Change As A Malignancy

Resistance to change seems to be a part of human nature. We start as babies, reluctantly giving up mother’s nipple for the plastic one. As toddlers and into our early childhood we resist change in a variety of ways. We cry, we throw temper tantrums, we pout. In our teen years, resistance to change and authority (interesting companions) runs a gamut of behaviors ranging from “being grounded” by our parents to suspension from school to appearance in juvenile court for actions that by an adult would result in a felony charge but for the underaged, only a misdemeanor.

Disclosure before I continue: I am writing about change from the viewpoint of someone who grew up in the 60’s and 70’s (being born in 1952), who went from Lady Bug and Papagallo outfits in high school to beads and sandals of the hippie era in college before returning to the more conservative life of a law student and then a lawyer. The resistance to change that I saw and experienced seldom resulted in horrific violence, an exception being Kent State and of course, the Civil Rights movement. But overall, while my generation mostly resisted change with protests and slogans, burning our bras and spitting on soldiers who returned from Vietnam, eventually sanity reigned. For a while.

To give you some perspective on change, after the Blackberry cell phones came out around 2002, one of my law partners said to me “Now they (meaning our clients) can get us anytime and anywhere.” At the time, neither he nor I realized what his words really meant on a Universal level. Today, not only can any of us be reached at any time with cell phones that are always with us (admit it, it’s true), we are bombarded with information 24/7 because of the internet and social media.

Which brings me to the topic of change as a malignancy.

How does a mature and responsible society deal with change? Change is inevitable, on a personal level certainly, but also on a political level, on a global level, on a Universal level. Nothing is static. Even when you die your body doesn’t stay the same whether you are embalmed, cremated or snatched by aliens. Change occurs from the molecular to infinity. Accepting that change occurs is a necessary component of mental health. And how that acceptance manifests within a person, a society or a nation reveals whether change is benign or malignant.

Benign change doesn’t mean one shouldn’t voice objections, offer alternatives, press for a different change or no change at all. Mature and responsible people and societies understand this.

Malignant change is different. When resistance to change is malignant, the result is the abandonment of principles, of the rule of law, the encouragement of the belief that “anything goes” to prevent the change that the person or persons or portions of society don’t like. Malignant change is rooted in hatred, erupts in violence and today, unfortunately, is fostered by the ever-present voices that the internet and 24/7 media have both promoted and provided.

Two things prompted me to write this essay. First was the third assassination attempt on the president. Hate him or love him, hate his policies or love them, murder is not the answer. Never. Never. Never. But if “you” are told over and over that someone is Hitler, a Fascist, a Nazi, a rapist, a pedophile, and an existential threat – then it is no stretch to see justification for violence.

The second was the disturbing rise in antisemitism in this country. I was shocked recently to discover how many intelligent (?) people believe that the Jews are behind 9/11, that the Holocaust never happened, that Hitler was only trying to help his country, and that the Jews are controlling all the banks.  Are you f’ing kidding me?

If you don’t like the president, just wait three more years. He will be out of office and can’t run again. (And don’t give me that moronic shit about him being a king). If you don’t think the Holocaust happened, I encourage you to go the Holocaust Museum in Washington, or find the numerous documentaries with the real footage of the extermination camps, or actually talk to a Holocaust survivor – yes there are still some alive. But don’t tell me the Jews set up 9/11 as a false flag and that a missile hit the Pentagon, not a plane.

Malignant change is alive and well in this country. And that is terrifying.

When Politics Harms

I’ve been thinking about the subject of this essay for a while now. As you who follow me know, I post my essays on Facebook and LinkedIn on both my Author Adair Sanders sites as well as my personal Facebook page. I am very frank about my opinions – I don’t apologize for them, nor do I expect everyone to agree with them. I welcome discussion, conversation, and debate. Life would be incredibly boring if we all thought the same things about the world. Some of my essays are fun, some are serious, and I generally try not to make any of them political. Opinion-based, yes, but aggressively political, no.

Sadly, over the past 12-18 months I have noticed an increasingly ugly rupture in civility both online and in person. And, it appears, the root of this incivility is based solely on political differences and the hatred of one person. The days when people who voted differently from one another but could still enjoy a friendship with each other seems to have vanished.

