Sunday Morning ~ Reaching Out

Bwenzi mdi mtanthira, miamba udaolotsa khoswe. ~ Friendship is a bridge, the fish helped the mouse to cross.

~ Chewa proverb

April 26, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Earth Day was this week and a friend asked me what I did on the first Earth Day fifty years ago. She said she and her friends rode their bikes to school and it was a vivid memory. I thought back and could not remember the first Earth Day. Nothing. Nada. Don’t remember it being a thing at all. I was in eighth grade, probably thinking about softball season. Might have still been a cheerleader for basketball, but that season was probably over by then. Anyway, not a single recollection. I don’t remember our teachers talking about it, nothing on the news, I couldn’t find even a piece of lint in my memory containing the fibers of the first Earth Day. I pride myself on remembering a lot about childhood, so this was disturbing me a little. When we had our Friday night check-in, I asked my high school friends if they remember doing anything for the first Earth Day? The responses were unanimously negative. “Wait, when is it? When was the first one?” I wonder if some of the older kids pulled the old tires and shopping carts out of the Assabet River that day? We struggled to remember who our science teacher was that year. When we finally remembered, the traits we recalled were not environmentalism but rather bullying and the knack he had for making students cry. And yet, look how good we all turned out!

This week I’ve been thinking about friends. It’s so interesting how this pandemic has reconnected me or deepened my relationship to many friends. In my attempt to support the postal system I’ve been sending out at least one card per day. In response, I got a call this week from a relative of one of my ex’s and we had a splendid chat. It was such a gift! It’s an art, I’m learning, to remain friends with people you’d thought you’d lose when a relationship goes south. They are like tender seedlings I’m learning. Takes some nurturing.

I reached out this week to a long lost friend I grew up with. Her family lived close to mine, though the town was so small no one was very far away. We spent many hours walking, knitting, talking, reading, and when we got to be adolescents, taking the train into Boston together to go shopping. I can’t believe we were allowed to do that but I don’t remember it ever being an issue. Maybe we didn’t ask. I never saw her again after we graduated high school. I never communicated with her again either. I went off to college and made different friends, stopped coming home for summers after my freshman year, met my future husband, and went on to a very different life. I never knew what happened to her.

Almost two years ago I tried to find her through Facebook. What a little gem that is for something like this. I know it’s rubbish for a lot of reasons, but for finding old friends, it’s really very handy. Anyway, I never found her there but did find her sister who I wrote to. I asked about the whereabouts of my lost friend and if I might get her contact information. It took almost two years to get a response but I did this week. And I wrote. And she wrote back. And I am overwhelmed. 

I thought about that overwhelmed feeling as I reflected on what she wrote. It’s been forty-six years. She mentioned images that stuck in her mind about me and about my mother and family. It was so beautifully and eloquently written. It was like reading a beautiful poem about parts of my life, some I had considered mundane. She made them beautiful. While I remember my bedroom as an unheated attic where I spent hours crying about the tragedy of my life, she wrote about as a cozy secluded refuge. My mother leaving my laundry on the steps to the attic, I thought of as a tedious chore she resented, snapping at me to put them away as I often just took what I needed and left the rumpled pile there on the steps. My friend remembered this act as a loving gesture of a graceful woman caring for her family. I realize now how inconsiderate my teenage behavior was to my mother, who was indeed caring for me. Had I apologized for that behavior? Ever? Before she died? Thanked her, ever, for doing my laundry? My friend remembered things I hadn’t thought about in years. The things she chose to write about, things that stood out in her memory, took my breath away. I was way too young to understand the complexities of our separate circumstances. How humbling to see them highlighted differently. 

When we were young teens we often walked six or seven miles, maybe more, on Sunday afternoons. We never stopped talking, kicking leaves, exploring landscapes. She was wise for her age. She was so kind. She had beautiful hair. She sat in front of me in history class. Once I had something in my eye and was going mad trying to get it out. She turned around and saw my struggle, gently leaned toward me and took a single strand of hair from my bangs out of my eye, as if it were the size of a pencil. She smiled at me as my agony resolved and turned back to the blackboard covered in chalky sanitized history about great white men who fought and saved us. I’ve never forgotten that moment. It stands out in all the hours we spent together. An act of kindness, yes, but it was more than that. It was knowing me, knowing it was ok to touch me and reach out to help. It was no expectation of thanks or praise. It was a human connection in a world that was not kind to either of us, but especially unkind to her.

