When the numbers were reversed
“It was a very good year” according to Frank Sinatra’s legendary song. It was a “year of small town girls and soft summer nights” when we “hid from the lights ...on the village green”.... I could run like the wind and never stop to catch my breath...two a day workouts in football and I felt like I could play all day. Today I prefer walking over running and get 'out of breath’ more often than I’d like to admit. When the numbers were reversed, I danced with my high school sweetheart and we held each other tight...we don’t dance much anymore, but still ‘hold each other tight’ which I guess says something. When the numbers were reversed, there was a magazine named after boys and girls my age, and I thought that people now my age were ‘very old’ and possibly if not dead...near death. I worried like a lot of young men my age, about being drafted into the military. Today I look back on my life with profound gratitude for the years I spent in the military. When the numbers were reversed I didn’t give much thought to the career ‘roles’ I would play out in my lifetime, working to support a family. Today I am, in the words of Connie Zweig’s book The inner work of ‘age’, shifting from ‘role to soulI’ which is where these words come from...my soul..
Oh…….to be 17 again! But alas tomorrow the numbers will be reversed and I will be 71 years of age.Today the leaves on my tree are not budding, and bursting with the bright colors of springtime….no I am now... in the fall of my life, a time of harvesting. My leaves are turning bright colors to match the richness and depth of the profound gratitude I have for the many blessings I’ve experienced in my life, blessings that I could not imagine when the numbers were reversed those many years ago….
AND my leaves are beginning to fall off, ever so slowly as I prepare for the Winter of my life...but I do not mourn their death for I know that they will fall to the ground and fertilize the soil so that other trees like me will sprout next spring and begin their journey through this thing we call life.
And so for those of you for whom my numbers will be reversed tomorrow and you will turn 17, my blessing for you is that when those numbers are reversed for you one day you will look back on your life with the same sense of awe, wonder, gratitude and contentment that I am experiencing…..happy birthday.
New Life….New Hope
A legacy letter to my grandson Giovanni William Marsella
Dear Giovanni:
I’m pretty sure this is the first letter someone is writing to you since you are 13 days old as I write this. If you are reading it, you are celebrating your 15th golden birthday in the year 2036, which is when I asked your Father to give it to you. Please consider this letter my gift to you on your ‘golden birthday’.
Your birth was God’s way of saying to our family and our world’ “Say hello to Giovanni, I’m giving you a ‘new life’ today but more importantly ‘new hope’ for our world. He said the same thing to our family the day your Father was born nearly 40 years ago and the day your grandpa Willie was born 71 years ago. When I was born, our country was recovering from a world war that killed millions of people. But, we were also members of a new international organization that was started called the “United Nations’ where my generation could engage in peaceful dialogue with one another as opposed to armed conflict. And while unfortunately our country has still fought in wars with other countries since the end of WWII, we’ve seen nothing like the scale of war that gripped our world 76 years ago
When I was born 71 years ago, my parents worried about me living a healthy life and prayed that I would not contract diseases of that time like Polio. But, thanks to scientists of my Father’s, your great grandfather’s generation, a new vaccine was invented that brought an end to Polio. Similarly Gio, you were born in the middle of the Coronavirus ‘pandemic’ that has killed over 600,000 innocent lives in our country. But thankfully scientists of the next generation, many of whom were not even born when the Polio vaccine was invented, have created vaccines so that you and your children will not have to worry about getting sick and dying from this disease.
Gio, of all the grandchildren Gigi and I have been blessed with, your birth marks a true milestone. All of your male cousins will carry forward the names of their father’s with names like Rodahl, Anderson and Santa Lucia, but you Giovanni Willliam Marsella will carry forward the Marsella name into future generations. .
I’m writing this letter to you because Grandpa Willie likes to ‘write’, in fact you come from a long line of writers. Your great grandfather Bill also liked to write. He wrote beautiful poetry throughout his life. He foresaw your birth when he wrote a poem back in 1973 called ‘The Jewel’ which I have enclosed with this letter. Your Great Grandfather Bill, like me and your Father was a man of faith. He believed you were born in the image and likeness of God, and that your birth would increase the value of our lives but also fulfill God’s plan for the purpose of life itself’ which is to make our world a better place and give ‘hope’ to the next generation of Marsella’s who will follow you.
Gio, my blessing for you as you now begin to grow into young adulthood,is that you cherish and protect the name you have been given. My wish for you is that you know that the ‘gifts’ and natural ‘talents’ that God has given you were his gifts to you and that the way you use those gifts in the world will be your gift back to him and future generations of Marsella’s who will follow you. My desire for you is that you fulfill the promise God made to us 13 days ago when you were born and ‘be’ the hope of your generation for our world. I can think of no greater ‘legacy’ than that.
Love,
Grandpa Willie
Milestones of the year, the Covid Era
Who are your friends? You know, because they get in touch with you and want to talk.
Who is your family? You know, because they include you in their home as one of the few they see normally, that is, no mask. They hug. They limit the number of people they do this with, so they can do it. You’re in that group.
Who are you? Can you live with yourself? What do you want to plan for what happens after the pandemic? You know, or at least begin to find out as the days, weeks, and months, go by.
Maybe a better way to say that is – what do you like to do, want to do, in this restricted environment? What do you not want to mess with anymore, or to say it differently – what can you see more clearly now about your life and how you’ve been living it? This would apply to how you’re living now, and how you want to live when things come back to a new normal.
And then there’s everyone else…
Since I’m an old hippie, I could never really empathize with how people felt because of the demonstrations and changes of the ‘60s. I was reminded of that recently when I saw a documentary on the time (you know you’re getting old when people make documentaries about some part of your life…) and saw again the fairly young (early 30s I think) woman who told a reporter that the Ohio National Guard should have killed more students. I knew a lot of people disagreed with what I was saying, thinking, and doing – I just didn’t know they wanted to kill me for it.
Now, I’m on the other side – I don’t want to kill people who feel that white people should rule, I just don’t get it. But they are serious, and not just a few of them are out there. In addition to that there’s the divisiveness over abortion, which in my mind is another issue of inequality. And all of this is coated in a thin veneer, or maybe is the thin veneer for the desire to sweep away our form of democracy. In the least, that is worrisome and tests my ability to be patient and listen, which is something we all need more of right now.
The most glaring exposure of our country is hand in glove with this, maybe even the enabler. Through the pandemic and the politics, we have clearly exposed our selfishness, our obvious lack of empathy for others, our total (I know that’s an exaggeration…) lack of community. It’s the old American “individualism”! We don’t care about others – the most obvious example is putting others in danger by not wearing a mask, because, after all, you have rights!
The one bright spot is what we did, through the government, to help feed and house the poor, and especially children, during this hard and unique time. That kind of government intervention to help a lot of people hasn’t occurred since Roosevelt. I don’t know how much longer it will continue, but we did do it. And I hope it can become a new standard.
The hope I have is that we will look at our history, come to understand it, and accept and embrace each other…but I’m not holding my breath for that.
Nova Scotia is looking better and better…after all, the Canadians welcomed me in 1971, should the draft lottery have put me in line to be sent to Viet Nam. Maybe the offer’s still good.
I am approaching my 50th wedding anniversary on Saturday (August 28th). What should be a joyous celebration is overcast by the loss of my husband 12 years ago. Although we had 38 wonderful years together, I still mourn the chapter in my life missing from the celebration of our life we should have had on this upcoming special day.
You asked us to reflect on regrets, apologies-amends, betrayals, and forgiveness. I have been pondering a lot over the past 18 months of the pandemic. I was so grateful that my husband did not have to live through this horrible chapter in our personal and societal lives. Even though I’ve lived alone for the past twelve years, it is hard to explain how different “being alone” felt throughout the pandemic. Even if cautious, I was fearful that had my husband lived, somehow the virus would have snatched him away. For that I am relieved he didn’t have to live through this chapter in our lives.
Regrets still swirl around me as I reflect on our time together. How much time did I lose with my husband because work always sucked up so much of my time? My husband was patient and encouraging and always honored the work that I did while downplaying his own stellar teaching career. Time lost to work is never retrievable no matter how one tries to justify the value of one’s work. I wish I could make amends for all that lost time and can only ask again for his forgiveness.
Did I betray my husband by leaving his side at the hospital the day he died? His tearful and crushing hug that last morning should have been a clue that perhaps he had emerged from his delirium and that he was trying to tell me he was in trouble. I broke free to confer with the doctor who was signaling that my husband was stable enough to be transferred 3 hours away to my own hospital. Fearing that I would upset my husband as he had been so many times when I entered his room, I chose to tiptoe past and begin preparations for the ambulance ride home. I will never forgive myself for leaving my husband alone, not sharing this homegoing story with him and not being nearby when he suffered his first cardiac arrest. What good was my planning when he was trying to communicate his distress to me? Early on his only concern before he spiraled into delirium was my welfare. Always my welfare, not his. His whispered plea to his sister and her husband to “take care of Ann” when they arrived at the hospital still breaks my heart when I think of the promise my husband extracted from them. The chilling discovery after his death of all our life insurance policies spread out on his desk foretold a premonition he might have had and reflected a decision he withheld to share his concerns early on to spare me the pain of his fear and anxiety about his illness.
