants not only to thrive, but to overtake large expanses of space.

2. Removing these things is a daunting task. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve said to myself, “Today is the day I shall make these thistles my bitch. I am going to go out there and show these MFers who is the BOSS.” Only to be quickly humbled by the already described roots and profanity inducing prickles that hurt like hell when my bare skin inadvertently encounters them. Also worth noting, I’ve yet to find a glove those prickles cannot breach. They. Are. Bastards.

3. There is a time for Roundup. Or put differently, to simply burn the shit to the ground and start over. Yes, Roundup is a drastic measure, one I try to avoid; but if the thistles have shown repeatedly they are not going to respond to lesser measures, I must be open to drastic steps.

4. There is no easy button to get rid of the thistles. Not even Roundup is the end all, be all solution. Yes, it will temporarily improve the situation, but the thistles require constant vigilance, even after seemingly having been contained. I say this with confidence, because we DID resort to roundup a few years ago. But then we quit paying attention, which led to my weekend of attempting to reclaim the corner of my yard.

5. While I think dealing with these thistles is a grade A prime pain in the ass, I’m fortunate in a handful of ways. I have the option of ignoring them. I have access to the necessary tools- shovel, spade, gloves (FAR better than nothing even if not 100% effective), and weed killer to best deal with them.

I can opt for a retired pair of shoes to tromp around in the dirt, and when I’m done, there will be time to sit on the porch and enjoy a beer while reveling in the glory of my labors.

6. Removing thistles can be painful and disruptive. As previously stated, brushing up against these things smarts. And, while digging yesterday, I inadvertently cut the line of our below ground electric dog fence. So, until I can get the repair person out here, I have to be more vigilant about making sure the pups stay in the yard. And I don’t even want to think about what the repair is going to cost. Ohhhh bother.

BUT, if I don’t remove them, if I don’t pay attention, they thrive. And they don’t only thrive on my property. Apparently they haven’t read the property deed and can’t see the fence, because they don’t hesitate to spill into my neighbors’ yards.

They thrive on my ignorance, neglect, and refusal to take the time to acknowledge and deal with them. And then their effect spreads. I ignore them at the peril of myself, which I can deal with. But ignoring them at the peril of others is inexcusable.

Is it possible I’m talking about something beyond thistles? Is it possible that when I speak of my neighbors I’m referring to more than those who live adjacent to me?

Yes, indeed.

Pandemic Project: Scattered Autobiographical Memories (or sometimes current events) of a Liberal Well Meaning White Woman, 600(ish) Words at a Time, Part III


I’d make a damn fine opera singer. Let’s talk about MEEEEEE again.

As I was preparing to go out the door for a run (admittedly using that term loosely) earlier, a friend texted me that her daughter was at a protest at the Edina Police Department. I decided to head that way and check it out.

I’ve never been one to take a phone when I run. Carrying my own damn out of shape body weight is plenty taxing, so even though I’d love to stream some tunes while trying not to pass out, it’s not worth the extra bulk. Which was unfortunate today, because I came upon a most beautiful scene. Thankfully, my friend Lisa’s got me covered. I think she was there about 10 minutes after I was.

Exceedingly happy to have a reason for a running break, I took a few minutes just to hang back and watch for awhile, cheering with them when a car would drive by and honk and enjoying a few rare moments of optimism. When I was ready to resume my run, I trotted in front of them, clapping my raised hands, and paused for a minute and yelled like a maniac, “If I had a horn, I’d be honking. You guys are awesome, KEEP GOING.” It had all just made me awfully damn emotional.

In retrospect, even though my words were ones of encouragement, I’m not real proud to have yelled at them. For a few of reasons. For one, I didn’t have a mask and was probably closer than I should have been. For another, I think when the young black lady leading the effort first saw me, I looked a bit threatening (nice white liberal lady).

The only thing those kids really need from me? To stay the hell out of their way. I mean that in terms of staying out of their physical space today and staying out of their metaphorical space moving forward. My generation and those before us are absolutely complicit in making this mess for them to clean up.

And, while that pains me terribly, it doesn’t change the fact that me wanting to applaud them and give them verbal props was largely about __________________. Can you guess what goes in the blank? Ya, you know. Me, baby! Me Me Me Me MEEEEEE. My need to establish myself as a good person, to prove I’m an ally, to make it known I’m not ok with cops killing citizens, to express my remorse at how completely and utterly we’ve fucked things up for them.

