On Paula

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

I have worked in a hospital for 20 years. 99% of my work has to do with outpatient administration. I have been in the background and very much away from the inpatient floors. Those few floors are where the procedures, recoveries, and most critical health issues take place. Yet I nearly always forget I work in a hospital.

On some work calls, I hear about the inpatient statistics and infection rates of COVID. Those patients seem distant and far away. They have little to do with me. Yet on other calls where letters are anonymously shared, patients and family members have the most human experiences on those floors—experiences that are so positively impacting to their lives that they take the time to share.

While these letters cause me to smile and temporarily feel proud for working in my organization, they do not personally touch me.

Enter Paula.

Yesterday my husband and I moved a wooden flower container that was Paula’s from our deck to our small garden area behind the fence to remove the dirt.

As soon as we dumped the dirt, the entire container fell apart. Pieces of wood mixed with the dirt. I was surprised at the great condition those pieces were in. Being a self-proclaimed upcycler artist, I immediately saw beautiful pieces in which to make art on. First order of business was to make something involving Paula.

Paula used to have beautiful wildflowers in that same box. I remember her telling me in 2020 how she went to go put some seeds from a packet into the container when the wind carried the seeds right out of the packet! She thought they flew away, but a few months later, beautiful flowers appeared.

Now, like her life—some of the most raw, beautiful things such as the wildflowers are long gone, but the memories and magnificence of what was there remain.

Paula was the first neighbor I met when my husband and I bought our current house in 2016. It was a second home on the water in Branford. We had no intention of living at it for several years, so I was taken aback (in a good way!) when Paula and a host of other neighbors warmly welcomed us to the neighborhood.

Somehow every time we were here, I saw Paula. She was always around—walking, talking to neighbors, out with her happy dog Stella. Paula was in her mid-sixties and lived alone. She was FULL of life. Always smiling, laughing, joking… happy.

She often invited me over with my dog Koji to her fenced yard. Sometimes I had limited time at the house to complete work and declined her offers; other times I went there to spend time with her. In a short time, I learned about her life. She had a beautiful home that was lifted from the ground recently (flood risk), and again she was one of the happiest people I ran across regularly.

She often hosted happy hours. She held a welcome party for anyone who moved to our small community. She randomly met people on walks or in town and made connections with them and for them.

Somehow I had her cell phone, and she texted me often. She would often call to let me know about how nice my renters were, that an ambulance was on the street, or that something happened in the neighborhood we might be interested in.

I felt a part of the neighborhood even though we didn’t live there—thanks to Paula.

Extra bananas, clothes she was cleaning out, a knickknack that reminded her of me… she was often coming by with items that I may want that she didn’t need.

She dressed beautifully. Her natural hair color of nearly white looked very chic with her stylish cut. She had keys to our house and often went in to check on things while we were away. She welcomed nearly all our renters to the area. I still have dozens of comments from renters about how wonderful the area, neighbors, and particularly “that lady across the street,” Paula, was.

She was the only neighbor our children knew the name of. None of them ever lived here, but when they visited, they were sure to run into her.

I shared my blogs and stories with her. She often commented and referred to little things I wrote in daily interactions.

Based on an innocuous comment one hot summer day in July 2018, she was the very reason I realized how my PTSD was different from panic attacks. This kicked me into a three-day frenzy of large flip charts and sticky notes about the root cause as I explored a past that I was previously afraid to face.

During that time, there was a storm and we lost power. I was alone in my current home here in Branford. While I never went over to her place, Paula invited me over daily to have some salads and enjoy the comforts of her generator. I was very much involved in my little self-exploration and in a strange but cathartic despair. I knew Paula was right there if I needed anything, and that was comforting.

She came to every party we hosted with a very elaborate store-bought dish to share. She WAS the life of the party. I do remember, though, in the early months of 2019 during a party, she disappeared quite early. The next day I brought her coat that she left behind over. She would tell me she didn’t remember going home. She was drinking, so I wrote it off.

