Sunday Morning ~ Feeding Ourselves 

Pa thindi nkhwali, mkango uli pomwepo. ~ The partridge is in the tall grass, and so is the lion.

~ Chewa proverb

August 30, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Basic human needs: 1. Food, water, warmth, rest. 2. Safety and security. 3. Relationships, sense of belonging. 4. Self esteem. 5. Self actualization. Maslow maintained that each level must be attained before the next can be accomplished. We cannot care about anything else if we are starving; food and water are imperative. Once nourished, warm and rested, then our basic need is to feel safe. Teaching this in Malawi required me to delve to a deeper understanding in order to explain how to apply it to caring for people. Having to articulate something you’ve incorporated for years without thinking, gives a new perspective. Doing this for people for whom English was not their first language and whose needs were much more basic than my own, highlighted the hierarchy even more. Self actualization is reserved for few.

When we were heading to Africa for Peace Corps in 1979 many people worried about our safety. (2. Safety and security.) It was when Idi Amin was in the news a lot, a ruthless dictator in Uganda, one country on continent comprising fifty-four. My response was, if you only knew the United States by what you hear on the news, would you ever come here? Ever feel safe? That usually ended the conversation. At the time, Central Park in New York was equal to the front lines of war. The news made it sound like very few came out of there alive. Bussing in Boston (where I lived) was creating tension and violence, to put it mildly. Yet, people in New York and Boston worried about us going to Malawi. Interesting. They somehow felt safe enough in those cities to worry about us. 

Attending college in Boston I was well aware of dangers in certain neighborhoods. I took a self defense course because, you know, I was a woman and therefore fair prey. I didn’t walk around alone at night and avoided certain places altogether. But I don’t remember constantly fearing for my safety, I just adapted my behavior. Our system accommodated my adaptation. I was able to finish my education without feeling threatened. I could apply for jobs which would enable me to feed and clothe myself (1. Food, water, warmth, and rest). But remove that systemic safety net and then what? There is no safety and security, and if that need is not met, we can’t move up.

More and more I feel we are dangerously approaching a culture of constant fear for our safety. When a guy from my hometown I barely know, writes threatening comments on Facebook in response to a comment saying police who shoot an unarmed person in the back seven times should be held accountable, well, we are in deep trouble my friends. The good scenario is they are exposing themselves and when we do restore some sanity in our society we can address their threats. The other scenario? Too scary. 

There are more of us, and though it may be unrealistic optimism on my part, I believe we will get through this dark time. First, we need to feed ourselves, even if that means risking the lion to hunt the partridge.  

Love to all, 

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Hearts of Our Neighbors

Mtima wa mnzako n’tsidya lija. ~ The heart of your neighbor is on the other side of the river.

~ Chewa proverb

August 23, 2020

Hi Everyone,

The first Democratic convention I listened to in it’s entirety was in 1984. I felt like everything was at stake in that election. We were renting a drafty shack of a house where the dog’s water would freeze on the kitchen floor in the winter. I was making six dollars and twelve cents an hour as a visiting nurse in the slums of Holyoke, Massachusetts. I had three little kids and was putting my husband through school. Life was hard, I thought. When my husband came home from class he left our old Volkswagen running in the driveway. I’d be standing with my coat on in the doorway ready to run out to go to work. We couldn’t afford a babysitter so he took morning classes and I worked evenings. One time we were talking with one of his professors and he told us about his days of being in graduate school when he and his wife lived like us. All elbow patches and pipe tobacco, living in a comfortably heated large home in Amherst, chuckling as he spoke, he said to us, “You know, my wife and I often look back and say those were the best days of our lives.”  I looked at him in horror and said, “Please don’t tell us it’s downhill from here.”  I prayed that election would bring more equity to people in our situation. We had to borrow the money for Joe’s education, couldn’t buy or even rent a comfortable house, couldn’t afford child care, and we fought a lot. We got through it, but it wasn’t quaint or romantic. Our kids are probably still scarred. 

