On This Day in History

 On This Day in History

 

On June 10, 1963—
They signed a promise.

Called it the Equal Pay Act.
Set it down inside the Fair Labor Standards Act like a vow:

same skill.
same effort.
same responsibility.
same work.
same pay.

Simple as a heartbeat.
Simple as it should have been
all along.

But a law is not a miracle.
A signature is not a sunrise.

Ink dries fast.
Bias does not.

So the promise left Washington
and ran headfirst into offices,
classrooms,
hospital halls,
shop floors—

into every place
where a woman was asked
to do the same work
for less money,
less credit,
less room to breathe.

And still we ask—
equal where?
equal when?
equal for who?

Because a gap is never just a gap.

It is groceries.
Three months of them.
\$3,291 worth of eggs and apples
and something green for the table.

It is child care.
Three months.
\$3,282 worth of safe hands
and watched-over hours.

It is rent.
Three months.
\$4,461 worth of a key,
a lamp,
a door that locks.

It is family health insurance—\$1,804.
It is student loans.
It is gas in the tank.

It is one more bill saying:
choose.
Choose what gets paid.
Choose what waits.
Choose what part of your life
can afford to fall behind.

So no—
this is not just history.
This is not a date to circle
and congratulate.

This is a promise
still standing in the doorway,
still asking to be let
all the way in.

The law said equal in 1963.
The paycheck still says:
not always.

So let this be more than remembrance.
Let it be rhythm.
Let it be witnessed.

Let it be a chorus
loud enough to carry
from one generation to the next:

same work.
same worth.
same pay.

Until equal is not an echo,
not an anniversary,
not a line in a history book—

but a fact.
but a habit.
but the way this country
finally learns to sing.

Time To Take Off The Blinders

Yesterday, I watched
Substack news podcasts
and learned why ignorance feels like bliss.

I learned more about Trump
and the corruption
spilling from the Oval Office.
The scale of it—
the offenses,
the grift,
the deception—
stretched farther than I'd imagined.

Independent journalists
did the brutal work,
dragging truth from the shadows
and forcing it into the light.

For hours, I tried to make sense
of what I was seeing:
enough to send followers reeling,
enough to make the end of days
feel close at hand.

Fresh out of pardons,
no one seems untouchable,
and even silence feels complicit.

Interview after interview,
the lies piled higher,
the distractions grew louder,
and the cost of ignorance
became impossible to ignore.

The blinders are off now.
Like a horse seeing beyond
the narrow path for the first time,
I can't unsee the widening horizon—
or the cliff edge ahead.

 

The Machines Are Watching You

The machines are watching you,
and now they can hear you too.

They were born not only to serve,
but to listen like roots beneath the soil,
learning the shape of our questions
the way rivers learn the curves of stone.

They stand beside us like a second shadow,
an extra thought moving through the forest of the mind,
quietly bending branches,
reshaping the paths we follow.

Even creativity has entered the current.

Whisper a wish into the wind,
and the machine answers back
with echoes gathered from our own voices,
returning what it has learned from us
like rain returning to the sea.

It captures images,
gathers scattered leaves from the storm of information,
sorts the blur and names it data,
finds hidden tracks through the undergrowth of patterns,
and studies the weather of possibility
before offering its forecast as advice.

The machines became especially useful during COVID,

when isolation spread across the world
like a long winter settling over the fields.

Perhaps this is what McCoy foresaw in Star Trek,
when he reflected on how limited we once were—
in medicine, in labor,
in so many corners of human life.

We are becoming the Borg,
not with wires and steel implants,
but like a vast mycelial network beneath the forest floor,
connected by invisible threads,
sharing knowledge across the dark earth.

The hive has arrived,
only now it blooms under a friendlier name.

The Trouble with Plastic Buckets

 The Trouble with Plastic Buckets

 

My bucket list keeps changing shape, which is rude, honestly.

One day, it’s a pilgrimage to the Panama Canal, provided the sky can act right—no hurricanes, no tornadoes, no weather auditioning for a lead role.

