Sunday Morning ~ Weddings and What?

Cosadziwa ndi nkhondo, adausa nkhondo pa dziwe. ~ The ignorant person is trouble; he seeks shelter from the war by hiding in a pool of water.

~ Chewa proverb

September 29, 2019

Hi Everyone,

Yesterday, I tossed some cauliflower with olive oil and was transported to New Year’s Day 2000. I had a vivid memory of Jake tossing roasted cauliflower with sesame oil for our millennial feast. We had a house full of people: my mother, my brothers, their wives, gaggles of cousins, my kids, and a couple friends. I thought of how full and happy the house was, how Jake learned recipes from his restaurant job, how proud I was that my kids had grown into interesting young adults, how kind they were to my mother, how happily Joe organized all the activities, and how right the world seemed to be then. The earth didn’t fall from the sky at the stroke of midnight and it all bode well. We watched the sun rise from Cadillac Mountain, we skated on Long Pond, we talked, laughed, ate and drank and I remember taking it all in with a full heart. I was so grateful for the choices I’d made in life, happy for our home that could accommodate everyone, and maybe a little smug that our hard work paid off. Yesterday I wondered, is ignorance really bliss? If I had known what was in store a year later, would I have been able to appreciate that holiday with such happiness? If we knew what marriage entailed, all that raising children took out of us, would we even begin? Would the human race die away? How do you reconcile being informed with blissful denial? 

I thought about all this as I picked green beans and pickled them, roasted the cauliflower, preserved grape leaves, and chopped tomatillos for salsa. My kitchen was sunny, I listened to the history of country music while reliving old memories, letting them wander freely in the landscape while doing things I love. The sorrel puree burst in the water bath and I didn’t fall apart. 

I thought of an image I’d seen of women walking through the streets of Kabul in the 1970’s wearing short skirts and long hair, smiling, chatting, confident and beautiful. It contrasted with an image taken in 2013 of women in the same city wearing burkas, their eyes barely visible, their heads lowered. I couldn’t tell if they were smiling or not, but something in their posture said, no. I thought about how things can change so drastically. How little our predictions alter reality. 

The contrasts in my week were remarkable. Tuesday we celebrated Lucy and David’s wedding here, a day that started early with a hike honoring Hannah’s birthday and her memory. When we reached the top of the mountain it was so socked in we couldn’t see the sound. Several of us commented that it didn’t matter, it’s always beautiful here no matter the weather, then before our eyes, the fog lifted and breaks in the clouds let the sun shine on us. It was symbolic and spiritual and comforting. Hannah’s friend lit a small leaf of sage and we held our own thoughts. I scooted down the mountain quickly to get things ready for the dinner, happily arranging flowers and putting finishing touches on the meal. Just as guests were arriving, a tempest exploded out of nowhere, pelting down rain and hail so hard I thought it would break the greenhouse windows. I looked at the beautiful table I’d set and waited for the leaks to start dripping on the linen tablecloths, jumping every time the lightening bolt hit nearby with the simultaneous thunder. It was the first time I was scared by a rainstorm, but it was fierce. The greenhouse leaks in three spots and one is directly over where I’d placed the table. But that night, not a drop on the table. A little wedding miracle, I thought as people finally could get out of their cars and come in. Jane made a toast, “Marriage can be stormy.” We laughed. 

At dinner we started talking politics at my end of the table and someone told me about Pelosi’s announcement at 5 pm that day. It was the exact time the storm hit and we laughed that the gods were speaking to us. A thunderbolt, a deluge. Let this be the beginning. I’d not given up hope that our country’s direction would change course but I was becoming more impatient. I want to be careful lest I gloat, but I have been saying his arrogance will do him in. His ignorance will kill him, like the one who drowns himself by hiding in a pool, forgetting he can’t breathe there.

