Jean's Blender

An Agent of the State of North Carolina?

2012-01-26T14:30:00.000-08:00

With the current news stories about the proposed amendment to the North Carolina constitution, in main determining that the only marriages recognized in this state will be those between one man and one woman, I see some problems that such an amendment would cause. There already is a state law to that effect, but to include it in our constitution brings about some real questions.

For one thing, once something is in the constitution, it is nearly impossible to remove it. The argument in favor of the amendment alludes to just that fact, because of the fear that having only a state law prohibiting other forms of marriage leaves it vulnerable to change and removal. But the effort to make such an amendment effective is a time-consuming effort, and by the time such an amendment would be included in the constitution the whole public understanding of marriage could have shifted course and we would be stuck with a piece of concrete blocking our way to better legislation on the matter. We must be wary of of legislating social order.

Other problems bubble up in this issue. There would be unintended consequences, related to various domestic arrangements which provide for health care, welfare assistance, and legal matters related to conflictive domestic situations.

As an ordained minister, I see problems with our whole concept of marriage partnerships which already exist. We needn't add more to the list. Am I an agent of the state? Marriages where I was the officiant early in my ministry included a term I don't see now in the Presbyterian ceremony. It was worded something like this: "by my power as an ordained minister, and with the authority invested in me by the State of North Carolina, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The words may not have been exactly that, but the meaning was there. Now, I think: what did the State have to do with my power to officiate in weddings? If the only authority I had to marry a couple came through my presence as an ordained minister, what business is it of the state? If on the other hand, the state must be able to recognize me as duly ordained in order to validate that marriage, what role does a religious body play in the marriage vows? On whose authority is a marriage valid? That of the State or of the religious tradition? And what about a non-religious wedding? Whose authority is active?

Is marriage between two people, in this case a man and a woman in our state, a matter for civil records or for
the religious body if there is one? Can a civil marriage take place in someone's back yard or must it be in the courthouse? Why would location matter? I officiated at one wedding in a hospital room. Whose authority was active in that setting?

One question that is now added to the conundrums above: is marriage only for one male and one female of a certain age or older? What, other than societal values, determines that standard? Is there a hidden agenda here for legalizing only particular forms for a wedding and particular players in the act? And what legalities are present when two adults are living as married without the ceremony and proper papers issued by the governing authority? Common law marriage has been an accepted relationship in the past. Would the marriage amendment outlaw that standard?

When I was ordained, I was ordained to a particular service in my Presbyterian denomination, to promise to uphold the standards of ministry with all people. Nowhere in those ordination vows was there one about presiding at wedding ceremonies of anyone. That service was left to my discretion as to my performing it or not. The State was not the authority for that situation. What happens to my authority to officiate at weddings if the State regulates just who may partake of that ceremony?

I realize I'm raising a lot of questions here, and many can't fully be answered as yet. On the other hand, I do believe that I am ordained not by the State but by those acting in the name of the Church, the Body of Christ. For other religions those faith leaders are recognized in the name of their own belief systems. But I am not an agent of the State in officiating in weddings any more than I would be when I preach, serve Holy Communion, or provide other ministerial services. The one thing I can say in favor of this matter of an amendment to our constitution about what is legally acceptable for those entering marriage is that it brings to light all the many many questions that relate to the tension between Church and State, or religion and State. We've just begun this investigation into the whole concept of authority -- whether it be a matter of the authority of the individual
or of the State.

The Call

2012-01-16T15:03:00.000-08:00

Miss Briggs was my first grade teacher in Hot Springs, Arkansas. In those days reading bible stories in the public schools was permitted. She would begin each day with a story from a book of bible stories for children. One of them was the story of Samuel's call in the Temple when he served the old priest Eli. At that time Samuel was a young boy, and one night he was awakened three times by a voice calling his name. The first two times he went to the old man to see why he had called. But Eli denied having done so and sent the boy back to bed. The third time it happened, however, Eli realized the call to Samuel was coming from God. He instructed Samuel on what to say should he hear the call again. He was to respond, "Speak Lord, for thy servant hears." (This wording dates back to the version as I first heard it.)

Well, for some reason that story hit a chord with me. I don't remember any of the other stories Miss Briggs read to us that year. That afternoon after school I was playing in our great big (to me) back yard and thinking about the story. I heard something that sounded like "Jean! Jean!" and I immediately answered in what I had learned young Samuel said, "Speak Lord, for thy servant hears." But I soon realized it was the sound of a car going by somewhere in the neighborhood. I kept listening. Again, I heard what sounded like my name being called and gave the same response, "Speak Lord, for thy servant hears." This time it was only tree branches rubbing against each other. One more time I heard my name, and one more time I gave my answer, only to realize it was a shutter on the neighbor's house moving in the wind. By that time I decided God wasn't going to call me that day, and soon the whole incident was forgotten. . . until I heard the story in my adult years. It may have been during my Hebrew studies at Duke Divinity School.

So when I was ready at last to be ordained, one requirement at that time was to preach a sermon about my sense of call. I preached to the congregation in Madison, where we were members. The example I worked with of course was that story Miss Briggs had read to us. My brother Bill, who was with the Institute of Government in Chapel Hill, came with his wife for the occasion. He was known for his quick wit, and after the service he turned to me and said, "Jean, I was sitting there in the church and I heard, 'Jean!' 'Jean!' and I looked around wondering if it was God, but I found out it was Miss Briggs."

Fortunately, the sermon met the requirements, and with the rest of the credentials necessary for ordination I was ordained September 7, 1980 at Hillview Chapel, a Presbyterian chapel under the care of First Presbyterian Church in Reidsville, NC. I served there two years and then went on for a variety of ministries until my retirement in 1998. Miss Briggs will remain in my roster of stories about ministry to remind me of the connection between the old old stories and the ones that still take place.

Times Are A'Changin'

2012-01-14T10:20:00.000-08:00

It appears that the Vatican is being by-passed by a movement in the Catholic Church led by those who support ordination of women as bishops,priests and deacons, and also ordination of married men. Despite efforts by the Catholic hierarchy to prohibit such measures, the numbers of women priests continue to rise. They of course are not part of the Vatican-led Church, but are part of the Roman Catholic Women Priest (RCWP) movement. The effort to put an end to mandatory celibacy for male priests is also strengthening, along with that for ordaining Catholic women.

Articles in the current issue of The Woman's Pulpit, a publication of The International Association of Women Ministers, of which I am a member, indicate steady increases in the numbers of ordained women in the Catholic Church, via the RCWP. The initial moment for such action took place June 29, 2002. Seven women were ordained to the priesthood on a boat in the Danube River, by bishops with authentic credentials and in good standing. Later ordinations also took place on the St. Lawrence waterway. Apparently rivers are in a different and neutral category where the strictures of church dogma do not apply.

Today the count runs to around 90 women, ordained in Europe, North and South America, and South Africa. Three of these are now deceased, but their sisters grow in number. In addition, a number of women have now been ordained as bishops in the RCWP, able to ordain priests. There are at least 12 women bishops today, serving in several different countries. They are supported by a number of male priests and bishops who in addition favor allowing clergy to marry.

How does the Vatican deal with this powerful ongoing movement? Not well. Last October in Rome representatives of Catholic organizations from around the world called for full and equal participation in the Church by women deacons, priests and bishops. A vigil led by Father Roy Bourgeois took place in St. Peter's Square, following presentation of a petition signed by 15,000 supporters of the movement. (Fr. Bourgeois is also known for founding the School of the Americas Watch, and faces dismissal from his Maryknoll order for his support of women's ordination.) Behind the visible supports in this country we find that 63% of Catholics here also support women's ordination. That along with removing the celibacy requirement for priests would address in very practical terms the shortage of priests world-wide. But the Vatican is having none of this. Their opposition remains in spite of historical documents showing that the early Christian bodies included women deacons, priests and bishops. Even so, the Rome leadership stands by Canon 1024, prohibiting women's ordination.

It would seem that despite such opposition to the ordination of women and married priests, Catholics around the world are finding ways to by-pass such archaic rules and making it possible for that very large body of Christians to be even more effective. Life will go on, and if the old order refuses to budge, it will be left behind in the coming decades.

It may appear to some that as a Protestant clergywoman, I don't really have a reason for engaging in and supporting this growing movement. But as a member of the Body of Christ, which must not be divided in spite of the many different traditions within it, what affects one part of that body affects me. I remember the difficulties I went through when actively serving in ministry as a woman. It was always a struggle to be recognized and accepted by some as fully equal in my ordination. I survived by involvement with communities of ministers, lay and ordained, male and female, who knew that change could not be prevented. We grew because we had support systems. And that is how the Catholic women are making their ministries accepted and received with thanksgiving. The objections, which are extremely strong and vicious, cannot prevail against them. As a Benedictine Oblate, I have many friends among that community who demonstrate by their gifts that women are strong leaders and believe in ministry as a communal effort. We wait for the inevitable with great joy and anticipation.

How to Write a Christmas story

2011-12-26T16:29:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve: the soft caroling by the organist using the quiet registers, the candles, the stained glass window receiving light and shadow . . . I was in the choir loft enjoying the quiet moment. Then the old stories were told once more from the pulpit. Never mind that things didn't really happen like that, with angels on the hillside, the stable, the long journey to Bethlehem. Truth is more than facts. Truth is deeper, more real, believable.

I can picture the storytellers in committee, fashioning those old old themes, the narratives, the main characters. They come up with several different versions, choose two of them, and begin to fill in the gaps. A dream works well for this: let the dream be to the father-to-be, told by the Divine, that his fiancee is with child. So the two of them marry and the woman grows into her own fullness. Well, let's add more to this. Look up the prophecies. Oh, the location is needed, to set the scene. So wait until she is great with child and add a donkey or two, and send them on the way to Bethlehem, that little town the man's ancestors claimed as theirs. It's a good idea to merge the plots about here. We'll add that this is registration time so lodging was at a premium. Where shall this couple go then? How about the stable where the animals live? It's warm in there and we can pile up more straw in the manger where the cows come to eat. It makes a soft bed for a newborn.

Good idea to muffle the sounds of childbirth. Keep this a solemn moment. After all, here is the offspring of the Divine, foretold by ancients to lead a life that takes him to death. Well, at least temporarily. What do we need now? Why not focus on those shepherds, the lowly ones. But how? Ahhh, do you hear what I hear? time to add angels to all this, and the bright light that nearly outshines that other light, the Star that brightens the heavens. Yes, this will set a wonderful scene. Awesome. Give them songs to sing. Give them promises to sing to the world. Let them sing praises to the Divine, the Holy One, the Maker of All That Is. What an introduction to the entering One, the Promised One, the One of Mystery. Yes, mystery. We need not explain any of this.