Two people this week have lifted me and made me feel important and loved. A phone call and an email. They made me richer and more secure. They made me smile more, walk lighter, sleep better. They made me believe more in the value of reaching out. It’s always the correct answer.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Pride Goeth…

Cenjere-cenjere sakupha nsomba, akupha nsomba n’kombe. ~ Being boastful does not kill fish, it is the net that kills fish.

~ Chewa proverb

April 19, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Before this virus changed the world I was considering a retreat, though I wasn’t sure what that would look like. I thought maybe two weeks in some quiet remote setting where I would have to spend time just thinking and being alone. Wandering through the streets of Lisbon by myself didn’t suffice. It wasn’t the spiritual experience I was hoping for. There was no epiphany. I was constantly stimulated by new sights and lessons and I didn’t really do enough self examination. I wondered where I could go to be away from all my social structure and familiar overcommitment. Then voila! It was handed to me. Good timing for me. Not so for others, I know.

I’ve been reading about white privilege. I’ve said many times since this shelter in place started that I am very privileged and I know it. I have a large comfortable place to stay. I have acres of land to be outside. I have trails to walk in the woods and ducks to watch swimming in the heath. I have friends to communicate with and satisfying work I can do from home. I had been on an enriching vacation for an entire month traveling around Europe just before this all started. I have a freezer full of food, some of which has been there for a long time and is still good. Maybe not premium but it’s satisfying to use it up and I’m not trying to impress anyone. I feel like I was made for this. I’m not lonely. I have lots of books to read. I have movies to watch. I have plenty of projects to work on. I have money enough to buy the supplies I need to work on them. I am healthy. I’m learning new skills, like making cement countertops. I worked hard all my life to earn these comforts but I still feel sorry knowing others are struggling. I’ve made good practical decisions. I’ve made some impulsive ones as well, but many of those worked out well, too. I’m careful. I’m coming to understand just how much my whiteness enabled me to get here.

In examining the white privilege I have enjoyed and benefited from, I’m reflecting on other aspects of privilege and trying to understand those I don’t agree with politically. Humans are so complex. I wonder if it is even possible to understand extreme political views so in contrast to all I believe. Do we let go and let people feel free to think what they want, make their own decisions about how to vote, let majority rule? Oh wait, there’s the kicker, majority rule and the heritage of white privilege in this country. What if one side cheats? I’m not sure if trying to understand this  gives me hope or just believing that the pendulum always swings back does, but I am trying to find a way to give hope a chance. I think of my two brothers who are fanatically conservative, though to my knowledge, neither are particularly religious. We grew up in the same family, obviously, and we all endured different types of abuse tailored to our personal weaknesses. Did that determine political leanings? My father suffered discrimination because of his Italian heritage and was scarred by that. He was also scarred by abuse in his own family and that trickled down. I understand but don’t accept that. My brothers are not evil people, though they support an evil one. How is that? They are both generous, helpful, caring people. They are devoted fathers. One of my nephews referred to his father as a fascist at an age I was surprised he even knew what the term meant. When I was in Malawi, in an attempt to get me to accept a generous donation he wanted to make to the midwifery ward, my brother said, “If you don’t take it it’s going to the re-elect Trump campaign.” This was a nice gesture on his part, but how weird was that? How do I reconcile sharing DNA with these people? I’m searching myself for a way to continue to love them and let go of trying to get them to see my point. They are very supportive of me. They never berate me personally, though they mock people who talk like me. But I do the same to them. I just consider my comments more right. Right meaning correct. I’ll never change their minds and don’t even try. I gave that up during the Reagan era. The stakes are higher now, though and I don’t know how to reconcile it all.

I’m seeing the pattern of the bluster that is meant to invoke chaos and fear. I’m wondering if it is a calculated distraction technique to invoke the feeding frenzy that ensues, or if it is just pure evil. I only take in small doses, trying to preserve my sanity. I watch my state leaders carry themselves with respect and dignity, exhibiting the kind of leadership that brings my anxiety level down. I see majorities coming out and risking their lives for justice. This also brings my anxiety level down, as I sit in my safe cocoon and silently cheer them on.

This isn’t forever. Every time I listen to our governor I smile and think of the disgrace we had in that office for eight years and the lives lost in this state because of his policies. I’m proud to live in this state now. Proud of the leadership we have and the daily press briefings that inform us in a rational way. I listen and think how smart those people are. I smile thinking they don’t have to reassure anyone they are smart. I just love that about smart people. So this week, in my serendipitous retreat, I thought about my state, thought of where it was a few years ago, and a sense of calm came over me as I envisioned the country turning around too. It’s possible

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Solitary Easter

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

~ Chewa proverb.

