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Letter to my Senator

Every month I try to write a letter to Pennsylvania Senators Dave McCormick and John Fetterman. I need to express to them my dissatisfaction with the current state of the United States. I don’t participate much in politics; nor do I consider myself an activist. But, I am concerned about social justice, I vote in every election, I pay attention to reputable news organizations, to what politicians are doing and how their actions affect the social fabric of the nation, the welfare of Americans, the economy, and the culture. Because I don’t like crowds, I don’t often go to protests or rallies, though I did attend the two “No Kings” events in Philadelphia in June and in October. I don’t like to knock on doors. I don’t like to make phone calls. I think much of this aversion to that kind of grassroots activism goes back to when I was a teenager working for my father, who devoted his life to local politics. I was often with him at Democratic Headquarters in center city, especially right before any election he was involved in. I went with him to canvass neighborhoods, worked with the volunteers on mailings, and made cold calls from the mountainous lists of voters at headquarters. I hated the phone calls most of all. I also hated what I saw and heard behind the scenes, the trading of favors, the quid pro quo, the sometimes vicious machinations of politics, even while I realized that getting anything done requires negotiation and compromise. I often wonder what Buddy Pitts (my father) would think if he was alive today. Everyone was his “friend” it seemed when we’d be at political functions or fund-raisers, though I am sure he had enemies. He was a Republican when Nixon ran against Kennedy. He switched to the “D” side at some point. His politics had less to do with ideology and more to do with personality and the particular group of people who were in power at any given time.

But, it’s 2025 and I am living through what many call unprecedented times in the U.S. I have to express my point of view to the people in power, so I try to write a letter once a month. This month’s letter to Senator Dave McCormick is below. I address the senators directly, even though I know they are not, themselves, likely to read the letters they receive. Some staffer might read it and send a response; or maybe they just have stock responses? Who knows? I just have to do something.

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70 and counting

I turned 70 last week. I spent most of the day looking at photos of my younger self that friends were sending me and laughing at myself. Happy hour with my niece at Wilder on Sansom Street in Philly was the extent of my celebration for the day. It feels weird to say I am 70. I’d say I don’t feel it, but I do. Walking in the city today it felt good to be in springtime weather, feeling the sun, chatting with a friend in Rittenhouse Square, stopping for a bao bun for lunch. At the same time, after a bit more than an hour, I was tired. Generally I’m physically healthy; mentally and emotionally more stable and content than I was in my 20s, 30s, 40s. I am happy to be retired and feel I was lucky to have work that was mostly satisfying and rewarding. I also got the opportunity to travel with students and colleagues to London, Italy, and Scotland. Add to that my own trips and travels with a cherished group of friends. From childhood, I’d always had dreams of travel, so those dreams came true. Yeah, I’ve hit a few bumps, faced some obstacles, but mostly, for me, life is good. And, I’m expecting that to continue.

Neither of my parents made it this far. They were divorced, but, oddly, both died the same year, within three months of each other. The year from 1986-1987 was incredibly difficult for me and my brother. We always talk on my mom’s birthday, March 25. Our conversations, like many of our generation, often are around our current health issues; luckily we both are managing them as well as possible. My father had inherited heart disease from his dad; my mom died of lung cancer. Both were 57 when they died. I still feel a gripping in my heart when I think about it. My brother and I often wonder together what Nancy and Buddy would have thought about the world as it is now, 40 years since we last saw them.

All that said, for my 70th year I am hoping to raise money for cancer research. I’m worried that given the current political climate, government funding, particularly to universities, for basic science and health research will be limited. For that reason, I’ve started a birthday fundraiser, looking for donations to the Association for Cancer Research (AACR). If you’ve read this far, I hope you’ll consider contributing at this link: https://donate.aacr.org/campaign/Linda-s-Birthday-fundraiser.

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Feeling Helpless

I am feeling helpless. Like many others I am frightened by the actions of the White House after only 1 month of this administration. I am trying to figure out what I can do. Today, I also learned that a good friend of mine who suffered a traumatic brain injury a few months ago will likely pass away within the next day or so. Today, I can only try to be intentional with everything I do. Feeling the sadness, feeling helpless and sharing thoughts and feelings in writing.