I’d recently been to my tenth high school reunion and was shocked at the number of my classmates who were supporting Reagan, someone I considered the antichrist. My big focus was the ERA and with that some reasonable child care and decent pay for me. I could not understand how any woman would vote for a candidate who did not support that, let alone actively block it. I remember the convention night when Mondale spoke. He was a good man, not charismatic, but a smart decent man who would have made a smart decent president. We didn’t have a television; I listened on the radio, the idea of live stream was science fiction. Ted Kennedy spoke before Mondale, riveting and passionate, speaking for everything I believed in. I paced around the room pumped by what he said. I worried Mondale would fall flat after that. It was as if his speech was going to win the election. He was trailing in the polls by huge numbers and I wanted to believe this speech alone would turn things around. He didn’t let me down. He spoke from the heart about how he could help the majority in our country and I surely thought anyone listening would agree. I was sure the polls must be wrong. Everyone would surely climb aboard the equality train. 

Well, after that depressing defeat I remember looking at my perfect little children, those faces I just wanted to smother with kisses all day long, those cuddly little bodies tucked into crooks in my elbows as I read to them. I’d look at them and try to picture them as adults and think, “What if they turn into republicans?” I mean, I don’t vote like my father! Holy shit! I was not going to let that happen! We took them to marches for women’s rights in Washington, played only NPR on the radio, had elevated conversations at the dinner table as they grew, and felt confident they’d mature with open minds and hearts. But still I worried. All those outside influences. Raising them Catholic brought questions from friends of mine who focused on the church’s stance on abortion and homosexuality. We’d spend many Sunday’s driving home from mass telling the kids we didn’t agree with what the priest said. They’d ask, “Then why do we have to go?”  We’d explain that even though we don’t agree with everything, there are many aspects of the Catholic culture we value and don’t want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. No one has to buy the whole bundle. We told them when they turned eighteen they could decide if they wanted to continue to go to church. No one would force them or even persuade them. There is a difference between religion and cult. We have a choice. We can leave if we want to. We can question and criticize, understanding that change comes slowly to ancient traditions.

When we lived in Samoa our neighbors and friends belonged to a religion we struggled to understand. They told us they were questioning their faith and one Sunday they decided not to attend services.  By eleven a.m. there were six cars in their driveway with maybe twenty people pouring out of them. They circled their house to find out why they hadn’t gone to church. Those cars came every day until they returned to services as encouraged (instructed?). Whoa man. That gave me some insight into why people continue to follow what they’ve been taught. Freedom vs coercion. Those people went back to their church and I struggled to understand why. They described themselves as libertarians, didn’t believe in immunization, thought breast cancer was a hoax, and yet, they belonged to a church that controlled so much of their daily activities. We were friends and I really liked them! They were loving parents, smart, generous toward others, but had been brought up with a belief system they could not extract themselves from. Participant or hostage? I don’t know what happened to them. We lost touch after we all went our separate ways. It seems though, as they started to question, they may have begun the process of moving on. I wonder. In my research about cults I learned the first step in leaving is questioning. I’m focused on this now as I believe so many in the republican party now belong to a cult. It’s fascinating.  

I watched the Democratic Convention this week. I’ve listened to all of them since 1984 except for 2008 when I was in Congo. I thought about how different my life is now, how comfortable I am, how grateful I am for that. I wondered how anyone in my position would not want that for their fellow citizens? I was so proud to be under this diverse umbrella. The stakes are so high now it makes 1984 quaint by comparison. I let myself go down the fantasy track of what the world might be like if the ’84 election had turned out differently. I wondered why I was so focused on an election that turned out so badly. Am I prepping myself, I wondered? I felt the same anxiety for Kamala Harris as I did for Mondale, having to follow a speech as powerful. As I watched and listened, I slowly let out the breath I’d been holding. I thought, why was I so nervous? I already support her. I admire her. She can handle herself. I realized it was because I was worried about enduring the incessant criticism, the scrutiny, the sound-bite pettiness, the woman-bashing, the audacity of anyone different claiming their justified place at the front. I am under no illusion that this convention turned the hearts of those who disagree. If my brothers watched it, it was only to mock what they saw. I’m torn between the enthusiasm I feel for those willing to put their lives out there to help our country move toward justice and equality and the sadness I feel for those who promote the hatred. We don’t know the heart of our neighbor, really. But we can question what in life brought us to where we are and whether that is truly who we want to be. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ A Different View

Cakudya cimodzimodzi sicinonetsa. ~ One kind of food does not make you fat.