April 12, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Well, this is different. Easter was always like Christmas here: kids home, big meals, good china, nice cocktails, and complicated desserts. The Italian Easter bread took three days to make. I always made both a chocolate torte and five layer lemon cake. There were years when the table was set for sixteen. Today I’m trying to decide if I even want to cook a meal. I missed having all the holy week services. I missed the joyful, hopeful spirit of the Easter mass. So far the only ritual I’ve maintained is listening to Jesus Christ Superstar yesterday. That just never gets old.

When I was in Congo, dropped in the middle of one of the remotest spots on earth, there was celebrating on this day. People in the villages were singing. I wondered how they knew it was Easter. They had no calendar. That’s how I know when it is. I look at the calendar when I start planning for the spring and find out when Easter is. So it was eerily beautiful to hear people singing their praise of their risen lord in a land where hope was all but eradicated. Inspiring. Enchanting, really.

I got something in the mail this week from my friend Jack who is a priest in Boston. It came in a business envelope and looked official. I saw the parish name on the return address and panicked. His correspondence is usually in a card-like envelope, the ones that are nice to get because they look like actual mail from someone you know who is not asking for money. The envelope made of sturdy paper in a 3×5 size is such a joy to find in the box. When I saw the official looking envelope I began shaking and could hardly get it open. I stood in the street not worried about traffic; unable to wait until I got to the house to see what it was. I had just seen the death numbers for Boston. I looked again at my name and address. It looked like his handwriting. That calmed me down a little. I thought maybe a request for a donation? But that would be uncharacteristic. My mind swept through the holy weeks we’d spent together as I pulled the green paper out. I looked straight to the bottom first to see his name, let out the breath I’d been holding, then read the message. I stopped at “Do not be afraid!” and read that again. It was a beautiful Easter message from my friend who is still alive. I laid my head against the mailbox and started sobbing. I’m constantly worried about who will be next. I finally walked back up the driveway. 

 I thought of the holy weeks when I was at Boston College and Jack was at St. John’s Seminary. Holy Thursday the washing of the feet, Good Friday fasting and Stations of the Cross walking with incredible beauty of prayerful ritual through the passion and crucifixion. Saturday I’d go home and be with my family preparing, usually helping decorate the church, prepping the meal. Saturday night was the Easter vigil, another favorite of mine as light spread slowly over the church as a flame was passed from person to person. It’s funny, when I think of it now all I can think of is how close together we were. It was a time when I was considering joining a convent. Seriously. I knew so many wonderful, smart nuns who were loving and giving and confident. They seemed content and peaceful and I was longing for that. Jack and I would walk for hours and miles around Boston talking about our futures. We’d find ourselves on Arch St. and bop in for mass, which I think they had every hour every day. Then we’d land back out on the sidewalk and continue our r/amble until finally one of us had to go back to our respective dorms for something or other.  I don’t know how much more screwed up I was than others at that age, but it’s my recollection that I was a mess. A lot. I don’t know how he put up with me. It was always some drama with my family or my classes or friends. He’d listen, support, sometimes call me on my own shit, but in a nice way. I never doubted he loved me for who I was, even when I was an idiot. In the end, the convent came off the list as I wanted a family. Maybe to try to create the one I always wanted, but that’s what I finally decided. And Jack continued on into the priesthood, which, I truly believe is what he was born for. I love seeing him say mass and interact with his parishioners. When he was in Brookline we’d go to a local restaurant/bar and I loved the older Irish guys saying, “Hey Faatha!” rosy cheeked and smiling, shaking hands and clapping backs. It is thinking of him surrounded by the families he’s helped, introducing me to people as I stood by him after mass, seeing the look of love and admiration on their faces that made me terrified for his life. He has saved mine so many times and I know I’m not the only one. 

Happy Easter everyone. Please stay safe. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Lockdown

Bisani matenda, maliro tidzamva. ~ You can hide the sickness, but we will find out at the burial.

~ Chewa proverb.

April 5, 2020

Hi Everyone,

We just finished our first week in official lockdown which wasn’t a whole lot different from the week before. It sounds more severe though. I’m getting a little nervous about how much I am adjusting to being secluded and homebound. I’m so very fortunate to have a safe place with plenty of food and woodland trails to walk. My kids are all safe and I even heard from my oldest son who called to check on me. That was nice until he started the berating for my failures as a mother. I finally hung up on him. His switch flipped when I told him I’d been going through old photos and slides and reminisced about all the adventures we’d had. But if it weren’t that it would have been something else I said; I started seeing the pattern long ago. It’s painful but it doesn’t blindside me anymore.

