Sunday Morning ~ The Eyes of a Christmas Snail

Kuona maso a nkhono n’kudekha/ kufatsa. ~ To see the eyes of a snail you must be quiet and patient.

~ Chewa proverb

December 27, 2020

Hi Everyone,

Christmas week has been the most quiet I’ve ever experienced. I am not complaining. I started railing against the Christmas machine as soon as I had kids and was expected to comply with the unalterable routine of my in-laws. They had good reason to attach themselves to Christmas rituals. Rituals are a valuable comfort and the family had a daughter/ sister taken from them on Christmas Eve. I was sorry and sympathetic about what they experienced, how could you not be? But after several years the routine had little to do with memorializing and a lot to do with thousands of presents. Declining the invitation was not an option. No excuses. Even having to work was invalid. Get there when the shift is over, no questions or complaints tolerated. It became a noose around my neck. I tried to extricate our young little family. I was told if I just went along uncomplainingly, everything would be fine. I was the one causing the problem.

Christmas was the thing we argued about most intensely in my marriage. Every time I tried to reason that we create our own Christmas traditions (smaller, more moderate), in his eyes I became the drunk driver who killed his sister. It seemed he subconsciously thought if we did everything exactly the same, year after year, somehow she would still be alive. That was my analysis anyway, we couldn’t go deeply into it during the arguments and I wasn’t insightful enough about this until long after he was gone. At the time I felt like he valued his family more than me. My anger didn’t matter as he saw it as temporary; I’d eventually get over it if he waited it out. Instead, my anger simmered until the following year when it started to boil again. So, Christmases were hard. 

When we were young parents with three babies we lived an hour and a half away from our families. I usually had to work part of the holiday, either Christmas Eve or Christmas Day and it was stressful. I was a visiting nurse and loved my home-bound patients. I should have been able to relish that and weave a Christmas celebration around it. We had no money; I was making six dollars an hour and my husband was a student. We made presents for everyone because we couldn’t afford to buy them. I complied with gift giving rules, pretended to enjoy what I called the glut fest, and then we’d fight all the way home. I felt the money spent on our presents could have fed us for months. What I remember most about those years is not the warm glow of advertised family togetherness, but exhaustion, worry, sleep deprivation, arguments about having to leave one house to get to the other in time for another meal we were not hungry for. I paid a price and no one benefitted. Trying to do it all, be what everyone expected, disappointing myself with unrealistic expectations, believing this year would be better, led to the pleasing of no one, marital strain, and tears. I started dreading Christmas the day after Thanksgiving. The only comforting thought I had when my husband left me was the thought of Christmas without him. When the rest of my life collapsed I finally got the Christmas I wanted: quiet, peaceful, spiritual, loving. 

I remember talking with my neighbor and dear friend back then about the obligatory Christmas nightmare and she commiserated. She’d also dealt with family traditions that didn’t blend well with her marriage. I said, “You know what I think is the cause of all this Christmas grief? Mass transportation. If we didn’t have a car and good roads we would not be expected to travel to two houses in a day a hundred miles away.”  That analysis illuminated her face. “You are right! Without snowplows we wouldn’t be expected to get anywhere!” Yup, we would be hunkered down, cuddling, talking, praying, and playing among those within walking distance. We could go to bed at a reasonable hour! We could be rested! The thought had made me long for the horse and buggy days. I’ve asked myself many times in my life, why was I born into this century? Even chamber pots seemed preferable. 

And here we are, celebrating Christmas in an old fashioned pandemic. Introverts of the world rejoice! I am not an introvert, but much prefer my socializing around the perimeter of this holiday, let’s say in March when days are longer and pressure is off. But no matter how many times “the true meaning of Christmas” has been layered upon us, it’s been more a reminder of what slipped away rather than a reckoning. But this year gave us a chance to look for the eyes of the snail, measure the weight of our holiday baggage, and decide what we can unpack and leave behind.

Peace. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Cataloging Regret

Matenda nga mfulu, kapolo ndi ulesi. ~ For a free man it is “being sick”, for a slave the same is called “laziness”.

~ Chewa proverb

December 20, 2020

Hi Everyone,

It is the fourth Sunday of advent. Ordinarily, I’d be at mass this morning, looking at the four flickering candles, reflecting on the symbolism, trying to stay grounded in the season, trying to maintain a balance between gluttony and contemplation. This year it is much more weighted toward contemplation. I have lots of time to think and, though, I’m trying to live in the present,  recently I find myself reconciling a niggling list of regret. 