~Chewa proverb

August 16, 2020

Hi Everyone,

I’ve lived and worked in a few different cultures and the idea of being fat has different connotations. In our culture the commonly accepted form of “beauty” as promoted by advertisers, is thinness. But elsewhere in the world, being fat is beautiful. I was mocked in Samoa for being too thinly unattractive. The nurses used to say to me, “Doesn’t your husband want a better mattress?”  They were always trying to pop pieces of fried dough in my mouth. They are the largest race of people in the world and they did not view small, white skinned people as beautiful. The fact that we colonized their beautiful island probably had something to do with their perception of our attractiveness as well, but size was important. 

I think about opposite viewpoints as I grapple with understanding how our country got to where we are, how people I used to respect, maybe even admire, are now so far gone down the cultish political hole I can barely remember who they were. It’s terrifying to me. Being too young to really understand what was happening in Vietnam at the time, I’ve felt sandwiched between tragic world events and, though have had my share of hardships, have lived a blessed and privileged life. Stories of war time heroines fascinated me but I could no more imagine myself in that role than I could be Cleopatra. It was serious fantasy of an era long past. I think I truly believed that past conflicts and travesties happened because humans were not educated or informed in a way we are now. I think of the line from Jesus Christ Superstar, “Israel in 4 B.C. had no mass communication.” I always liked that line and thought that’s why that story went down the way it did. But here we are, watching our democracy being dismantled before our eyes and I find myself wondering, is this what it was like for them? What if Ann Frank was not the only one to keep a journal? Would we have been better able to relate if we’d learned a few different perspectives first hand? 

The proverb alludes to, fat, being a good thing, requires many kinds of food. One can not become healthy and beautiful without variety and balance. Extrapolate that out to life and a variety of opinions, careers, forms of entertainment, colors, weathers, landscapes, all make us a rich and healthier nation. But to what extreme? I in no way believe the cult forming now will succeed or survive; there are too many of us who will not give up the protest. Though history is bizarrely repeating itself in the most evil manner, history also shows us that steady and sustained protests are the only way to bring this insanity to a halt. I guess there is comfort there but also trepidation, knowing the price that many pay for their protest. I am digging deep to question how much I am willing to sacrifice. Time and money are easy, injury and death, not so much. What are we each called to do? 

I’ve had several dreams this week, vivid ones, about having lost something. One was my car. I trudged miles in my subconscious looking for the car I knew I had left in a certain spot. I was exhausted by the time I woke, still carless. This morning I dreamt I lost my grandchildren. I’d let them run ahead of me in a city, believing they were safe. I had to navigate a huge area of construction and got confused about which way they had gone. I was frantic and ran around every building looking for something familiar that might lead to them. I heard my granddaughter crying, explaining to some adult that they’d lost me and we reunited before I woke. I walked around the garden this morning wondering what I’m looking for that is giving me these recurring themes in my dreams. I was calmed by the fact that today’s loss was resolved before waking. I didn’t have the lingering anxiety where I have to reassure myself over and over that it was just a dream. Lord knows there’s already enough anxiety going around. 

Yesterday I went for a hike with friends in an area I had not explored before, off the island and further west. I thought it would be an easy hike being a little snobbish about having the National Park in my backyard. I was wrong. The hike was more strenuous than I imagined, and though less crowded, took some effort. My blueberry muffin was definitely not enough fuel. When we arrived at the summit, I was stunned by the view looking back toward home. It was magical, a perspective I’d not experienced before. I was discouraged by how much the hike took out of me, still tired from the Lyme and unable to eat much because of the treatment, but I was grateful for the stunning new view. It makes me consider the value in looking at things from different angles, being more open to new perspectives and possibilities, while staying focused on the common goal.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Stones In The River

Mtsinje wopanda miyala  sasunga madzi. ~ A river without stones does not keep water. 

