Linda Pizzi takes a breath and writes. Sometimes topical, otherwise random. Creative expression, thoughts, and musings. This blog, one among many, is for me enough.
Today it is 25 years later. I wrote this poem 10 years ago about what had happened 15 years before that. By way of remembering.
Ordinary people went to work and never went home. I was at work and was able to go home. That’s what I remember.
September 11, 2016
Nothing was important that day, fifteen years ago, after the towers fell, but everybody was. Dennis was the first person I saw and talked to that day. He’d always said, if something goes wrong, tell three people, and it will feel better. When I walked into his office he read my look and glanced at the small portable TV that sat on a tall black filing cabinet. We watched in silence as the scenes exploded from the tiny screen. All the telephone lines were clogged and I couldn’t reach my brother who could have been on a plane because he travelled frequently for his job. I was worried, I told Dennis, because I hadn’t spoken to my brother in about a week.
I jumped when I heard my phone ringing from across the hall. It was my dogwalker who wanted to know if she should still walk Rosey. Yes, I said. I didn’t plan to leave work early – what difference would it make? She said, all she could think of to do was clean the refrigerator.
I tried my brother again and finally got through. After we each said, I love you, see you soon, I walked back across the hall, to tell Dennis, to feel better. He too was on the phone with his partner Sherry, he had muted the sound from the TV. We’ll make burgers on the grill for dinner, he said and returned the phone to the cradle.
Dennis died three years later, two years after he’d retired to Arizona, where he’d been volunteering for a literacy program. His heart gave out one night after a ride on his motorcycle. I told my brother, who had never met Dennis. I told my dogs, Rosey and Rufus, who had come with me to visit Dennis, when he was home for a week recuperating from bypass surgery.
Today, fifteen years later, as I clean the refrigerator, I think about Dennis as I reach for the pickles I’ll never eat, take the jar to the sink, screw off the lid, pour them into the garbage disposal. I tell Dennis that I’m reaching for the ordinary, like we did that day. I empty the dishwasher and fill it up again. Out in the yard I pull dandelions and look closely at the stray petunia that planted itself in a crack in the cement and wonder how one became a weed and the other, a flower.
When I retired in 2022 after 22 years as an academic administrator and instructor at a small private university in the Greater Philly area, my staff gave me a mug with a saying on it. “Retired – the best is yet to come.” I can’t say what came is “the best,” but I am enjoying the perks – even with the ups and downs.
I had often fantasized about what I would do when I retired. I would finally finish one of the many “books” I thought I would write; so much unfinished writing. (But, that’s likely every writer, even those who have actually accomplished completed works.) I would travel for extended periods of time because no longer confined to “vacation” days. I even fantasized about joining a Buddhist monastery, especially on those days when I was particularly stressed and feeling harried at work. I would volunteer for an animal rescue or some other community service organization.
The fantasies haven’t come about, but I CAN say that what I appreciate most about retirement is having the time to pursue whatever I feel like, when I feel like. I have the freedom to pursue my curiosity, my desire to know, and to learn.
Most of the time, when I don’t want to do something, I can say “No,” just because I don’t feel like it. There are commitments that I have made – to friends, for social events, to a part-time job, to volunteer activities, mostly to caring for my dog. (Anyone who knows me knows that I can’t say “No,” to Pepper. She’s been my closest companion for over 10 years; pet owners know what I mean!)
I am obviously NOT in a monastery, but I am active with the Zen Center of Philadelphia. I have done some volunteer work with Pepper as a therapy dog. I’m not writing a book, but at least making time for the blog, when I can, and journaling. I’m in two book groups – reading as much or more than ever. I have traveled, but not as much as I wish I could.
Still, my time is MY OWN. This morning was fairly typical for me these days; I really appreciate my morning routine and mostly stick to it no matter where I might be. Up around 7 AM, coffee and breakfast, check email/or read what’s come in on phone from the outside world, feed Pepper, go out for a quick potty, and now the new element of giving her an insulin shot. I meditate or do yoga every morning as well. This doesn’t always happen in the same order, but it’s the same, nevertheless.
Checking email is a thing left over from when I worked. Email and instant messaging was how I communicated with my student staff as well as professional staff and supervisors and colleagues – to get things done. I know that many people of my age get frustrated navigating so many emails and online sources, but I am, not only used to it, I enjoy it. And, I don’t feel compelled to open every single email or read every single notification or message. I think that’s what gets most people who are so tied to their phones.
I keep up with current events, usually in Apple News. I really enjoy pursuing whatever I want to follow in any given morning. Today, I read a few short pieces in the New Yorker and from Hidden City Philadelphia – all before 8:30 AM. I had perused all the emails and notifications, skipped a few and deleted a few, marked a few to go back to at a later time.
The New Yorker abstract that stood out to me was about the recent events at Stonewall in Greenwich Village. I find it very encouraging because I agree that attacking the LGBTQ community is not only heinous, but it is a community that won’t stand for harassment. Here it is:
What Just Happened?