They have enough to contend with without having to help me carry my baggage, something I’m going to try to keep in mind going forward.

After I’d sufficiently made a fool of myself, I headed home. Up ahead I saw a black man walking. Having joined multiple facebook groups over the weekend who are committed to getting white people to do the work needed of us, the discussion of how to let POC know I’m an ally when I meet them out and about was fresh in my mind. Why did I so badly want him to know I’m not an Amy Coooper? Because I wanted to feel better about guess who? ME.

Also in my mind was this:

That’s hard to read, so go here and read the whole thing. I had a very real moment of sitting with the knowledge that I am a shark. Not only that, I’m a MOMMA SHARK. This guy had no way of knowing I don’t have a cell phone when I run, no way of knowing I just applauded the young protesters, no way of knowing whether I’m a nice shark (is that a thing?) or a shark who is terrified by his presence and wants to destroy him.

So, no, I was not entitled for him to know I’m a nice shark. There was zero onus on him to make me feel like a good person. He, like those kids, has no responsibility to help me with my baggage.

So, there ya go. A fun snapshot of where my mind’s been today. I’m over 600 words, so I don’t have space to tell you that none of this is saying there’s simply nothing I can do. Ohhhhh hell no. I have work to do.

Be Well, Friends.

Pandemic Project: Scattered Autobiographical Memories of a Liberal Well Meaning White Woman, 600(ish) Words at a Time, Part II

Titles may, indeed, grow longer with every post.

Things I should be doing instead of this glorified navel gazing:

Since my long title establishes this is a scattered account, I’m going to jump to now. Kind of. I’m glossing over a summer spent in Detroit and four years living in south Minneapolis. Except maybe I’m not going to completely gloss over south Minneapolis. In 2000 my husband and I relocated to the Twin Cities. Chris was fresh out of law school, I had one year of lab experience under my belt. We were feeling quite grown up and worldly– both gainfully employed, done with school, living in the big city.

After four years (whirlwind, much?), with a two year old and a bun in the oven, we opted to sell our first home and move to Edina, a first ring suburb known for entitlement and top notch schools. We’ve been here for 16 years, nurtured relationships with amazing neighbors, converted what was a cute little yellow rambler into our dream home, and transitioned from parents of littles to parents of teens. We’ve also, mostly, enjoyed the top notch schools. Turns out the reputation for entitlement was not completely unfounded, which has led to some moments of frustration; but speaking generally, we’re very grateful for the education our kids have received during our time here.

I have guilt over moving out of the Minneapolis city limits. I had it when the for sale sign went up, and I’ll have it when I die. Truth is, though, that 28 year old Anne was not all that far removed from the 22 year old clinical lab student Anne who, while on phlebotomy rounds during my year as a student, deemed a black teenage gunshot victim as worthy of my ridicule. Worth noting: From age 16ish on, there was never a time when I wouldn’t have counted myself as a nice white liberal woman with a slant toward social justice.

I know. Cognitive dissonance.

Anyhoo; ignorance, undiagnosed anxiety, an overwhelming need to do whatever would give my kids every advantage in life (with, as I can see now, zero regard for the bigger picture) led my family to the suburbs. It felt like an easy button I had available to me, so why not push it?

OK. Now I’m really jumping to now. Yesterday I drove a load of bottled water and snacks to a church in an affected area. I was glad to have a task that, at least in some regard, could be viewed as helpful. But I also felt like an interloper. Like simply driving into the area made me no more than a gawker, even if I was delivering goods. But then driving out of the area, heading back to my vastly different suburban world, felt like I was turning my back.

These conflicting feelings are privilege. Me whining about them is super duper gratuitous and tone deaf.

Last night a friend proposed going down to the fifth precinct. I’d done nothing when Jamar Clark was killed by the police. I’d done nothing when Philando Castile was killed by the police. And I’d done my part for white flight, moving my family out of the city. I guess now is as good a time as any to address the fact that this whole ‘moving my family out of the city’ narrative is utterly ridiculous. Our Minneapolis neighborhood was predominantly white, housing costs were high, my family’s quality of life would have been plenty good and high had we stayed. This is a journey, friends. I’m learning.