I follow Michael Smith, a thoughtful and excellent conservative writer on Facebook and Substack. I don’t always agree with the opinions he expresses, but I appreciate his professionalism and his unsparing dissection of events as he perceives them. As a result of merely expressing his opinion, he and his family became the target of a hate-filled person merely because that person’s politics differed from his.

And thus, the subject of today’s essay came once again to the surface of my consciousness, and I decided to write about it.

For several years I was one of a small group of women in recovery who met once a month to share our lives with each other. We talked about pain. We talked about joy. We talked about our dreams, our regrets – about life on life’s terms, helping each other, listening to each other, being soul-opening friends to each other. Of the group, I knew I was the only person who would be deemed “a conservative”. I never thought my conservative leanings were an issue. We weren’t there to talk politics.

How wrong was I.

The day after Trump won his second term, I had already planned to have coffee with one of the women in the group. When we sat down at our local coffee shop the woman told me how unhappy she was with the results of the election. I told her that I felt just the opposite. From the look that came across her face I could tell that she was stunned and shocked by my statement. Our coffee visit concluded shortly thereafter.

I had barely returned home when I received a text from this woman, telling me it would be better if I did not come to the next meeting because everyone else would be processing and grieving the results of the election and my presence would make everyone uncomfortable. In other words, I was no longer welcome because my politics were different. I never went back.

When I see the hatred that has overtaken a large segment of our country I am both saddened and worried. We are so polarized. In some instances, we have allowed ideology to replace common sense.

Have we so totally lost our way? I hope not, but I fear we have. And if that is so, then we are lost.

The Reappearance of Joy

The other evening when my husband and I were engaged in “tomfoolery” but weren’t really getting anywhere (you can make of that what you wish), we both burst out laughing. “What in the world?” I thought. “Where is this laughter coming from?” But we had become so overwhelmed by the way things were going, and not in the direction we intended, that both of us had ended up laughing at the hilariousness of the situation.

And this wasn’t any half-assed, timid kind of laughing either. We were laughing so hard, and so uncontrollably, that we both came to the point of tears. Laughing tears – you know what I mean – the kind of tears that roll down your face while you are laughing like a maniac.

I’ve been reading “The Art of Happiness” by the Dalai Lama. I keep the book in the car and read it to pass the time while I do cardio on the bike at the gym. So today while I was getting in my thirty minutes of cardio and reading the Dalai Lama’s words, I realized the huge significance of last night’s laughter.

Joy, pure joy, has reappeared in my life.

Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I laughed, much less laughed with such abandon. When my soul felt so light, so free, so at home with someone. So safe to be me, the real, authentic me.

Being loved unconditionally is one of Life’s greatest gifts. And when one feels that sort of love, the way I do from and with this man to whom I am newly married, well then, our innermost self is free to feel, to experience, to bathe in that abundance.

Both he and I have believed from the start that a Presence larger than ourselves brought us together. The odds were astronomically against us ever knowing one another. But here we are – both knowing we are gifts beyond measure each to the other.

Yes, joy has reappeared in my life. It is a wonderful feeling.

How I Got Here

What to write about – that is the question that has popped into my mind pretty frequently over the past few days. As I contemplate that question, I reflect on what has propelled me in the past to take pen to paper, or in this case, fingers to keyboard.

There’s no particular pattern as to when and why I write. At least no sustained pattern detectable over time.

When I first started to write I was practicing law full-time and had one child still in high school. Due to my father’s death, I had become responsible for my mother’s care, first in assisted living and then in skilled nursing, but that death had also given me the emotional freedom to write and publish my first book, a memoir entitled “Biologically Bankrupt.” I wasn’t sure who would need to read that book, but I knew without a doubt that Spirit had called me to share my story. So, I did.

Some time passed. Several years in fact. I had retired early from my law practice due to an ailing husband and moved with him to the mountains of western North Carolina. I had not really given much thought, if any, to writing anything else.  However, at the suggestion of a friend that I turn “Biologically Bankrupt” into a screen play, I decided to take a week-long writing class at the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, North Carolina to work on my dialogue skills. (Check out the Folk School. It’s an amazing place). To my great surprise, on the second day of class during a writing exercise I was “visited” by Allison Parker, kick-ass female lawyer who can’t help but find herself in all sorts of dangerous situations - and the rest is history:  seven books in the Allison Parker Mystery series, two books of essays, and a blog where I post essays like the one you are reading now.