In the late summer of 2019, when we permanently packed up our Cheshire home and made the move to Branford, Paula was very excited. Yet every so often she seemed confused. It was getting to be this way for a while. I can’t say when exactly, but she wasn’t the same.

She was never the same. In 2020, the decline had taken an obviously noticeable turn. She turned 70 that year, and in the height of COVID, her brother and sister-in-law hosted a very nice outdoor party. Paula had friends staying with her from all different times in her life. My husband and I heard stories from them about Paula that were not surprising—how friendly and vibrant she was, how amazing of a friend she had been, how she lit up a room—and how the person now on her 70th birthday was only a shadow of Paula.

Now it’s 2022. Her home is empty. She is a patient that some administrator counts the beans for. She is a number. Paula is someone that providers confer about how to handle during a huddle—someone that family members will likely write a nice letter for if her care was good. A random note that someone like myself, who does background work to make such a place run, will hear about, smile for a moment, and carry on.

But what about that patient’s life? Their loved ones? The people they touched? The remnants of their possessions that used to hold such life and love—like the planter that used to adorn her lawn, which is now in pieces in my yard? Where and how does that all count?

Where do those stories and that love go?

I was a very small part of her life for a very short period of time. Thinking about Paula and these pieces of her planter (that I will absolutely turn into something beautiful) will hopefully help me to stop and think about each patient while I run thousands of beans for them in various “ways ’til Tuesday” so the administration can make data-informed decisions.

These lives count. All lives matter. We aren’t just numbers. We are amazing human experiences that make differences for the next lives that come along. The history of each one of us may not be recorded, but we make history with every last interaction of our lives—even by accident. Like the wildflowers that appeared when Paula thought they flew away. She planted something beautiful and didn’t even know it.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Some pieces of the wood I plan to work on first are out to dry.

A set of five wooden planks arranged on a composite deck, with sunlight casting shadows, alongside a plant and a white rocking chair.

On the Tangled web we weave 

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Where to begin?

Daren and I have been in Africa for the past week. We started out in South Africa and are currently in Zimbabwe. The economic disparity between the first world and third world is almost inconceivable. The modern-day effects of corruption and apartheid are prevalent with just a glance out the window. How can such an atrocity exist in the year 2017?

It’s so complicated. We have been having conversations with one another, friends, and locals about this very topic for the past week. I think we were both surprised at how much the lower-paid locals know about the US political system and how thoughtfully they have considered ways to remedy situations created by governments and history. There isn’t an easy answer.

What has also surprised me is seeing firsthand what South Africa looks like today and reading older materials about apartheid. From a brief glance, the population of mixed race did not appear enraged or agitated with one another; it seemed to be something the government enforced. Many citizens were recorded to have said that even though apartheid laws were proposed, they didn’t think they would pass. Then when they did, they thought there was no way they could be enforced in a modern society—until people of non-white descent were suddenly removed from their homes. That was only 50–70 years ago, after WWII and all we learned as a human race. Something similar happened in Zimbabwe, though in that case whites were forced off the land.

Then, interestingly, I heard a different perspective from the “white” side. We have friends from the states who have been living here for the past nine months and have met many locals. They shared perspectives from people of Dutch descent that I had not considered. One idea presented was that when groups with very different ways of living are forced together, conflict can arise. For example, if one group values certain systems like schooling, taxation, and land management and another does not, it can create tension.

From that perspective, apartheid was seen by some as a way to separate groups by how they chose to live. Again, I don’t know all the facts of the Dutch settlers specifically, and we know displacement did occur in many places, but hearing this perspective made me pause. Over time, cultural differences remained, and instead of blending, separation was enforced. Since European settlers built much of the infrastructure, some believed they had the right to maintain those areas while others lived differently elsewhere.

Wow… on a much smaller scale within my own home, having a blended family, I understand how difficult it can be to merge different backgrounds into one living situation. And in my family, we are very similar in many ways—yet it is still challenging. How can entire communities, countries, and cultures with hundreds of years of history be expected to suddenly align?

