Sunday Morning ~ The Hard Ask

Cirombo cinafera m’dambo la kamundi. ~ The lion died in the marsh called: “lemur” bush baby. 

~ Chewa proverb

June 28, 2020

Hi Everyone,

I was reading Chewa proverbs this morning looking in vain for one having to do with protests but found this one instead. I like it. It comes from a story of an unnamed marsh where children found a dead mouse. They decided to name the marsh the “Marsh of the Bush Baby”. When the lion heard this he was jealous. He wanted the marsh named after him so went to the marsh and killed himself there but the name was never changed. It was always called the Marsh of the Bush Baby. I read that and sighed. How utterly apropos and hopefully prophetic. I love thinking about these proverbs, their wisdom, and how they relate to our lives. I love how Malawians incorporate them into their discourse. Watching the current self-immolation of our “president” I thought this was just too delicious even though I hadn’t planned to write on that topic. But here we are.

I’m missing Malawi a lot this week. It’s now been a year since I was there and exciting things are happening. Malawi had a presidential election in May of 2019 when the incumbent, Peter Muthawika, claimed victory. It was felt to be largely fraudulent (the white-out on some of the ballots was a bit of a giveaway) and by the time I got there in early June there were huge, mostly peaceful, protests. Those protests persisted until the supreme court announced there were too many irregularities for the election to stand and there would be a second election in 2020. That happened on Tuesday of this past week and the results are exciting and historic. In 2017 Kenya had a contested election but the incumbent was returned to office after the second election. Malawi is the first African country to have the follow up election come out in favor of the opposition. Persistent (mostly) peaceful protests brought about this cataclysmic change for justice. Remarkable. Amazing. Seventy-three years of colonialism, thirty years of dictatorship, then multi party democracy for another twenty-five with it’s share of corruption and suppression.  And now this turning point where the voice of the people would not be silenced. Way to hang in there my friends.

I want to go back to Malawi for several reasons. I want to work on the midwifery ward I so believe in. I want it to be a model for the rest of the world and I want to be part of it. I want to eat fresh avocados. I want to sip a gin and tonic while watching red sunsets that take my breath away. I want to visit the good friends I have there. I want to teach there again where I see such potential. I want to sit in an open Land Rover as the sun comes up with a guide explaining which birds are which and what each plant is used for. I want to drink good fresh tea. The Malawian spirit, despite all the hardships, despite all the illness and death, is so positive, so genuine, so accepting. I miss it. As I sit here in my garden and inhale the peonies I’m trying to figure out how to marry the two places I love and weave them both into the life I have left. I’ve got time to consider this now that we won’t be allowed in to any other country for awhile. Criminal mismanagement of this pandemic positions us now as lepers once were. It both terrifies me and comforts me that I’m not shocked by this anymore.

I’m glad I’m home to work for our upcoming election which has me cautiously optimistic. I’m kind of chuckling at the comments I see from my conservative brothers and conservative others. I can tell they are panicking. I just finished a four part training to help get out the vote in swing states where we have a real chance to take back the senate and remove this raving maniac and his enablers from office. The trainings were inspiring. There is so much about the political process I did not understand. I love learning how all this works and love seeing it come from the younger generation. I am so ready to have them take over. In the past I’ve sat on many a task force, through countless meetings were we discussed the problem of the day and how to address it. Frequently the meeting would end with some nebulous plan for moving forward. “Let’s all get out and do our part!” without really knowing what that meant. Often nothing took form. I cannot adequately describe or measure the frustration of those meetings. I want to help. I want to have an action to perform and don’t think I’m alone. The four part training was brilliant. Over 16,000 people signed up and overwhelmed the zoom session and it was inspiring to see how they quickly remedied that to stream live so everyone could watch. I’m telling you, we could be in very good hands. These sessions gave background into how the process works, where we need to focus, and how precisely we can take an action to be part of a successful outcome.

Protesting works. Asking people personally to participate, works. Having hope works. If anyone is interested, go to votesaveamerica.com and look for Adopt A State Voter Training. The videos are there to watch. I want Malawi to be proud of us! We can be like them!