I regret that I left the hospital to pack up my car for the return home. I was fooled again by the assurances of the physicians that although my husband was in ICU, he was stable. Getting the call at 2 a.m. that my husband had suffered another arrest meant that once again I had betrayed him and he was alone in a strange hospital on the edge of death. It did not matter that I had been there 24 hours every day until the day he died. Hearing that his prognosis was grim and that I was facing end of life decisions seared my soul and imprinted on my heart that I had let my husband down by not being by his side. Despite many hours of professional help, I will never be at peace with having not been present. Could I have saved him? Do I regret that I tempered my conversations with doctors and nurses so I wouldn’t be labeled a troublesome spouse? My own hospital social work experiences witnessing staff prejudice echoed in my head and dulled my professional instincts to be my husband’s advocate. I regret that I wasn’t more assertive and tracking down doctors and getting answers and trying to protect my husband from staff who came to see him as an out-of-control patient. Had they avoided his room that day, too, so as not to rile him in their relief that he was being transferred? How long did it take them to discover he had arrested? I’m grateful, however, that they didn’t intubate and sedate my husband so that he was still able to communicate albeit angrily at me. I’ll take that over lost conversations.
These are not things I wish to dwell on although I know if my husband is looking down on me, he has come to know that I have tortured myself repeatedly about the day he died. I wish to remember all the loving care and respect we gave each other. I wish to honor the life we built together, recall all things we taught one another, and how I can still feel the loving embrace awaiting me every time I came home. My husband was so happy to see me each and every day. And I him. I ask that my husband will forgive me for any mistakes I made however well-intentioned my decisions were and not being by his side in his distress and foreboding. I will celebrate our 50th anniversary by preparing his favorite meal, watching baseball, and sending loving thoughts and prayers skyward as he looks down upon me. I thank him for the life he gave me. It is a precious gift I cherish each and every day. Happy anniversary my darling.
There is Always a ‘story in sorry’
Have you ever noticed that the words ‘story’ and ‘sorry are almost identical? The one missing letter in the word sorry is the letter ‘t’ which stands for ‘tale’ and is ironic I think because there is always a ‘story’ in the word ‘sorry’. Unless the ‘tale’ is spelled ‘tail’ and is wagging atop 4 legs. I’ll never forget the day I took my faithful companion Luigi to the Vet many years ago for his annual check-up. The young attendant took the leash gently from my hand and turned to the doctor and said ‘Doctor this, pointing to my dog is Luigi and this, pointing to me is ‘his person’. My heart leapt at that moment as I heard the words ‘his person’, I am, I thought to myself, someone’s ‘person’ in this life Someone who loves and is loved absolutely unconditionally. Luigi was my Labrador retriever/german shorthair mix who lived 13 years that coincided with the turbulent middle years of my life. I can honestly say if it were not for him, I would not have survived those years, because he was for me ‘God spelled backwards’. He loved me unconditionally, the way I am supposed to love my fellow human beings and be loved by them but of course being human we often fall short of that standard, so instead we end up having to say “I’m sorry” or “Please Forgive me” or..”I forgive you”.
Luigi’ never had to say that to me and I never said that to him. Even when I held him on my lap in that same Vet’s office years later as he was about to be administered the shot that would end his life, with tears in my eyes and the memories of our times together rolling down my cheeks, he looked at me with those deep brown eyes as if to say don’t be sorry for you are giving me one last gift today. Eric Segal’s line in the book and movie ‘Love Story’ was misquoted. It shouldn't be ‘Love...never means having to say ‘you’re sorry’ it’s ‘unconditional love..never means having to say you’re sorry..’
So there is always a ‘story in the word sorry’ for us humans left to ponder whether we can truly learn something from our 4 legged best friends in this world. Like the story of my parents’ separation many years ago when I was entering my junior year in college at the University of MN. They called me from California where they lived. Dad had left Mom for another woman and I vividly recall him trying to explain ‘his side of the story’ behind his deep regret and apologetic tone on the phone. I listened quietly and knew in my heart that there was much more to the ‘story’ of their failed marriage than simple infidelity. And so I said “Dad, I can’t and won’t judge you as a husband, I can only judge you as a Father and you have been a wonderful Father to me…” Or the time I wrote a ‘legacy letter to my wife’ on the eve of my Prostate Cancer surgery years ago in which I sincerely apologized for the times in our life when the words I’m sometimes good at writing down on paper, did not match up with my actions toward her or our children”.
And so we humans in the end are left ‘with our stories’ that are often contained in our expressions of the words ‘I’m sorry”. What are your stories behind that word ‘sorry’? Share them now with those you love and care about in the form of legacy writing. A simple letter that shares that ‘story’ and says in the end ‘please forgive me’ or ‘I forgive you’. I look forward to the day when I am once again walking my dog Luigi across a meadow never having to say or hear those words again……
“You Never Call...You Never Write” A Legacy Letter to my adopted Jewish Mother, Rachael Freed
My Dear Rachael:
This letter is long overdue. I’ve been meaning to write it for some time and now that we are celebrating the one year anniversary of the monthly gathering of our legacy writing facilitators community and you are beginning to scale back your life’s work, it just seemed an appropriate time to write this letter.
Palliative Care Physician Dr Ira Byock in his wonderful book The Four Things that Matter Most reminds us of the 4 essential things we should say to those we love before we or they pass away “please forgive me...I forgive you….thank you,I love you”. This letter is focused on the last two messages of gratitude and love.
I’ll never forget the first day we met over a decade ago. I walked into a large lecture hall on the College of St Catherine’s campus that morning and there you stood all 5 ft nothing of you at the front of the classroom behind a table with stacks of your Women’s Lives...Women’s Legacies books that were for sale of course. I then turned and saw 12 round tables each filled with 4-5 people who looked just like you...by that I mean..they were all women. I remember thinking to myself “all right God ...this isn’t funny”. With very little Testosterone in the room I nevertheless took a chance and of course along with the rest of them that day were moved and inspired by your teaching the art of writing legacy and blessings to those you care about in this world.
Of course I am not your son by birth but I hope if I was you would never have to say to me ‘You never call….You never write” I suppose I could call my loved ones more often but thanks to you Rachael …..I write. Oh….how I write. I’ve written letters to my Father on his 80th birthday and one he read 8 years later on his deathbed so he could know his life had mattered and he would never be forgotten….a letter to my wife on eve of my Cancer surgery years ago apologizing for the times my actions have not matched up with the words I put on paper and promising to be a better husband and father, blessings to my 89 year old Mother before the Alzheimer’s she is experiencing takes away all her memories so she can know the impact of her life and legacy on the family.
And, like a lot of my peers in our community I am devoted to carrying on the work you have inspired us all to do in helping ‘others’ share their love, wisdom, values, with those they care about in this life…..’before it’s too late’. We all know that it is impossible to ‘bless and not be blessed in the process’. It is also impossible to be about the business of legacy writing and not be a person who ‘loves’ in the universal sense of what that word is supposed to mean. Your work, our work together, is the best weapon we have against all that is evil in our society and world today. One of your legacies is that this love and appreciation of legacy writing will continue through us and the countless number of other human beings you have touched and inspired with your teachings and writings over these many years.
Rachael, may you always have good friends, may you always feel the love of family and friends that embrace you today AND, as you take your place among the Jewish women of your generation, may God grant you a longer, happy and peaceful life, and may he help you be the change you want to see in the world.
Love, Bill
Meaning and sacredness of stories and how legacy writing is a spiritual practice
Let’s start with the danger of taking the stories too seriously. We may have landed on an interpretation that isn’t helpful. We may have forgotten that stories, being participants, cannot be identified without the benefit of letting them be who they are. They are another part of us, with their own mind, as it were.
So we can come back to it later and change the interpretation, or someone else can change the interpretation, and that new interpretation may be just what we need to move forward.
Now let’s go to how legacy writing can be a spiritual practice. That one is explosive. In my mind, spiritual growth relies on leaving things behind. Leaving behind family, leaving behind the ones you love, leaving behind even yourself. Else how could you become new, deeper. How could you leave and become new – if you hold onto the old self, the old story, the old way that you always kept close because it was comfortable. It was known.
Jesus, Buddha, and endless others – had to leave to become who they were. And it wasn’t easy, but it was necessary.
Blessings and Curses of the Pandemic
My retirement and the pandemic coincided. I knew I would be alone more anyway – the pandemic just confirmed it, beyond imagination.
It focused me. I’m a potter, and my detached garage is my studio. I knew I would be spending a lot of time in the studio anyway, but now the time is different. I have for the last year and a half been working in the studio in silence, which means no music. But somehow, in some way I can’t characterize, the silence or the times has made me look at my work very differently.
I learned how to make pots almost 50 years ago, mostly functional pots such as dinner ware, serving sets, platters, covered jars, and the like. But my focus in the last several years has been making bowls for Empty Bowls’ events.
This is an event that features a meal of soup, that you enjoy eating from a handmade bowl in a communal setting. You make a donation to help feed people, and you leave with your bowl, now empty, as a reminder that you have helped to fill the empty bowls in your neighborhood. In short, it’s an event that encourages community mindedness while raising money to feed people. I donate my bowls for many such events.
The point is – I’ve made thousands of such bowls, and you would think there’s nothing more for me to learn about making “my bowl.” They are all generally the same shape and size. But this past winter, I began to do things in the making process I’d never done before, subtle things.
For the first time, I started to watch the pot grow, in the making process, from the top – I came to think of it as the overview perspective, rather than from the side, which was how I had learned and what I had been doing for decades. This different way of looking at the formation of the pot changed everything…
In addition, I inscribe sayings on the inside of my bowls, such as “blessings on you.” This meant that I had to invent, as it were, a calligraphic style. It is the part of finishing the bowl that means the most, incising the words into clay. For the first time, I decided to re-dampen the clay right before I go about incising the words into it. A simple thing, again, that I might have been doing all along, but I never did. This has increased the meaning and the pleasure of the making, beyond words…
Further, the dampening process has required that I touch the pot again, delicately, tenderly, quietly, and slowly. It is a way for me to bless the pot, like I never have before…
I guess what I’m saying is that somehow, the pandemic helped me to see things differently,
to do things differently,
to feel things differently,
and most importantly, to be open to do all of those new differences.