I know apartheid wasn’t the answer, just as creating separate rules or divisions within my own family wasn’t the answer either.

The truth is, there is no easy answer. Some might point to education, but education doesn’t necessarily make someone right about how life should be lived. What is wrong with living simply, connected to the land? Is the ultimate goal to keep building and advancing, or is there value in simply being present and living fully in the moment?

Does striving to improve the future make someone more important than someone who is content with the present? And if someone believes that, does it give them the authority to decide for others?

We also can’t forget the people who were enslaved, displaced, or killed. These realities are not just part of history—they still exist in different forms. For those who were freed, how do they catch up in a system that requires education and resources they may not have access to? It becomes a cycle that is incredibly difficult to break.

Their cultures may not have required these systems originally, yet they are now expected to function within them. In some ways, that can feel like a continuation of the same struggle, just in a different form.

Affirmative action is one possible approach, but it comes with its own complexities and challenges.

These are difficult questions—ones we don’t often consider in our daily lives. It’s easier to focus on our own routines and responsibilities, which is important too. We need to take care of our own lives to have any chance at contributing positively to the world around us.

One of the most unsettling thoughts I had this week was hearing how much trust people had in their government when apartheid was introduced. Many didn’t believe something unjust could happen in a modern society. It made me reflect on how fragile systems can be if we stop questioning them.

I wouldn’t want to be in a position of making decisions for millions of people. The complexity is enormous.

It can feel overwhelming, but maybe the question isn’t how to solve everything—it’s how we show up individually.

Perhaps it starts with something simple:

  • Be kind to others.
  • Don’t take more than you need.
  • Treat people equally.
  • Think critically.
  • Stay informed and participate as a citizen.
  • Make decisions in your own life that contribute to something larger than yourself.
  • Take care of your health so you can show up fully.
  • Make time to rest and enjoy life.
  • And find one or two things you genuinely care about and focus your energy there.
  • Even small, thoughtful actions can create change over time.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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On a Disjointed Life

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

This blog is mostly in response to one my husband Daren wrote a few weeks back: https://darenamd.wordpress.com/2016/07/23/on-the-value-of-rituals/

We did chat about it that day in a coffee shop, and I’ve been thinking about it ever since. One of the reasons rituals are so meaningful is because they trace something back to its roots and honor it in its entirety. But nothing really exists alone in its entirety. Anyone who is Facebook friends with me (and paying attention) has probably seen the quote I’ve had on my profile for years:

“When we try to pick out anything by itself, we find it hitched to everything else in the universe.” — John Muir

I love that quote. I’ve used it in conversations and presentations in many forms. We can trace almost everything—including ourselves—back to the stars. We and everything around us are made of star stuff (thank you, Carl Sagan, for that one). If we really sit with that idea, it can feel like either nothing at all or complete chaos. But when we narrow our focus too much—when we isolate one piece—we lose sight of the beauty of how it all ties together. And we feel alone.

Our brains need to draw lines to make sense of things. But those lines also need to stop somewhere manageable so we can understand what we’re looking at. What I think is happening now is that the lines we draw are becoming smaller and smaller.

Take a shoemaker 150 years ago. He had a small shop in the center of town. People came to him for their shoes. He knew his customers. Everyone in that town had a role, and they supported one another through trade, barter, or money. There was a sense of connection—of being part of something whole.

That shoemaker made each pair from start to finish. He knew where the materials came from and how they came together. Every stitch, every sole—his hands touched all of it. When he walked through town, he saw his work on people’s feet. There was pride, connection, and meaning. Making shoes was a ritual. The lines were drawn around the whole process, and that process was tied to community and to people.

Then machines came. Assembly lines broke the process apart—not just for shoes, but for nearly everything. The lines became smaller. Instead of making a shoe, someone made a sole. Or hammered the same piece over and over. The ritual was lost. The connection to the final product faded.

