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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Spring and Daylight Savings Time
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.
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.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Children
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?
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Where's My Birth Certificate?
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
A Winter Day (written earlier but posted now)
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
Friday, December 31, 2010
Sharing the Season
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!
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!
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Christmas Season . . . Here Again
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.
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.
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