Dear Joe, Michelle, Dan, Mary Beth and Laura:
In 2020 we’ve watched in horror as innocent lives have been harmed or lost due to racial strife, a global pandemic, and an armed insurrection against our very own democracy. I’m writing this letter because I feel it’s important to pause and reflect on how these events have touched our lives and more importantly how these events speak to how we should live our lives going forward. My reflections are influenced by two men who have been mentors in my life, Fr Richard Rohr, a Christian ecumenical teacher/author and my Dad, your Grandfather.
First let me repeat something I wished for each of you in my first ethical will given to you years ago, that is, that with God’s help you (1) discover your own purpose for being given your life, live your life according to that purpose, and (2) that you realize the importance of loving yourself and those around you with the same unconditional love God has for you. It is this 2nd blessing that I want to focus on in this letter.
If the events of 2020 taught us anything they taught us the importance of loving others as God loves each of us. Richard Rohr reminds us that God did not give us a sign of the ‘end of time’ in the Book of Revelation, and he did not do so in 2020 either. Instead God pulled back the curtain to reveal what is real, what is true and what is lasting. That doesn’t mean that our life doesn’t go on, but that our lives won’t go on the way we thought they would, could and even should. Rohr says that when things are ‘unveiled’ we stop taking things for granted. He suggests that in the wake of the events of 2020, we all reframe our life stories and liberate ourselves from
accumulating an abundance of possessions and managing our consumption in a life-and-death competition with each other...to a life where we use our senses to ‘see what God sees, hear what God hears’ and touch and feel the way God does…”
You know that Grandpa died just 9 days into the year 2020. I’ve wondered what Grandpa would have thought about the past year? What wisdom would he have passed on to us? A few months after his passing, I received a box of some of his belongings including a large manilla envelope stuffed with small scraps of paper, table napkins and such that Grandpa used to write poetry. Grandpa wrote poems when the spirit moved him to make sense of the events of his life. I’m compiling these poems in a book I am bequeathing to you entitled ‘Windows of my Soul’ the Poetry of William Louis Marsella’s life’. In a poem ‘the Darkness of a Mother’s womb,’ Grandpa echo’s the lesson of seeing ourselves in the other when he writes “ The evil of our lives is from the birth of hate and envy--that selfish act of self indulgences--and no compassion for one’s fellow being”. No, Grandpa did not see George Floyd take his last breath, but listen to what he says about using God’s sense of sight in the world “And if it be black as night, and we reach out to a helping hand--I wonder how many of us Look to see the ‘color’ of the hand that reaches for us--Oh somehow I do believe God gave us no sight at all--instead some other sense to aid us--how truly beautiful the people of this world might be to add to his already beautiful earth…”
Richard Rohr your Grandpa and I all agree that one lesson to take from the year 2020 is that all of us can be the ‘antibodies’ of the viruses of hate and divisiveness and polarization, by allowing God to fully inhabit our senses, not close ourselves off from the world but open ourselves more fully to it. We are free to be fully ourselves but not to exist only for ourselves, not preserving ourselves but giving ourselves in service to others…….
Love, Dad
What became so obvious to me during this pandemic is the self-centered character of the American people. Clearly our value of individualism effectively eclipses any meaningful expression of care for others.
The catch phrase was individual rights over the common good – You can’t force me to wear a mask – I have rights! There was no concern for how your failure to wear a mask might endanger someone else. I thought my analogy of the drunk driver was effective, but it wasn’t that persuasive. That is, you have a right to drink yourself silly, but you don’t have the right to drive at that point, because there is a good chance you may hurt or kill someone. In other words, your rights end when you endanger someone else’s right to life!
The rejoinder to that was that the virus is not real, and besides, masks don’t accomplish anything anyway.
Leaving aside the disregard for critical thinking and the lack of respect for a profession that knows more than we do generally about diseases, what this tells me is that our culture doesn’t have what I would call a sense of community mindedness.
It is not a value in our culture to take care of each other, to look out for each other. Basically, and sadly, we’re a selfish lot. And we’ve paid the price.
This clarity gave me support for the expansion of the work I’m doing with Empty Bowls to help feed others. In the last 15 years my work has focused on Empty Bowls’ events. But in the last couple of years I’ve begun to expand what I’m doing to focus on events at high schools and colleges where they have a food shelf for the students and a ceramics program that makes it possible for the students themselves to make the bowls and organize the event.
My idea is to begin the process of teaching the students to do for each other – they know the students who are hungry, and now they can do something themselves to help those students. Add to this an academic unit on social justice, and the students can begin to think about how to address the problem of hunger long term – there are social and political solutions that we can create. Or more simply, we can expand existing programs.
But this takes a social value of community mindedness and a political will.
Finally, the pandemic prompted me to go another step and explore what role religion might play in helping to create a greater sense of community mindedness. Can individual churches, synagogues, and mosques become more involved, and how? It is certainly within the purview of their ethics.
Breaking the Shell
The Polynesians say the world began when Taaora, their name for the Creator, woke to find himself growing inside a shell. He stretched and broke the shell, Earth was created. Taaora kept growing and eventually found himself inside another shell. Again, he stretched, and the moon was created. Again, he kept growing and found himself contained inside another shell. This time the stars were created.
In this ancient story, the Polynesians have carried the wisdom that we each grow in life by breaking successive shells. When there is no more room, then the world as we know it must be broken, and we are born anew.
I have worn many shells. The first of me wanted only to watch my children take their first step, be the Leave It to Beaver mom and the Total Woman wife. Then as my family grew, I grew also. I realized life was bigger than my home. That is when I broke the shell and took up residence in the career shell.
The second of me wanted to write award winning articles, be the ideal manager, serve on boards, be an upstanding member of my community. But then, I felt confined in all this magnificence. Another shell outgrown.
And now, the third of me leisurely sips tea with friends, and all I want is to be an instrument of peace.
Mark Twain: “The two most important days in your life: the day you were born, and the day you found out why.”
What is it the season for?
Iowa is richly blessed with the fragrances, sights and sounds of each turning season. Autumn is especially conducive to contemplative walks in the woods. A canopy of colors showers me with crimson, amber and burnt orange as leaves fall into a new becoming.
Maples and oaks surrender their hold allowing leaves to flutter into compost. Autumn is a time of letting go of what no longer serves us. Attuning to the rhythms of the seasons can be a wisdom guide to teach us about life’s rise and fall—like the ebb and flow of the tides and the waxing and waning of the moon.
What is it the season for? The rise of the pandemic has triggered a season of social unrest, a season of confronting our fears, a season of rethinking our values, a season of listening to our inner voices. This season is ripe for transformation.
It’s time to reap the harvest of summer’s growth. What have I learned and how will it carry me into the quietude of winter and the greening of spring? As I continue my prayerful walk, I cast my eyes to the ground focusing on the rocky path I follow. It would be too easy to fall into despair, but just when it seems like everything is falling apart, that is precisely when I feel closest to the Divine. My hope, and prayer, is that without speaking a word, the light within me will urge me to bestow blessings on those who pass by, both human and non-human.
As I reach the top of the hill, my eyes are drawn upward to the vastness of the blue sky, to the treetops and then to the river that flows below. I feel less isolated with this wider view. I breathe deeply the crisp, cool air. I feel connected to all of life through breath, through air that envelopes the entire Earth. I listen to this invisible element that invites me to release control of my narrow views—to listen with my whole body. What are the black bodies, the brown bodies, the white bodies, all bodies trying to say during these turbulent times? A wise sage once said that to listen is to risk being changed forever.
Is it possible for me to me to put down my books, stop reading about love and kindness, and instead, open to the spirit within me? Possibly participate in a discussion group on diversity, write about social issues, volunteer at a food pantry, perpetuate civility, squash denigrative discourse, and listen—really listen to the stories of others.
What is it the season for? When I, when we as a nation, stop trying to shape all of humanity into our own image, to see past the divisions we create, open our eyes to the panoramic view, and become still enough to hear—we will join together to become eager and willing participants in this new becoming.
(Becoming – when a leaf releases its hold from a branch and flutters to the ground, it will eventually become compost. It has a new purpose. So, when we release what no longer works for us, we can become something new, find a new purpose).
Transformation from the pandemic –
What I foresee is the potential of bio-terrorism, not only the horror of it but the possible emergence of an autocratic government, or governments around the world, as the solution to deal with it.
Personally I have stepped up thinking about and even doing what I feel is the life I was born to live. What I can contribute, what I can help to make happen – both now and when the current pandemic is essentially over. And I do believe it will come to an end, like the 1918 pandemic. I have a studio, fifteen feet from my back door, and every day I am there making pottery for the Empty Bowls that I believe will happen when this is over. And more, for the social justice agenda I have been working on.
What I dream about, the radical change I hope can happen is the emergence and growth of a widely embraced community mindedness. What I have seen in the last seven months, with clarity, is how individualistic we are in America. If I’m ok, that’s all that matters. We don’t really care about how this has affected all of us. We just care about how it has affected each of us individually – let the rest of them “go get a job!”
To do for others is not in the vocabulary of our culture. I dream that it can at least become part of it and that we can begin to remake ourselves into a more decent people.
Transformation: Legacy Lessons in the Year of the Pandemic
“There is an incredible transformation to be had if we are willing to let go and see what lies on the other side of whatever we are gripping so tightly”. 1
What am I gripping so tightly? My fear. Fear that my voting rights are being disenfranchised in so many ways. Fear that my one vote won’t be enough to prevent the re-election of a populist autocrat. Fear that the Supreme Court will be dragged into deciding the outcome of a protracted election thus invalidating the individual civic act of my vote. Fear of intimidators emboldened by our president to patrol polling sites armed with A-K 47’s and long arm guns. 2 Fear of postal delays. Fear that ballot drop boxes will be damaged or stolen. Fear that my absentee ballot will not be counted.
