Excerpt from my book

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

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

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.

Bertha Holt:: 1916-2010

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.

welcoming myself back on my own blog

It's time to return to this blogspot because of the upturn in my writing adventures. Having just signed a contract with All Things That Matter Press, I am now stepping feet first into a new world of publishing unlike anything I've done before. Previously I've self-published four books, and had lots of fun and challenges with that effort, but very little know-how on marketing. I give away a lot of books . . .

This time it's different: a real publisher and thus a book that might actually make it into the marketplace and be somewhat successful. Rachel's Children: Surviving the Second World War is my title, describing the experiences of those who were children during WWII. I was one of them, although never in the deep trenches of warfare. It affected me even so, and many years later made me realize that for someone who had been only peripherally involved yet having life-long effects from that time, I must understand that children whose life was surrounded by the battles, the hunger, the fears, the dangers of war carried those memories with them for their entire lives. Many have died since the war ended, but for those who are still here, my hope is that somehow by telling the stories, describing the lives, healing comes.

I was 8 years old. My father was an Army doctor, a pathologist, stationed in Honolulu, Hawaii (at the time the Territory of Hawaii) when the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor. I spent the first few days feeling fear in the pit of my stomach. Eventually what had at first seemed disorienting about a new pattern for our days became routine and I began to settle into a sense of normalcy around me even when I knew it was not normal. I describe some of this in the book.

My father remained in Honolulu until the Japanese surrender at war's end, but my brother and mother and I left the spring after the war's beginning. My other brother, a student at Princeton University, graduated early, as did my other brother later, and entered the service. My mother and I stayed in North Carolina near my father's relatives until his return and our move to Ft. Hamilton in New York City.

As we faced more wars in the years since, I grew convinced that we must find a way never to have war again, but the efforts for peace continue to be elusive. The pain and the loss of something essential in our psyche prevails until we face a world in chaos, without direction, and with an abundance of disasters both natural and by the acts of our own human species.

Thus it is that by writing this book, collecting stories, reflecting by way of my poems, I have been able to feel at least some glimmerings of personal healing and wholeness, but I continue to grieve for all the lost children, the lost hopes, the lost futures of those who never survived any of our wars.

May this book be a healing journey for its readers.

The Church I Never Served

Some years ago I envisioned the kind of church I would like to serve as minister. Here's what I came up with: St. Luke's Church of the Outcasts. Because Luke's gospel was addressed to those outside the Jewish faith of that time, the gentiles (as he was), his stories of healing and teaching included "outsiders" who were invited to follow Jesus of Nazareth. The poor and the suffering were key characters in the teachings. Harsh words for the religious leaders of the day who danced to the tunes of Rome are recorded.

As for membership, I would personally choose the ones who would be part of this church -- they would include lots of outsiders, lots of actual outcasts of society, but also those with financial means to spread their wealth to the sisters and brothers in need, who also wanted to follow this Jesus. The purpose would be to follow Jesus more than simply to worship him.

Of course, such a dream was never realized, but I think about it every now and then, and wonder how it would work out. I fantasize that this congregation would not have become conflicted, but would have worked out difficulties through mutual love and agreement. I fantasize that the church would become a model for other congregations. I fantasize that the members would become well-versed in scripture so that they could offer sermons and teach classes and hold study sessions, and visit the members.

The reason this dream never was realized has more to do with my cynicism about such a possible church ever coming into being. Human nature is too often susceptible to divisions and conflicts and fears for any such gathering to become reality.

But then, I never tried to find out if it could happen.

Notice to Internet Advertisers: you are SPAM

After some years now of getting SPAMMED by the fraudulent and the criminals and those seeking to deprive me of our bank account, I have decided it is time to speak up. So here's to you, who try to sell me Viagra, or to tell me how to enlarge the male organ which I do not have, being female.

I am a 76-year-old grandmother, a retired preacher, and I have other credentials which you don't need to know about me. We are not wealthy, and we don't like people who try to bilk us of the little amount we do have. You are wasting your time trying to sell me anything.

Now if you really wanted to make something of yourselves, you'd drop all those scams and head off to Haiti or Darfur or some inner city here to help with soup kitchens, or shelters, or teaching others how to care for themselves legitimately. Do you hear the cries of anguish from the starving, from the children who are dying because they lack clean water and good medical care? Do you see the hopeless looks on the poor who walk your streets? Do you hate your own life so much that you desire to ruin the lives of others?

Get a life. Learn humility. Act in truth. Lead a life of service and compassion. It's not about you, remember? Find a faith to sustain you. Honor everyone who comes your way. Share what you have and help others find their way. You can do it. And please, please, stop sending me SPAM on my internet pages.