Sunday Morning ~ Hope

Sunga khosi, mkanda uoneka. ~ Keep your neck, the pearl will come.

~ Chewa proverb

July 28, 2019

Hi Everyone,

I’m not sure why but I’m feeling hopeful this week. There are lots of events that ordinarily would have been despairing in my estimation: UK’s election for one, the fact that our country is still under the same leadership as last week another, but as I sit on my porch this morning watching bees exploring my recently blossomed hydrangea, I’ve got an inside churning with optimism. Go figure. 

I saw the 80 year old Judy Collins on Friday night, standing in stiletto heels for an hour and a half singing the old songs, her voice cracking here and there but still sounding like Judy Collins. I’d not been a huge Judy Collins fan when she was top of the charts, but she was such an icon of my generation and here she was in our little renovated downtown theater, so how could I not go? I’d bought the ticket months ago and went alone but knew everyone sitting around me. Small town. To my right was a dear friend and we commented back and forth through the performance, and both laughed when she started singing Both Sides Now and the male half of three different couples in front of us slowly raised their arms and encircled the shoulders of their partners. It was so spontaneous, the song so obviously evoking sweet romantic memories, we laughed that they all had the same response to it. That song triggers some warm fuzzy memories of my own, but more of the potential of youth than any specific romantic interest. I was much more moved by her encore. She returned to the stage amid the standing ovation, took the microphone without her guitar, and sang Amazing Grace with only her pianist accompanying her. It was stunning. And it gave me hope. The wretch was saved.

When I got home from the concert I looked up the biography of Judy Collins. I realized as I watched her sing I knew nothing about her. She talked about her father and his radio and stage career (I had no idea who he was) and made references to her wilder days and alluded to drinking, but it was all a little vague and I didn’t have a clear picture of where she’d come from. I read about the origin of her songs, what a musical prodigy she was, her activism, her alcoholism, the suicide of her only son, and how she has come through all that. And at eighty  she could still stand in heels and perform for a sold-out audience and move people to hug their partners and stand up and cheer. It all gave me hope. 

At mass this morning we had a missionary guest, a Brother from Uganda who works with prison inmates and the homeless. Before he spoke he sang, a cappella, a hymn from Uganda that came straight from his bone marrow.  I was covered in goose bumps. He then described his childhood in a Ugandan village with an alcoholic father and desperate poverty. He said it is miraculous to him that he could be standing in the church here in Maine speaking to all of us. His story was remarkable and it gave me hope. 

It’s music festival week here and last evening the house was filled with talent and energy. We talked politics and someone asked if I really thought Betsy Sweet had a chance of beating Susan Collins? I said, “Well, sure if people vote for her she has a chance.” And all of a sudden it seemed so easy, so hopeful, that we can turn this around. So, yeah, keep your neck. The pearl is coming.

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ Kindness

Ufulu ubwezera ufulu. ~ Kindness calls for a return of kindness.

~ Chewa proverb

July 21, 2019

Hi Everyone,

Fifty years ago yesterday I was in a little general store in Montana with my father and siblings buying camping supplies. There was a small black and white television set on a shelf over the cash register tuned in to the lunar landing. I don’t know if it was timed for us to get our provisions at that time, if my father knew there’d be a TV in this little store, or if we even were aware of what time it was happening. We didn’t get news when we were camping. But there we were with every customer and employee huddled around the checkout counter watching a historical moment through this miracle of broadcast television. I was twelve years old, preoccupied with how to purchase sanitary pads in a discreet way so my brothers wouldn’t see them. Having a menses was somehow shameful in my adolescence. I remember being distraught seeing the holdup at the counter, wanting to get my necessities paid for and into a secure location. It was before I was allowed to use tampons and those boxes of pads were huge! It was my youngest brother’s birthday, and I think we were buying something a little special for his birthday supper. His head barely reached over the top of the counter. I think I used him as a human shield for the Kotex. Then we stood there, trapped, watching the grainy screen. 

I’d never cared too much about space travel, much the same way I never cared to see what was under the ocean. I was (and still am) happy to have my feet on the earth, but I’m glad to know others have interests I do not. I have an image from that day branded into my brain that I think about now and then. It wasn’t the enormity of what was happening on the moon, but instead was two healthy-looking teenage girls, sitting on the floor behind the counter looking up at the television. They worked in this store and they’d sat down to give the people on the other side of the counter a better view. I thought that was so considerate. They said something to each other, smiled and nodded, then reached out and held each other’s hands. It was really beautiful to me and I couldn’t stop staring at them. They looked like such good friends and such good people, tanned, with long ponytails and sensible clothing. I wondered if they were just that excited about watching someone land on the moon or if they were sharing some other happy secret? I’ve often wondered why the image of them recurs over the years. It was a small town in Montana but must have been near the National Park. I wondered if they wanted to be astronauts? Was this that exciting for them? Or had one of them just gotten a date with a boy she had a crush on? But they didn’t look like the kind of girls that had crushes (like me). They looked like they had much more control over situations. Like they were the ones that boys would have crushes on.  Now I wonder if they wanted to be lovers with each other? They looked full of self-confidence whereas I had none. I remember hoping I’d have a friendship like that when I got to be their age. I wonder what they are doing now and wonder if they have any idea that a young girl that day watched them and wanted to be just like them–– kind and thoughtful, employed and healthy, responsible, compassionate, happy and smiling?