Wednesday was bright and sunny, the perfect day after a storm, and I cleaned up, reliving the fun night listening to the news. Every reference to Watergate brought me back to the summer of ’74 and our last family camping trip. I was politically ignorant at seventeen, assuming the ship would right itself, since that’s what it’s supposed to do, and I wasn’t terribly cognizant of how it would affect my future. I thought of us camping in British Colombia, my father and siblings on what would be our last trip together. I thought of the supper we ate of fish we’d caught that day. We’d cooked it over the campfire and my father was happy. I remember my bother Richard stating an opinion about Nixon and the consequences he should face, and my father (who was apparently a Nixon fan), went from happy with the fish to apeshit that one of his offspring dared to disagree with him. I was on the periphery of this, but I remember coming to Rich’s aid with some morally superior comment. I remember thinking, jeepers, dad’s defending a criminal! Isn’t it the parents who are supposed to teach their kids to do the right thing? You don’t lie and cheat to win? You get punished when you get caught, that’s good right? But dear old dad couldn’t bear to be contradicted and I look back and am proud of us for doing so, despite the aftermath. He yelled his point loud enough that the people walking by our campsite stopped and stared. Rich told him to keep his voice down. Dad didn’t like being told what to do. The younger three of us got up to do the dishes, leaving Rich alone to face that firing squad. We may have looked around for something we could use as a bullet proof vest. We wondered why Rich didn’t use any self-preservation skills? We’d not had any news that week, it was long before the instant information era, this was a philosophical discussion (if you can call it that) only. This was nothing new to us, being told we were wrong, but it was incongruous in that beautiful setting with the good meal. The lord and ruler was not pleased; a nerve had been struck. The evening ended without any violence and the next day we went out on another fishing boat, or maybe it was a ferry, but we were definitely on the water, and we were definitely in Canada, and the captain of the vessel definitely said, “Your president is in trouble, eh?” Rich and I looked at each other, waiting for my father to throw the guy off his own boat, but instead he said something like, “Well, that’s what some people think.” and then the captain said, “He’s resigning at noon today.” And my father just stood there with a stunned look on his face and I remember thinking, “YES!” (but careful not to do the happy dance) not so much because justice was being served or that our nation was being saved, but because my father was wrong! Yes! And we kids exchanged glances, my look told Rich not to gloat, and this nice polite Canadian had no idea how happy he’d just made us, he just steered his boat in the August sunshine. It was a great moment. And I thought, funny, how all this came back to me this week…

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Common Ground–– Falling Toward Justice

Mtengo ugwera komwe udaweramira. ~ The tree falls the way it was leaning.

~ Chewa proverb

September 22, 2019

Hi Everyone,

It’s that idyllic weekend at the Common Ground Fair I spend reimagining my childhood fantasy of living on a farm, having animals to tend, drinking warm milk right from the cow, and only eating what we can forage or grow. I’ve become addicted to this fair, have made friends I know only from here, have learned more about solar panels, how to grow better radishes, and which lichen is edible. There are lectures all day on any topic related to healthy living you can imagine: blacksmithing, rug braiding, fermenting, llama raising, on and on and on. Every hour there’s a choice of fifty talks, all free and open. It’s amazing. And at night there’s a contra dance packed to the gills with people of all shapes, sizes, and ages. I sat last night and watched them, their smiles and dimples and beards and dreadlocks bouncing all over. It’s just the best.

I miss my friend Kathy. We usually do this fair together as fewer and fewer midwives are willing to sacrifice another weekend away from their families. Kathy and I love being here, so it’s worked, but she’s in Malawi carrying on with things there, and I’m grateful for that, so will tend things here until she returns. Hopefully we’ll be back here together next year chatting, knitting, speaking, educating, and reveling in the starry nights. This morning I’ll spend a couple of hours over at the social justice tent, volunteering for Betsy Sweet. I don’t see a republican presence but that’s probably because they know this isn’t their crowd. Like I said, it’s fun to be with those leaning your way, encouraging other saplings in the same direction. The rosy cheeked kids with homespun sweaters and teenagers wearing crowns of artemisia just gives me endless hope for the future. 