And then . . . let's add some foreigners to show this isn't just a local story. Make them very wise. Make them seekers of a prophesy. Make them wise in the way of the lights in the skies. Have them follow the brightest of lights, as they make their way. Add conflict here, with a meeting before the mighty king who fears any more powerful than he. And so these wise ones keep traveling. They will find more than they sought. Let them know the significance of this one who lies in the straw. There must be a way to protect this child from the evil king. Ah yes. A dream, of course. Send a dream to these wise ones to find another way home. They are not to return to the city of the king. Dangers there abound. Have the king issue an edict to kill all boy children lest one should usurp his throne. Don't dwell on that tragedy taking place in the city. We must focus on what has come to this earth. Let us make this a story of one who will some day, some day, meet the death dreamed of since his very birth. But we must not let that be the end of the story. Let us tell it as the truth that is present in all the story. Let us show that death did not kill him. We must finally see him as alive forever. Yes. That is how we must tell this. Yes. And yes.

Unexpected Kinship:Brownie and Winston

2011-12-17T14:10:00.000-08:00

Brownie

For a time, we rented a small house on a busy road. A caramel-colored dog would come to our yard often, although we think he was from another home across the road from us. We had lost a cat or two because of traffic, even with a fenced yard, and were not looking for another pet at that time. We had plans for the home we would build on a mountain ridge next door to good friends, which would be a far better place for any pets, and were waiting for the completion of that house. But the dog from across the road began coming frequently to our house so we decided to feed him. Gradually, he did indeed become our dog, and we named him (appropriately) Brownie. He would roam, however, and one time had a fierce encounter with some other dogs and limped home with many wounds. The vet gave us medicine to treat his injuries and he survived that agony. When we finally moved into our new home on the “mountain” he came with us.

Brownie was a wonderful companion for us and for our children. One day he came down the long drive to our new place with a girl friend: a black and white dog who seemed friendly enough. But we didn’t believe we could take in another dog at that time and gave her to some friends who lived in Madison, the town below us. They named her Blackie. One day soon afterwards, we got a call from our friends notifying us that Blackie was pregnant, and she must have been when Brownie brought her home, because she was almost due! Blackie’s pups were adorable and all found homes quickly. One went to a home near where we would be living after we sold our mountain home in order to be closer to school and the town events. Blackie spent the rest of her life with our friends and was happy. Unfortunately, I can't find our photos of Brownie.

Winston

I seem to be the only one in our family who acknowledges this, but the little dog who some years later wandered into our yard in Madison where we had moved a few years before, was a descendant of our Brownie! It seems that an offspring of Blackie, who lived in town, had fathered the little pup. As what I consider certain proof, not long after that dog appeared, whom we named Winston, a female pup showed up, just like Winston except for being black and white like Blackie, whereas Winston was caramel and white. Same markings, same kind of voice, same size. We were certain she was Winston’s sister, and we found a good home for her. Their father was a neighborhood Romeo, we were told. So to this day I am certain that our dear Brownie was Winston’s grandfather.

Winston lived 17 years, a smart and friendly member of our family, who got along well with our other dogs. His one unbreakable habit was to dig out from under the fenced pen in our back yard and take our other two dogs with him, to go exploring down town. Fortunately, they were never hurt before I could find them and bring them back home! A few months before Winston died, however, he managed to slip away one night when he was let out in the front yard instead of in the dog lot. Someone found him several days later starting across the bridge that led out of town. Because he was almost completely deaf and blind by then, it is really a miracle he survived. A neighbor happened along and took Winston back toward our house, believing he might belong to us or to some family on our street. The next morning, our next door neighbor, my husband’s brother, saw Winston slipping through the hedge to our house and went over to let him inside. Winston then lived several more months. He died at home. I discovered him late one afternoon in our large dog lot when he didn’t come in for his supper after I called him. He was a good dog.

Our Dog Murphey

2011-12-11T13:26:00.001-08:00

As I work on my book about rescued and "found" animals, from time to time I'll share stories about the dogs we have had in our family (I won't say "owned." Pets have more integrity than that!)

So today I'll tell you about our wonderful dog

Murphey

One afternoon a strange dog wandered into our yard. A mix of tan and dark brown fur, her front and back end seemed to belong to two different dogs. She seemed to be put together by a committee. We decided that was one dog too many for us, and ignored it. The following day our son Dyson heard a great commotion of barking dogs down the hill from us, where the town ran its waste treatment plant, and kept stray dogs there temporarily. He went down to investigate and found a number of dogs there, with one dog halfway under the fence and another trying to pull him back by his tail. And in that company was the dog who had showed up at our place! He reported on this, but we did not act on that information, hoping that somehow the local vet (who would be receiving these dogs soon to hold them for a few days) would find a home for the dog. By that time we knew she was a female.

Guess who showed up the next day in our garage? We called her to us, and Charlie happened to see her as well. “No more dogs!” he said in exasperation. And then he looked at the dog again. “Don’t show it to me again. You two make the decision. Dyson and I looked at each other, put the dog in our car, and off to the vet’s we went for a check-up, shots and whatever else might be needed to get the newcomer cleared for living with us. On the way we passed Murphey Street, named for the founder of our town, and said together, “Murphey is her name!"

We did make one attempt to find a good home for her, but the family who took her returned her saying she barked and barked at their parakeet and this just wouldn’t work. So Murphey became our dog. She had little to offer us in return but her loyalty, her permission for us to love her as much as we could, and to let her lick our toes. Murphey got into some scrapes along the way, such as the time she trotted down our long driveway one afternoon so covered with river mud that all we could see were two eyes and a nose. It took over an hour to clean her up. Another time she and Winston went under our house via the crawl space, after some critter, and Murphey was afraid to come back out. She remained there all night, and we could hear her bark every so often as the sound traveled along our heating ducts. Charlie had to crawl under the full length of the house the next morning, past various dead rodents along the way. But finally Murphey was once again with us and the entrances to the crawl spaces were barred. A day or so later we discovered one act of bravery Murphey performed while under our house: the strong smell of dead snake came through our heating vents.

She loved to dig out under the dog lot fence, with our dogs Winston and our Westie Zelda to roam the town. In fact, she was an expert at getting through any fenced area we had around our yard. But she survived all her escapades, lived to be about 13, and died peacefully at home. She had a good life.

Murphey

On December 7, 1941

2011-12-07T14:26:00.001-08:00

Seventy years ago today, I was an 8-year-old living in Honolulu, Hawaii (then known as the Territory of Hawaii -- before it became a state). My father was an Army doctor. Four years later, I wrote an essay for my 7th grade class, at PS 104 in Brooklyn. We then lived at Ft. Hamilton. I like to think it was my first blog. So here it is, as it was written in 1945:

A Day I Shall Remember

It started just like most Sunday morningsusually begin in our household. Everyonewas asleep but me.

We were living in Honolulu, as Daddy is inthe Army, and had been ordered there. Infact, we had been living in Honolulu since August of 1940.

But to return to the story, I was the onlyone awake, as I said before. I heard thedull booming of guns, but paid no attention to them, as the army and navypractice firing frequently.

Finally Mother and Daddy woke up, (my brotherwas still sleeping soundly) and as Daddy always listens to the news, he turnedon the radio for the 9:00 broadcast. Thefirst message that came to our ears was: “This is the real McCoy! Pearl Harbor is under attack! The Japanese have made a sneak attack on theIsland of Oahu!” We were naturally takenaghast. Daddy announced that he wasgoing to eat breakfast and go straight down to the hospital. I didn’t feel like eating very much breakfastmyself, I was so frightened.

We went out on our small back porch and gazedup at the sky. There were puffs of blacksmoke here and there which showed that the anti-aircraft guns were busy too. Fortunately, we were in little dangerourselves, because we were approximately 15 miles from Pearl Harbor.

It was a rather strange and frightening day,and one to be remembered, too.

Just Who Is Charles Rodenbough Anyway?

2011-11-23T14:55:00.000-08:00

I am Charles Rodenbough and beyond my role as husband, father, and grandfather, I suppose I can characterize myself as a writer and teacher, both capacities I have enjoyed since retiring from being a business manager. Many years ago I was aware of what I enjoyed doing but I let others convince me of my “responsibilities” and I gave up the desire to be a college professor. I don’t begrudge the choice nor do I regret what might have been. In my retirement I am getting to catch up on the avocation that I had continued even while functioning as a businessman.

History is my genre and my concentration has been associated with North Carolina. I chaired a Sesquicentennial Celebration (Madison, NC), organized Historic Districts, county chaired the National Bicentennial, Presided for the Historical Society, planned for a county museum, and all the while I read, researched, and collected for a time when I could write. When that time came, I was not starting from scratch but ready to compose from what I had assembled.

I like to structure my writing on the bare facts but I like to create beyond into the logic or lack thereof in how people, individually and collectively, accommodate to their circumstances. History writing is always interpreting the circumstances of one time or generation to another which sees through its own prism. The historian has to convey facts and situations in such a way that the reader begins to perceive in the historical moment. I have written biography, history, and historical fiction.

Most recently, I wrote a biography with my grandson that could be read and appreciated by multiple generations of readers. Stealing Andrew Jackson’s Head was published this year by All Things That Matter Press. My wife, Jean Rodenbough, is also a published author with All Things That Matter Press.

Currently, I am involved with a project with the University of North Carolina, studying a unique common thread of slavery from Africa, through the West Indies, Virginia, North Carolina, Indiana and Canada over a hundred year period.

Just Who Is Jean Rodenbough, Anyway? (for my ATTMP posting)

2011-10-20T10:14:00.001-07:00

Let me tell you: I was eight years old and we were in Honolulu, Hawaii. My father was an Army doctor. Early one morning in December our family woke up to loud sounds that first seemed like the Navy practicing their firing. But it was the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The days following were the beginning of a time that changed everything for me.

Many years later, I thought of that time, of the effects on my psyche from the nearness of that war. I wondered then what must it have been like for children who were living in the midst of war? And I began researching stories, gathering stories from friends I had known recently, and those from my own childhood, about how they experienced World War II.

The book that resulted, Rachel’s Children: Surviving the Second World War, was published in 2010 and has been read by those who lived through those times, and those who were born long after such a war. The book describes the tragedy and outrage that wars carry in their paths. My stories are commented on by brief poems and reflections, to provide some distance from the pain of those years.

Now in my late 70’s, I feel some release for my own emotional reactions. It is in telling our story and reliving the experience not only of our own lives, but the stories of others which verify our own, that make us whole. I am glad to have made the effort, and appreciate All Things That Matter Press for publishing it.

Now I work on another collection of stories, this time of animals who have been tragically abused, mistreated, abandoned. The stories tell of the caring human beings who have taken these animals into their own lives and made pets of them. Poems will be the commentary for the situations that at last have given peace and love to these creatures: dogs, cats, birds, and all four and two-legged beings.