 And it makes me think of what each of us can contribute during this time of flux in our country. A very few can walk on the moon, some brilliant minds can make that possible, many work at less glamorous jobs that make our societies functional, some can donate, and some can run for office. But all of us can reach out, smile, and hold a hand. We really don’t know how far that will reach but it doesn’t matter. Some young kid somewhere might see it and want to do the same. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Acting

Mubvi woyang’anira ulowa m’cikope. ~ The arrow you just look at hits your eye.

~ Chewa Proverb

July 14, 2019

Hi Everyone,

I’ve had a full week, starting in Boston meeting new educators and participating in their orientation, and ending on this island holding a candle in the park, praying for a humane way to help those seeking asylum. 

We stood along the edge of the park holding candles. Some held signs: CLOSE THE CAMPS, SEEKING ASYLUM IS LEGAL, HUMANITY, DIGNITY, FAMILY, and DON’T LOOK AWAY. The harbor was thick with fog and only a few tall masts were visible. Some tourists walking by stopped, took a candle, and stood with us for awhile. Others drove by and honked in support. One elderly man in a red jacket walked unsteadily down the sidewalk across the street. He stopped and raised his right hand with his middle finger up. He shook his arm to emphasize his epithet. Someone near him urged him along. He lumbered down the hill turning to give us the finger again yelling some profanity. A group behind him turned to us and yelled, “We are with you!” And raised fists in support, close enough to him to show they weren’t afraid of his large lumbering body or his slur. I found it surreal. Why could a group of silent protestors of government-sanctioned child abuse possibly threaten someone? 

It’s complicated. My mind is often confused, searching for the right path. I want to convince others what (I believe) is right and just and honorable. But how do I know what others should believe? Why do they believe what they do and what brought them to their belief? When people have profited by a system then vote to burn that bridge for others, where is the hope? Where should one’s energy be best spent? I’m trying to understand. My son reminded me of a lesson from The Art of War:  If you know yourself and not your enemy you will lose half the time. If you know neither yourself nor your enemy you will lose every time. If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the outcome. Where did Sun Tzu acquire his wisdom? I will take that book down from the shelf and read it again. I can’t just stand and watch the arrows. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ What Happened to My Country?

Mwana wa mnzanko ngwako yemwe. ~ The child of your neighbor is your child too.

~ Chewa Proverb

July 7, 2019

Hi Everyone,

I was happy to be home for Fourth of July in Bar Harbor. It’s such a great holiday in this small town: pancake breakfast, parade, town band concert, craft fair, lobster, fireworks, and happy people. In between all those activities there’s swimming, hiking, and walking in a beautiful landscape. It’s everything you could want in a celebration of what our country stands for. Or what I thought it stood for. It was always a day I could drum up some patriotism and look past the egregious failings on our part as a superpower. I had a hard time doing that this year. Though the crowds billowed out in puffs along the parade route, appearing to be bigger than ever, I felt an undertone of sadness and shame. Even the Shriners in their mini tractor trailers seemed low energy. Maybe I was projecting.

My grandchildren were here for the holiday week and it was such a joy to be with them and see their excitement about all the Independence Day activities. They had their faces painted, dove for candy at the parade, screamed in fear at the clowns, and then painted peace flags, an activity to raise awareness for all the children suffering on our southern border as they are detained away from their parents. I watched my little angels dip their brushes in bright colors and concentrate on the design they were creating on the piece of fabric that will fly with others in prayer for decency and humanity. I can’t imagine what I’d do, how I’d breathe, if these two loves of mine were ripped apart from their parents and isolated in squalor. It’s unthinkable. Yet it’s happening. Here. In the home of the free and land of the brave. Amelia, who learned “You’re a Grand Ol’ Flag”  sang those words happily from her car seat on the drive to Bar Harbor.  I felt the same foreboding I felt that horrible day in 2016 when the election results became a hellish reality. 

I’ll occasionally be reassured by being with like-minded people and reminding myself it is only a third of people (ignorant people I tell myself) supporting this travesty. I tell myself it’s only uneducated, greedy, ignorant people but I know this isn’t accurate. I’m continually shocked, mortified, and frightened to learn I know people I used to respect who voted for this. When my bother puts a comment on Facebook saying the children should not be invading our country if they don’t want to be detained, I’m in 1984. Speechless, mortified, I remove his comment (thank God I can do this) and wonder how someone with an eduction can think this? He has grandchildren he loves and would protect them no matter what. So what the hell? Since the Regan era we’ve avoided political discussions in my family, always wondering what my father’s abuse had done to the two of his offspring who are as conservative as he was. (Talk about identifying with the oppressor!) But this is crazy shit talk and it scares me. So what do I do? Protest. Don’t engage in discussion with people that aren’t reachable. I stopped trying to make them see my point. It’s hopeless and a waste of time. Focus on those who are listening and I’ll live my truth. Remember that no dictator survives more than 3.5% of the population who peacefully protest. Work for candidates who can turn this around (please God don’t let it be too late). I’m hopeful for Betsy Sweet’s campaign to unseat Susan Collins and hope the 2018 midterm result is a sign of what is to come. I know the time might be dark right now but it always turns around. I just hope it is sooner rather than later. I’ll participate in the orientation for new volunteers this week in Boston, then back to work in my garden and participate in the resistance. Watching a plant grow from a tiny seed always gives me hope. In fact, right now, that and the smiles of my grand babies are the only things that do.

Love to all,

Linda