This weekend I was enrolled in the online offering of a Haiku & Poetry program with Upaya Zen Center in Santa Fe, New Mexico. On the panel were Roshi Joan Halifax, Sensei Kaz Tanahashi, Jimmy Santiago Baca, Jane Hirshfield, and Ian Boyden. While I didn’t get to participate directly, it was really a wonderful program; I plan to revisit the recordings of the sessions that I missed. Panelists mentioned two Chinese poets I was unfamiliar with. Wang Wei and Du Fu lived in China during a period of upheaval, the An Lushan rebellion (755–759) the time of the Tang Dynasty.

When I cannot think of anything to say or to write myself because overwhelmed with feelings of helplessness or sadness or anger or frustration, I write out poems of others. I will be writing out two poems today and share them here.

Spring Prospect

The nation [is] shattered, though mountains and rivers remain.
The city in spring, grass and trees have grown deep.
Feeling the time, even flowers draw tears.
Resenting separation, even birds strain the heart.
Beacon fires unstoppable through the third month,
A letter from home [is] worth ten thousand in gold.
Hairs whitened, fewer for the scratching;
Desires upset no longer hold a hairpin up.

Du Fu

And another written closer to the time period we are in currently.

Let Them Not Say

Let them not say: we did not see it.
We saw.

Let them not say: we did not hear it.
We heard.

Let them not say: they did not taste it.
We ate, we trembled.

Let them not say: it was not spoken, not written.
We spoke,
we witnessed with voices and hands.

Let them not say: they did nothing.
We did not-enough.

Let them say, as they must say something:

A kerosene beauty.
It burned.

Let them say we warmed ourselves by it,
read by its light, praised,
and it burned.

Jane Hirshfield

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Music Cares


I used to be a big watcher of award shows like the Oscars and the Grammys. More recently, I had become impatient with the hype and the glitz and the glamour. This year, though, will be poignant as the Los Angeles areas damaged by wildfires looms large in the background. The shows will go on. As is common when disasters hit, communities come together to support each other. Musicians, performers, and the film and TV community will all recognize and contribute and fundraise in multiple ways.

MusicCares has been around since 1989. In addition to all of the other services offered, they are working to provide disaster relief. Like the musicians who came together for LiveAid in 1985, FarmAid, Katrina Relief, and more (see CNN for a historical account), last night performers mounted an effort to raise funds with FireAid, highlighted on this morning’s Today Show. I remember George Harrison’s concert for Bangladesh in 1971. I contribute monthly to UNICEF to this day.

I am just a fan, but I am a BIG music fan across many genres. This fan girl now wants to share what one of my favorite opera singers sent out on her list today:

I read recently that when disaster strikes the world turns to “1st Responders” to save lives and stop imminent danger. We’ve witnessed incredible acts of heroism most recently in the horrific fires in California. But then humanity necessarily turns to “2nd Responders”(the artists, counselors, support groups) to begin to rebuild lives. One can find different kinds of heroes who give their all to connect to the hearts of people, aiding them as they find their way through unimaginable circumstances. Joyce DiDonato

The final trio from “The Hours” sung by Joyce DiDonato, Renée Fleming and Kelli O’Hara, is nominated and will be performed at the Grammys this year. The song is titled “You are not alone.”

I will be watching the Grammys this year.

For another perspective, check out Ann Powers in NPR Music.

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What can you do?

I will share suggestions from some of my poet friends.

From Don Yorty (donyorty.com): “I’m going to the gym. Going to outlive that piece of shit.”

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From Mary Cappello (marycappello.com): “I also went to the gym; did a zoom playdate with my 9 year old niece, dancing and drawing; prepared for an upcoming reading I’m giving; and cooked a warm meal. Focusing on the next generation, the power of art, local activism and community, and keeping the faces and baiting words of the monsters out of view and earshot.”