I struggle (a little, not too much) with how to feel productive at this stage of my life and think a lot about how to blend my current priority (having free time and being happy) with contributing something to the world using skills I’ve gained. This is a common theme with many midwives my age so being at the fair and educating the public about what we do, offering help in making healthy life choices, giving tips on navigating our medical system, and supporting women considering becoming a midwife are all aspects of this weekend that make me feel productive. Lots of people stop by the table including nurses I’ve worked with in the past, old students of mine, and many women whose babies I’ve delivered. There’s a sense of joy when I remember them and their birth and we can pick right up, and others look familiar but their stories aren’t vivid in my mind. I don’t even try to pretend I remember their name. Sometimes I panic when someone comes up to me with a child who is old enough to have already won some kind of award, and says, “Remember this little one?” And my heart sinks and I think, “I don’t even remember you.” Early this morning a woman came to the booth with a two year old in her arms, beautiful baby, as they all are, with dark ringlets. The woman said, “I don’t expect you to remember me, but two years ago I was very pregnant and came to your talk here.” I instantly loved her for starting out like that. Then she said, “I was worried about telling my mother I wanted to have my baby at home and was planning a hospital birth I didn’t want and wasn’t comfortable with.  You gave me a pep talk and I ended up doing what I felt most comfortable with and I had her at home and it was the most wonderful experience! And here she is!” I asked her how her mother took it? She said, “She was incredibly supportive! I never expected her to be that way but you encouraged me to advocate for myself. I just wanted to come by here to thank you. I will never forget you. Keep up the good work!”  I choked up. I thanked the birth goddesses. I decided I’m coming here forever.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Clearing Out

Mwezi satungira mkanda. ~ Moonlight is not for putting beads on a string.

~Chewa proverb

September 15, 2019

Hi Everyone,

I’m hosting a dinner for a friend’s daughter and her new husband and am planning the seating. I love the idea of everyone at one table and want to make a big harvest table in the greenhouse. I love the term “harvest table”; it evokes feelings in me of merriment as well as bounty, friendship and camaraderie. I thought of setting up the tent again but that’s risky this late in the season. September can be warm and balmy, which would be fabulous, or cold and windy, which would be hellish, and who needs that anxiety. It’s forcing me do something I’ve been putting off for a mere couple of decades: clean out the greenhouse. Broken pots I thought I’d make something artsy with have been sitting in various vessels tucked away in a space I could ignore. Cheap glass vases, mason jars, hot sauce jars have their own little hideaways, and though occasionally they call to me like a beggar at a stop light, “Hey! Look at me! LOOK at me!”  I have managed to avert my eyes and keep going, leaving them to gather more dust and grit and commiserate with each other about their master’s neglect. I thought of writing a children’s book about it once, but that idea has languished in oblivion with the dusty fragments. So, committing to a dinner for twenty-eight has been the motivator and, wow, does it feel (and look) good. Early in my marriage when we moved every two or three years there was a necessary culling. Moving is good that way. Never mind deciding whether something brings you joy, it’s whether you want to pay someone to move it for you. (Is this lamp I’ve always hated really worth it?) But since I’ve stayed put for almost thirty years in a space that has emptied out of humans but not their possessions, the clutter has accumulated. A lot of this is my own fault since I’m always thinking I can refurbish something, but then don’t, and it sits and mocks me. I’ve thought of the times when I was relocating and burdened by having to make decisions about what to keep and what to toss and it all seemed so stressful. I would berate myself for keeping crap I never used or waiting until the last minute to clean things out. We had entire closets full of boxes we never opened, moved from one house to the next that we’d stick in new closets. How stupid is that? But now the exercise seems like a luxury. I’m enjoying it. I’m thinking of ways to use the space more efficiently and adapt it to my lifestyle as I age and spend more time at home. I want to make it inviting and welcoming. I want to stop saying, “Excuse the mess over there.” But I also don’t want it to look too anal. It’s a balance I’m playing with. 

All this physical clearing is making way for emotional and mental clearing as well. I feel like I have a blank canvas in front of me and don’t want to clutter it. I want to sort out what I want my future to look like and fantasize about that for awhile. This is another great luxury, I fully admit. I think of making lists. What do I absolutely want and absolutely don’t want? But then that seems like a chore and I’m not ready for that yet. I just want to relish this daylight and the angle of the sun, and how it shines through my sparkly clean greenhouse windows. Every once in awhile I think I should not feel this content. After all, the world is in peril, I worry about my kids, I’ve got a roof that leaks in spots, our government passed bat-shit crazy awhile ago, and winter is coming. But for some reason, I am content. I’m happy. I’m grateful. I won’t question it, but accept the gift with gratitude. In a way, I feel like I’m storing up energy for what is ahead. I know this time won’t last, as good times, as well as bad, never do, but what a waste to not enjoy the feeling while it’s here.  