How do I transform my fear into hope and trust that my civic right and responsibility to choose our leader without intimidation or overwhelming anxiety will be secure? How do I shake this fear and replace it with faith that my individual actions are powerful ones which will make a difference? That my single act will join others to become a river heading to a beautiful sea of like-minded citizens?
The radical change I fear most in our future is further erosion of our voting rights. I fear that the eerie parallels between the 1918 pandemic and our current pandemic are lessons we have not learned about science, leadership, and national unity. Eerie parallels about false claims regarding voting; disinformation from leaders who lie; governors, mayors and states begging Washington for help; initial scoffing that the disease was no worse than the flu; and the list goes on. Then as now all these factors generated fear, mistrust in our institutions, and uncertainty which influenced the elections of 1918 in similar ways we are experiencing currently.
But a ray of hope from that era which inspires me now is the example of the Suffragettes continuing to fight for the right to vote despite a devastating national emergency by adapting their campaign methods, being fearless in expressing their beliefs, and by embracing the same selfless safety methods we are begging our citizens today to practice – simple but effective practices – masks, social distancing, and personal hygiene to fight the pandemic. Reflecting on the efforts of these brave women can hopefully help me to shed my fear and believe that change is possible through individual actions and personal responsibility if we persevere as these women did 100 years ago.
Blessings: A Healing Trifecta for These Divisive Times
A Blessing to Restore Justice and Equality
“May we find courageous creativity to revisit the injustices, mistakes, and imperfections that are cycling through our society today and which have exposed the longstanding fissures of inequality that are perpetuated by the history lessons we have ignored. May we find a creative path to restore justice and equality that our nation needs to heal in these divisive times.”
Anam Cara Blessing for our Communities
“May we find beauty and light in the diversity of our communities. And open our hearts and minds to the joys of new friendships and traditions. May our inner light illuminate a path to understanding, acceptance and healing in these divisive times. May we discover our individual anam cara and extend it to those relationships we seek to nourish. And find common ground and joy in one another.”
Cento Blessing to Honor our Losses in the Time of the Pandemic – With thanks to Kevin Anderson, PhD, “I Feel Like I’m Losing It”
“May your tears be holy water that you catch and gently touch to your lips. May your tear stained fingers cross over your heart and be a tender gesture of blessing yourself in your life. May your tears become a healing blessing you give yourself to honor the bravery you’ve shown by releasing your unshed tears that mire your grief. Your bravery will not be tarnished by tears. Your tears will cleanse your soul and become an act of courageous self-compassion.”
A Part of Myself I Do Not Know Yet
Birthdays come and go each year…another number as they say’, but the one coming up for me on November 11th is different. I will turn 70 years of age and I believe this is cause for me to pause a little longer and reflect on my life.
This next decade is a period of transformation for me. As I said to the city hall clerk a few months ago when she asked me if I wanted the word ‘senior’ put on my driver’s license I said “ah...no…. if you don’t mind, I prefer the word ‘elder’”. I believe my best years are ahead of me as I reflect upon and harvest with those around me whatever love, wisdom and knowledge I have accumulated over the past 70 years in hopes that they will perhaps benefit or learn something from my life, if only not to make some of the same mistakes I have made over the years.
I’m turning 70 during a worldwide pandemic which gives me good fertile ground to reflect on the lessons this pandemic has taught me and that I will want to pass on to my children and grandchildren. I’m not sure that these ‘lessons’ would not have come from simply moving into my ‘elderhood’, but I think they’ve been accentuated or moved along by the tragic reality of this pandemic that is out of control, and taking more and more innocent lives every day.
What I’ve come to realize throughout this pandemic is that “I” am not in control of my life. If my ego was in the front seat of my car for 69 years, it has been shoved and pushed now into the back seat where frankly it has belonged all along. I am a Christian and believe that I need to surrender to the will of God and trust that I don’t have to control, manipulate, or ‘fix’ things or people in my life to get what I want or what I think I need. I need to look out at my world around me with what Richard Rohr calls a ‘second gaze’ and see it with compassion and patience, and know that in reality that second gaze is God looking back at me with His love and compassion and trust in Him that His will is done.
The second thing I’ve realized is that this pandemic does not draw a distinction between the ‘persons’ it is infecting and killing...all races, ages, genders, sexual identities; the pandemic doesn’t see differences and treats all of humanity equally. In a perverse sort of way there is a lesson in this for all of us, even as we continue to see the negative effects of institutional racism and violence against those ‘we’ deem different from ourselves here and around the world. This pandemic is not singling out ‘the good from the bad’, the ‘righteous from the non-righteous’. The pandemic does not recognize ‘we’ vs ‘them’ it only sees …’us’ and so should we. The cure for ‘hate’ and ‘violence’ in our society will be as revolutionary as the unforeseen ‘vaccine’ for COVID-19. It is what Valerie Kaur refers to in her most beautiful book, See No Stranger as ‘revolutionary love’. Hopefully and prayerfully this pandemic has opened my eyes to no longer seeing my fellow human beings as different from me in the color of their skin, or their ethnicity, or their religious beliefs, or their culture, or their gender or sexual orientation…. NO, hopefully this pandemic has opened my eyes to look upon them with what Kaur refers to as ‘wonder’ knowing simply that they are “a part of myself I do not know ...yet.”
Unexpected Visitors
Up until COVID, I thought the days of unexpected visitors were long gone.
When I was a kid, there was nothing quite as exciting as Dad’s cue of “Let’s go for a drive!” It would send our family of six scurrying about, all piling into the woody-wagon to head out with no set plan or destination. Sometimes we’d pull over, somewhere along the way, for a Creamsicle or an A & W root beer but, more often than not, we’d wind up outside the front of someone’s home, friend or family member, hoping for a visit.
The routine was that Dad would leave us in the car while he ran up to ring the doorbell. We’d all wait with anticipation for Dad’s come-on-in wave, which almost always came. You see, back in the early 60’s, guests were expected. A little refreshment was always on hand just in case visitors popped by. There was a natural casualness about this impromptu togetherness that filled us with a warm, fuzzy sense of community and connectedness.
But, somewhere along the way and somehow, we let things change. The busyness of life ran up to such a fast pace that, by the time I had my own family, it was considered rude to drop in on anyone, even on my own, let alone with a family of four. Heck, with the advent of texting, it’s almost considered rude to call someone out of the blue without texting first. “Do you have time to connect? Oh, okay, tomorrow night at 7 is fine.” We’d begun to schedule our connections, so as not to impose ourselves on anyone and be considered an inconvenience.
Now, along comes COVID, the unexpected visitor, the unwanted surprise, and we get together on Zoom. It’s just not the same, is it? Wouldn’t I die for someone to drop by, to be in my company, to sit with me over a snack or a glass of wine?
This unpredictable visitor is a guest we don’t invite in. Instead, we are forced into our homes alone or with our immediate families to reflect on what’s truly important.
I eagerly await the post-COVID day and wish that we’ll revive the practice of real togetherness. We’ll all stand on our doorsteps with open arms and welcome unexpected visitors into our homes. We’ll return to a simpler time where refreshments will be ready and waiting. We’ll sit in the same room together, grab a hand, lean on a shoulder, and reminisce. We’ll value our shared stories of COVID, plan our futures, and dream.
Legacy Blessings – A Healing Trifecta for These Divisive Times
A Blessing to Restore Justice and Equality
“May we find courageous creativity to revisit the injustices, mistakes, and imperfections that are cycling through our society today and which have exposed the longstanding fissures of inequality that are perpetuated by the history lessons we have ignored. May we find a creative path to restore justice and equality that our nation needs to heal in these divisive times.”
Anam Cara Blessing for our Communities
“May we find beauty and light in the diversity of our communities. And open our hearts and minds to the joys of new friendships and traditions. May our inner light illuminate a path to understanding, acceptance and healing in these divisive times. May we discover our individual anam cara and extend it to those relationships we seek to nourish. And find common ground and joy in one another.”
Cento Blessing to Honor our Losses in the Time of the Pandemic –
With thanks to Kevin Anderson, PhD, “I Feel Like I’m Losing It”
“May your tears be holy water that you catch and gently touch to your lips. May your tear stained fingers cross over your heart and be a tender gesture of blessing yourself in your life. May your tears become a healing blessing you give yourself to honor the bravery you’ve shown by releasing your unshed tears that mire your grief. Your bravery will not be tarnished by tears. Your tears will cleanse your soul and become an act of courageous self-compassion.”
WHAT’S IT LIKE TO LIVE IN THE “TRAGIC GAP” BETWEEN WHAT HAS BEEN AND WHAT WILL BE THAT HAS NOT YET REVEALED ITSELF?
An interruption in my life and all our lives occurred earlier this year when the Covid-19 Pandemic began to rapidly spread across our nation and around the world. This caused a disruption in almost all aspects of my life, my work, my shopping, my freedom to move easily about my world, my travel plans, my time with family and with my church community. Since this onset, two other major crises have also developed, the economic crisis precipitated by the COVID-19 pandemic and the Black Lives Matter Movement for racial equality visible in the many protests and demonstrations, even violence in our streets. And then, the most important Presidential Election in our history is being battled out in the midst of these crises, adding another layer of chaos.
As I pause in this “Tragic Gap”, I have become ever more keenly aware of the brokenness, poverty, white privilege and resulting racism, the environmental degradation and the economic and political corruption in our country and the resulting suffering and death perpetrated on so many because of these societal ills.