~ Chewa proverb

August 9, 2020

Hi Everyone,

I’m home, humbled, grateful, chastened, sunburnt, and awed. Turns out, you need some skill in a canoe to maneuver around stones and rocks, especial when that canoe is weighed down with gear for five nights of camping. I didn’t consider weight. I thought the boat would take care of all that. Also, there is a fair amount of skill and experience required for “reading” the river. Yes, the river will tell you where stones are if know how to read it. Let’s just say it was a steep learning curve and there is plenty of green paint on stones marking our path.

I know the basics of paddling. I can move the canoe forward, slow it down and generally get it to go in the direction I want. My experience in a canoe consists of leisurely paddles down a calm river to pick cranberries, youthful outings with boyfriends on some protected pond somewhere, and full moon excursions with girlfriends on a calm night. My expectations were a tad off. I didn’t fully grasp the consequences of low water levels. I thought that meant we had a lower chance of drowning, not that we’d be maneuvering between two big rocks three feet apart in swift water. There was plenty of excitement, and honestly, I loved every minute of it with the absolute understanding that it was not my skill that got us through it. It was Nancy’s. She was way more stressed than I was. I’m hoping the good meals were payback. She said in the car on the way home yesterday that if she’d known how hard it was going to be she wouldn’t have gone. I asked her if she were glad she did, and she said, “Oh yes! I loved it. But I don’t think I would have done it had I known.” Well there. I guess the same could be said of marriage and parenthood. 

We picked the busiest week on the river in the driest year in a century. Oh, and throw in a hurricane on Tuesday night, then searing hot days with baking sun while taking an antibiotic that makes you prone to burning. (I advise anyone taking doxycycline to heed that warning. If you’d like I can send you a photo of the second degree burns on the sides of my fingers.) This is not to say the trip was not fun. It far exceeded my fun prediction. It was thrilling and exquisitely beautiful. The inevitable discomforts are part of the experience, they were just different discomforts than I envisioned. I was much more worried about being wet and capsizing. There was also an element of tension and pressure as the campsites are first come first serve and most of the other paddlers were half our age and a lot faster. 

Last Sunday, Norm, the outfitter where we rented our canoe said there were many fewer big groups this year because of the pandemic, but lots more smaller groups. Families were doing this trip as opposed to bigger camp groups. It made for a lot of congestion in certain spots, like Churchill Dam which is about a third of the way into the wilderness waterway and the starting point for many, including us. They open the dam from Churchill Lake from eight until noon every morning, giving the first four miles of rapids more water. The ranger there will transport your gear to the other side of the rapids for a ten dollar fee so you can do the rapids in an empty canoe. Almost everyone uses that service, though we saw a couple go through with all their stuff looking like the boat was empty and they were having a ball. They’d done that before and totally knew what they were doing, both looking like they’d trained for the olympics. I was not about to compare myself, though I was envious of their skill. Our friends and companions, Karen and Dave went through the rapids, but they have been doing this for decades and Karen was an outward bound instructor and again, I was not about to compete. Nancy and I had the ranger transport us as well as our gear. We hadn’t paddled together yet and as she put it, who needs more stress? Norm had said to us the night before, “There’s no shame in taking the portage.” and Nancy gave me a looked that said, “See?”  It was his canoe we were taking and I guess he cared about it. He regaled us with horror stories about canoes breaking in half. I was like, “Okay, okay, I get it.” Then when I watched a few of the boats go through I thought, thank God we didn’t do that. Maybe I’ll do it another time, but this was not the week to be a show off. I was just starting to feel myself again after treating the Lyme disease and was willing to admit I didn’t have it in me. So we took the ride from the ranger, found Karen and Dave soaking wet and telling us we made the right decision, then loaded up our canoes, and set off at Bissonette Bridge where the rapids are not actually finished yet. We had another couple miles of them, and though not as challenging as the first ones, it was definitely a hairy way to start off learning how we are together in a canoe. We hit a few rocks but didn’t capsize! I thought that was good! I got used to Nancy barking orders at me, was actually grateful for it, though could tell, she didn’t think this was funny, or maybe even fun. I heard her mutter, “I wish we’d started out on a lake.” I did not comment as I was the one who talked her into this and felt responsible. She’d done this trip before with her partner when there was a lot more water and fewer exposed rocks. They’d also had a guide and a lot of experience paddling together. I was falling way short. Better to be quiet and do as I was told. Once we got through that, which we did without capsizing (a big hooray in my book), we then had to contemplate the number of people vying for campsites as a storm threatened to dump three to five inches of rain with twenty to thirty mile per hour winds.