Writing the essays has been a different sort of writing journey for me than the creative process involved with the mystery series. With the Allison Parker mysteries I have “met” all sorts of interesting people, have traveled exciting paths, dealt with assassins, murderers, blackmailers, terrorists and all sort of shady characters from the comfort of my chair and laptop. The story lines in the series have been sort of “downloaded” from the ether where my Muse resides, waxing and waning as my fingers fly over my keyboard. Sometimes I can barely keep up with what the characters are revealing – I see “it” as a movie in my head and I “hear” them as they speak to one another. I know that sounds crazy, but it’s the only way I know to describe how it works for me.

The essays are different. And the need to write them comes from a much deeper place. The ones I have written in the past three and four years have been profoundly distinct in tone from the ones written when I first delved into this genre 10 years or more ago. I find that I reveal more of myself in the essays, that I am willing to stand naked, so to speak, willing to expose myself, to let the reader inside the self that I most often keep safely private. Writing these kinds of essays is both therapeutic and necessary. The ability to express my emotions through writing when my late husband was declining into dementia and then after he died has been healing for me, and hopefully for others walking similar paths.

Now, I find myself entering a new phase of life. A new marriage. A new place to live in a house we purchased because it had a separate “writing shack” down by the river. My husband Dennis says the shack is where I will write the next great American novel. Maybe so, but more likely just a few more essays and the next book in the Allison Parker series.

I was a lawyer for three decades. I have now been a writer for more than half of the time spent in my previous profession. What has been the biggest and oddest revelation for me is that I now see myself not as a lawyer but as a writer.

How I got here has been an interesting journey. And it’s not over.

Borders Have Meaning, Don't They?

After a widowhood of over two years, I was blessed to meet and marry a wonderful man. As we have begun our life together, I have had the tiresome task of changing my last name in all sorts of places. It’s been quite frustrating – Social Security and the DMV first and then sending the certified marriage license off to change my passport. And it was as I reflected on the need to update my passport that the idea for this essay came to mind.

I’ve traveled outside the United States numerous times over my life. Every country I visited required me to go through an immigration and customs agent before I would be allowed to enter that particular jurisdiction, and every time I returned to this country I had to go through U.S. immigration and customs. I remember once coming back from Canada – in my vehicle – I was practically given the 9th degree interrogation by the U.S. immigration officer. I guess he found it odd that two people in a truck would be entering the United States from a fairly rural part of Canada. I didn’t think we looked suspicious, but maybe we did. At any rate, I complied as requested, he searched our truck, and in short order we were waived on our way home. Had I tried to evade immigration, I’m sure I’d have been tracked down and suffered the consequences, citizen or not.

Currently, and sadly, this country is in a very, very bad and dangerous place. And all because many people have totally forgotten that borders matter, that borders are important, that countries have sovereignty, and that Federal law dictates how a non-citizen may legally enter this country. Ideology has overtaken not only common sense but the rule of law as well.

Here are some numbers: The PEW Research Institute found that by 2023 over 14 million people had illegally entered the United States. The Federation for American Immigration Reform found in March of 2025 that the number of illegal entries was 18.6 million. Regardless of whether you think these numbers are accurate, there is no doubt that millions of some number of people have illegally entered this country, a huge percentage of that number between 2020 and 2025. Unless one was living in a cave somewhere, all of us saw on the news channels in the past several years the multitudes of people swarming unchecked, and frankly encouraged, over the Southern border.

The tendency of media and others to call these people “undocumented” is a failure to acknowledge the fact that all of these people have broken the law of this country. They are here ILLEGALLY. 8 U.S.C. 1325 provides as follows: the penalty for a first-time offense of illegal entry is deemed a misdemeanor (still a criminal offense) and subjects the violator to a fine and 6 months in prison plus deportation. Repeat offenders (deported and have come back again illegally) are deemed to have committed a felony and are subject to fines and 2 years in prison plus, once again, deportation. Thus, someone who enters illegally is subject to both criminal and civil penalties. They may be “undocumented” but they have also broken our laws.