This week, the Trump Administration ordered a large Pride flag to be removed from Stonewall National Monument in New York City.What’s it like there right now?“I just came from the Stonewall site, a few blocks from where I live. A large American flag now flies wanly in Christopher Park, where the rainbow one flew last week. If you want to see rainbows, however, there’s no shortage of them: a row of small Pride flags is affixed to the park gate, and the Stonewall Inn, which is a privately owned bar, has them hanging in spades from the windows, along with blue-and-pink transgender flags. I saw a hand-drawn sign taped to the park gate that reads ‘PRIDE FLAG GOES HERE,’ next to a little box with pins that say ‘Faggots against MAGAts.’ So, safe to say that this community will outlast this Administration by a mile.“This is obviously an outrage—an absurd one, a symbolic one, but a deliberate one. Local officials have vowed to raise a new rainbow flag in opposition to the Department of the Interior’s directive. Good. Stonewall is Stonewall because of a riot—more than anything, it’s a monument to defiance.”—Michael Schulman, a staff writer who has covered what happened to the bricks thrown at Stonewall during a police raid in 1969.
Not unlike what happened last week in Philadelphia and what is happening now at the site of George Washington’s house where the exhibit focusing on the enslaved people who lived there was taken down by the Federal Government. From CBS Philly – Crowd rallies to restore slavery exhibit.I can’t help but be concerned (that’s an understatement) about the horrific actions and behaviors of the current White House administration, so I’m usually following some story or other – something new and awful almost every day!
I could go on, but I need to go about my planned Friday, which is to visit the Philadelphia Museum of Art’s Surrealism exhibit, which closes soon. (By the way, I am so glad the name change was reversed.) I do NOT want to miss it! Even in retirement, I find that I miss out on all the things I would want to do. In any event, while my fantasy retirement hasn’t come true, I know I will never be bored. Even though there’s much to be angry and sad about given the state of things today – an ugly American administration and the ugly remains of the snowstorm in Philly – a retirement like mine is not so bad.
The title of this post is the title of a book by Thich Nhat Hanh, which I am reading these days to help get through what’s going on in my world and in the world around me.
Lately, the storms that blew across the country and touched down in Philadelphia, where I live, have made things difficult for me and my little dog, Pepper. In addition to dealing with the weather extremes, Pepper just got diagnosed as diabetic. But, as I often say, I have good, bad luck. The bad luck almost always has a positive note. Last week I shed lots of tears, processing this new phase of Pepper’s life and confronting the fact that she likely is coming closer to her end. She’s been in my life since 2015, a little over 10 years. My best guess is she’s 14 years old, an old girl even though she’s a little one.
But, the upside to her new condition is that she loves the prescription food AND she takes her insulin shot with hardly a flinch. Today, we get her set up with a monitor that attaches to her back to track her blood sugar. There it is: good, bad luck.
The world around me, as I see it, is continuing to be marred by the tumult fomented by the current administration in the White House. I am still so very angry that people are suffering unnecessarily and that Renee Good and Alex Pretti had to die in their efforts to resist.
The renowned Vietnamese Buddhist monk, whose teachings had global reach, was also a peace activist, prolific author, and poet. I share his ideas here not for comfort, but for perspective.
I cannot put it any better than Jane Hirshfield. This is a time of crisis. I have hope that the recent deaths of Renee Good and Alex Pretti will be the catalyst for the change that must come. I am so angry and saddened that they had to die for their values; values that I share. I am so grateful that they put themselves on the line for those values. Those who can march and protest, please continue. Artists, writers, poets, and performers who make art in resistance, please continue. I am one small woman behind you all, crying real tears and grasping desperately to these threads of hope.
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.
Dear Senator McCormick,
I appreciate your response to my email of November which explained the difference between discretionary spending and mandatory spending. As a senior citizen relying on Social Security and Medicare, I am truly relieved that this funding was not affected during the shutdown. More of our representatives should address this distinction in public. And, I hope that the bill you cosponsored to prevent shutdowns will get some traction.
At this time, however, the president that you support is once again, going off the rails!
At an event in our state of Pennsylvania, he gave a speech (link to coverage in NPR News) that was intended to address inflation, but he veered off to attacking immigrants. I am sure you know about this. Perhaps you were there. Please don’t tell me you agree that it’s better for the U.S. to attract immigrants from Norway than from Somalia. This is not only reprehensible, it is absurd and absolutely racist. It is his strategy to distract middle class voters from the rising prices they are seeing.
We need immigrants from countries that are suffering. And we need to give them a chance to succeed. They do important jobs. An article in today’s (December 7) Washington Post noted that “(t)he tension is rapidly coming to the fore as changes in immigration policy threaten to squeeze the workforce. While foreign-born workers make up 19 percent of the U.S. labor force, they accounted for about 1 in 3 home care workers in 2023, according to a KFF analysis.” This is a concern for ME as I age. I cannot afford long-term care insurance, I don’t want to be in a nursing home, but I am going to age. I will need home care at some point in my life. It’s not just me, it’s people with disabilities, people who are in assisted living.
All immigrants are not criminals. I am the grandchild of immigrants from Sicily. They were not in the Mafia. My maternal grandfather worked at the Stetson hat factory his entire life and supported a family, his wife and 8 children in a small 3-bedroom rowhouse in South Philadelphia. I am proud of that heritage. I feel fortunate that my family was able to escape poverty in Sicily and make a decent life in Philadelphia. I also believe that most immigrants coming to America now are not unlike my grandparents. I believe they should be given that same opportunity.
I am a retired educator who was a first-generation college student. I spent over 25 years working with college students who were underprepared for college, as well as students with disabilities who required accommodations to access higher education. My professional life has been devoted to educating students to become critical thinkers and lifelong learners.
Please pay attention and consider my views on this issue.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.)
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.
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
Breathtakes 