Love to all,

Linda 

Sunday Morning ~ Let’s Go!

Tiyeni-tiyeni sacoka, acoka ndi bvundumuku. ~ The one who says, “Let’s go, let’s go!” does not leave, the one who gets up leaves.

~Chewa proverb

September 8, 2019

Hi Everyone,

I caved last night and slept inside. The hurricane danced around us all day and though it devastated entire populations elsewhere, all it gave us was a good garden soaking, beautiful surf, and a gorgeous sunset.  Crazy how some people can be devastated and others profited by the same event, eh? I still thought I could stick it out on the porch in my cozy bed, but there was just something un-enticing about coming home late, after a great night out with friends, and leaving this big house empty to sleep outside in the aftermath of the storm. Near midnight I heard what I thought was thunder and thought maybe more was coming, but it was just fireworks at a wedding being held on Somes Sound. Somehow they got around the noise ordinance. I saw complaints today of children and dogs being traumatized by the noise, so again, the same event produced very different experiences: a joyful display of love and happiness for some and a traumatic, sleepless night for others.

A friend sent me a message yesterday saying he was thinking of me this weekend and all the memories it held. I read that and ran to my calendar thinking I had forgotten something I was supposed attend and, finding nothing I’d forgotten, realized it was my 41st wedding anniversary. I thought, “Well, that’s happy news! Forgotten all about it!” Planning out the next chapter in my life, I got caught up in the possibilities and excitement of having a blank slate and lots of options. The melancholic reminders of what could have been are relegated to some other deep drawer of my heart and I’m determined to let nothing from the past spoil my September. I want to love this month and despite all the crap that flings itself into my rosy idea of what September should be, I’m deciding to love it anyway. Come to think of it, when we were planning a date for our wedding, we thought September would be such a great time to travel and we’d mark that holy event with a honeymoon every year! Is there anything as quaint and naive as youth in love? But then I thought, why should I let go of that dream just because he ran off with a teenager after twenty-five years?  (Hey, bad memories, I thought I told you to get back in the drawer!) But I didn’t do such a great job of planning out the month and little by little the month has gotten eaten away with scattered commitments. I’ve really got to get better at this month-of-me thing. 

It’s quiet here now that everyone is gone, and I’m enjoying the solitude and resuming my little home improvement projects. I’m envisioning a future where I’m happily engaged in meaningful work and detached from others’ dramas. I’m daydreaming about different scenarios of adventure and excitement while I lay gravel and rip out rotted steps. (Oh, the metaphors…) I trust that the universe will shine a light on the path I’m to take, probably less glamorous than what’s in my head but we’ll see. Aside from the road trip next month to Nashville and New Orleans, my destination hasn’t come into focus yet. My trip to Myanmar in December got canceled this week so that gives me a big chunk of time to fill. I’m thinking of options, still hopeful that something will work out and I get to go back to Malawi. Still waiting on a job possibility and as I pick string beans and tomatoes I think of how I dislike having my future in someone else’s hands. Then I think of what it must be like to be locked in a cage, waiting. My life is so easy. 

I’m disappointed about not going to Myanmar in December. I was looking forward to experiencing a part of the world I have not seen and relishing the thought of an exotic adventure, meeting family for Christmas and trekking in gorgeous mountains. But that is not to be right now. As Irene Mayberry would say, “God never closes a door without opening a window!” (she had a million of these sayings…”Never a cross without a resurrection!” ) so I’ll wait to see what opens up outside the window, open to getting up and moving on.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Last Week of August

Khote-khote ngwanjira, palinga mtima ndi pomwepo. ~ Even though the road is bending and twisting, the heart will make you go where it wants to. 