Who are these millions of illegals in our country today? Where are they? What are they doing? We have no idea. Are many of them just people trying to find a better way of life? Most certainly. I am not anti-immigration. My late mother-in-law left a war-torn Philippines at the end of WW2 to marry and come to this country. One of my sons-in-law fled Russia with his family for a free and better life here. They all followed the immigration laws of this country to do so.

As I come to the end of this essay and reflect on what I have written, I have to ask, should the title of this essay actually be “does the law matter anymore?” When ideology and elected officials tell their citizens to ignore the law, that the law doesn’t matter in a particular instance, or that the moral rightness of one’s position justifies disregarding lawful orders with which they disagree – well, that is a country that has lost its way.

Permission to act deplorably started, I think, with the January 6 assault on the Capitol and the inexcusable behavior of the outgoing president to intervene. But it’s gotten much worse now with the assaults on Federal immigration officers. On January 6 only one politician showed his ass. Now we have mayors and governors doing much worse, loosely and intentionally hurling epithets such as “Nazi”, “Racist” and “Facist” as justification, and encouragement, for obstructing and violating Federal law.

We are walking down a very dangerous road right now. Once one law can be justifiably ignored, what’s to prevent the next one from being ignored. It’s a slippery slope with a bad landing. May we come to our senses before it’s too late.

Who Needs A Honeymoon?

New Year’s Day started off nippy and sunny, a perfect setting for my wedding to a wonderful man. We married at our home in the presence of just a few family and close friends with my new brother-in-law officiating. Champagne toasts followed the short ceremony, topped off with a New Year’s Day brunch at our local club. All in all, a delightful and intimate start to our marriage.

We should have known better.

No one ever thinks that world events will interrupt one’s life even though history is replete with examples of just that. Certainly, Dennis and I were no different. So, when we woke up on January 3 and headed to the airport for our honeymoon flight to St. Thomas, the invasion in Venezuela never crossed our minds. Well, that’s not exactly true – Dennis wondered if there would be a problem, but when we arrived at the Norfolk airport for our flight to Dulles (and then on to St. Thomas), it was business as usual at the United counter.

We had a pleasant, short flight to DC. Yes, we thought, this is going to be a great trip. That sentiment was short-lived, however, when we got to our gate at Dulles and saw the sign “delayed”. If only that had been true. Within 20 minutes the announcement came: “the FAA has closed the airspace in the Eastern Caribbean due to concern of retaliatory strikes resulting from the Venezuela situation.” And to add insult to injury, we were told that United “might” be able to get us on a flight on Monday. Today was Saturday and we had only clothes for warm weather.

What to do?

What we did was retrieve our luggage, rent a car and drive back to Newport News. It was a very long day.

In all honesty, not everything was a disaster. A disappointment, yes, but a disaster, no. We spent a few days at the lovely Williamsburg Inn and both United and our hotel in St. Thomas gave us a full refund. We found a great French restaurant in Williamsburg, got a couple’s massage at the Inn’s spa, and otherwise enjoyed our time. But, St. Thomas it was not.

Truly, I don’t have room to bitch. God has gifted me with a love I never expected in my 70’s. I don’t need St. Thomas, the Williamsburg Inn, or any other locale to improve the perfection of being married to this man. Still...St. Thomas would have been nice.

The Path

Yesterday I spent some time reading through my two essay books, “Out of the Ashes” and “From There to Here and In-Between”. I had not looked back at any of that work in quite a long time, nor had I written many new essays for this blog in the past two or three years. Life had taken over my existence as I became more and more of a caregiver for a failing spouse. Even with his passing over two years ago, the desire and need to write had remained mostly dormant. So, when the urge to read my “old” work kept creeping into my awareness, I knew I needed to pay attention.

The years represented by the essays in those two collections are years which, for me, were years of painful inner reflection, acceptance of life on life’s terms, personal growth, and a response to an inner call to write as honestly as possible without fear of retribution, or rejection. Nevertheless, the essays in those two collections are a combination of wit, insight, reflection, and fun reads. “God’s Refrigerator” made me laugh again, “When Life Calls” reminded me that prayer is answered in many ways, and “Back to the Future” took me on a memory-filled trip to high school.

My path to writing was both unexpected and unintended. Yet, here I sit, some 13 years after I answered what I now know was a spiritual call, with 9 books and a blog.