Pimping for the Arts

2011-10-20T09:11:00.000-07:00

There are a number of colleges and universities who have exhibits and collections as their special offerings to students and the public. I'm thinking particularly about art collections. Yet in these tight times for higher education, those institutions may tend to see the art hanging on their walls or in their museum collections as a way to salvage lagging income from foundations, alumnae and alumni, and the general public.

Instead of considering these invaluable learning opportunities as profound and important to the education of those in these institutions, they are at times viewed as cash cows. In one small Virginia college, where a museum on campus houses some of the finest examples of American art gathered in one site, this prostituting of the art is practiced, agreed upon by both the college administration and the Board of Trustees. At present, several are in the hands of Christie's waiting for good sales. One of the paintings, George Bellows' "Men of the Docks," the most valuable by far, is leaving Christie's for a tour of several art museums showing a Bellows collection. It will be in Washington, DC, New York City, and London.

The college is touting this as a wonderful gift to bring to the eyes of public, gaining recognition for the college. The other side of this matter, however, is that by sending the Bellows out with other works by the artist, it is a way to seek possible sales. I call this practice "pimping the arts." After Bellows, will other paintings still held by Christie's from that college museum be sent out seeking to bring millions of dollars as well into the coffers of the college?

In the meantime, students have been denied the power of seeing on a daily basis these wonderful works. To switch from using the art collection as an educational tool for both the college and the surrounding areas to appreciate, the practice is being used to bring in needed monies for the college. This action is condemned by the many art museum associations around the country, while the college administrators ignore the admonitions.

I find such behavior appalling and have made efforts to bring this treatment of art before the public. The story of this one small college is simply an example of what has taken place in some form or another in institutions elsewhere. Only a public outcry and withholding of donations to these institutions will have any positive effect. It is a disgrace for such to be done to our art treasures gathered for the enlightenment of the public and education for students.

SPIDERS!!!

2011-08-31T08:42:00.000-07:00

Yiaaaacckkk!!! I did it again! Ran into that big spider web hanging from the canopy out back. The spider had closed down for the day, but she left her web, and now she'll have to spend half of this evening reconstructing it. She is like the spider that stung my colleague on his head, hitting a neural path and causing extreme pain for a considerable length of time. I don't want to run into one of those!

I actually have a strange sort of affection, or loyalty to smaller spiders. The kind who build small webs in corners of rooms, for example. There is the absolute teeniest of spiders in our bath, just outside the walk-in shower, in the corner where the door joins the wall. She measures about 1.1 mm I'm guessing. Every time I'm in there I check to see if Carlotta is still there. I've named her that because back in Madison my spider's name was Charlotte, as in the book about Charlotte's web and the pig by E.B. White. Charlotte was a bit larger, maybe 1.8 mm. Actually, there was Charlotte I and Charlotte II. The first Charlotte met a tragic end when I unintentionally sucked her into the vacuum cleaner one day. But fortunately another one claimed squatter's rights and moved into her spot. This spot was better protected than Carlotta's, being in a corner of the kitchen near our breakfast table, where we seldom went. The family thought I had some strange leanings toward spiders, but humored me. My thought was that house spiders kept down the insect population, and were very useful, besides savings exterminator bills. I feel a certain affection for them because they seem very brave to me, settling into places where at any moment they may be obliterated. I'm always cautioning Charlie to watch where he drops the bath mat down before getting into the shower. It could create just enough breeze to unsettle Carlotta from her little space.

This spider commentary is not meant to be a crusade for noble causes, but simply musings on the value of house spiders. I do have mixed feelings about the larger ones who weave big webs outside our back door. The courage to share indoor house space with humans is admirable, and I often encourage Carlotta to go get'em. . the ants, I mean. She has what looks like the corpses of three ants on the floor just below her and I haven't the heart to vacuum them up. Besides, that would risk taking up Carlotta as well.

We also have a spider near our front door, there in the hallway. She does not have a name, and I really don't have any particular fondness for her as yet. Some times I think rationing out affection to a select few has its pluses, so Carlotta will remain my only indoor favorite spider. I just hope our dog Katie leaves her alone.

What Do I See?

2011-08-28T09:54:00.000-07:00

The faces . . . I can't get them out of my mind's eye . . . the faces of starvation: the infants and children, the elderly and the old-before-their-time. This time the camera frames Somalia's hunger. Last time it was . . . Sudan? or some other place? Water and food in scarce supply. Yet I find in the statistics that there is enough food in the world today for every human inhabitant to have 4.5 lbs. daily! So what's the problem? Access!!

Yet access remains forever the inhibiting factor, and now we add to that the lack of clean water. Or the lack of water, period. And why must this be? You and I know the answer, the one we pretend ignorance to, the one we push into the recesses of our thoughts where it can't interfere with our comfort. The unequal distribution of wealth, that ogre of our nightmares, makes its way around this planet. This planet. We live in the garden of God. All we need to sustain life is present. Yet distribution of food, availability of water, a freely contributing marketplace . . . they present their absent faces to us, blotted out by the offensive ogre of Greed.

Compassion has been erased from the face of Greed so that those who have, get, and those who haven't . . . well they die. Soon all the ones left behind will be those who have all they want, more than they need, and they continue to reach for more, creating more who have nothing. Rich African soil for farming eventually turns into desert as trees are cut down for heat, or for a place to live. The desert grows. And so does hunger grow, moving more rapidly than the dying of part of our Earth. It would take such small effort to halt this pattern of hunger, of more desert lands, more poverty, more death. It would be simple. Yet the likelihood moves farther and farther from our grasp. We cannot hold onto the hope much longer.

God's garden is dying. Not only in Africa but across our world. And we who have so much, can stop this danger. It is within our power to do so. How? Well, we begin by sharing the wealth. Yes, distribution of wealth so that all have enough and no one has too little. We distribute the sense of compassion, of holy calling to serve the Creator by serving the creation. The wealthy areas of the planet have no need of all that we have, without our sharing it with the areas where there is nothing, or where the least of these, the children of the Creator, eke out ways of life.

I don't know if we can do so. I don't know the outcome. I don't know if enough have enough to share with those who so far never have enough. What is it you would do to change the picture? What is it I can do to erase those faces I see when I close my eyes? Is it too late to refresh the Garden? Not yet. Go.

A Perspective on Kathryn Stockett's The Help

2011-08-23T09:20:00.000-07:00

In reading articles and overhearing comments about the best seller The Help by Kathryn Stockett, and now also the movie, I find a variety of views. Some see the book and movie as the best to come along while reviews and critiques often see the story as carrying on the stereotypical figures of Southern blacks and whites without distinction between fantasy and reality. Some claim the book and movie portray a racist attitude by having the young white woman who collects the stories of the maids continue a practice of white heroes being catalysts for "rescuing" blacks from racist societies. So how are we to read this story, or see the film?

I have read the book but not yet seen the movie. Even so, I believe that one can see all these characters as stereotypes rather than as flesh and blood human beings. There is truth in such a view. Yet I would note that the stereotypes draw upon a certain degree of reality. This was Jackson, Mississippi during the 60's. I lived in a different Southern state during that time and earlier attended college in a more northern state of the South, yet some scenes in the book are familiar to me. I know these characters. I experienced circumstances very similar in nature. And at that time I tended to accept such attitudes as normal even though I was critical of what I saw. I even held fantasies of doing something heroic, not unlike Skeeter's act of telling the stories of the maids in her area. I never had the gumption to carry out my ideas, although I learned many years later that some of my classmates made a mild attempt at protest of segregated buses by riding in the back of the bus from the college into town, doing so every Friday as a routine statement. A few years later some students staged a sit-in at a nearby drugstore, only to spend a few days in the local jail for their actions. And yes, again it was whites gaining notoriety in attempts to liberate blacks from Jim Crow.

For Stockett to develop the character of Skeeter and describe her efforts to do something similar to that on a larger scale is not an unreasonable depiction of that time, in an effort to banish legal and social racism. It should not be seen as a picture of whites acting bravely while the subservient blacks dared not make public protests because of cowardice. Many elements played a part in those days, many of them with economic consequences. It was only later, during the Civil Rights movement in full public display was there opportunity for black protests in large numbers. And even so, the white backlash could be brutal at times.

For the reading public, or for those who see the movie, to expect more of Stockett's story than possible in the writing of her novel, is unfair. This is a story. It does indeed have social and political overtones. But in the final analysis, this is a story. The characters have been given some stereotypical traits, but don't ask more of a story than it can offer. And I believe that all novels and movies these days have a certain life span, in the spotlight until the next sensation appears. The Help need not be a sensation. It has its own right to be simply a story well told. Whether every human rights aspect is covered, whether every character needs fleshing out, is not necessarily the purpose of any novel. I have read many many books with characters who would never be encountered in the public arena, because they are no more real than a spectre. Yet the quality of the story-telling may be excellent. No doubt Stockett's book will last on the best seller lists for awhile, the movie may be nominated for an Oscar, but there will come a time, inevitably, when it too will be gone with the wind.

Randall Jarrell: poetry in "plain American which cats and dogs can understand"

2011-08-20T12:35:00.000-07:00

I've been leading a study at a local retirement home on the work of the poet Randall Jarrell. We are looking at his unpublished poems that finally have been published by including them in The Complete Poems, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1969. Jarrell's last teaching post was at Woman's College, which later became UNC Greensboro. His students went on to publishing successes of their own, under the foundational tutorage of this fine poet and critic, and author of one novel about the foibles of faculty in a college setting.

His poems speak in our own vernacular, that we can understand the way the poet Marianne Moore describes clear writing, as seen in the title of this blog. Yet very few of us can use the language with the skill that Jarrell brings to it. Even his prose is rhythmic, so that whether he is writing poetry or prose it resembles unmetered poetry.

I was attracted to his writing because of the poignant recall of moments, the recollections and the musings, in a tone that not only could speak in upbeat tones but could also pull from me my own feelings of sadness and loss. And so I chose to work with his unpublished poetry for my Master's thesis at what is now UNC Greensboro. Jarrell didn't invent this language of the commonplace in poetic form. Wordsworth was one of the forerunners of such, and no doubt many lesser English poets of his day. He simply polished the poetry he offered to a higher state. Others who have written like this are Walt Whitman and Robert Frost. So I can't claim Jarrell to be original in this common language usage. I can simply offer his work as one exemplary collection in the extraordinary use of words.