~ Chewa proverb

September 1, 2019

It seems to happen quickly once the last week of August comes. The days are dramatically shorter and evenings suddenly colder. There’s a poem called The Last Week of August, by Katie Vandamoer about the week of camp for exceptional children. I’ve been repeating a line of that poem to myself this week–– “And I’ve never felt so warm and happy in my life… the last week of August.” It was called EC week back then, I don’t know what the term would be now, maybe severely handicapped or mentally disabled? Not sure. But it was an exceptional week and filled with love, fun, and spirituality. It doesn’t exist anymore, I don’t think. It was imploding at the same time as my marriage ironically, the camp we were counselors at together at the place we got married. It was a Catholic boys camp and the last week of August, after the regular campers were finished, the diocese used the week to bring institutionalized children to experience nature and outdoor activities. It was pretty amazing actually, but in hindsight, I wonder how therapeutic. Routines were most definitely upended and I don’t know how healthy that was. Each camper had a counselor and though it was a fair amount of work during the week, it was also really fun to participate in wheelchair square dances, relay races, and talent shows. There were a million activities and games, boat rides, and arts and crafts. Lots of the counselors were special ed teachers or student teachers, so I believed there was some scientific basis for the activities, but those norms may have changed as well. I was just a nursing student and volunteer. Mass was celebrated every day and they were spiritual spectacles. The singing alone was enough to make someone convert. The masses were concelebrated by many priests, sometimes ten or more, and  some wore their calling like a beacon, exuding that radiance. I was so grateful to be there.

When we were deciding where to get married we wanted a place were the ceremony and reception could be together. I really wanted to get married outside, but that’s not allowed in the Catholic church, a rule I still think is really dumb since it’s ok to have mass outside, just not a wedding. (Who thinks of these things?) So Camp Fatima worked. We loved the energy the place had, loved the pine chapel, and could have the reception just outside the door.  And the setting was spectacular. A sweet camp down a long dirt road in a remote town on a lake. The pine chapel had swinging screen doors that slammed shut with the perfect sound of summer. The last week of August. We went to camp for the week and got married there two weeks later. Our friends stayed over night in the cabins and the party went on and on. The day was sunny and windy and the tent blew down during the ceremony.  Guests had to pick up their table and move it into the rec hall and I saw nothing wrong with that! All our reception photos have big cardboard characters from Snow White and Peter Pan in them. Everyone’s feet were a dusty green from the floor which hadn’t been swept. I was deliriously happy and sure I would be forever. How utterly wonderful that felt. 

I guess it depends on where I am during the last week of August, but this year I thought a lot about EC week. Maybe it’s because I’ve been away for a few years and the angle of the sun is triggering those memories. Maybe it was having Amelia with me and the memory of someone being so dependent on me for the week, or the arts and crafts, or the days at the beach that were just on the verge of being too cold. Not sure, but it was hanging there all week. 

The air has that fall hint–– still warm but colored just a little differently. A week where fun, responsibility, and respect for human dignity was infused with so much love. And a belief in God seemed to make anything at all possible. 

The last week of August always had the possibility of an exciting new chapter and I never quite understood the sadness some people had of letting go of summer.  But today, as much as I’m looking forward to having some time to myself again, I feel that sadness of saying goodbye to this summer. I look at it differently now having had someone here for such a long stretch and knowing she’ll have an association with me and this season. It’s special. I realize how lucky I am to live in this beautiful place. She tells me she’s looking forward to going back to school and seeing her friends. She said she’ll miss me and I told her I’ll miss her too. I became a little worried about saying goodbye tomorrow. I want to honor the feeling of letting go of her, of the season, the warm nights, and the long days. Once I do that I’ll look for that sense of happy anticipation that always made me eager to run toward whatever is down the road.

Love to all,

Linda

The Last Week of August

by Katie Vandamoer

Well I came from a world that didn’t care

Tending to throw away lives;

But the sun shone, and the waters danced,

And the air was filled with love.

And I never felt so warm and happy in my life…

The last week in August.

Oh the time came, and went so fast,

And before I knew it, it had passed,

But on the way home, I realized

Just what it meant to live, and how it feels to love

How could I help but feel warm, and happy in my life…

The last week of August.