Anyhoo….Feeling compelled to do more than my nice white liberal lady hand-wringing, I took off with my friend Tara and headed down. I didn’t know if it was the right thing to do last night, and honestly, I don’t know now. There are those claiming I was simply fanning the flames, not considering the well-being of residents of the area; and I definitely have to explore that as a possibility. Perhaps my heart and emotion got in the way of my better judgement. This is one more thing I will be wrestling with til I die.

There are no easy answers here. And even though the issue is, at face value, black and white; there is a whole lotta gray to be figured out. Sometimes right and wrong are not clear cut. There is no shortage over things to be confused about and heart broken over right now.

I’m over 600 words. The weeds are calling.

Be Well, Friends.

Pandemic Project: Scattered Autobiographical Memories of a Liberal White Woman, Part I

Twenty-three years ago this month my then boyfriend graduated from Southwestern College in Winfield, Kansas with a physics degree. A year later, I followed suit, the only difference being my piece of paper said biology instead of physics.

A few days after pomp and circumstance, I was on a plane to Frankfurt, Germany with something like 100 other A’Capella choir members and alumni; starting a choir tour and my first trip outside of North America. We spent 10(ish?) days singing and traveling through Germany, Austria, and Switzerland. The vast majority of us were hopelessly Midwestern, our crew was overwhelmingly Methodist, Southwestern being a Methodist institution. At one point we were oh so shocked (or amused, perhaps) upon finding the church kitchen we were in had a tap. For beer. In a church! Did I mention we were hopelessly Midwestern and overwhelmingly Methodist? Oh, how worldly and grown up and sophisticated we felt to having all these new experiences!

Days after my return from Europe, I loaded up a UHaul with my sparse belongings (yes, if you’re wondering, there was a papasan chair involved) and moved into an apartment in a Kansas City suburb. Less than a month after receiving my first college degree, I was attending orientation at Kansas University Medical Center, where I subsequently spent a full calendar year completing the clinical laboratory science practical year of education, then was grated another piece of paper.

Prior to my year at KUMC, I had spent essentially no time in an urban area. The area around the medical center had a reputation for being a bit on the seedy side. Whether or not that was warranted, or simply a reputation the area gained because there were black people about, I do not know. During orientation, a hospital police representative encouraged us to utilize their escort service if we had to walk to our cars at night (though, if God forbid, you were parked on the Missouri side*, you were SOL). My coursework never required me to be there after dark, so I didn’t have a need for such an escort; but it was nice to know it was available.

If ‘woke’ had been a utilized term in that day and age, I’d have fancied it applicable to myself. Ahhhh youth. Was I ‘woke’ the morning I returned from my phlebotomy rounds and regaled my {all white} classmates with the tale of the young black man I visited, who was recovering from a gun shot wound and yet was terrified of my li’l ol needle? God, I thought that was so damn funny. Big tough gangbanger scared of my phlebotomy tray. HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Jesus Christ, have mercy on dumbass 22 year old self. I’ve previously referred to the Indigo Girls lyric, “Every five years or so I look back on my life and I have a good laugh.” I need an additional verse: “Sometimes I look back 20+ years and want to punch my young, stupid self.” I didn’t have the knowledge to deem him a gangbanger. And, for shit’s sake, WHAT IF HE WAS? What on earth gave me any right to judge??? My only job was to collect a blood sample, ideally in as compassionate a manner as one can possibly poke someone with a sharp object. Nothing about the situation required any commentary from me.

Woke. How incredibly inane. I’ll extend my 22 year old self a little grace here. Regardless of anything, there is only so much I could have possibly known as a 22 year old product of a largely rural Kansas upbringing.

I’m going to leave it here for today. It is so incredibly typical for me to be dealing with the heartbreak and unrest of my metro area by writing about myself, making it about me. Right or wrong, I’m feeling the need for a lot of self-reflection these days. Why I’m choosing to share said self-reflection in such a public manner is undoubtedly egotistical. But I hope there is also some vulnerability and confession coming through. More to come. Bear with me. Or don’t. Put one foot in front of the other and lead with love.

*If you are unfamiliar, and need some extraneous information, Kansas City covers two states, Kansas and Missouri. The medical center is very close to the state line.

Scattered Thoughts and Deep Sighs

A week ago I shared this article on Facebook, along with some incoherent words about how the headline pained me. There may have been wine involved. I was frustrated, because I knew the ‘Lutheran leaders’ the headline was referring to were not those of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA), which is the organization my congregation is a part of.

