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.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Sunday, April 3, 2011
PAIN
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Measurements
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.
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.
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
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