What is my path now? Is writing still a part of it? Well life has changed dramatically for me. I fell in love with the man for whom I had unknowingly waited my entire life. As a result, I left the mountains I thought I would never leave, and where I produced most of my written work, for a home with him on the James River in eastern Virginia. And why did we buy that home? Because there was a “bait shack” down by the river that we both knew would be the perfect place for me to write.

And it is.

Life has taken me down a path that I never expected to walk, but a path that I am so incredibly grateful to be on. And I can feel the call once again to write, to create, to allow the Muse to inspire. I hope you will accept this invitation to once again accompany me on the journey. It’s going to be a doozy.

REFLECTIONS

Recent events in my life have reminded me of the truisms found in the Serenity Prayer. We can’t change people. We just cannot. Our refusal to remember this small and powerful fact causes us emotional upset and angst. Refusing to accept that we cannot change someone is one of the hardest lessons I have ever somewhat learned.

 In the private girls’ school I attended decades ago, many of Shakespeare’s works were required reading. The quote from King Lear - “How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child” – came to mind today as I sat to write this essay. I considered whether to use that quote, but upon reflection decided that the quote was too perfect to ignore. And while I am not dealing necessarily with the betrayal King Lear was talking about, I am processing behavior from my progeny which has caused me great pain and sadness.

 Accepting poor behavior from adult children is hard. But I must also remember the corollary of accepting the fact that I cannot change anyone. I must also allow that individual to walk his or her own path. And in the case of adult children, I have to let go. Let them go to find their way in their relationship with me.

 Life is short. When we are in our 30’s and 40’s as my children are, it is almost impossible for us to discern that reality and to fully understand what those three little words mean. The shortness of life is, I think, a mental disconnect with my adult children as it would be with any person of that age. And because they are still so young – yes, young – it is impossible for them to understand how time compresses for those of us much older. Life decisions that may take a 40-year-old a year or longer to reach are no longer the luxury of those of us in my generation. It is also difficult, I think, for adult children to accept that their parents are also adults. We don’t lose our ability to think just because we have hit our 60’s and 70’s.

 This is the first essay I have written, or wanted to write, in many months. The desire to write has taken a holiday, but I am hopeful with today’s nudge to write that my Muse has returned. The topic of today’s essay had been on my mind for weeks now, living rent-free in my  head, so I thought that putting all of “this” on paper might be a good first step. As always, I hope my words have caused you to think, reflect or just enjoy.

It's Been a Long Time Coming

I think those words, “it’s been a long time coming” are from a song in the ‘70’s era – they seem so familiar to me. But when they surged into my consciousness a few minutes ago, I realized they carried a specific message.

I haven’t written in a very long time, almost a year, maybe longer. I just wasn’t interested. No Muse knocking at my door, no character from the mystery series I write insisting that there was more to tell…just nothing. Sort of blah thinking about any sort of creativity.

I was, I now think, trying to find my way after becoming a widow.

I guess losing a spouse is different for everyone. But for me, the loss had occurred over a decade earlier, more if I am honest, so that the physical death was just a period at the end of a very long and convoluted sentence. Nevertheless, there was an emotional process that I didn’t recognize but that was essential for me to be able to move forward. As I approach the 2-year mark of his passing, I realize that finally I have emerged from the shadows into the light, that I have found happiness again, and that I feel free.

And, I’ve been thinking again about writing. I was 20,000 words into a new book when the desire to write abandoned me. A new character had introduced herself, and I am curious to see what she may have to say. I read some of my old essays – the words in them encouraged me to write the one that you are reading.

Life is a journey and often the road takes us in a direction we never anticipated. It has certainly happened to me. I have found a love I never expected. Happiness has again become a companion. Life is changing for me as I enter my own ‘70’s (no pun intended), but I am content and mellow.

It’s time to write – it’s been a long time coming.

A Time To Wait

 I’ve been struggling to write the past several weeks. I’m about 20,000 words in on the next book in the Allison Parker Mystery series that I write, but the characters have gone silent on me. No nudge. No urge. No magic. Not sure what’s going on there. Yesterday I re-read what I have written to this point, and I like the story, like the new characters, and wonder where the story is going – yet have no desire to write. So, this morning I thought “why not try an essay?” As soon as that thought came to me, so came the title “A Time to Wait.”