Perhaps I should backtrack. I may not have known immediately. In fact, I think I had a ‘what the hell’ moment. But by the time I’d had enough time to blink twice and process a bit, I knew the headline was referring to a different Lutheran denomination than the ELCA. Why? Because I have context. I’ve been a member of an ELCA church for something like 15 years. I’ve heard the Bishop of the Minneapolis area synod speak on a number of occasions, I once drank wine in the church parking lot with her daughter (yeah, really, it’s a story for another day), and I’ve osmosed at least of the vast information my kids took in during their Confirmation process. Choosing not to comply with current guidelines aimed at slowing the spread of a virus is wholly inconsistent with everything I’ve heard, read, and seen from my time in the ELCA.

But, of course, I clicked it anyway. Due diligence or some shiz like that. And I was quickly reassured. The headline was referring to the Missouri Synod- a denomination who doesn’t ordain women, practices closed communion; and, I kid you not, has a section on their website expressing concern over the practice of yoga. This would be just the tip of the iceberg of dissimilarities to my experience in the ELCA.

For what it’s worth, this is what you see now when you click on the link.

Click here to see for yourself.

I appreciate the clarification, but still file this under incompetent journalism. I don’t have exact stats, but I feel confident in saying the number of ELCA congregations is equal to, if not greater than, the number of Missouri Synod congregations in the Minneapolis area.

In my experience, this is far more consistent with the Lutheranism I’m familiar with.

OK. Got that off my chest. Moving on.

Amy Cooper. Yes, I’ve got to go there.

This headline was WAY less shocking to me than the one stating Lutherans would not comply governor’s orders. Apparently much of the interweb had jumped to the conclusion Amy’s a Trumper. That thought never entered my mind. From the get-go, I had her pegged as a nice, white liberal lady. Just as unfair on my part, as none of us really had any right to be labeling her politics based on initial details of the story.

I like nice white liberal ladies. I count myself as one, though admittedly I don’t fancy myself all that nice. I know them. I know myself. And this is one group I feel I have no shortage of insight into. While I choose to believe we ultimately mean well, we are somewhat of an entitled bunch. We sometimes feel our donations to Barack Obama absolve us of any latent racism (and, perhaps, give us liberty to let our dogs off leash in areas where such behavior is prohibited).

If you’ve been here before, you know I was on a Civil Rights tour a little over a year ago. With people from my church, were anyone is welcome to Communion, the council president is a woman, one pastor is a woman married to a man, another pastor is a man married to a man, and our deacon is a woman married to a woman; which is why I get edgy about being grouped with less loving groups.

That was a digression. Back to my trip. I ate dinner in a church basement across the table from Joanne Bland. Our group leaders had prepared us for the fact that she would not mince words or sugar coat the truth, so I wasn’t terribly surprised when, in the midst of our conversation, she said, “You know what group I can’t stand? Liberal white women.” She elaborated about how we frequently need to tout our own virtues and let everyone know about our good works (which trend more towards words than actions). I didn’t argue with her, because what grounds would I really have for an argument? She’s right, and I’m guilty as charged. And even if I had thought her assessment was an erroneous over-generalization, that wouldn’t have given me any right to disregard her perception.

So, yeah. When I first read details of Amy’s encounter with a bird watcher in Central Park, I classified her as a nice white liberal lady. Maybe it was Joanne’s voice in my head. Maybe it was my own shortcomings. Or maybe I simply acknowledge we white liberal ladies have some biases, some shit to work out, and an irrational amount of fear dwelling within us.

I’m really not altogether certain why I’ve written about these two things today. I guess they’re just on my heart. As is, of course, George Floyd. Sighs too deep for words.

Speaking of sighs, this is where I see if you’re still reading. This morning I was tested for COVID-19. I don’t feel awful, but I’ve been dealing with shortness of breath for a couple of days, which makes it seem like I’m sighing more than normal. After texting with an acquaintance who is a family practice physician, exchanged FB messages with a friend who has recovered, and an online visit to Virtuwell; I decided to make an appointment to be tested. Results are expected in about three days.

I don’t know what to think. I don’t feel terrible, I’m just having a little trouble catching my breath. I have a long history with anxiety, but my manifestations have never been so overtly physical. And yet, I’m guessing there’s a mental component to what’s going on here. We shall see. More to come.

Be Well, Friends.