Another characteristic of Jarrell's poetry is that it speaks not only to the modern American, but with the understanding of the educated middle-class. Yet he emphasizes simplicity of life, as he expresses it in one poem by the phrase "the dailiness of life." Nothing fancy, nothing high-falutin' about the poems, unless possibly some of his translations of Rainer Maria Rilke's poems which speak from the upper class perspective. He was also uncanny in his ability to speak in the voices of women. Very few male writers can do that well. He does this in poems on women who have passed their prime, some regrettably, others simply accepting their changes from the young brides they once were.

I worked very closely with his Rilke translation of "The Widow's Song," where he takes that poem and translates it into his own vernacular yet retains the Rilke language somehow. This poem may have been chosen because it echoes his poetic treatment of his own themes: loneliness, death, loss or absence, and does so through the persona of a woman. The feelings of vulnerability to fate and death define universal feelings of loss, with its emptiness and despair. Yet in spite of such dark emotions, Jarrell doesn't weigh the reader down through these poems. We simply appreciate knowing that there is someone who can express our feelings when we are inarticulate.

Randall Jarrell died in 1965 at the age of 51, an untimely death in many ways. I think of all the poetry we would have enjoyed from him had he lived into his elderly years. His widow, Mary Jarrell, was able to keep him before the reading public through her own reflections about him, her public readings of his work, and her published collection of his letters and her memories of him. Her own death a few years ago has now lost for us any reminders she would have been able to offer us still about this remarkable poet. But we can find his work and read for ourselves the brilliance of his writings, in his criticisms and his poetry.

The Confusion of Age

2011-08-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

We've had many dogs and a few cats as members of our household over the years. Some dogs just showed up in our yard and announced that they planned to stay on with us. The two cats were gifts, both having rather unpleasant ends. Several dogs simply breathed their last while we were with them, either in the company of a veterinarian or with family at home.

Winston won the prize for longevity, living about 17 years. He was a mix of several breeds, about the size of a beagle, with long golden fur and a brushy fox-like tail. I am convinced that he was the grandson of one of our earlier dogs, but that's another story. Winston began to get a bit senile near the end, wandering off into the street out of town one night, when he had been let out before bed time, and found by a neighbor, but again, that's another story.

These were the years when Charlie and I both were traveling to distant parts of the globe, he to Russia and I to China, but seldom at the same time. All that travel, which necessarily includes a great deal of walking and carrying heavy bags of purchases or pulling heavy suitcases through airports, took its toll on our skeletal structures, until at one time Charlie had some real back problems. He had to move slowly and deal with pain in spite of good meds. (Similar results for me took place years later and now plague me.) So for a time Charlie stayed pretty much at home and limited his physical activity -- at about the same time our Winston was definitely beginning to age noticeably.

In chatting with a friend one day, she asked about Charlie's latest trip to Russia, and I mentioned the toll his traveling was taking on him physically. Just prior to that I had commented on the change in Winston's condition. "Well how is he now?" my friend asked, in reference to Charlie. I answered, thinking she meant Winston, "Well, the poor old thing. He's gotten so he can't control himself and yesterday he pooped on our living room rug."

Ants and Queens

2011-08-10T14:27:00.000-07:00

Alert! Alert! The ants are back! My kitchen counter where the sink is and my coffee maker and drain mat are daily the most used portion of the kitchen. (how about the oven? well, you just don't know me very well, do you?) I have turned into the likes of one of the Borgias during the Eye-talian Renaissance when it comes to those teeny infiltrators. Some mornings I find hundreds, nay thousands, of ants traveling from under the switch plate across the paneling back of the double sink to the edge near the coffee maker. Thousands. Legions. Little invaders. And so I have placed in strategic position a couple of little cardboard squares with liquid ant poison on them. The purpose, according to the directions, is a shrewd, cruel one: the little beings will carry that poison on their tiny feet back to their home, where the entire village will partake as in a weird communion service, and then all die. The ant version of Kool-Aid delivered by Jim Jones to the multitudes.

As it turns out, the poison is more like an addictive drug, as each day the little rascals return for more of the stuff. How do I know these aren't a new crew each time? Well, I'm no amateur. In the spirit of scientific research, I have tagged a little leg of each ant before they go back home carrying the potion to their compatriots. I think only the Queen Herself is intelligent enough to stay on the wagon and refuse the offers of the deadly cocktails. I have not seen her among the hoi poloi.

In reading about ants, I have learned that the only ones who come to our kitchen are the workers or soldiers. The nobility, as it were, have short lives if they are male. It's a matriarchal system at its best. Once these soldier workers complete their tasks of supplying Her Majesty with food and shelter and protection, they are retired from service and go to Florida for the rest of their short lives. It is a plutocracy of the worst sort, and enough for me to take pity on them and form all of the workers into unions so that they can approach their Queen with demands for better working conditions. After a few visits to our kitchen gathering the toxic but addictive pool of poison, they have earned retirement. I have called a meeting of their leaders for this evening in order to see how matters are going for them so far. So Queenie, if you are reading this, give these loyal followers a cask of the poison drug and passports to the island of their choice to form a new society. You can afford it.

The Absence of News Stories

2011-08-06T10:48:00.000-07:00

I have been reading email posts for some years now from Christian Peacemaker Teams, describing their efforts to bring enemies together in peace. Currently I follow three streams: the CPT efforts in Kurdistan, Colombia, and Palestine, and occasionally the plight of the "First Nation" or aborigines, in Canada. These accounts are gripping because of the blatant injustices ignored by those in power. Not only are these places not given the attention they deserve by governments and other influential groups, but news services seem intent upon ignoring these situations, yet similar kinds elsewhere are covered thoroughly.

A short while ago I sent messages to some television news networks and our own government asking why the plights of the Kurds and the Palestinians mistreated by Israeli settlers are never publicly addressed. Not one response. Yet each post from CPT members telling of the Palestinian olive trees and other crops being regularly destroyed by Israeli settlers (on the land illegally), of Palestinian children harrassed on their way to school, and of seriously ill patients delayed in their attempted haste to hospitals, speaks of the neglect by authorities. The stories demonstrate the apparent collusion between settlers living illegally on Palestinian land and Israeli military police. The latter are seen in videos standing around watching destructive behavior take place by settlers, and making no effort to interfere. This is merely one example of a lack of news stories.

Another instance of media neglect is taking place in Kurdistan: CPT members have joined Kurdish demonstrators seeking justice from the leaders in scenes very similar to those in Egypt, Libya, and other places in the mid-East. The "Arab Spring" has its counterparts -- yet they are ignored by the media. In addition, Iranian troops have overrun Kurdistan borders, with military actions against the Kurds. Yet who in the international systems of justice are addressing these dangerous and violent incidents?

These examples are simply a few among many more where peacemakers risk their lives to bring about non-violent gatherings of those on all sides of serious issues affecting these countries. The accompanying videos with these stories are powerful witnesses to the injustices being committed daily in important areas, yet which receive little or no media coverage by western news organizations, nor are they addressed by the leaders of western governments. This non-intervention, lack of acknowledging such events, and ignoring such newsworthy moments is unacceptable. We must do what we can to bring more light onto the stages where injustice and violence occurs. If not, we are watching events that have the potential to grow quickly into situations which could dangerously affect attempts to bring peace to an uneasy world.

Is There a Second Coming on the Way?

2011-08-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

"The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity."
William Butler Yeats, "The Second Coming"

But if Yeats is right about the state of things, writing in the late 19th and early 20th centuries, where do we in this new century gain hope? Politically, I would nail a sign over Tea Party headquarters: "... the worst are full of passionate intensity." Hope is not found in their efforts to control society through their self-serving goals.
       This group of politically-focused individuals are passionately working to undermine the foundations of our government and our society. But they do so believing they are building a new and better society and country. I see instead the beginnings of that country described in fearful detail by Margaret Atwood in The Handmaid's Tale. May I be wrong in that perception!
      As the narrator in that novel describes herself and others like her, I wonder if they are not like Yeats' description of the best among us, those who "lack all conviction." We who carry our convictions quietly, afraid to be heard when the vitriol begins against all responsible leaders in our legislatures and executive offices, and merely watch from the background, wringing our hands. Atwood's narrator comments: "We were the people who were not in the papers. We lived in the blank white spaces at the edges of print. It gave us more freedom."   And so we fail to speak as passionately as those who seek our destruction by their ignorance and inexperience. "Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world," Yeats affirms from that past world so like what is developing in our time, not only here but around the world.
     I just finished the third in a trilogy by Philip Harris and Brian Doe, Waking God: The Second Coming of Humanity. In this futuristic clash of the supernatural and real worlds, things have come to such a pass that it is time to start over again and create anew what defines life. I don't believe that time has arrived yet, but it does stand near the threshold of our future.
     There is still time to find the necessary courage and energy to take our nation back, our lives back, our belief in the possibility of good government back. We who continue to maintain our faith in humanity, who acknowledge an all-powerful Creator, are called to discard our timid behavior and be heard in the marketplace, in the halls of Congress, in the schools and institutions before they fail completely.
     We can continue to live "in the blank white spaces at the edges of print," or we can rise up, speak out, and demonstrate and remind others what makes for a good society. If we cannot do that, if we see the rowdiness of bad political manners and let that become the norm, then our question will be:
      And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
      slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

A Matter of Being There

2011-07-15T06:01:00.000-07:00

Annie Lamott's wisdom about life and writing includes such nuggets as these:

Life isn’t logical. It is actually brutal. Cain is still slaughtering Abel, and that is the reality. How do we bring the living water to a very, very, very thirsty, scared and cold world?

We don’t do it by appearing more powerful and more learned. We do it by showing up and pushing back our sleeves. It’s the loaves and the fish and slowly, slowly, slowly trusting that the more that we give away, the more will be shared and the more we’ll starve for the softening of our hearts.*

These are difficult words, and ones I would just as soon ignore. Yet there is a truth here that stands in the streets calling to passers-by in the way, in the way Jesus described life in his day: "It is like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling to one another, 'We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we wailed, and you did not mourn.'"

We, all of us at one time or another, prefer our made-up stories to the truth of a world in pain. We would like to live in those novels and short stories that describe the lives of fictional characters rather than the real-life human beings who confront us on street corners with their signs begging for handouts. We don't want to read of the realities of lost jobs, foreclosed homes, low-grade schools because of slaughtered budgets. We listen to the arguments in Congress about the debt ceiling, and are oblivious to the woman ahead of us in the check-out line handing her food stamps to the clerk. We hear with concern about billions of dollars of unpaid government debt and pretend to ignore the $1.52 the woman comes up short with. We can personally do very little about the former but the latter is within our reach to remedy. Will we hand her what is needed to make up the shortfall in her change purse?

Annie Lamott's words ring loud and clear in the way we address the hardships of our day. The more we are willing to give of ourselves to those around us, the more we become vulnerable to the needs we discover within our reach, and the more we respond. And from that discovery we push back our sleeves and show up where we can make a difference. We don't need to have access to millions of dollars. Once upon a time, we are told, a loaf of bread and five fish were enough to feed the hungry thousands. Let's just do it.