I’m sitting here with a red shawl over my shoulders, a gift from my friend Donna for my fiftieth birthday. It’s an expensive shawl, rich red, soft fiber that might be cashmere or alpaca. It’s  elegant. I keep it over my office chair and no one sees me wear it. Donna often wore one, dark grey, to mass but I’ve never worn mine outside my study. It’s chilly. The heat went off in my house this week, of course, on the coldest night of the year, and it hasn’t quite warmed up yet. I was indulgently heating the greenhouse, and used way more propane than I ever had. Tiny bit of regret there, but did enjoy the use of the greenhouse. The shawl is warm and reminds me of my quirky friend. I regret not having been in closer touch before she died. I wonder if she felt isolated and alone. No one expected her departure. A devout converted Catholic, she studied scripture and was every bit sincere in her spirituality. That is not to say she was saintly; she was often irritating, and while I didn’t know any saints personally, I never think of them as irritating. But now that I think of it, Jesus was probably irritating to Pilate and Herod.

While most people were having holiday parties, shopping and overeating, Donna would go on retreat during advent. That always appealed to me as I continually bemoaned the commercialism overtaking the season. Though I have spent solitary weeks during advent traveling it wasn’t really a retreat. Walking, through strange cities, I’d try to pretend I was on retreat but honestly, it was cheating. I knew I was on vacation. I’d chat up strangers and window shop every chance I had. Taking a break in a glorious cathedral for a half hour, craning my neck at mosaics and frescos didn’t count.

This year I shuffle through snow in the woods, cold and spiritual in their own way. I do a lot of thinking and that’s sort of a retreat. I have only gone to mass once since the pandemic on the Sunday after the election. I wanted to get on my knees and thank God for the outcome and it seemed silly doing that at home. But I don’t think I’m going back for awhile. I miss the community and the ritual, but not enough to take the risk, careful as they are. Until the vaccine has reached most of us, it’s another gathering I’ll avoid. 

I think about the vaccine on my long walks and am grateful for the intellect and drive that made this one possible. How incredible a time we inhabit. I think about cemeteries I visited solely dedicated to plague victims and imagine carts rumbling along the streets collecting the deceased. I imagine a family dragging out one or more members to the cart and imagine what they’d think of an argument against having to get a vaccine to prevent the disease that was killing them. It is laughable. I think of how grateful I am for really smart people who thrive on problem solving, science, and ethics. I think of what an enchanted age I’ve lived in, vaccinated against most terrible diseases and taking that all for granted. I think about a boy in my school who wasn’t so lucky and was handicapped from polio. He limped around town dragging his legs attached to heavy metal braces. They looked like huge contraptions on his tiny frame. My pity was immobilizing and I regret I wasn’t kinder to him. I mean really, what was I afraid of? I regret I never told him I was sorry he’d had polio. I wish I’d sat with him when he was alone at the lunch table in the cafeteria. I wish I’d been that brave, for that’s what it would have taken at the time: courage not kindness.

A friend asked about the vaccine and if I were sure about getting it. I said, “Of course!” knowing my response was judgmental of the question. I know I’ll be way down the line and it will most likely be summer before I am eligible, but it is the only way we are going to stop this. I asked if she had any kids in her school crippled from polio? She said she had. I wonder if there was controversy about that vaccine at the time, an argument to let the population become immune naturally? Perhaps the iron lung lobby? The native population of Hawaii was nearly eradicated by measles and smallpox while those diseases ran their natural course toward herd immunity. 

I recalled my Malawian colleagues being flabbergasted about the anti-vaccination discussion in our country. They could not wrap their heads around why anyone would not want something that prevents disease? I’d explain that many people have not seen what these diseases do and think their risks are overblown. They haven’t carried their dying children miles to a health center. We have been so removed from the horrors of communicable disease that some people think the vaccine is worse than the disease. They’d shake their heads in disbelief. I’d be embarrassed about having to explain this; it almost sounded like a mockery of their situation. I felt like a rich person complaining to someone starving about the price of caviar.  

And yet, all this thinking changes nothing. I can’t go back and sit with that boy. I can’t change advents past filled with overspending arguments and sugar tantrums. Maybe cataloging regrets can be an opportunity to put them aside now and leave them in a pile to burn while welcoming north stars and lighter days.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Avoiding the Pit

Kulumpha dzenje ndikulionera patali. ~ To leap over the pit one must must see it from afar.