We must fight the bullshit with what we can do. Like Don Yorty, I can outlive him. Like Mary Cappello, I can focus on the young and the power of art. I can write, I can walk, I can talk, I can read and quote poetry as a revolutionary act. I went to a reading at the Frieda Community Cafe on Walnut Street in Philadelphia this past Saturday. Frieda supports a program partnering with Mighty Writers. It gave me such joy to hear the young writers reading their stories in response to the artwork of P.W.Pritchett. I can feel that joy in spite of the political and societal turmoil we will surely experience for the next few years. I can buy for my great niece turning one year old in February, the book, Downward Dog with Diego by P.W.Pritchett book from Frieda next time I go. (It’s also available on Bookshop.org.)

What can you do?

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National Day of Mourning

January 20, 2025. Martin Luther King day.

Before I retired, the university where I worked had a day of service on this day. I would participate in that and also in a program of remembrance with readings associated with the work of Dr. King. I miss that, today, in particular, as it is coincidental with the inauguration of a president that makes me fearful for our nation and the world.

Poetry is my refuge and what I want to share this day.

blessing the boats,” by Lucille Clifton has the sound and feel of the Buddhist Metta chant for loving kindness.

blessing the boats

Lucille Clifton

(at St. Mary’s)

may the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

More from poets.org

Day and Night,” Lewis Grandison Alexander
Crossing,” Jericho Brown
blessing the boats,” Lucille Clifton
I Am a Black Woman,”  Mari Evans
Microwave Popcorn,” Harmony Holiday
Dream Variations,” Langston Hughes
In Memoriam: Martin Luther King, Jr.,” June Jordan

Skit: Sun Ra Welcomes the Fallen,” Ruth Ellen Kocher
Imagine,” Kamilah Aisha Moon
From “Citizen, VI [My brothers are not

Unknown's avatar

Driving, biking, walking in Philly

I am so very saddened by the recent traffic incident near my home. I didn’t know the young woman who was killed by a drunk driver as she was cycling home. But, I could have. I see CHOP and UPenn workers walking and biking the neighborhood daily. Videos of the July 17 incident are horrendous. She was thrown 20 feet into the air. The 68-year old driver had a blood alcohol level twice the legal limit. He was attempting to pass another vehicle by veering into the bike lane. He slammed into her and three vehicles. He also lives nearby, at 20th and Locust. He’s been charged with vehicular homicide. But, what comfort is this for the family and friends of the young woman? I cannot imagine the hurt and loss.

On the same day a 38-year-old man was struck and killed in Kensington by a driver under the influence of opioids; the driver has been charged as well. A third victim of a drunk driver occurred in Germantown that day; that victim was hospitalized in critical condition. That driver fled the scene, but was found and is now in custody.

ALL HAPPENED IN ONE DAY!

Cycling advocates are clamoring for better protection of bike lanes. That’s important, but at the heart of the problem is people driving recklessly and under the influence of drugs and alcohol. Today, in the Philadelphia Inquirer, a story called on the City of Philadelphia for better protection from “traffic-related injuries and death.” Written by two friends of the resident who was killed in center city, they addressed the Complete Streets program; unfortunately, the funding for this project is questionable.

I agree that “Traffic safety is a major public health issue.” I walk every day in the city and I am always wary and often fearful. So many drivers are going at excessive speeds. I worry that a car can jump a curb just as my dog and I are attempting to cross a street. Another opinion was published today in the Philadelphia Inquirer on the same topic. Both opinions mentioned cuts in the city’s budget for Vision Zero, a community effort to reduce traffic fatalities and injuries.

We call them ‘accidents’ but reckless driving and driving under the influence is a choice. Drivers can choose to stay within speed limits, to PAY ATTENTION to their surroundings. Drivers can choose to not get behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated. I understand that intoxicants impair judgment and leads to bad choices. I understand that addiction is as much an illness as it is a choice. I want to say, “Just DON’T do it!” I know that’s easier said than done.