It is shocking to me to come to a fuller realization of how easily accepted is the complete loss of truth, values, compassion, integrity, respect for law and one another and the social caste system that reduces a large portion of our society to a level where they are unable to find employment, keep a roof over their heads, feed and educate their children, have basic health coverage or live into the fullness of human life without fear of even greater losses and challenges.
I am unlearning much of what I have learned as our history contradicted by verified historical facts now coming to light. I am reading and dialoguing with others about my life of white privilege and how the society and culture that formed me is racist and then needing to acknowledge my racist identity, actions, words and choices that have a profound effect, intended or not intended, on people who are black. I am coming to a clearer understanding not only of who I am but who I want to become and my role as a healer in my family, community and world
I am hearing Sacred Scripture with new ears in light of the times we are now living and in light of my growing awareness of the suffering and oppression of so many, proclaimed verbally and visually hourly in the news.
I am spending more time in silence and prayer and in nature, more time hiking, biking, walking and kayaking to find peace, inspiration, healing, beauty and just taking time to be with and ponder the events of these days. Who is God? Who am I? Why am I alive in these times? What is mine to do?
I don’t feel this is the time to imagine the future. It is time to learn and grow, transform my own heart before joining with others to imagine what is beyond the “Tragic Gap.” God has a vision for our lives and for the world that I believe is different from the way we have been living. The invitation for me now is to listen to God in all the ways God is speaking to me and to our world and care about what God is speaking. Can I embrace this time and allow God to break in on me, open my eyes and heart and deepen my spiritual journey toward greater wisdom, justice, love and compassion and away from fear and indifference?
As I journey, I seek those moments of God’s grace, of hope and of new life already in our midst, glimmers of what is possible, a future that is already revealing itself.
Write about yourself and your learning during today’s wilderness in our communal history.
When the mayor and governor spoke after George Floyd’s murder, they acknowledged that racism was the root cause, and that we would deal with that, but that right now, we can’t let you burn the city down. There’s a curfew!
Neither Johnson nor Nixon used the term “racism” in the sixties. Or any governor that I remember reading about. It was all about “civil rights,” which is much more placid. That made me think – regarding women, it was “feminism,” not equal rights. And then there was the war, and we demonstrated regarding all three, often simultaneously.
Civil rights faded away. The war ended. And feminism got Title IX as a consolation, with the ERA being shouted down by Phyllis Schlafly and still not enacted today, a century after the Suffrage Amendment.
My point is that when I heard the mayor and governor call it what it was – Racism! – I felt like this was a tipping point, that something could actually get done, or at least begin to get done this time. Since it took 144 years from the Declaration of Independence before women got the right to vote, I don’t delude myself that anything will happen quickly.
This time, I thought, I’ll graduate from demonstrating to doing. The first thing I did was introduce myself to the pastor of the black church 2 houses down the street on my block. They were distributing food to people daily starting back in June, and I went down and thanked them for feeding my neighbors. Gave them some money. I continue to wave as I drive by, and when the pandemic is over, I think I’ll go to a service from time to time – just to put myself in the middle of black people.
Since I’m retired now, officially last Friday, and there is a pandemic, I will devote myself to my pottery making in anticipation of continuing the work I’ve been doing for the last 15 years – helping to feed others through Empty Bowls’ events. And more than that, taking the idea to colleges where there are food shelves (almost all community colleges and even the Twin Cities U of MN campus has one) and persuading them to coordinate their ceramics program and their social justice studies program with an Empty Bowls event to feed the kids – and begin to inculcate and build community mindedness – which is the only way I think we’ll ever right the inequities.
I couldn’t have done any of this 50 years ago, and it seems that maybe the time wasn’t right anyway. But now, the time is right. And I feel I can do something about it
It is no wonder . . . I know that so much happens when you just start talking with people. I didn't know what else to do immediately after George Floyd's murder, except that. So I started looking for opportunities to talk with black people. And found them. Lots of good conversations.
There's a black church near my home – they were feeding people for the past 3 months. I went down and thanked them for helping to feed my neighbors. I think I might start going to church there once in a while after Covid. I'm not a Christian, but just to hang out and meet folks. Who knows where it might go.
After George Floyd's murder the mayor and the governor said on television – regarding the curfew – we know the root cause of what's happening is racism and we are going to find ways to address that – but ight now, if you're out after curfew, we will assume you want to burn down the city and we can't allow that.
In the '60s no one ever said anything simple and direct like that. Because of their public statement, and for other reasons I can't quite identify, I have hope that what is starting now with trying to address racism directly is the start of something that will actually go somewhere.
The wonder of simplicity.
All I Do is Wonder
These days, it seems as though all I do is wonder. Yesterday I wondered about today. Today I wonder about tomorrow. I wonder what the future will bring. What will life look like post-COVID? Will there be a post-COVID or must we accept COVID as our new normal?
I woke up this morning wondering about the rules. What’s changed about what I can and cannot do today? Will masks become mandatory now? May I go out to dinner? Visit a library? I am confused by the decision of our provincial government to relax the rules around visiting our senior residences just as our positive tests are back on the rise. This is part of their “learn to live with COVID” plan and I have to ask, “What was the previous lockdown for?”
I’ve never known a Canada so divided. Each province is judged by their COVID numbers. One province vilifies another. I read in the news this morning that hate incidents targeting Vancouver’s Asians are up. I wonder how much more divided we will become.
Women are behind men in recovering jobs lost during the shutdown of businesses. Childcare is less readily available at this time. Mom- guilt around trying to do it all is taxing the energy and stress levels of career women who are uncertain if and when they can return to the workforce. I wonder if COVID might exacerbate the inequality of the sexes.
I wonder if I can stay optimistic about my children’s future. Our national debt is over 1 Trillion dollars. I looked it up. That’s a 1 with 12 zeros! How will the government plan to service this debt? Will the kids ever experience the good times Paul and I did as young adults? Will they continue to have the freedom we’ve enjoyed?
When will I see my sister again? I wonder when our border with the U.S will reopen to non-essential travel.
Looking toward the future is like looking into a fog. My hopes and dreams are suspended somewhere within it. When will making plans feel possible again? I wonder what will emerge out of that fog.
Yet, every day I wonder at so much.
I wonder at:
I especially wonder at the effect of human touch, the instant smile and warm feeling from the top of my head to tips of my toes when I finally hugged my children.
I am in awe of the kindness, patience, grace and goodness of people during what seems like an insurmountable situation.
Perhaps COVID has been sent to test my core beliefs. Love is all there is. The universe rewards action. Everything happens for a reason. Everyone needs a creative outlet. What you put out is what comes back.
I think about where I’ll fit in as time goes by. I can choose to wonder about possibilities. I can smile, I can listen, I can choose to be part of the solution by insisting that my beliefs hold true.
I wonder, if I focus on my beliefs today, will it make a difference tomorrow?
I wonder how our legacy will emerge when we ponder. . .
“Wonder” for me, both a noun and a verb, is about awe and honor as well as curiosity, asking “how” and “why.”
All aspects are pertinent as I wonder about John Lewis’ life. He died this week from pancreatic cancer at the age of 80…which reminds me that RBG is in the hospital again, willing herself to live, trying singlehandedly to save democracy. But back to John Lewis, one of so many Black Americans, who no matter what they suffer individually or as a group, continue to say “no” to violence. John Lewis was spat upon, beaten, imprisoned, and like RBG, got up every time and continued to address his cause.
I wonder, “How” did he do that no matter the physical and emotional pain to which he was subjected? What quality did he have that I’m sure I don’t have: plain courage, faith in a God that strengthened him every time he was attacked or imprisoned, some deep dignity and sense of purpose, the extreme commitment to live out his destiny to fight for justice, or maybe just to live every day his message of “Love.”
I wonder further about the power of this love. I just read James Baldwin’s 1963 The Fire Next Time to my young adult grandchildren. Baldwin wrote: “Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.” I wonder if I can ever love myself so deeply that I would have the courage to unmask myself (even to myself) in a meaningful way as a white woman living in the American racist dream.
Here are Lewis’ words about love: “Anchor the eternity of love in your own soul and embed this planet with goodness. Lean toward the whispers of your own heart, discover the universal truth, and follow its dictates. Release the need to hate, to harbor division, and the enticement of revenge. Release all bitterness. Hold only love, only peace in your heart, knowing that the battle of good to overcome evil is already won. Choose confrontation wisely, but when it is your time don’t be afraid to stand up, speak up, and speak out against injustice. And if you follow your truth down the road to peace and the affirmation of love, if you shine like a beacon for all to see, then the poetry of all the great dreamers and philosophers is yours to manifest in a nation, a world community, and a Beloved Community that is finally at peace with itself.”
I have read and reread these words, and I know that Lewis “shone like a beacon for all to see” but my paucity of imagination doesn’t even allow me to wonder how any man, but most especially an American Black man can possess such spiritual love in a society such as ours.
In 2018, John Lewis said on Twitter, “Do not get lost in a sea of despair. Be hopeful, be optimistic. Our struggle is not the struggle of a day, a week, a month, or a year, it is the struggle of a lifetime. Never, ever be afraid to make some noise and get in good trouble, necessary trouble.”
I wonder if the noise and good trouble I’ve made and done in my 80 years have brought good to my community and to my family. Although my noise and trouble don’t come close to John Lewis.’ I believe it has brought good, but who knows, blinded as I am by own perspective, and wanting that to be a part of my legacy.
Tom Perez, DNC chair, wrote: “Congressman John Lewis passed away at 80 years old, leaving behind a legacy of activism and service that will echo for generations to come. . . . His zeal for justice was only matched by his capacity for compassion. His legacy … demands that we continue to work toward completing our unfinished business, his unfinished business: Justice. May he rest in power.”