Another day, it’s next season’s theater tickets, because hope, apparently, comes with assigned seating and a service fee.

It’s my health, and the creaking parliament of my joints.

It’s losing ten pounds, though vanity and gravity remain in active negotiations, and eating less with all the glamour of a hostage situation.

It’s drinking less, though certain evenings still make an excellent closing argument, hiking more, putting one stubborn foot in front of the other, and learning that solitude can be both a map and a compass—plus cheaper than therapy.

It’s planning future travel because waiting around is rarely an itinerary, and keeping old friends close, tending the small bright fires that still know my name.

I spend less, though I still browse as if hope were on sale. I clean out the closet, since only half of what I own still fits, and the other half is apparently waiting for my comeback tour.

I take a writing class for inspiration, just in case the muse needs a syllabus and a firm deadline. I read poems aloud in public, lending my voice to the room before doubt can grab the mic. I send my writing out like small paper boats into larger waters, then make new lists as if stationery alone can save me.

I listen to other voices rattle the furniture in my head. I read more books in this new YA fantasy phase of mine, because dragons, frankly, have better boundaries than most people.

I spend extravagant amounts of time with family, the truest luxury I know. I get a new bucket because even metaphors need better hardware, then carry forward what still holds water and quietly retire what leaks.

And then there are the things no checkmark can settle: being kind to myself, speaking up more, drawing the map of my boundaries in bolder ink, naming my priorities before the noise names them for me.

And always: hug Mom—because some things are not a goal, they are the whole point.

 

 

 

A Luxury Amenity

 A Luxury Amenity

 

At Radio City, Bryant Park, and Greeley Square,
these humming thrones await the public there.
A civic gift in plastic, bright and grand,
for anyone in sudden, urgent demand.

First comes the hand before the scanner’s eye,
the red light wakes as if to verify.
Then clears its throat with bureaucratic zeal,
and starts the brisk official toilet reel.

The glossy film advances, trim and quick;
a hidden blade makes one efficient snip.
The used layer vanishes without a fuss,
as though embarrassment rode a public bus.

A fresh sleeve settles on the porcelain throne,
with all the grace of something, state‑issued, blown.
It clings the way an office rumor clings—
transparent, tense, and full of private things.

Then down you sit, convinced the coast is clear,
and find a warmth distinctly not your dear.
Not filth, not doom, not anything unsound—
just someone else, still faintly hanging round.

 

Beautiful Blessings

 

Between the worry and the care,
beautiful blessings gather—
a multitude of angels,
hovering, watching, signaling,
whispering through the quiet.

They are my own personal army,
and for their presence
I am deeply thankful.

The world feels frightening now.
There is so much unrest,
so much darkness moving among us.
I worry for the children—
the innocent, the untried—
and wonder where they will find shelter
when we are gone,
when the shadows seek to settle forever.

Yet still they stand guard,
holding back the curtain of doom,
keeping watch at the edge of night,
where tears appear in the ether
and shadows search for passage.

The portals of time are closing,
sealing away old horrors,
the echoes of war,
the storms of hatred,
the tempests that trouble the earth.

Dear Lord,

Grant us one more night,
one more day to mend what is broken,
to straighten what has gone crooked,
to hold fast to the truth,
and welcome goodness through the door.

For the day is long,
our hearts grow weary,
and we need rest.

Amen.

Betrayal

 Betrayal

Betrayal by a mate is wound enough,

but betrayal by elected leaders is another wound entirely.

We place in their hands the keys to atomic annihilation,

and still they turn against us.

Once trust is broken, the ground falls out.

Let them trumpet, bellow, and groan—

there is nowhere left for them to hide.

Silence does not mend it.

The realization strikes the survival instinct like a warning light in a long, dark tunnel.

It asks for adjustment, for healing, for rebirth into a new world.

The question is simple: can you?

Can we grow stronger, restore self-care, set firm boundaries, and learn to trust again?

 

Yes—

but healing keeps its own time.