*from "Leadership and Education; Duke Divinity School

Reflections

2011-05-22T13:11:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I spent the long, lovely afternoon out back, listening to sounds: of birds in conversation, of scampering squirrels running along the fence and up tree branches, chattering as they scrambled, of neighbors in back yards with the slow talk of friends, of Katie our beagle-jackrussell barking at everything. I sat out there with my portable word processor putting together a blog as I took in the sounds, the light and shadow combinations of trees and flowers, of thinking about the Rapture that didn't take place.

Today, as I prepared to transfer it to my computer, nothing was there. Convinced I had saved it, I determinedly waited for it to write along the screen on Word. Nothing. Evidently I failed to complete the "save" process. We have all, no doubt, had that sick feeling when the words we labored over are lost into thin air. Don't you just hate it? So now I will try to recall some of what I wrote:

I noted my sorrow for those who waited with great excitement to be swept up into Heaven. I was relieved that the only earth tremors occurred as a volcano began erupting up north in one of those Scandinavian countries I think. I wonder how some would allow one person to persuade them of the final days of the world. What must have been their longing and hope, to have fallen for such strange predictions? Experience and history tell us that the many, many predictions of the end of the world, of judgment day, of catastrophes all over the place, never ever happened. So I am happily trying to spend these days left for me in awareness of the good earth, the beauty of nature, the glory of art in all its forms, and to find ways to share that with others.

A wonderful resource for me along those lines recently is the new book by Joan Chittister, OSB, as she takes a look at the Rule of Benedict, and what caught my attention was this, from her chapter, "Sacred Art,"
in The Monastery of the Heart, p.99:

It is a love for human community

that puts the eye of the artist

in the service of truth.

Knowing the spiritual squalor

to which the pursuit of anything less than beauty

can lead us,

the artist lives

to stretch our senses

beyond the tendency

to settle for lesser things –

simplistic stories instead of great literature,

bland characters rather than great portraits,

tasteless decorations instead of artistic accessories,

plastic flowerpots instead of pottery.

We could do no better than that, I believe, to make the world around us brighter, more hopeful, and less dreary as we hear the direful news broadcasts of suffering, war, hunger, oppression, and all the ills of this time. We cannot let our lives be unaware of such as that, but we must remember the beauty -- that is the gift we have all been given, whether we acknowledge it or not.

PAIN

2011-05-10T09:11:00.000-07:00

This disabling phenomenon we call pain has been my companion for some months now. The intensity increases each day and it now lives with me, uninvited, as a steady presence. The culprits are a few degenerative discs in my lower spine, pinching the nerve in my right leg. I am not alone in this sort of suffering, but knowing the number of sufferers is legion for such a condition does not decrease my own pain.

It began last October: slight discomfort in my back which gradually increased over the ensuing months, inflicting the greatest pain to my right leg. I stopped walking the dog. I spent a lot of time sitting. Visits to the doctors and physical therapy followed. Pain medicines were available. Then a cane to assist my walking and relieve pressure on my leg. No remedies were effective. A change in my position could bring on a sharp blinding pain.

I ran across a comment in a book review this morning in Christian Century by Janet Potter that struck me: referring to Kevin Brockmeier's book The Illumination: A Novel, she notes "His quiet novel suggests that any person, in no matter how much pain, possesses a remarkable capacity to bear it given even the smallest token of hope." (CC, May 3, '11, p. 53). Characters in the novel discover that their wounds and pains emit a strange silvery glow that illuminates the site. It seems other-worldly. Hope follows, which then becomes the balm for pain, a token of love from Somewhere.

That small hope for relief comes to me in the appointment I will have soon with a pain management center. None of the hoped for remedies and resolutions so far have contributed more than temporary relief. Pain medications, both non-prescription and prescription, proved impotent. Rearranging my physical position allows for only temporary surcease of the worst pain, and the severest pain comes when I get up during the night.

All these descriptions are not listed to engage sympathy for my discomfort, but a way of defining what goes on with me these days. That sudden reminder of mortality by way of physical pain can waken one remarkably to the present moment. It focuses one upon the Now. Reinhold Niebuhr once noted that pain or illness causes one to be self-absorbed so that whatever else is going on becomes secondary. I now understand how such a condition is possible. As someone who has always had great difficulty in directing my attention to the present moment, this experience teaches me something I had not learned very well before. A second learning experience is what the depths of pain can be like -- the pain that is more than a momentary shock but rather one that is constantly present. I have witnessed this pain in others, particularly when I served as a chaplain and counselor: emotional pain as someone grieved the loss of a loved one, and physical pain in the suffering from a debilitating illness.

My own pain has been a Teacher as well as an unwanted companion. Hope lurks in the shadows of a sometimes horrid pain, waiting to be realized in the form of relief and resolution. I now am able to comprehend what goes on in others who struggle with daily physical and emotional pain even though I do not know fully the details of that suffering. Perhaps one reason we experience pain, other than to serve as our warning system, is to show our relationship and connection to created life of all sorts, human and all creatures.

The suffering of victims of war, of natural and unnatural catastrophes, of hunger and disease, is a universal phenomenon from which none is spared. When an animal is abused, there is suffering. When a prisoner is tortured by a cruel system, there is suffering. When any experience injustice or inequality, there is suffering. When life seems to offer no respite or hope, there is suffering.

So we share this common bond that assures us no living creature is free from pain and suffering. What distinguishes us as human beings is how we deal with those situations. Compassion trumps neglect. We are here for our brief time on a tiny speck in the universe, yet our very self is part of what is greater than even our imaginations. Understanding that may not lessen my momentary pain but it speaks of the larger perspective, and offers another hope.

Good Friday poem

2011-04-22T09:59:00.000-07:00

This will probably offend some folks, but I wrote this after recalling a statement made at a Holocaust Remembrance Service some years ago, based on the line from the Psalm, "by his stripes we are healed." The speaker commented: "by their stripes we are healed," referring to the victims of the Holocaust. So years later I came up with this poem, which is in my collection, Field Water, available at www.lulu.com:

by our wounds

from his high perch he watches us, the ones

normal as shoe leather and sandal straps

who go about the dailiness of life while

the world in madness destroys itself

for gain or for food it doesn’t matter

the wounds he bears center in

barely breathing now, air scarcely

helpful, the pain numbed by mercy

he was wounded for our transgressions

and by his bruises we are healed

in a distant place children wander

in search of lost parents who may

lie hurt or dead in the streets

of the city ruled by hate –

out of sight now we wander aimlessly

toward the shadows accomplishing little

but passing by the terrors of night and war

the suffering ones cry out despair splits air

carried in waves to the crossbar beam

overlooking agonies we never saw

each sorrow or hurt or dying or death

appear to serve as balm on his skin

peeled from the overbearing sun and

blows with instruments of battle

those soldiers lying in heaps from the small

explosions pounding them beyond necessity

bring their pain to soothe the thirst their blood

to staunch the flow from his brow where sweat

mingles with the covenant of redeeming love

the child whose belly holds nothing but gas

to fill the empty body takes one last look at him

upon the high beam before death comes

and offers another solace to the pain-stricken figure

by this small sacrifice to the gods of war

each sorrowed death each tortured frame

comes to this hill this place this one

who watches and receives and finds healing

one wound at a time one stripe from the lash

of the whip one piercing one piece of torn flesh

and the nails loosen from heavy wood one slight bit

at a time as the cries of victims bring release

by our bruises he is healed

crushed by our iniquities

upon us is the punishment

that makes him whole

there is balm in Gilead

there is balm in the land

upon the high beam he leaves our infirmities

upon the high beam he lays our diseases

makes them all disappear he leaves . . .

what is left is not him not the one not not not him

there is no one there the high beam the heavy wood

is empty nail holes remain but with nothing to hold

it is a freedom statement a shalom word a peace

we have liberated him through our pain

through our deaths and wounds and sorrows

by our stripes by our bruises by our love redeemed

empty timbers on a hill where he stands free

it is accomplished

Excerpt from My Book

2011-04-21T13:46:00.000-07:00

Here is a piece from Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, published by All Things That Matter Press in September, 2010. Perhaps this will pique interest in reading more:

A seven-year-old girl living in Honolulu at the time of the attack on Pearl Harbor retained memories “of fear and horror as a war began without warning just a few miles from our family’s home.” Later, living in Oregon, she and her family returned for visits. “Now, we take our children and grandchildren back to Hawaii to see the Arizona, still visible just beneath the surface of the water. There is little else to remind us of that Sunday morning when bombs fell from the sky and children awakened to learn that their world was no longer secure.”⁴⁰

we cannot live forever in that time

life refuses to indulge our

memories yet we know and we remember

so that grandchildren will be witnesses

to our stories.

Memories for children in the European war theater were strongly laced with fear and terror. The remembered siren sounds, the air-raid shelters with crying babies and frightened adults, the overpowering dank smell of the earth surrounding them, remains for a lifetime. The conviction that such events must never again take place is also a result of these experiences. Never again a war. Yet our histories since that time show that these determinations have been disappointed many times over, as each war in turn makes way for the next one.

Reminders of earth stenched by human use survive

in nostrils depriving memory of moist soil

rich with smells of life blooming to fullness.

Forever lingers the shrill song of the sirens of death.

We learn that never is what happens despite our hope

in every moment. Yet we cannot forgive the stink of war

on earth, our good earth, earth of home. Never again,

we swear, never again, never must the raven of death

dare cover itself in false purity.

Never again must children remember

forever what dirt smells like underground

what hunger tastes like what fear feels like

never should they ever know this for the rest

of life and afterward in the dark earth.

Overwhelmed

2011-04-16T09:51:00.000-07:00

I have trouble understanding why I can't hold to my resolve about pulling back from all the activities I once participated in, issues advocated for, causes I wrote about. Just as soon as I do that, another compelling issue comes to my attention, and there I go again.

Well, I may be coming to some understanding of how this obsessive compulsion seems to be the case: the internet media. Each morning I open up my email site and there sit at least half a dozen stories about dire situations in need of my healing touch, my money, my presence, my attention. Not one of these deserves to be ignored. The guilt begins when I hit the "delete" key for any of them.

About two years ago, I think it was, I made a promise to myself: my attention would now turn to matters of writing: poetry, non-fiction, perhaps some fiction . . . and to do so would mean I would let go of most of the activities which took up my time -- usefully, but all the same, took my energy. My life's calling began to peep into my psyche like some small Easter chick, insisting upon my attention. And I was successful to some degree. Had a book published by a small independent press, unlike my previous self-publications. Became active in writing groups, mainly those having to do with poetry. Started attending more readings and studying books about writing good poetry. Then when my book about children of World War II came out, began concentrating on readings and marketing. Joined Twitter. Posted on Face Book.