The other huge wonder, is this sense of “awe” I have wondering about myself as I read about Holocaust survivors: would I have the courage to go on, in the face of Nazi hatred and brutality, the loss of family, the loss of my name, the loss of my spiritual community, the beatings, the starvation, the inhumane treatment that survivors endured throughout WWII. I was born one day before Kristallnacht, the 1938 pogrom orchestrated by Hitler and his Nazi followers. Though I wasn’t in Germany (I was born in Minneapolis), I feel that there is some meaningful reason that I was born when I was and who I was. All my life I’ve been obsessed with reading about the Holocaust and have wondered, “Why?” “Why us?” “What does it mean to be a Jew post-Holocaust? How can I trust in a God that failed to save us and allowed 6 millions of us to be killed? This wondering is bigger than just curiosity; it is related to the wonder about what my life purpose is.
Viktor Frankl, Holocaust survivor, psychiatrist, and author of Man’s Search for Meaning wrote: “Each man is questioned by life and he can only answer to life by answering for his own life; to life he can only respond by being responsible.” I don’t even pretend to grasp the meaning of these words in response to those trapped and suffering in concentration camps – how can one be responsible in such a circumstance? What does “responsibility” even mean in this context? I experience great awe for those who survived, but don’t pretend to understand how they could have been responsible, and not just have had luck or were in the right place at the right time.
And I’m no closer to an answer as I wonder what the purpose of my life is: as a white American, as a Jew, as someone born the day before Kristallnacht.
And we’re back to LOVE. Viktor Frankl, also wrote: “The salvation of man is through love and in love.” And I’m back to James Baldwin and John Lewis, men who claimed love of self and of all others. I wonder if I could ever have such largesse: to love a Hitler, a cop who kept his knee on George Floyd’s neck for almost 9 minutes. I can’t love people who put kids in cages and separate them from their families, send asylees back to countries where they face certain death . . . it goes on and on.
I loved exploration about wonder: it helped me be newly more honest with myself about myself and it helped me feel awe for a real hero, John Lewis. May he be at peace, knowing his life and legacy was one of great meaning, honoring himself, his family, black Americans, all world citizens, and his God.
P.S. I believe that wonder is the beginning of mastering the art of contemplation. Here is Richard Rohr’s wisdom:
“I believe that the combination of human action from a contemplative center is the greatest art form, one that takes our whole lives to master. When action and contemplation are united, we have beauty, symmetry, and transformation—lives and actions that heal the world by their very presence. . . . Gradually, our thoughts and actions become more mature, but it is only when we begin to question our own viewing “platform” that we begin to move into the realm of contemplation. . . . .
Pandemic and George Floyd
In the sixties peaceful demonstrations against the war, in support of women’s rights, and for increased civil rights were dealt with using tear gas. We didn’t think that was unusual, but we did get nervous about National Guard troops with M-1s that we all knew from Kent State were loaded.
After the sixties, and with all the protest – little was accomplished. As a country we continued to make wars, as a society we gave women Title IX in 1972 to get them to be quiet, and civil rights did not get expanded, understood, or acted on, Martin Luther King’s assassination notwithstanding.
The difference between all of that and what happened after George Floyd was killed by the police was that the Governor and the Mayor publicly said that they knew the underlying cause of this terrible death was deeply imbedded and centuries long cultural racism, and that after we protected the city from being burned down, we would begin to address racism.
Nobody in power in the sixties ever promised publicly to address racism, inequality, and making war. That’s the difference, and in my mind that is significant and represents an open door.
With the pandemic we have time to think about how we might do this. But I see things happening, such as the discussion of defunding the police department and the cancellation of the contract between Minneapolis Public Schools and the Minneapolis Police, things that can be a foundation for something greater – more comprehensive and deeper, to address these issues.
It has made me think historically. In 1776, the only people with voting and property rights were rich white men. Everyone else was excluded from the flowery language of rights and equality written in the founding documents of this country. In the 19th century the first Feminist Movement allied themselves with Abolitionists to fight for rights – women and blacks had a common goal – to be treated equally. Women were left out of the amendment that made black men free, and it wasn’t until 1920 that women got the vote. But the historical coincidence of women and people of color sharing and working toward equality had begun.
Now, on the centennial of Women’s Suffrage, I see the possibility of addressing, definitively, the underlying, interconnected ills of this country:
Patriarchy Capitalism Poverty Inequality
In other words, rich white men are still in charge, and they must be made equal with people of color and women, and with not-so-rich other white men. The privileged few at the top won’t like this. But we have the opportunity now to establish community-mindedness, over individualism, and unity over separateness. The wealth of the country must be redistributed to erase poverty – as much as capitalism likes disproportionate wealth and thinks it needs it. And equality must be made real.
I don’t know why, but I see this as a real possibility now, when it was just something we had hoped for 50 years ago. Each of us must begin to figure out what we can do, and then do it.
White Privilege
I learned what white privilege is in the 1980’s when I taught a class called “Multicultural Literature” with Charlie Sugnet, an English professor from the U of M, an activist, and my partner in starting the College-in-the-Schools program, a program where Twin Cities’ high school students earn college credit for these classes that they take in their high schools. Reading and teaching black literature had been a passion of mine since my senior year in college when I came across the book “Native Son” by Richard Wright in a book store. Because Charlie shared this passion, together we were able to transform the English literature curriculum. High schools are still teaching some of the books we first taught in this program.
I was raised in a wealthy, conservative suburb of Detroit, Michigan called Bloomfield Hills. The only black people I ever saw were waiters at Oakland Hills Country Club and, of course, our maid. I hated it and I couldn’t wait to move on. I thought that many of the people I grew up were, at least to some extent, racist, but I definitely was not.
When I graduated from college, I moved to St. Paul, and over the years, I thought I was fighting racism by teaching black literature, but that was a long time ago. So, when these protests began, I, like so many other people, decided to read the book “White Fragility.” Reading this book affected me as strongly as reading “Native Son,” did when I was young. I abruptly realized that I had become complacent about racism. I only have one close friend who is black, and Ike and I only rarely talk about race. I have never seen him as that different from my white friends. Until now.
On the day that George Floyd was killed, Ike went into intensive care with Covid-19. And because Ike is the only person I know who has it, I abruptly realized that I shouldn’t see him as being like my other close friends; Ike’s black, and that makes a difference.
When I read the words “We must continue to ask how our racism manifests, not if,” I realized, for the first time in my life, that I am a racist. Quite an awakening.
HARMONY IN DIVERSITY
As I walk the beach today, I see persons who are Black, persons who are Muslim, Hispanic families, gay couples walking hand-in-hand, handicapped adults and children, senior citizens, young people, babies, people of all ages, shapes and sizes who are enjoying the sun, sand and water on the Oregon Coast. I reflect as I walk through this sacred space on Mother Earth where the ocean waters and the dry sand meet in a dance of giving and receiving, intertwining in ever-changing patterns of wave formations which leave designs in the sand and even treasure from the sea. The dry thirsty sand changes color as it absorbs the salty sea passing over its surface on its way to and from the sea. I am swept up and embraced by sun, sea and sand. It feels peaceful as I listen to the sound of the ocean tides and allow them to reset the rhythm of my body and soul.
As I walk, I look about at the beautiful diversity of humanity, a kaleidoscope of color and movement, gathered at the shore today and living harmoniously with nature and each other. A wave of hope washes over me as I struggle these days to cope emotionally and spiritually with the COVID19 pandemic, and the current racial, economic, ecological, political, social and religious crises in our country and around the world and my own spiritual crisis when asking myself, yet again; Who is God? Who am I? Why am I here and why now? What are my unique gifts to offer at this time? What is mine to do in this time of global awakening as we are all called to re-examine our past, individually and communally, and begin to imagine a more just compassionate, loving and inclusive world?
I am grateful for this reminder today of the Oneness of all creation, the beauty and diversity of humanity and the experience of being with individuals living in peaceful harmony with the natural world and each other.
I renew my commitment to learn and grow through these challenging times, to listen to others, particularly those whose lives and beliefs differ from my own, to create ways to continue to ground myself in my faith and my relationship with the Divine and discern ways I can become a more intentional participant in the solutions to our problems rather than in the ways I have intentionally or unintentionally contributed to them, whether due to lack of knowledge, fear, inability to change, silence rather than speaking out about the concerns of others or a sense of comfort with my own life as I have been privileged to live it.
Are the beliefs and values I have lived by and the choices I have made still the same ones I would choose to live by considering all that I have seen, learned and experienced over these past months? To answer these question is the spiritual work I am called to do at this time, and I commit to showering the world and all those around me with abundant, extravagant, gracious and unconditional love, as I believe it is ultimately love that will transform our hearts and lives and be the foundation for imagining a world that will be worthy of our children, grandchildren, and all future generations while also saving Mother Earth, our home.
Just when I think I can’t absorb anymore stupidity about the mind boggling insensitivity coming out of the White House and the incredulous timing and decision to hold a rally on this holiday in a city that 100 years ago was the site of the worse black citizen massacre, the total disregard for the threat of the virus and putting people’s lives at risk albeit signing their lives away with a waiver they won’t sue the President if they attend his rally, I find a way to declare my soul searing anguish for my fellow black citizens by creating this cento poem from a NY Times food page article today. I used the article’s title and phrases throughout the story to create this cento poem about how black chefs are making decisions to celebrate this special African American Independence Day this year. Last year on Juneteenth, Congress held hearings on reparations for the “sin of slavery”. The insensitivity seems to have rolled over to this year as well.