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Following

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

June 21, 2020

Hi Everyone,

My aunt Ulca was a waitress in an Italian restaurant. She was a fabulous story teller and would have us in hysterics with descriptions of irritating customers, unethical bosses, and unsanitary conditions of the industrial kitchen. This was before OSHA and, believe me, there was a reason that agency was established. When describing demanding patrons who had more than their fair share of resources she would ask with incredulity and disgust, “How many steaks can one person eat?”  She was my father’s sister and knew well what poverty was. Italian immigrants and children of the depression, they faced their share of discrimination and deprivation. Incredibly determined and hard workers, all of them managed to create a comfortable life for themselves but it was by no means easy. Theirs is a story held up for others as a roadmap out of their destitution. See? If they could work hard and prosper, why can’t everyone? But they had advantages I doubt they were conscious of. Skin color was one. Timing was another. But when we are struggling, do we really see our advantages for what they are? I don’t think I do. In the midst of my divorce, when I was falling apart, people would say to me, “Wow, your husband walked away? Left you everything? You’re really lucky.” And I would go ballistic. With unrestrained anger I’d either say, yell, or cry, “Lucky? You think I’m LUCKY? When I win the lottery I’ll say I’m lucky.” And indignantly stomp off crying. But now, I look back and think, wow, I could have lost this home. I was really lucky. The only people I compared myself to at the time were the women with loving marriages and faithful husbands. I didn’t feel lucky next to them. I couldn’t see it then but compared to lots of other women going through divorce, I actually was really lucky.  It wasn’t just that I was left with all our possessions. I had supportive friends and family. I was healthy and had a job that paid decently. I had health insurance that covered the counseling I needed. I had a comfortable and safe place to live. It’s so much more than just working hard. 

Yesterday I watched the virtual march of the Poor People’s Campaign. It was remarkable. I wondered if I’d be engaged for the whole three hours without the energy from a physical crowd but the effect was stunning. I was blown away by the creative and effective format for the “National Call for Moral Revival” in addressing poverty in our country. This was not focused on race, though systemic racism was a thread. It was about economic inequality and how our system was established to maintain this into eternity. It was powerful. As I listened to each testimony I thought, I’ve heard stories like this before, but there is something different now. I feel the shift. Each time they repeated, “Someone is killing our people and we will not be silent anymore” I felt like the earth was shaking. 

I’m learning a lot during this pandemic. I’ve had the luxury to read a new book each week and have learned more about emancipation and Jim Crow than I did in my entire educational career. I didn’t even know what Juneteenth was before this shelter in place. Or how voter suppression started. In addition to racial issues and black history I’ve been eager to learn about what drives people to accrue more than they need. What makes people drunk with power and unable to share? Also what is it that tips the balance into a revolution, a following, a movement? What was it about George Floyd that  started a multiracial movement? Why wasn’t it Rodney King? How do you get people to follow? I used to regard followers as somehow weaker than the leaders, but they are not. They just have a different role. I watched a Ted talk by Derek Sivers on this. He says, “The first follower is what turns the lone nut into a leader.”  

The nightmare of this presidency may have brought about a lasting change and I want to follow people smarter and stronger than me into a better future.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Lessons 

Mbalame zomwera cigoli cimodzi zidziwana nthenga. ~ Birds which drink from the same trough know each other’s feathers.

~ Chewa proverb

June 14, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Seven years ago today my first grandchild was born. Her birth was supposed to be here where her mom grew up, in the hospital where I worked. We were all looking forward to it. My daughter was coming up a week before her due date and I’d planned a gathering for the next day to send her into motherhood with the blessings and well wishes of women who loved her. That didn’t happen. Labor started early and fast on the day she was supposed to travel north. There was no time for them to get to Maine. I frantically searched for someone to cover for me and jumped in the car to drive to Massachusetts, crying the whole way. I was happy for her that labor was moving along swiftly but sorry for myself assuming I’d miss welcoming this child into the world. It was very important to me. None of my births had gone as I’d planned and I wanted to greet this child, ease her passage, and protect my daughter from any unnecessary intervention. The first lesson of motherhood is giving up control so I tried to accept this birth wasn’t fulfilling my fantasy as my own births hadn’t. Lessons I’m taught over and over again. But she waited, and I made it in time, and I was able to gently welcome her into this world, and felt the universe telling me it will all be okay. Early today, when it was just her and her brother awake, we talked via FaceTime and I told her the story again. 

I can be outside in the morning now that the initial mosquito invasion has calmed and I sat on the porch swing wrapped in a blanket listening to birds, insects, and squirrels, sipping my tea, and talking to my two little loves. Blooming irises and rhododendrons were the backdrop. I’ve never seen blossoms like this. Sometimes I feel like the earth is singing a swan song; everything seems so much more vibrant to me now. Or I’m finally taking the time to appreciate it in a mindful way. I’m usually running past it way too fast. I’m learning the value of being still and am grateful with every bit of me to be able to do this. We talked about owls and larks. I told them I am a lark because I like to be up early. Owls like to stay up late and sleep late. We discussed which ones they might be. For a couple of hours no trouble in the world existed.

I’m trying to learn how to live in today’s reality and work toward justice while taking small escapes to a calm space. Like water stations in the marathon, each one is a relief, a short walk, and a boost to run again.