One problem, however: I was receiving more and more messages, more pleas for help from needy organizations, more guilt layered on my barely liberated spirit. But once again, I am vowing to cut back: the only non-literary endeavors will be my participation with the NC Council of Churches, my responsibilities as a Benedictine Oblate, and perhaps filling a pulpit or two on occasion, in addition to the church choir. My energies will still address the compelling issues of the day, the needs of the poor and dis-enfranchised, the least of these, but now through the written word rather than my body on a street corner holding a candle or a poster. All of these groups do important work and I want to support them, from human rights to animal rights, but it will be through what I write. There's is a definite sense of liberation in doing so. Now to hold to what I have resolved.

PAIN

2011-04-03T16:59:00.000-07:00

About 6 months ago, something happened in my lower spine. I have learned that the official title for that event is "spinal stenosis." Or: pinched nerve, sciatic nerve problem . . . whatever. It was difficult to ignore the pain that would appear without warning, but manageable. Since then I have gone through months of pain and finally some treatment that resulted in physical therapy exercises.

To experience pain that has a life of its own, comes unpredictably, lingers for hours, has given a new way for me to understand the "dailiness of life, " a phrase borrowed from the poet Randal Jarrell. The constant presence of discomfort is to say the least, distracting. I learn for this time in my life what ongoing pain does to one's psyche, one's body. There have been many times of experiencing pain, but only for the short term. This is big time, all time pain. And I go through feelings of anger, frustration, self-pity, helplessness, despair . . . and wonder what tomorrow brings. The one positive effect on me, however, makes up for the down sides of this time: hope. I know, or I hope, that the next day will be better, less pain, and the next day less, and so on until I no longer have this constant companion, uninvited.

What has made the difference for me, above all other efforts to deal with pain: writing. Poems. Blogs. Articles. Reading: books, books, books. Words lined up one after another, each one removing a piece of the pain. Each one taking my spirits to what matters. In all this is faith. In all this is a redemptive element to pain, which becomes the awareness of what pain is like for others. For others. Those outside myself.

Determination to overcome and to find the remedy. Determination to be able to stand for longer than 10 minutes. Ability to walk for 45 minutes with Katie, as she studies the scents laid down in this meantime in those woods. It is waiting for the time ahead. For now, may I learn what this time has to teach me.

Measurements

2011-03-29T11:16:00.000-07:00

A lot of my time seems to be spent measuring it: Thursdays I change the bed linens; Wednesday evenings call me to choir practice; Mondays bring the trash trucks to the neighborhood; my pills are apportioned for each day in a little plastic pill holder sectioned by days of the week. Today is Tuesday. Usually a free day unless I have household chores to do, or appointments somewhere. My life seems to be measured according to what the day is, and how much time to devote to particular activities.

Now I begin to consider how others might measure out their days: by how many rounds of gunfire they hear from rebels or government troops; by the meager rations of food and water are available for today; by the time left that a loved one has before dying; by anniversaries of marriages that no longer exist. Some measure their lives by how far they live from nuclear reactors damaged by a tsunami; some by how many days have passed since the earthquake, or the flood, or the fires. Some by how long it has been since a clean cup of fresh water has been available. Others by the children's lives lost because of deadly military actions.

I simply wonder how long it has been since I wrote my last blog, or how many days before I complete another book. I watch clocks. Some watch the skies for signs of danger. I watch my dog sleeping beside me. Some keep an eye on the wilderness surrounding them with unknown inhabitants: friend or foe? I open the refrigerator to see what is available for lunch. I have no idea of how others measure life.

Yet today as I write this, how many lives will end because of warfare, or illness, or suicide, or simply old age? As I write this, and as you read it, what will happen to the sea water we need to nourish us by what is in it? What ice is melting now in the Arctic and Antarctic? How many polar bears and seals and penguins will perish seeking the habitat they once had as home? I cannot measure life that way without realizing how contained my own time is, how regular and certain it is. Yet I have no guarantee that such measures will continue to be mine. Do I measure my future or simply the present?

T.S. Eliot's J. Alfred Prufrock measured out his life in coffee spoons. He asks the eternal human question: "Do I dare/Disturb the universe?/ In a minute there is time/For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse."
Like Prufrock I echo "I grow old . . . I grow old . . ." So how must my time be measured? I will never know unless I see how others measure their lives, unless they teach me the meaning of each moment.

Spring and Daylight Savings Time

2011-03-13T16:18:00.000-07:00

So many issues I planned to write about: the earthquake and tsunami in Japan, the Mid-East rebellions, my half-finished poems, information I promised to send out, the outline for a presentation . . . all waiting to be completed. Today, however, would not allow for those obligations.

Outdoors, in our back yard, Katie stalked squirrels all afternoon, never getting one within chasing distance. Overhead, birds of all sorts were singing their late afternoon, early spring hymns. The neighborhood rustled with sounds of yard work, dogs being walked while other dogs barked at them, a few cars moving down the streets. No cats were visible but they lurked in hidden spots. Squirrels polished off the birdseed in the feeder.

Finally, Katie and I sat on the top step of the long wooden stairway leading to our lower lot, watching everything. Two crows flew by chasing the hawk away, "Out! Out!" they screamed at the predator. The beautiful-winged bird moved at its own speed and will, not to be completely under the thumb of the black birds and their raucous warning. The warmth of the late afternoon, the brightness, the almost spring, the beginning flowers on tree and bush . . . these lured me outside, denied my attempts to do something useful.

Tomorrow comes soon enough. Today is sufficient.

Children

2011-02-16T09:40:00.000-08:00

Today I think of children, and find this comment by Benedictine Sister Joan Chittister: from The Monastic Way -- a daily word for each month. The reference to this quote is the portrait “Head of a Girl” by Paula Modersohn-Becker. This is her word for Wednesday, February 16, 2011:

“All over the country, all over the world, children are being bought and sold, beaten and killed, abandoned and – worse, perhaps – simply ignored by the very people they depend on for food and care and love and security. We love to think of children as “innocent.” But, I thought, as I looked at Modersohn-Becker’s “Head of a Girl,” are children really innocent – meaning unknowing of evil – or are they simply the silent bearers of the sins adults commit against them? And at what cost – to us as a society – as well as to them?”

In researching for my book Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War (on Amazon) I now find in Sister Joan's comment a truth that is proven by what happens to children during a time of war. Not only during wartime, however, but under all kinds of circumstances, as listed in her comment for today. I have to wonder what it is we could be thinking of, when we take our future and cripple it emotionally and physically by the actions we are guilty of committing against children. Even though most of us would never consider behaving in such ways towards children, we are complicit indirectly when we simply sigh and shake our corporate head over such sins. We accommodate the brutal behavior if we fail to speak out, to draw attention to, and advocate for a change in our common humanity.

None of us came into this world as full-blown adults. Along the way we too were wounded in some way, seen or unseen. Do we avoid advocacy for the children of this world and this time because it would remind us of our own vulnerability in our growing years? Or do we make judgments that reflect the sense that because we have come through that storm others can as well? How do we heal our own wounds, or do they simply exist in the shadows of our psyches unattended?

The portrait referred to is a haunting reminder of our own lost innocence, and serves as a reflection of who we are today. Look it up and define what happens to you as you study this portrait of a young girl who represents more than one child. What is the secret behind her eyes?

Where's My Birth Certificate?

2011-02-01T08:08:00.000-08:00

There are some political figures who are championing tighter standards for a presidential candidate, which include the presentation of the original birth certificate in the list of qualifications for President. Well, that really stunned me. I'm not planning to run for President in 2012, but who knows what opportunities might arise further down the candidate road? And here I am, without my original birth certificate!

In case you are wondering what happened to it, here is the story: when I applied for my first passport as I prepared to join my new husband in Germany, my mother handed me the original form. I was born in an Army hospital near Denver, Colorado, and the obstetrician's signature is on the paper -- a friend and colleague of my father the Army pathologist. It was a treasured piece of family history. Thinking the Passport Office would later return the form to me along with my new passport, my mother had me include it with the other information I submitted. Alas . . . that's the last I saw of that certificate! I wrote the Office once asking about it but was told there was no way to research their files for it -- too involved and not enough staff available for such. I did send for a copy from Adams County, CO but it was not a replica of the original, simply a typed version with the same information.

This concerns me a great deal. What if this requirement of displaying an original birth certificate goes into effect legally? That will definitely prevent me from running in any future presidential election. And although my mother held no political ambitions, had such a requirement been in effect during her day, she would have been unable to produce any kind of birth certificate. The courthouse in Nelson County, VA where her records were filed burned down, and all the records were lost. She had nothing but her name in a family bible to prove her existence.

I suppose it would be possible in this age to prove that neither my mother nor I ever existed. Without that original birth certificate we have no way of proving that we were actually born, not to mention born again. Whoever reads this blog may be forced to decide if I am real, or simply the reader's imagination. You will have to come to your own conclusions about that.

A Winter Day (written earlier but posted now)

2011-01-19T14:09:00.000-08:00

In this season of winter, of quiet landscapes except for squirrels and birds at the feeders, I have a gift. It is called Time.

So I read poetry from the collection of books not opened until now. I listen to the music saved for such an opportunity, soft and reflective. And I write.

The grief of the tragic shootings in Tucson rises inside and I feel a melancholy sorrow for not only the victims of the deranged man with a deadly gun, but for the times we live in. I do not know this time, the climate of our society. I don’t recognize the vitriol spewing from radios and television. I feel a certain guilt for the safety that surrounds me, although it could suddenly be torn apart by unexpected danger.

We live in our fears. Some are real, but most are not – simply products of our imaginations, or as in the case of the man in Tucson, the product of madness.

When times such as now confront us with their brutal reality, only the poem can come to our aid by expressing what we cannot otherwise say. We can speak no longer in prose:

The day brings its light to the world

This world

This world of glory and sadness

Of rejoicing and regrets

Of grace and fear

Of hope and darkness

Now we have no words

No way to offer the sound

Of peace, music of a better time

How dare we offer solace

To those whose grief is unappeased

Yet how dare we not make the attempt

For we are on this small speck

In the unimaginable universe

Together in our vulnerable

And fearful existence

Hold us you out there

Hold us in your strength

That moves undaunted

Into the time we have left

Sharing the Season

2010-12-31T13:05:00.000-08:00

When the winter holiday season rolls around each year, with it come the complaints about taking Christ out of Christmas, and sneering at the use of the phrase "Happy Holidays" in place of "Merry Christmas." Some rigid Christians believe this season is strictly for Christians to celebrate.