A Juneteenth of Joy and Resistance Cento
Juneteenth a time to share in the season’s bounty. red drinks ruby-hued foods But this year, killings of unarmed black men, subsequent uprisings the coronavirus pandemic have made the holiday a symbol of unfulfilled promises. Juneteenth legacy of resilience reminder of ongoing anguish. African-Americans’ Independence Day Juneteenth nourishment for the community; dual pressures of unrest and the pandemic, black chefs lean into joy as a form of resistance rather than choke on the smoke of inequality Juneteenth a moment to exhale. an unbroken circle a balm while the storm clouds loom over every aspect of black Americans’ lives.
A blessing for this time in history:
“May we find courageous creativity to revisit the injustices, mistakes, and imperfections that are cycling through our society today and which have exposed the longstanding fissures of inequality that are perpetuated by the history lessons we have ignored. May we find a creative path to restore justice and equality that our nation needs to heal in these divisive times.”
I had written this haiku after visiting Fort Sumter and Boone Plantation two summers ago which is the historical reference in the above blessing about the lessons we have ignored.
History marks us – With stains Still worn today
‘The Fire Next Time’
It is no accident that we suffered the loss of an innocent black man’s life at the hands of the police and the protests and riots that ensued which literally burned parts of our beloved City of Minneapolis to the ground, while we are undergoing a world-wide pandemic. Moments in history like this ‘leave a legacy’ for those of us experiencing them in real time and for future generations. Is it possible we can glean a lesson from these two events happening at the same time? Or dare we say even a ‘blessing’?
I’d like to share with you, my children, grandchildren and great grandchildren, the legacy I witnessed on those fateful days in May 2020. First, I am writing this and you are reading this as a person born with white skin. I cannot speak to nor pretend to identify with the deep anger, grief, and frustration of my black and brown brothers and sisters who have endured the ungodly oppression and discrimination at the hands of our society over these past 400 years.
When I witnessed in horror the fires burning in Minneapolis, destroying the 3rd police precinct, the businesses and homes of innocent people, the looting of stores, I was filled with anger and rage at the perpetrators of these unlawful acts in the name of protest.
But then something happened to me when I was able to read the message that lay beneath the smoke, the message, “NOW CAN YOU HEAR US”? I realized that those fires were being set by generations of people of color in this country and I remembered why it all suddenly made sense. I remembered reading African American author James Baldwin’s letter to his young nephew in 1963 entitled The Fire Next Time. Baldwin’s legacy letter to his young nephew was written on the 100th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation in this country and described his reality of growing up black in America. The title of the book was a Biblical reference recalling God’s warning to the people of Noah’s time: once the flood waters had receded, that the “destruction of ungodly people will not come from water but ‘from the fire next time’”, I recalled these words as I watched our city burn.
“But I also witnessed something else during those days of looting, rioting, and protesting, something that gave me faith and hope for the future. I saw thousands of my fellow citizens from all races and creeds shoulder to shoulder, arm in arm, raising their voices and calling for justice and a society based on love, not hate, understanding, tolerance, and not prejudice.
“At a time when a deadly virus is killing thousands of us because we are not isolating ourselves from each other, maintaining ‘social distance’ and wearing face masks, people were willing to risk death to this virus in order to come together and unmask the faces of white privilege and systemic racism.
“And so, this is the lesson I want you, my children and grandchildren, to remember, that for the majority of citizens on the streets of Minneapolis over those fateful days in May, the desire to undo and address the wrongs and injustices suffered by people of color so that they could truly live emancipated lives in America, was stronger than the desire for their own self-preservation; there is a word for that …..’Love:’ The kind of love that James Baldwin was prophetic enough to write about to his young nephew over 57 years ago when he argued for a love that “takes off the mask that we fear we cannot live without, and know we cannot live within..”
Two things stand out for me during this pandemic: 1. I have never been a fearful person and 2. I usually do not feel helpless in most situations. I could never have imagined myself as being fearful to step inside my local grocery store for the first time in 6 weeks and that a trip in the vegetable aisle could be a “to die for” moment trailing me home. I was proud of myself for cooking and eating from my pantry as this has been a goal of mine to conquer food waste and limit snacks this year anyway. Feelings of guilt crept in though after conquering this first fearful trip as the news kept up a continuous flood of stories about long lines at food banks. Was I doing my part by upping my donations to our local food bank? Was there more I could do than send a check? And make mounds of face masks for my family, friends, and community? Where is the legacy in that? I’ve had a hard time concentrating and my writing has shut down until recently. This is unusual for me and baffling. Recently, however, I have starting writing pandemic poems and memoir pieces reflecting the impact of this time in our history.
Finding hope and shedding feelings of helplessness has also been a challenge. To generate hope and shed helplessness, I pulled back from an uncommon lethargy and reminded myself that I was checking in with family and friends regularly to see how they were doing and anchoring myself by swapping little bits of hope where we could find it in one another or in the wider world like sharing poems, hiking and nature experiences, and recipes. Going on a news diet helped tremendously in tamping down anxiety and reminding me that I did have control over this aspect of my life and that putting the news on hold was not diminishing my role as a good citizen. I am proud of my state’s response and leadership in Ohio especially compared to the White House leadership which I have found appalling. My state’s response has been an uplifting moment throughout the lockdown and something I can look back on as how our state and community saved lives by our individual and community responses to care for one another. Nothing is more uplifting and reassuring than humble leaders relating the facts and if something is unknown, admitting it and trying to find answers and solutions.
Reflections on this Memorial Day May 25, 2020
Many years ago when I was still in the military, I was asked by a local American Legion Club to be the keynote speaker for services at the Cemetery that day. Dressed in my full uniform, I leaned over the podium and wondered out loud whether families across the country who would be enjoying each other’s company around a backyard barbecue or picnic table by the beach ever took this holiday or the freedom they were enjoying for granted? Today we pause to honor and remember our fellow Americans who have given the ‘ultimate sacrifice’ their very lives so that we can enjoy the freedom of living in America and that sentiment is still relevant and important today, perhaps even more so, when that freedom has been somewhat restricted by the Coronavirus worldwide pandemic.
Today the enemy we fight on the battlefield is not visible but no less lethal than the enemies we fought in all the wars this country has been engaged in since its founding 225 years ago. And the sacrifices being made by our fellow citizens on the front lines of this battle are no less real and ultimate. Nearly 100,000 of our fellow citizens have fallen to his virus and countless others have risked their lives on the ‘front lines’ treating our fellow citizens risking, and in some cases losing their own lives in the process.
Those of us not on the ‘front lines’ of this war are asked to make our own sacrifices by drastically changing the way of live our lives by living in ‘isolation’ away from our fellow Americans which is the only weapon that seems to kill this silent enemy. On Memorial Day we pause to reflect on these words ‘Freedom is ‘not ‘Free’’ something tells me these words have never had more meaning than this Memorial Day May 25, 2020.
The days without a D day started for me the 9 of march after the Womens Day 8 of March, after a massive manifestation on the main streets of Mexico City, against violence against women. It was an overwhelming and intense event that shocked in many ways. Among other warnings we had to write our phone on our forearms with a marker in case of accident. This sole requisite and the association with the Holocaust numbers tattooed gave the event a cathartic tone. Next day Reclusion, days without end date.
I felt reclined in a hammock, suspended from imaginary hooks, above the world, rocked by the time instead of the wind, trying to understand and organize what exactly was happening. The hammock swayed and I saw the world as I knew it, all leveled, in chaos.
The hammock swayed back and I saw my little familiar world, threatened by loneliness and fear, but as “time goes by” like in the song, my little world started to shine with creativity, zoom company, pampered by family, and I kept rocking in the hammock, like a pendulum, one side shows the tragic, the confusion and problems, and swaying back I see that uncertain times can bring love and not necessarily fear.
I am an introvert by nature and am quite comfortable being home alone (with dogs and sometimes young adult daughters). My work keeps me busy and I don't feel isolated -- although I do miss being able to see my friends in person. I spend every day with gratitude.
I was asked to do the sermon for my church's May 24th online worship service to commemorate the 90th anniversary of our historic Japanese American Methodist Church. In preparing for the sermon, I read, studied and wrote for several weeks. The best part was interviewing two 93-year old women friends about how they experienced and survived being evacuated from California in 1942 and sent away to the incarceration camps during World War II for several years. As with this COVID quarantine, they did not know how long they would be imprisoned -- "isolated from the outside world." I asked what advice they have for surviving being quarantined. They offered such wisdom, grace, perspective and good humor! Both expressed deep gratitude for being able to be safe at home in such "luxury" -- as compared to a barracks in the middle of nowhere -- indoor plumbing, good food to eat, television, a phone, freedom. Both shared that their strong faith has kept them connected to a greater power and also to one another.
Her blue satin prom dress hangs in the closet protected by a clear plastic bag. Matching shoes rest on a shelf nearby. Invitations to a graduation celebration addressed, tossed into the dark recess of the desk drawer. Photo boards filled with memories of a seventeen-year old’s journey. Like so many high school graduates of 2020, my granddaughter, Chloe, experienced a graduation she could never have imagined. Instead of an auditorium filled with family and friends, she walked across the stage solo. The school video-taped each student so we could watch it later on cable TV. The class of 2020 knows disappointment. They know life can change in an instant. They know phrases like social distancing and sheltering in place. They know how to sew face masks and not hug their grandparents. They know their future is uncertain. Yet, they face life’s trials with an admirable willingness to press on.
Chloe looked at me with a sparkle in her eyes, “It’s all about hope, Grandma. I’m going to college. I am going to be a teacher.”
The pandemic that is not only sweeping our nation but also the world, has changed life as we have known it and lived it.
For me, I have been filled with a sense of mourning and heartbreak by the uncertainty, darkness and chaos created by this current coronavirus pandemic, feeling very alone at times as the sense of darkness encompassed me.