In retrospect, I’ve been doing a lot of waiting in the last year since my husband died. I wasn’t ready to move forward on hardly any level – a reality I am just now understanding. I had accepted his death – he and I knew it was coming and had prepared as best we could – but my life moving forward afterwards was an unknown. I’m basically a big chicken, so adjusting to living alone in the mountains had its challenges. When it’s dark here, it’s really dark. A loaded Glock 19 and my dog assuaged my fears to a degree, but some nights were, and are, still very hard for me. It doesn’t help that I am sensitive to those across the veil, and at times can feel “others” there with me.

I’m 72 now, and while the number sounds “old” I don’t feel old. As the one-year anniversary of my husband’s death approaches I wonder if there will be another love for me. I hope so, but I know I can’t go looking for it. When I think about that part of my life, I hear the words “a time to wait.” I am impatient, but I know when I hear a message that I need to pay attention to. (Dangling participle be damned).

Fall is my favorite time of year. A time when nature rests and goes quiet for the winter months. Is this also a message for me? To enjoy the vibrant colors that Fall brings, but to know that Winter is a time to wait, to wait for renewal and new life.

I wish I had a crystal ball.

Where Life Takes Us

When we are young, we have our lives all figured out.  Or at least we think we do.  For example, when I started college I thought that by the time I was in my early 30’s my life would be perfect, I would be settled in a wonderful marriage, whatever “job” I had - if I even had one - would be stress free, and that my free time would be spent at the country club.  Life, however, had other ideas.  The decade of my 30’s turned out to be the living epitome of Dickens’ comment “it was the best of times; it was the worst of times”.  I was divorced, lost custody of two young children, and became an alcoholic.  Fortunately, before that decade ended, I also found recovery and AA.  

In the intervening years - over two decades now - I have become a changed person.  Someone with expectations quite different from those held by that young woman in her 20’s, and someone with a much more realistic and accepting view of life on life’s terms.   Hitting an emotional and spiritual bottom, which is what happens to those of us who are alcoholics or addicts, is a prerequisite to focusing on the necessary spiritual cure for the disease of addiction.  From the point where we admit our powerlessness and turn our lives over to the care of a Power greater than ourselves, we begin a new life journey and an interior change.  Most of us, however, do continue to live a traditional life.

Today, I happened upon an article written about a man from Chattanooga who was my classmate in elementary school.  Although not an alcoholic or addict, he too underwent a complete spiritual rebirth which did, in fact, cause him to undertake a totally non-traditional life.  Randy Weinberg was a scholar, an athlete, and an achiever.  Valedictorian at Baylor School, five Mid-South wrestling championships, Phi Beta Kappa at Princeton, Rhodes Scholar to Oxford, delaying his acceptance to medical school.  His life of achievement and success was laid out before him.  And then he went to Thailand, had a spiritual experience, and became a Buddhist monk.  You can read the entire article about Randy here: http://www.timesfreepress.com/news/2013/apr/28/cook-column-the-monk-and-the-wrestler/?opinioncolumns.

Reading about Randy this morning I was struck by the fact that none of us ever know what life has in store for us.  I am sure growing up, Randy never expected that he would relinquish all of his worldly possessions to wander Thailand owning only a bowl and relying on the kindness of strangers to feed him.  Randy’s comment in the newspaper article that really hit home for me, however, was this: "I was 24," he said. "And felt so weary and exhausted. I didn't know how to appreciate what is. How to enjoy ... being. I was so busy becoming successful."  I knew exactly what he meant.  Trying to be successful by marrying the right person, trying to be successful by having that country club membership, trying to be successful by being in The Junior League, trying to be successful by living in the “right” neighborhood, being a partner in the right law firm, yada yada yada.  For me, those drives for success were deadly and nearly killed me.  Truly.  Nearly killed me.

My journey has been, of course, quite different from Randy’s, but both of us had life experiences which turned our feet to an interior path.  Although I do not practice Buddhism, I found that the acceptance of its teaching that “life is difficult” was one of the most freeing concepts which I embraced in recovery, and remembering that truism has helped me in my own journey.  Life is so much more than things, than status, than having.  Thank you, Randy, for reminding me of the true nature of our journey.