The ranger in a motor-powered canoe was going up and down the river checking on people telling them which campsites were open. I thought that was very considerate of him. We had to paddle way past were we’d planned to stop that night to get to the first free spot. (More grumbling from the back of the canoe.) I love storms and was looking forward to lots more water in the river but was not liking the possibility of a tree falling on the tent. It’s funny, we all had different anxieties. “What if lightening hits the metal tent pole?” “The trees would fall on us first!” “I hate packing wet tents.” “What if we can’t move for a whole day?” The olympic couple showed up at our site shortly after us as they’d been thinking of staying there too. We decided it was big enough for all of us so shared their company that night. They seemed to me like good people to be with in a hurricane. And he had a fishing pole, which, at the time, I found very reassuring. The wind was kicking up as we set up our tents and put the tarp over the ridge pole so we could eat in a dry space. I tied my tent to surrounding trees and asked them kindly not to fall on me. Nancy built a fire and I cooked lobster risotto. Dave shared the beer he brought. We sat on the high bank and watched the clouds gather, listened to the loons calling, and I relished the moment with absolute contentment and gratitude. There is nothing that comes close to the feeling of having found a safe harbor and a secure spot for the night.

I woke several times during the night when the wind gusts were coming at us like a train. They shook the tent but the heavy rain never came. It rained lightly and sporadically, but in the end we only got about a half inch according to the ranger. By daybreak when I went to sit on the river to paint, the clouds were breaking up, the wind dying down, and small specks of blue sky were peeking through. No layover for us! We did take our time in the morning breaking camp, cooking a big breakfast, and letting the tents dry out. It was after nine when we started out for the day, thinking there were so many campsites at Round Pond we’d have no trouble finding a spot. We were wrong. So we had another day to paddle more than an hour and a half longer than we wanted to find an empty spot. And that spot was in the middle of a set of rapids which, I really would have preferred to do in the morning. But as afternoon wore on and we got more tired and hot I would have done anything to get to a campsite. I was very happy to come around a bend and see Dave and Karen on shore waving their arms with thumbs up in front of an empty site. Hallelujah. We unloaded, set up camp, took a gorgeous swim in the eerily warm river, ate a beautiful supper, and sat watching for moose as the sun was setting. Heaven. We did not see a moose but we did see a group of ten college students coming through the rapids toward us. They pulled in and asked to share our site as every one they’d stopped at was full, something we already knew. Ugh. This was hard. It was a small site and was already full with our three tents. There wasn’t room for five more tents, though we could have fit them in an emergency. There was another site less than two miles away and we politely told them it really wouldn’t work to have them with us. We were old, it was a pandemic, it was a small site, etc. They reluctantly got back in their canoes, put on headlamps and kept going. I worried about them, wondering if we should have just sucked it up and squeezed them in. I said a prayer for them as I was falling asleep, envisioning them in a bigger campsite to themselves just a short paddle away. The next morning as we set off, back into the rapids with low water and lots of maneuvering I felt worse and worse that we sent them away. I can not imagine doing those rapids when I was tired and it was getting dark. When we passed the next site we saw them, five canoes stacked up on shore, a few of them sitting on the river bank. I yelled, “I’m glad you are ok!” but could imagine them hoping we’d capsize in front of them. 