What is ignored is the fact that this time of year was observed as a special season long before the Year One, and by those who lived far away from Palestine. Christians adopted the time as fitting to commemorate the birth of Jesus of Nazareth, the Christ, in order to re-order the purpose of this particular season by building upon a familiar practice which preceded that time. Nothing in our Christian scriptures designates a particular season for that birth. We cannot pinpoint the exact time of Jesus' birth. Instead, we used a season observed by those who welcomed the Winter Solstice. In time, those in far northern territories, whose people had also greeted the return of the sun's light to those dark winter places, were included in the merger of celebrations. We now have "Yuletide" events, the Yule logs in our fireplaces, and other symbols of light, which have been borrowed from those early times and other beliefs. We are not diminished by observances of seasons different from those of Christians, even when they fall within similar calendars.

Thus there is no reason we cannot share this Christmas Yuletide Season with others who are not Christians. We have borrowed a sacred time from the dark histories of others in order to experience the coming of a New Light into the world, one whom Christians recognize as Jesus the Messiah, the Son of God, the Savior, and many other designations. The commercialization of the seasonal holidays cannot take away the significance of this time for those who follow the Christ. Let those who choose the greeting of Happy Holidays do so without judgment from us. We are not harmed nor do we lose anything by such a practice. This time of year is observed by Christians, pagans, atheists, and those of other faiths for various reasons. And to all, we can greet each one of our neighbors appropriately. Merry Christmas -- Happy Holidays -- Joyous New Year!

Christmas Season . . . Here Again

2010-12-14T15:11:00.000-08:00

Seasons have qualities of stability. Although they change during a year they remain consistent in their particular meanings. Autumn signals the end of the Summer season and a time for mellowing and feeling new energies, even as leaves turn colors and fall from trees. Crisp air for the northern hemisphere is the trademark. Football and baseball reign over the sports season. Spring and summer too have their particular characters that delight and deepen our appreciation of what our environment has to offer. Everything returning to life, the earth warming again, slowly turning from gentle breezes and new blooms to the heat of summer and ocean waves or lakes to enjoy.

There is one more Season, however, smack in the midst of winter that is one all to itself -- the holiday season that for many is the Christmas Season. It is a time for hope, for promise, for love of neighbors throughout the world and the longing for peace. It is preceded by a time of holy waiting that Christians name as Advent. A waiting time before the birthtime of Jesus the Christ. How many books, poems, songs, sermons have been created to prepare us for that time each year! I read this meaningful statement today by John Buchanan, pastor of Fourth Presbyterian Church in Chicago and Editor/Publisher of The Christian Century about this season: "Christmas tells us that here is one who cares about us and comes to be with us. The simple story means that in this vast and mysterious universe, in this sometimes frightening world, we are not ever alone."

Comforting words indeed, but also challenging words. They mean that in spite of all that might deter us from keeping on with life, there is One who tugs at our spirits, beckoning us to stay on our journeys. We can't curl up and crawl into a corner somewhere. So much is at stake still to be accomplished. So we listen to the words told every year about something so mysterious we call it a miracle, the coming of the Prince of Peace into a world at war somewhere. If only we could hear it. The songs, the stories, the quiet gatherings, are what encourage us to keep going. The Season is a brief one. The challenge is to honor it past the time of carols and candles and bells and live as if we were always in a holy season of Christmas.

Along the Way . . .

2010-11-11T09:35:00.000-08:00

The Dao de Jing offers wisdom on many fronts, and one of the wisdom sayings I encountered yesterday has given me points to reflect. The Dao says in effect that a good traveler is aware and open to what happens along the way, and is not focused solely on the destination. This is my expression of that truth. It is certainly true for me.

I began to think of all the journeys in my life: schooling, graduations, courtships, marriage, motherhood, careers, trips here and abroad . . . It reveals the truth of that Dao wisdom: every event, every endeavor and journey I have made is memorable in major part because of what happened along the way.

For example, on one of my trips to China, my flight was canceled on the connecting flight to Los Angeles because of engine problems. As a result, I was a day late getting to Shanghai and needed to join up with my group in Huangshan, a well-known mountain in Anhui Province (a locale of Pearl Buck's trilogy beginning with The Good Earth). It was a difficult and anxiety-ridden trip, fortunately under the supervision of a fine travel agency. The last leg of that journey was by train from Shanghai to Huangshan where two young tour staff members drove me up the mountain to join the group at a hotel there, in the middle of the night.

What made the trip memorable was who shared the train compartment with me: Mr.Chen. He was employed by the Chinese government as a real-estate developer (later to begin the resort at the foot of Huangshan Mountain) and a member of the People's Consultative Congress for Anhui Province. His son was a graduate student in engineering in the United States. The result was a series of visits with the Chen family in Taiping over several years of my travels to China, and a continuing friendship with his son and additionally his wife which lasts even today. My entire response to the wonderful country of China has been hugely affected by that "chance" meeting with Mr. Chen because of a canceled flight out of Cincinnati!

There are many such adventures and delights and challenges at every point in my life's journey, teaching me that it is not the destination that must be focused upon solely. The process, the journey, has made all experiences necessary, whether they have been difficult or enjoyable. As the Dao affirms, to remain open to each moment of this journey through life is what creates who one is. Destinations are vitally important, but the path taken to reach them is incredibly valuable.

The Drift of Autumn - a Prose Reflection

2010-10-25T09:18:00.000-07:00

I never realize it is time for autumn when reaching August's end. Yet leaves begin to turn, and there is . . . something . . in the air I can't define, the hidden cue that signals change. I grow reflective, nostalgic even, and as October comes in its chill splendor of leaf and shadow, sad. Thoughts of what I have not yet accomplished crowd in and I struggle to keep up with time. So much to read, so much to write. So many yearnings to be with family, with friends, with new acquaintances. The past has a strength that surpasses my own, and finally I give in and do nothing one day but sit and reflect, sit and remember, sit and write. The season has won me over. The trees of change have called to me irrevocably. I drink the filtered light in my thirst for what it is that eludes me. I have become as one with those elements of earth that change yet run a fixed course by an unseen schedule. Now I reach new energies, new creative outlets, mixing new with old to become Now.

Autumn Energy

2010-10-04T08:40:00.000-07:00

After the summer days that called for laid-back do-nothing hours, this cooler weather that has entered our area calls me to DO SOMETHING.   As a matter of fact, I worked all summer revising and correcting my book manuscript, and now delight in seeing the finished, published product from All Things That Matter Press. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War has been a 3-year undertaking, begun out of a compelling sense of describing what happens to children during wartime. The horrors of WWII disoriented the children caught up in that devastating time, and I felt it necessary to honor the experience as it affected children both in the midst of war and those on the perimeters.

Now that work is accomplished I move on to writing about the animals who have been rescued from their own horrors of abuse and neglect, finding new life with those who love and care for them. The rescue organizations in our area do a magnificent job in spite of being overwhelmed by the needs of those who have suffered.   Cruelty is a common evil and works its terror upon us all, whether we walk with two or four legs. We all inhabit the same creation and must share the consequences of cruelty as well as the beauty of compassionate care.

In the midst of this transition from one book to the next, autumn has come through the door of the seasons. It brings with cooler temperatures the energy that has been dormant all during the high and dry heat of summer in this area. I'm writing poems, carving wood pictures, beginning another book. Autumn is good.

With October comes my need to share once more the beautiful poem by Robert Nathan. If he had written no other poem than this, it would have been enough:

                                         Now Blue October

                     Now blue October, smoky in the sun,
                     Must end the long, sweet summer of the heart.
                     The last brief visit of the birds is done;
                     They sing the autumn songs before they part.
                     Listen, how lovely -- there's the thrush we heard
                     When June was small with roses, and the bending
                     Blossom of branches covered nest and bird,
   Singing the summer in, summer unending --
   Give me your hand once more before the night;
   See how the meadows darken with the frost,
   How fades the green that was the summer's light.
   Beauty is only altered, never lost,
   And love, before the cold November rain,
   Will make its summer in the heart again.

The Morality of Deception

2010-09-22T05:28:00.000-07:00

This morning our dog got loose from her harness during our morning walk. After several attempts to grab her before she got to busier streets, I reversed my strategy and started walking back toward our house. Katie, a Beagle-Jack Russell, is often craftier than I, so I wondered if this time I could trick her into coming home. She absolutely avoids any attempt to get hold of her -- it's a game she loves to play.

Her smile of joy and discovery at her freedom from leash and harness was obvious. But as I headed home, she bounded back too, keeping just enough distance from me as to escape any grabs I made for her collar. When we reached our house, I headed for the back yard, leaving the wooden gate open. She stopped in the neighbor's yard, watching me. And here's when I began the real deceptions: I went through a litany of names of her favorite people and dog friends among our family, as if I saw them in the back yard, greeting them in a very loud voice. Finally curiosity and excitement got the upper hand and she ran into the yard while I tried to shut the gate before she realized the underhanded ploy. Close, but successful.

I tried to make the best of it for her as she kept looking for all those wonderful people and dog friends. Explaining that they must not be here after all, I praised her extensively for coming home, and we went in where I fixed her breakfast. That was tricky, because the back door was still locked and I had to go out the gate again to the front door, but I was successful. The last time I looked at her, she still seemed a bit miffed at my trick . . .

So was the act of deception immoral, or was I enacting the deceit in order to bring about a greater good? The jury of one, Katie, has not let me know at this point, but because our four-legged companions are more forgiving than we two-leggeds can be, I'm betting on her letting me off the hook this time.

Writing Is Its Own Reward

2010-09-06T08:22:00.001-07:00

Today I read an article by Parker Palmer addressing the writer's calling and the skills required, as he has experienced it (Christian Century, Sept. 7, 2010). His comments added another layer to the subject of writing as a calling, which has been something I've pondered over for the past several months. I ask myself if it is a legitimate reason for moving away from overt activism and devoting time to my writing. The votes aren't all in yet, but I believe the answer will be a strong Yes.

I never was very good at vigils or marches. My legs grew weary, my muscles began to ache, I was either very cold or very hot, or even very wet on rainy days. My concentration waned as my physical condition became more pronounced. Yet it was possible to write a poem or an article or letter to the paper voicing strong opinions (which often got me into trouble!), and my old bones did not ache from the effort. Sometimes words are as powerful in their way as actions, I have concluded.

My decision to move in the direction of the computer vs. the street has been a source of satisfaction and fulfillment so far for me, and I find as each day passes, the layer of guilt that nearly suffocated me at times for letting go of so many fine causes through my active participation has thinned out to mere gauze. Still there, but it does not nag. I think this is one of the unstated points Parker Palmer was making in his article: that we allow our words to be instruments for good.