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It’s been awhile

Four months away from Breathtakes. I’ve been taking care of the business of life. I’m always reading and writing, but not always finishing…that’s something I’ve just accepted about myself. I finally finished a poem, because I had a deadline, of sorts. Some months ago, I joined FRIEDAcommunity a café and community group located at 3rd and Walnut in Philadelphia. Frieda is creating what they are calling a “FOODbook” which they say “is about memories and stories related to recipes rather than just the recipes themselves.” Not only does Frieda have great food, they have great community events and excursions and now this FOODbook. I joined the group trip to the Metropolitan Opera in NYC, a glorious experience of Puccini’s Turandot, and a very enjoyable time with other members. All that to introduce the first completed poem in what I intend will be a series of poems featuring my Aunt Santa and her recipes.

Aunt Santa’s Pizzelles

The ingredients and directions 
are not enough
to create Aunt Santa’s pizzelles.
 
In her refuge, the basement kitchen,
a cool linoleum floor, 
standing at a pristine countertop,
she carefully oils the pizzelle iron,
she waits, patiently, for it to heat.
 
The table is her workbench,
she rapidly beats the eggs with a fork,
adds precisely measured flour, 
sugar, baking powder, slowly stirs.
 
Like an artist she stands back from her work,
she squints at the recipe,
blinking into memory
recalling improvisations she’d considered.
 
More vanilla or less? almond flavor this time?
Orange rind or lemon? Both? A little juice?
The dough, a delicate consistency, flows
with fluid assuredness from the spoon 
and spreads through the crevices of the hot iron.
 
Sprinkle powdered sugar with the tin shaker,
a flick of the wrist.
She is immersed in the process.
 
In the mouth, Aunt Santa’s pizzelles
dissolve slowly,
like Holy Communion,
a lacey lightness on the tongue.

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Crochet

I’ve been crocheting a lot recently. I like to keep my hands busy. It is almost a spiritual practice. It is surely a creative practice. My mother taught me and her mother taught her. I can usually look at some item that is crocheted and figure out how to do it. Although, I will admit, I don’t often try to tackle complex projects. Lately, I’ve been working on little creatures – animals or dolls.

This little bunny is the first that I created without a pattern. I hope to improve with practice. I sent it off to my nephew and his wife who just had a baby girl. The first grandchild for my brother, and my first great niece! I haven’t met her yet, but I hope to soon. And I hope this is the first of many.

Crochet is one of my mainstay activities, like reading and journaling, since I was a child. What follows is a poem that I composed many years ago to express what it means to me.

I Crochet

When I was a toddler I watched my grandmother crochet 
while I listened to the stories she told, 
the stories I can no longer recall, 
because I was more fascinated by those dancing fingers so fast, so fluid.

Now, I crochet to remember the day
my grandmother handed me the battered little cardboard box
that held her handiwork, scraps and samples, 
tiny steel hooks and balls of cotton thread. 

The box that she’d kept in the China closet, where she stored 
the fancy plates and glasses that only came out on special occasions,
with the embroidered linens and tablecloths, 
and dozens of carefully laundered crocheted doilies, stiff with starch–
this box was her legacy to me.

I crochet to stave off the loneliness, now that they are gone
my mother and my grandmother, the aunts who taught me, 
chain stitch, single, double, triple,
patterns growing exponentially from my hands now.

I crochet to have them here with me, 
to cross over into the past, to be with all the women
who taught my grandmother 
to take up the yarn on the hook, loop over, pull through,
they spread their warmth across the Atlantic, 
the ones whose names I’ll never know 
because my grandmother left them all behind in Sicily, 
all the aunts, the mothers, and grandmothers,
who stitched their love into blankets and bedspreads.

I crochet as they did to dissolve the tears, 
when it seems that everything 
has come unraveled, the hook, the yarn,
the loop, the chain, I only have to follow 
the pattern in the sample, 
remember the stitches, continue the motion,
gather the courage, 
generate the warmth, the simple beauty,
and all they knew to keep on going.

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Winter poems – Early 2024

January 1

Delaware National Seashore – Winter Horizon from the Highway
Sky striated blue through gray
pierced by dry dark pines,
sun’s light slowly pushing through.

January 8

After a poem by Rumi
The bud inside the heart rolls open
slow spiral of possibility.
I wish I could hold still
the flower at its fullest.

January 15

Before Snow
No snow yet, it may come still
anticipation
lingers. Cold quiet blanket.