I spent three days this week going through all the slides I’d taken since 1976 when I first got a camera. It was cool to take slides back then. I’d ride my bike to Ferrente Dege, the camera shop in Harvard Square, and drop off the film for development. I can’t believe I just remembered the name of that place! Didn’t even have to stop typing. The name just came to me. Wow. This day is starting off really good! Anyway, I’d ride my bike from my apartment in Chestnut Hill, cycle through the streets of Brookline and Allston gliding into Cambridge like I owned the place.  Weaving through traffic and stoplights seemed so easy back then. I was full of energy and confidence navigating the city. No amount of money could get me on a bike there now but I didn’t think a thing about it back then as I locked my bike to a parking meter in front of the camera shop. I had a serious crush on the guy who worked there. He had a ponytail and a deep, soft velvety voice. I was very much in love with his voice. I believed his whole being and personality were as beautiful as that baritone. I love dropping my film off and I loved picking it up. Imagine! Developing slides required human contact back then. I had to wait a week to collect my slides, which was perfect, since that meant I would go to the camera shop once a week. Drop off, pick up, drop off, pick up. Then I had to wait to borrow a projector so I could actually see the slides. Imagine! Such delayed gratification. You took a photo and waited weeks to see how it came out. I was nineteen years old then and since that junior year of college I have taken thousands of slides, a thousand of which I discovered this week, should have been deleted. They’ve taken up a lot of space. For decades I’ve been saying I’m going to go through them all and organize them; weed them out, cull the herd. I envisioned a snowy Sunday afternoon peacefully walking down memory lane before settling in with some loved one for a romantic dinner by the fire. Hah! That fantasy was realized in a more solitary fashion during this raw, cold week punctuated with rain and snow. I hate this time of year. I had no desire to go outside and was looking for an excuse to stay in. (What was I thinking a Sunday afternoon? It took me three eight hour days!) It gave me a reason to not go out, not get dressed, and wallow in my memories.

I was melancholy going thorough the pictorial of my life which was actually a bit of a relief from the constant anxiety. The snow and rain might have had something to do with that mood, but looking back through all these images made me sad. I acknowledged there was a necessary grieving and I’m glad I was alone. I didn’t fight it and I didn’t have to buck up for any social engagement. It was perfect. 

My very first roll of film was spent shooting what I thought were artsy shots in Boston and as I sipped my tea hunched over the light box where the slides were laid out I felt sort of sorry for my young self who thought she might be some prize winning amateur photographer. Maybe that guy with the deep voice would take notice of me. I thought maybe I’d have one slide, particularly excellent in it’s composition, blown up into a print and he would comment on my exceptional talent. I was learning to use my new 35 mm camera that weighed about twenty pounds and made the most wonderful complex click when a shot was taken. I experimented with different F stops not really knowing what that was and uh, it showed. (I wonder if I made people sit through a slide show of these? Probably.) I looked these random images of Harvard Yard, the Hancock building (brand new!), and strangers sitting on park benches in interesting (I thought) poses, and said goodbye and thank you, and dropped them into the trash. I don’t need to look at them again. 

From there I went on to hundreds of nursing school graduation slides where I look all of twelve and I didn’t recognize half the other people. Then the years in Peace Corps that really needed weeding. You’ve seen one bush buck you’ve seen them all. In slides anyway. Then on to young parenthood and the nursery school we produced. Some of those are good. Then the years in Samoa when the camera was dying and most of them were too dark. Into the reject bag those went. New Zealand had a few keepers. Then the surly teenage years and there is some good footage there. I’m looking forward to scanning those. Then everyone in this family went to Paris at one time or another and I swear I tossed forty slides of the Eiffel Tower. My journey took me up to the turn of the century and that’s when life changed. There aren’t any pictures of the two devastating years and after that we went digital. 

I’ve had a good life. Every time I’d see a slide that made me mourn for the happy family that we were (see? Proof in this photo!) I’d remind myself, that I had this. We had a happy family and I was part of it. It has been a good life with a lot of love. And…I used to be cute! I never thought of myself as cute or even attractive. But as I went through these photos I thought I actually looked cute. I thought of looking through old photos of my parents, the black and whites with yellowed edges. Those were the people who got old, not me. I’d marvel at the elegance of them in those photos. I never knew my mother to be so lipsticked and relaxed in real life. The photos were like a silent movie, starring actors I didn’t know. 

This whole bizarre time is making me look at life in a different light. Many people are dying terrible deaths that could have been prevented. Not all, but many. It’s making me look at my own life and taking stock. It’s a gift to have time now to reflect and be quiet because life can change on a dime and it would be a shame to have wasted this.

Love to all,

Linda