After the initial rapids that day, the paddling was much less rigorous. The sun, which was not in our faces but must have reflected off the water, was harsh. My lips burned like never before. I had a hat, long sleeves, gloves, and sunblock but must have missed my lips. Holy cow. Mental note not to get shipwrecked. 

I lost count of the times during the week I said, “This is so beautiful.” We watched lots of eagles and osprey circling above us, kingfishers darting around, and families of ducks and mergansers. We always had our eyes out for moose and the last day we saw a young one, standing in the shallow water all alone. I assumed the cow was nearby, but she chose not to reveal herself. In our campsite one evening we were entertained by a group of nighthawks that swooped around and through our site like the blue angels. Bats were flying between them. I could have stayed there forever. 

At Allagash Falls we had to portage about a quarter mile on a nice trail which took three trips for gear and one for the canoe. That took over an hour and gave our entire bodies a workout. After that the water level in the river really dropped. For short distances we had to get out and walk the canoe over some very shallow spots, then get back in and feel that sweet balance as the current took us. I would look ahead and see nothing but stones and think we are never going to get through there. We’ll have to walk the entire way! But as we got closer, a channel became more evident and the way through became clear and we would float through with Nancy’s skill and my enthusiasm. It seemed a fitting metaphor for life.  Even before I found today’s proverb I understood the stones play a purpose and it’s all connected. 

It was a great week. 

Thank you river. Thank you stones. Thank you friends. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Sweet Taste

Kanyambitira sikakufa. ~ What has touched the mouth does not die.

~ Chewa proverb

August 2, 2020

Hi Everyone, 

The gist of this proverb is that once you’ve gotten a taste for something good, you can’t easily dismiss it. I’ve thought about that this week as I prepare for this week-long canoe trip. I have only gotten the taste from photos and stories, but those morsels fueled my love of the outdoors, navigating under my own power, and moving from one place to the next in a beautiful wild setting. For many adventures like this, I’ve just gone off on my own as finding someone with a similar time schedule or desire became more work than I wanted to invest. But this is one I can’t do alone, or am not willing to at this point in my life (and skill level). So there has been plenty of coordinating with companions about food and logistics. Several times I thought it wasn’t going to work, one thing after another came up, but slowly everything has come together. 

The census job started much later than I had expected so I was just getting oriented to that last week when we got a tremendous heat wave. I thought the combination of the driving, entering data into the phone, ninety degree heat, and 100% humidity was making me sick. I am not prone to headaches but would come home every day with a tremendous pounding head that left me useless. It was hard to get all my chores done, organize packing, and leave the house in order with feeling sick all the time. I decided to take a couple of days off before the trip to get my head back to normal and reduce my stress. 

Thursday I still had a headache. Not good. It was hot so I blamed that and pushed fluids but could barely eat anything. I thought I was turning into a wimp, unable to tolerate a heat wave. I decided to cut my hair, that always makes me feel better. I spent some time blaming my hair in my eyes for yesterday’s headache. I stood in front of the mirror to take stock in the job ahead and noticed a bright pink round rash on my hip. It was practically fluorescent. It was in a place I’d never have noticed without a mirror, and I only stand in front of a mirror about every six weeks to cut my hair. I instantly knew the headaches were not from the heat or the data input. I had Lyme disease. I knew it. I rushed to get a blood test done, pick up the antibiotics, and ingest one as soon as I could get the bottle open. I prayed they would work quickly and I’d feel better before today. I thought, it figures I’d need to be on a medication that makes you super sensitive to the sun on a canoe trip. Was the universe telling me not to go? After twenty-five years of longing, and getting this close, what message was I being sent? Should I persevere and overcome? Or admit defeat?  I decided to wait until I felt better before letting my mind take me down an illness-induced rocky road. Not good to make decisions when you don’t feel well.

Well, I feel like superwoman after three days of antibiotics (yay science!) and am packed and ready to hit the long road to the Canadian border where we’ll camp tonight on the St John River. Tomorrow they will transport us to our starting point and we’ll end back up there in a week. Whew! Looking forward to a week of being disconnected from media and super connected with the earth. Stories next Sunday!

Love to all,

Linda