Much of what has anchored me and given me a false sense of control in my live, such as freely gathering with family, friends or community, my sense of independence and freedom, my routine, my work in the world that I feel deeply called to do, all has been abruptly halted or, at a minimum, drastically changed. I have felt untethered and unprepared for the volcano of feelings that erupted.
Initially, I found myself overwhelmed with grief and loss and aimlessly going about my days without focus, routine or intention and without a sense of accomplishment or purpose. Tears were welling up and over-flowing as my fear and deep sadness increased, almost with each breath. The ever-unfolding daily news reports of the pandemic graphically displayed before my eyes filled my mind, whether awake or asleep, and brought anxiety and physical agitation to my being and broke open my heart and soul. The number of deaths multiplying daily, the crumbling of our social and economic systems and the inherent injustices in our society laid bare by the stories, lives and faces of the suffering, stirred my deep compassion.
I am a member of that “high-risk” group as a cancer survivor with a bronchial condition and as an “elderly member” of my community, anticipating my 75th birthday soon. I have survived cancer twice and gone on to thrive and celebrate each day but my deep fear now is that were I to contract COVID19, death might accompany this assault on my health and well-being and I might not continue to thrive, I might even die. This fear of becoming seriously ill if I were to contract this virus propelled me into addressing some end-of-life tasks that had been on my mind to complete. More stress.
My life has seamlessly crossed the double-yellow line from the in-person to online world. Each day brings an hour of Zoom contact: A Sunday once-a-month Book Club (skipped by a few zoom haters), each Monday, a half-hour chat with my singing group (which I have yet to make), Tuesday another hour and a short story discussion, Wednesdays, my online legacy course connects people from Las Cruces, New Mexico with the community left behind in Portland, Maine, Thursdays bring synagogue meetings and Fridays, blessed Fridays, my daughters and son meet me at noon. Days, even a week, passes before I am forced to put on a bra or shoes. I order a lot of food from the neighborhood restaurant, happy not to cook in the name of keeping a few folks employed. I spend as much time as I can on the back porch enjoying the birds, sky, and mountains before the encroaching heat forces me indoors.
The lives of my friends, kids, and grandkids have been far more affected. My friend Karwen watched her father’s Iowa burial on Zoom. Daughter Jenn, a nurse, has been swabbed three times this week, while her sister, Amanda, struggles to find ways to teach drama to high school students. My youngest daughter, Megan’s job as a television reporter is rewarding once again. Andrew, a stage manager. moved to Philly last fall to be closer to NYC, only to find that his beloved theater world has been replaced by the maws of a state bureaucracy unable to untangle unemployment regulations. All five grandkids are bored by the educational system’s feeble attempts to teach online and have had all extracurricular activities, including friends, cancelled, making me wonder about kids who spend years in refugee camps.
Early one morning when all non-essential services in my city and the world had just shut down in order to limit the spread of COVID-19, I put on my coat and shoes and left the safety of my home for my job at a millwork shop that was deemed essential. Along my commute, there wasn’t a soul on the sidewalks nor other cars on the streets. It was as though I was the only one in our city risking exposure. At the office, a new sign on the door said, “STOP.” Only staff was allowed into my workplace, now sterile with the smell of disinfectant and bleach. Throughout the day, I washed and sanitized my hands to rawness, tried to focus on my work, and checked the news updates every few minutes. Secretly, I wanted to stay home like the majority of others. I wanted to stay in my pajamas until noon, read a book, work on creative projects, clean out my closets and bake chocolate chip banana muffins so I could eat them all myself. I felt exhausted by the end of each day yet, it felt indulgent to even think of complaining let alone express my fears out loud. I wanted to be grateful for the work as so many around me were losing their jobs. I reminded myself that I was doing my part, helping to keep a little bit of our economy going.
Two weeks in, I was gaining weight, I was losing sleep, my coping skills and my retirement dreams. My husband and adult children were working through this time too, some at home, some outside. Each of us was falling apart on some level. We needed to make our mental health a priority and agreed to stretch the rules of isolation to create our three-household bubble. We started to meet weekends, just west of town at the family cabin – a place we could observe social distancing yet be under the same roof. There, we stopped our steady diet of news in favour of games, shared-meals and rest. We listened to each other’s fears and worries. We took turns caring for each other. We counted our blessings. Our gratitude turned our fear into faith that everything would be alright. Slowly, weekend-by-weekend, the pieces of our selves came back together, even though we couldn’t hug each other good-bye on Sunday night. Now, I see the whole-hearted family we were before this invisible intruder rocked our world. My home, my workplace, and the cabin have become my safe havens. I still don’t know what the other side of COVID is going to look like but, hugs or no hugs, together we’ll get there, the strength of our family bond reinforced.
After This All Ends
When the stay at home order came, my 2 1/2-year-old grandson stopped going to his childcare program. I care for him from 8-1:30 every day so his parents can work from home. I was aching for him and wondering what he'd remember from his early years, the pandemic. After I wrote this piece, I no longer wonder. He's (we're) having a sweet time. I hope that’s what stays with him.
After this all ends – What will he remember?
Singing “ABC” and “Happy birthday” while we wash, wash, wash “wash away corona, corona, corona.”
He says, “Grandpa died” (from the carcinoma) Does he know people die (from the corona)? Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.
No more go to Montessori child care days days. Mommy and Daddy work from home, have bills to pay pay. Grammy comes to play.
There’s toys - diggers, dozers and dump trucks yellow rubber ducks, a brand-new doctor’s kit.
We read these books- What are Germs? At the Construction Site
Cars and Things That Go No, Silly “One more, please.”
We can’t go play with the neighbors, to the park, toy store on the ferry or anywhere.
There’s sidewalk chalk, neighborhood walks bike rides to “Lee’s property” with real diggers, dozers and dump trucks.
We paint with fingers, make handprints on the paper, smiling suns, crying suns.
There’s funny and sad cucumber faces cucumber, yogurt-kale-banana-peach popsicles, baking chocolate chip cookies.
We paint with water, watch it evaporate . Like time, it disappears.
There’s lots of kisses, snuggles tickles, giggles and wiggles until he squeals, “Stop! NO! NO!”
I scream silent prayers, No! No! Please, stop corona. Let us live.
After this all ends What will he remember?
rebound, reopen, recluse
confusion abounds communities disengage from lawmaking governors
we seek leadership - switching tv channels
for the elderly vulnerable to viruses everything is rebound my mail today - increase in taxes
reclusive behaviors peace manifested leave it buried the tulip lives from one hidden bulb
as the essential worker is to our community a spirit of sunlight emanates hope and beauty beyond -
When I was growing up, I was an only child, and my parents didn’t give me a lot of physical affection, but when I was an adult, it seemed to me that more and more people hugged all the time, and I felt rather left out. Then when I was a young teacher, one of the male teachers started hugging me. I remember one time when he said “Get ready, Karen. I’m going to hug you.” My daughter was also a hugger, so she hugged me, but my son and I were left out. Then a few years ago, I got up all my courage and told my family that I was going to start hugging them, which I did whenever I left their presence. But I couldn’t summon up the courage to say “I love you.”
Because of Covid-19, I didn’t see my family for ten weeks. When I finally saw my son, he and his family came to my house to help me in the yard for my Mother’s Day present. While they were at my house, they followed the Covid-19 guidelines of not hugging. So, when they were leaving and I couldn’t hug them, I felt really sad. Then it occurred to me when they were all in the car that I could say, “Because of the Covid, I know I can’t hug you, but I can say I love you. I almost didn’t do it, but happily I did. And it felt so good. Now I just have to keep saying it. A gift of the virus.
The past couple of months, actually since I self-quarantined after flying from Tel Aviv to Toronto amidst 359 other passengers who seemed to be coughing all night) and on to Mpls, I have been sheltering-at-home. I note about myself that when I have something purposeful to accomplish I feel fine, but days when nothing is on my calendar, it’s harder to get up, easier to numb myself with tv, and more difficult to focus on reading, even fiction. Eating has not been too terrible although earlier this week I threw all my candy into the garbage, to avoid chocolate binging at night. I’ve loved walking in the park behind my house, watching newborn goslings walking and swimming behind their mothers, all the perennials coming alive with color, the grass greening, and the trees granting us shade and serenity as they filled out and again became home for the red-winged blackbirds and other birds. But I was never a meditator or yoga practitioner, so except for my Zoom connections with my synagogue and Al-Anon communities, I did not find my conscious spirituality increasing.
Most of you know my story of “hearing a voice” in 1999, never before and never since, telling me to turn the ethical will into a “healing tool for women.” About a week ago I awoke, not with a voice but an idea that was from beyond my usual conscious thinking. I’d been reading David Plouff’s pre COVID book about how to participate in the upcoming election. In it he wrote that if everyone could get 5 people to register, we would have done our part. So what did I awake with? The idea that I might be able to make registration simple in my condo building, that’s had lots of turnover in recent years, and the population in the 131 units has gotten significantly younger. I called the city, and they agreed to send over 250 sets of registration forms to be returned to the county election board, and mail-in voting forms for the primary in July. Then I emailed my building manager for permission to do this; he thought it was “a great idea” (memories of the Rabbi pointing his finger at me when I announced what the 1999 voice had said – “Do it; it’s an important niche.”).
Then I got into a convoluted plan – to have our party room be opened; I’d sit on the deck, masked and gloved, and wait for folks to risk themselves to come down to register…I’d even gotten to the details of wiping down the pens with disinfectant. The next morning I woke with a simplified plan: I’d deliver them to everyone’s door with a cover sheet that says, “Delivered to you by a masked and gloved fellow resident.” That seemed much safer for them and me, and could be my exercise on days when rain kept me from the park.
I told a friend in a suburb near me, and she is now planning to do it for the three buildings in her complex, and I may even put it on social media!
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