This wrestling with the "to be or to do" dilemma now brings me to the first of what I hope to be an effective effort to draw attention to the evils of our world and push us to adopt new attitudes, through the power of the written word. This, in point, is my book Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, due out very soon by All Things That Matters Press. I was drawn to that publisher at first because of the name, and have since discovered what a wonderful caring and professional group they are who work there. Deb and Phil Harris, the publishers, have many credits to show for their efforts, and they have developed a sense of community surrounding their authors to bolster our spirits and provide good advice on marketing what we have written. So I look forward now with great excitement to seeing my very own book put together collaboratively by them and by me, in its design.

To write about the consequences of war, Rachel's Children is a document that required a lot of discipline by me to stay on topic. Contributors brought varied perspectives to their stories. History was expressed in personal ways that a broad and academic study of such a war might overlook in the attempt to present sweeping accounts of strategy and statistics. These collected stories are what happened to children who now as adults remember that time in retrospect and wisdom gained from that experience.

To illustrate, here is an excerpt from the book explaining the background for the book:

"Children are repositories of the world’s memories. In times of war, they absorb through their senses the tastes, smells, sounds, sights and feel of fear, of terror, of violence, of the deepest pangs of hunger. These memories sink deep into the very cells of their small bodies, to affect them years later in a variety of expressions. The stories contained in this collection reflect the memories of those who spent their childhood in the turbulent times of what is commonly known as World War II. For many, the experience was one which defined loss for them: Of family members, of pets, of homes, or simply of a way of life which had seemed safe and predictable."

And a poem commentary:

we cannot live forever in that time
life refuses to indulge our memories
yet we know and we remember
so that grandchildren will be witnesses
to our stories

Poems Are Necessary

2010-08-10T08:17:00.000-07:00

Recently, I ran across an interview with Daniel Halpern, who heads up the National Poetry Series. It is in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers. This particular comment, on possible changes in cultural sensibilities toward poetry, is worth sharing: "In this country and probably everywhere, poetry is the first thing people turn to during times of crisis or transition -- weddings, deaths, 9/11, for instance. It's always the poem that seems to be capable of carrying the emotional baggage. Whatever that represents, it's the thing that makes poetry so consistent over the years."

I'm not certain that in "times of crisis or transition," folks I know would turn first to poetry to address their concerns, but it is true that poetry can speak with a voice that prose is unable to do. I find that friends often use a poem to provide support to someone undergoing a rough time of it, and during a funeral or memorial service a poem is a frequent part of the service or placed in the bulletin. Why is this? Music and poetry share the same genetic makeup, and both can get through the mazes of stress and grief or worry in ways that pure prosaic words fail to do.

Maybe it's because I have loved poetry ever since high school, when I was unable to express my own feelings adequately. Words can sing, but I couldn't find them in my own mind until I began a serious reading of the poetic literature of the ages -- introduced by caring teachers of English literature. My early attempts at writing poems were pretty dramatic and emotional, especially the love poems. But they were the next phase of my fascination with words and what they mean. The bards of old, David with his lyre, Shakespeare and ensuing poets of all times, are clear evidence that their music and poetry were the fare of kings and emperors, of those in power who need nothing more than the mystic words to confirm their power. I wouldn't be surprised if Eve's first words to Adam when she morphed out of that rib were in the form of a couplet, the content of which has been lost in the dust of time. Perhaps some of you reading this have ideas about what she might have uttered. Later, no doubt, they were transcribed on to a rock, which has never been discovered in the archaeological ruins of another time. Who, I wonder, will find it, the inscription of creation?

No doubt this is the point where I end the blog with a poem of my own, but I feel inadequate for the task after what I've noted here. If anyone out there comes up with something, let me know. You can find me right here.

Excerpt from my book

2010-07-31T18:04:00.000-07:00

I have a book coming out soon: Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War. To give readers a glimpse of some of the entries I will provide a few blogs with samples in the hope that you will want to read the whole book when it comes out through All Things That Matter Press. Here is the first of several selections:

The year 1939 marked the beginning of a war eventually affecting the entire world in one way or another for the next six years. Although the United States would not enter until 1941, in England and continental Europe, life began to change dramatically following the German military's invasion of Poland September 1, 1939. Hitler's armies showed little mercy for the inhabitants of countries considered for German expansion, its lebensraum.

Children began to hear their elders speak of impending war and then its beginning, without a full understanding of such consequences. Parents tried to reassure their children by saying that war was not good, but that little ones would be all right. Two days after Germany invaded Poland, Great Britain and France declared war on Germany, and Warsaw fell to the German Army by the end of September. In the beginning, France was spared from invasion, and children there believed assurances that they would be safe. Fathers in France and elsewhere, however, soon began to be drafted into the armed services.

A duck flies out of the pond. A rooster crows.
The field begins to wear brown. Grasshoppers
lose their summer green; the music fades
from their wings. Cannon boom like drums
of war over the hill, as dark-clad troops follow
the commands of death. A baby shrieks,
a summons comes to a home in France.
Poland is lost.

Time for Poetry

2010-07-01T10:33:00.000-07:00

It is time -- it is time now
to rid ourselves of prose.
The government cannot lie
when it speaks to us in verse.

There are days when I find it hard to distinguish between lies and innuendos and the truth. Even my favorite columnists and online news and opinion feeds can't be trusted fully for truth-telling, nor can my favorite TV news and commentary programs be reliable all the time for unbiased delivery. It comes down to the necessity for me to forage through all the heavy-handed opinions and editorials and weigh them on the scales of reason before I buy into what is stated.

That's why I wrote the poem that closes my chapbook of poetry, "Let Us All Be Poets." Poetry, regardless of the words, is the metaphor for truth: truth of vision, of understanding, of perception. It is why even in my prose books of stories I have begun adding poems as commentary. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War, my most recent book and soon to be published with All Things That Matter Press, carries poem commentaries on the experiences of those who were children during WWII. And now I embark on another collection of stories, to tell of animals who have been rescued from disasters and terrible conditions of abuse and neglect, and now are ready for homes of care and compassion.

Stories have a way of fitting together into long and connecting episodes, but run the risk of overstatements or missing the pathos or joy of an experience. Thus poems set things right again and speak beyond fact, telling the truth. We cannot live without poetry. The ancients knew that, yet in our own time it is often taught in such a way as to drive the sensitive and perceptive among us away from stanzas into the mire of prose unenlightened by reality. Even in biblical literature, it is the Psalms, or Jeremiah's and Isaiah's departure from prophetic prose into poetry that informs us most deeply. It is the metaphor and ancient hymns of gospel and epistle that reveal the essence of the divine most clearly. Poetry is the essential thread for revelation.

Just once, I'd like to hear a candidate for political office make a pitch for votes by voicing promises in the form of a poem. I would in all likelihood vote for that person in a heartbeat over one who fills the air with emptiness and false hope, with manipulated charges against opponents that are at best only partially correct. Let's hear the truth in place of hype and chicanery and silly innuendos. Let's hear a poem.

Carving Out Some Time

2010-06-26T08:35:00.000-07:00

My new commitment to be a full-time writer after all these years of making it a vital part, but not the only part, of my life is gradually being realized. I can say No more easily to pleas for my presence at social justice events, for donations to good causes, for serving on committees that work for inclusion in all of life's opportunities. The result has been some publishing successes with poems, and now a contract for a book about children who survived WWII. Beyond that, it is the exhilaration I feel with this new life for me, where I can still promote good causes, but through words more than through actions.

Even so, the need to have tangible pieces of creative work other than poems and stories seeks fulfillment. For me it is through chip carving, a process of cutting out chips in a flat wood surface to create something visual through figures, letters, contrasts between light and dark. It is an ancient craft, and for some it is an art. For me, it is therapy -- a time to design something on a piece of basswood or beechnut and then carve out the shapes. Once the design is in place, the part that is fun begins: to carve and let my mind wander where it will as I move into a more contemplative state.

The greatest joy of such a time, however, is in the presentation of the completed carving to someone as a gift. Wedding presents, thank-you's, birthdays, anniversaries, special events, they all are possibilities for doing another carving. Those that don't end up very well stay at home to be enjoyed here.

The process is rather simple: first comes the wood -- a plate, a box, a plaque, even a bowl, or some unusually-shaped object will do. The varieties are endless. I have a set of coasters that didn't make it as a gift because I punctured a hole in one, a plate that had the same accident, pieces that stained poorly, and the like. But they are nevertheless accomplishments. After choosing the wooden shape, a design is necessary before cutting into the wood. I have many many books and carving magazine photos to stimulate ideas, so if I use my own ideas it is usually as an adaptation rather than something totally original. The technique of carving and finishing the wood make it my own work.

My carving has never been as clean cut as those by instructors who have taught me at the John Campbell Folk School, but sometimes I get it almost right. Geometric or organic patterns both have their attractions, and I usually combine these for contrast. The finishing touches are where I often do a less than accurate job -- too much stain in spots, missing some little cuts and not seeing those until the polyurethane spray has been applied, too dark or too light at times, but when it works well, the wood finish makes all the difference.

The major difference for me, however, is not so much in how a piece looks after it is finished, but how I feel about having created something that was not there before. As in words I write. Making something exist, something that is tangible that the eye can see and the mind and spirit can relate to in some way. I don't know how all this works, but when it comes together, somehow it's the way it was supposed to be.

2010-06-20T05:12:00.001-07:00

Saturday, June 19, 2010

Bertha Holt:: 1916-2010

Bertha "B" Holt, the Needle in the fabric of North Carolina, died on Friday, June 18, at the age of 93. Nothing less than a severe stroke could have stopped her. She was able to puncture the pomposity of politics, the egos of politicians, the hypocrisy of the righteous. She became an attorney when women did not venture into that profession. She worked diligently for justice all her life, and was part of many organizations which shared her beliefs. Her needle-sharp insights pierced issues to their core, and she worked to stitch up the lives of the least among us.

A loyal church woman, she served her Episcopal church in Burlington, Church of the Holy Comforter, right up to her last days. She was also active in her diocese, demonstrating to us that it is possible to make changes in even the slowest of official bodies. Her support of the North Carolina Council of Churches is legendary, and she received the Council's "Faith Active in Public Life" Award in 1987, while she was serving as a Representative in the North Carolina Legislature. During recent years, she has been serving on the Governing Board of the Council, and participated in the Council's 75th Anniversary, held at Duke Divinity School May 18 of this year. I am awed by her energy, her determination, and her brilliant mind, all of which was evident right up to the very end of her life.

What a legacy she leaves for her children, the people of this state, the NC Council of Churches, her church, and the residents of Burlington. It will be a very long time before anyone such as she enters the arena, but when that happens, it will be because of the foundation that B provided through her endeavors and her accomplishments.

May God greet her with joy. May her energy continue in those of us who follow.