Supply chains expanded. We no longer see what we make or who it serves. Many people leave their towns, commute long distances, and spend their days doing work they feel little connection to. Ironically, as the world becomes more connected, we become more disconnected—from what we do, from where things come from, and from each other.

I love Daren’s example of the record player. Playing music used to be a ritual. There was anticipation in setting it up, in placing the needle, in waiting. That effort made the experience richer. Now, with every song available instantly, I don’t enjoy music the same way.

The same goes for coffee. There was something meaningful in grinding beans and making it by hand. The waiting was part of the enjoyment. Now we grab coffee from a drive-through or a machine, often without even thinking—sometimes multiple times a day. And somehow, it feels like less.

Our on-the-go lifestyle has started to strip the pleasure out of everyday life. We’re less connected to what we do, to what we consume, and to the people around us. We start to see ourselves as separate instead of part of a whole.

Unless you own your own business, many of us feel little connection to the mission of our work. We become parts in a machine, disconnected from the outcome—and sometimes from our own humanness.

I see it in myself. I walk through the VA facility where I work, passing patients in the hallway, and sometimes I experience them as obstacles—something in the way of where I need to go next. Already late. Moving quickly. It’s only when something interrupts my routine—like having to go to another floor—that I notice the waiting rooms, the check-ins, the people. It’s only then that I remember I work in a hospital.

That feels like a symptom of something that’s gone wrong.

I wasn’t around in the days of the shoemaker, but I’ve experienced enough of the “in-between” to feel the shift—record players, cassettes, CDs… even watching my mom grind coffee beans at the store and then make coffee at home. There was more presence in it. More enjoyment.

Now everything is faster, smaller, more efficient. But to what end?

We’re doing more and more, faster and faster. But are we actually enjoying it more? Are we happier?

I’m not.

And maybe I’m not alone.

I don’t think this means rejecting the world we live in—but maybe it means choosing, in small ways, to step out of the rush. To slow down where we can. To reconnect with process, with ritual, with the bigger picture.

I find myself wanting that more and more.

Less speed. More meaning. More connection.

A return—not backwards—but inward.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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Classes, Bonds & Namaste

Posted on by Esterina Anderson

Yesterday I learned, by way of Facebook, that someone I went to high school with passed away. I didn’t know her well, but I remember her. It saddened me, but it also warmed my heart to see people come together—old classmates consoling one another, sharing memories, reconnecting in a quiet way.

Scrolling through the comments, I recognized so many names and faces. It got me thinking about something I’ve come to think of as “classes.”

“Classes,” for lack of a better word, are the groups we move through in different eras of our lives. Daren once used the term when I was trying to describe a moment at work—two former colleagues crossing paths, exchanging nothing more than eye contact and a subtle nod. No words, just recognition. A shared history. A quiet understanding.

A class.

Like high school. Like the military. Like a job, a training, a season of life.

My graduating class had over 500 students, and even now, decades later, I recognize almost every face. Time has passed, but something about that shared experience remains. It’s a bond that doesn’t disappear, even when life moves on.

I’ve had many of these “classes” in my life—military assignments, work teams, yoga training, even neighborhoods and childhood bus rides. Not all of them carry the same weight, but each holds something.

A few, though, run deeper.

My high school class.
My first ship in the Coast Guard.
My time in Primary Care at the VA.

Those groups feel like family. Not perfect, not always easy—but familiar. Safe. There’s a comfort that doesn’t require explanation.

Even the lighter connections carry something. When I meet someone from the Coast Guard, or from Long Island, there’s an instant recognition. A subtle shift. Like something in me already knows them.

That feeling—that quiet recognition—is why the word Namaste has come to mean more to me over time.

Not just a greeting, but an acknowledgment:
I see something in you that I recognize in myself.

It’s always there, but we don’t always notice it.

Moments like this—watching people come together, remembering someone they shared a piece of life with—remind me that those connections matter. That the threads between us don’t disappear.

And that recognizing them, even quietly, is a gift.

Thanks for taking the time to read. I’d love to hear your thoughts!

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