I went to protest downtown last week. There were about 600 people there, huge for such a small town on a night when high school graduation was happening. The event was organized and run by young people, younger than my own children. The speeches were given by young affected members of our community. They shared their experiences of growing up here, an island where there is little racial diversity. They were brave. They were honest and genuine. The crowd listened and clapped when one speaker was too choked up to continue. We clapped until he could talk, and then he went on. It was remarkable. It made me cry. Then we marched. 

In 1992 I marched in the pro-choice rally in Washington but other than that I’ve done little in the way of organized protests. We pushed three year old twins in the stroller and held the hands of the other three. It was the first protest / support march I’d been to. I was overwhelmed by the experience, seeing people of all walks of life gathered for a common cause. There was even a group of priests carrying a sign that said “Catholic Priests For A Woman’s Right to Choose.” It was way before cell phones and we had our hands too full with the kids to take photos but I always wished I’d had one of that. I saw the power of coming together for a common cause and how energizing that is. I was in Malawi for the Women’s March and too young for the Viet Nam protests. I’ve existed in a space where opportunity for people like me was taken for granted. 

I listened to Stacy Abrams this week. She continues to inspire me with her vision, energy, and optimism. She has every right to be angry but I don’t feel that from her. I feel potential. She said the protests are working. She lists the progress and in the next sentence lists what needs to be done next. I want to be like her: less angry, more effective. Lessons.

I went to the march again this evening and cried again. I cried as a First Nation leader spoke about the seventh generation prophecy. He explained the belief that this generation would lead us to a better, more equitable world. He said with incredible dignity that he did not care about the past, only about what we do with the future. Then we marched.

I think about how my grandchildren’s lessons can be a more realistic representation of history than mine were and am grateful for that. I want to learn the lessons of those wiser than me and not dwell on how far is left to go, but on the fact that we head in the right direction. I think about slowing down and using a pace that will make it to the finish.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Justice 

Litsipa lomva cozo mphini anatema kadzidzi. ~ The headache hurts the sparrow, but they made the incisions on the owl.

~Chewa proverb

June 7, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Hopelessness is the enemy of justice. I find myself repeating Bryan Stevenson’s words on a regular basis these days. Are people born with his fortitude? Where does this quality come from––this trait that can shine an inner light through any kind of hideous slime? It sprouts from which aspect of one’s being? Is it genetic? Or did his mother do something really, really right? 

I feel the same way about Obama. I watched him speak this week at the town hall put on by My Brother’s Keeper. I listened to his unique voice, his characteristic delivery, his words that instantly calmed me, and I wondered, is he a prophet? But maybe prophet is not the right word, because I don’t mean he can foresee the future, not a second coming or anything like that. Nor do I believe he is flawless. I mean more like he is the one who enters the room and makes everyone feel better. It feels like the ambulance or fire department finally arrived. I can breathe again. His reassurances are not contrived. I watched and marveled at the depth of his power. I can see why the old white establishment (republicans) were so scared of him. They could have listened and learned. Instead, they chose to soil themselves. What fools.

It’s June. My twins turned thirty-four this week.The year they were born the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up. The Iran -Contra affair became public and was living out in technicolor. Oliver North jokes were a dime a dozen. The nuclear reactor at Chernobyl exploded and threatened to wipe out Europe. The US bombed Libya. It seemed like the end of the world and I was bringing two more innocent children into it. And now all that seems like a six year old’s birthday party. Quaint. Little white lies. The outrage became a side show whose attendance dwindled into resignation and apathy. 

This week the panic that had fermented into more of a brine of apprehension started fizzing again. Then I listened to Obama, I watched Just Mercy, I read several articles from those abandoning the sinking ship, deleted a few of my brother’s comments on my Facebook page, and started feeling better. I now read words written by the far right and my thoughts shift from “Oh my God, how can someone believe this?” to “Oh my God, they see the writing on the wall. They backed the wrong horse.” Their words are that desperate. Something has shifted. The point is tipping and it’s happening fast.

Eight years ago, in a different universe, I fretted over the June temperatures so the peonies would hold off their peak so they’d be in their glory for my daughter’s wedding. I used to worry about stuff like that. I wanted the lupine to be in bloom when family drove north for my kids’ graduations. That was actually something I thought about. Early this morning I walked around in the mist and looked at those peonies covered in tiny blossoms and thought they can bloom whenever they damn well please. I will enjoy their little explosions of beauty when they come. I can’t control any of it and I’m the only one who will see them.

It makes me think about what I can control and what I can’t. I can support my peonies so they don’t fall over but I can’t tell them when to bloom.

Love to all,

Linda