~ Chewa proverb

December 13, 2020

Hi Everyone,

In the fall of 1973, I’d just turned seventeen and was starting my senior year in high school. We had a good football team, I was a cheerleader, and our squad had big plans. For homecoming we organized a rally, which included a parade through town. Our captain, Patti, got a permit from the police department and we enlisted the marching band and pep club. We polished our saddle shoes and megaphones, practiced our moves, and got the spirit of the town revved up. When I think back, it was a pretty big accomplishment for a bunch of teenagers. I don’t remember adults helping out with that. 

It was October of that year when the vice president of the United States resigned, but that barely appeared on my radar. I guess I assumed someone else would come in to do that job, whatever it was. What did a vice president do anyway? I had no idea. I’m not even sure I could have told anyone what his name was. I was thinking about college campuses and future boyfriends. I imagined myself carrying an armload of books, walking through shaded paths with gothic buildings in the fuzzy distance. Sweaters in the fall, caps and scarfs in the winter, tank tops without bras in the spring. I pictured myself lying on a blanket in the sun studying for final exams. Life was so perfect in my dreams.

I was on a college-bound course and knew I wanted to go into nursing. I packed my senior schedule with advanced chemistry, calculus, and physics. I think English was required, so that was in there too, but I never took a civics class. The first three high school years I took the required history classes but remember only how comically the teacher pronounced Mesopotamia, with a little pause after the “Mesopo” as if he had to recall the rest of the word. After what seemed like a long time he would finish with “tamia”. It generated endless amusement, but to this day I couldn’t tell you what I learned in that class. I have no idea how I passed any of the tests. Probably memorized a few treaties and the dates they were signed, guessed at the rest and managed a C. I was always amazed traveling with my kids when they were in high school and they’d bring up some historical fact about where we were: “Ah, so this is where the Treaty of Nantes was signed!” I would look at them in amazement and say, “You learned that in school?” 

It wasn’t until I was in Peace Corps that my interest in government and world affairs started to flourish. I consider myself fairly well informed now but the more I read, the more I realize how much I don’t know. I listened to a pod cast this week about Spiro Agnew called Bag Man. I highly recommend it and I’m eager to read the book by the same name. It delves deep into the series of events that led to the vice president of the United States resigning, which had never happened before, (news to me), and how young obscure prosecutors and law students brought that cataclysmic event to pass. It was absolutely fascinating, and I had no idea at the time it was happening. I may have heard it mentioned in the background as Walter Cronkite serenaded us after supper, but I never considered it something I should care about.  I guess I figured the grown ups could handle whatever was going on with our society. I couldn’t even vote yet! And was only peripherally aware I’d be able to do so the following year. Gun to my head I couldn’t have told you how the voting rights act came to pass.

I remember hearing my brother saying that Nixon had Agnew for a vice president as insurance against impeachment. That comment went straight over my head and I would never have asked for an explanation as that wold have been admitting he was smarter than me. He clearly had been paying attention to current events. I wonder if he was worried about things or if he, like me,  thought the grown ups would work this out. I wanted nothing to mar my senior year glory. We had tournaments to win and boyfriends to chase. I literally shudder when I think of it. 

Though I never saw it as an important addition to my resume, civics was taught at our school and I hear the teacher was great. In fact, our yearbook was dedicated to him. I wonder how deeply they dug into this as it was unfolding. Did he identify the underlings who started uncovering all the corruption, the steps they took, little by little, under the radar, to lay the trap? Did it ignite any flame in any student to aspire to participate in our justice system? Or at the very least, have faith in it? 

I am the first to admit how fortunate I am to be in my situation during this pandemic. I have a beautiful place to live, plenty of food, outdoor isolated activity, and technology keeping me connected to those I love. It’s frustrating watching projects I care about sit dormant and wondering what I could have done better, but it has certainly been an opportunity to educate myself. Digging into history that transpired during my oblivious youth is somehow unnerving. I wish I could ask my mother what her experience of it was. She watched the news. Was she worried? There are lots of parallels between what happened in 1973 and what’s happening now: vilifying the media, lying to supporters, blatant extortion, and outrageous abuse of power. It’s an encore performance. But it didn’t bring us down and learning how conscientious truth sayers guided the course toward justice, I’m hopeful. We should be better able to see the pit ahead of us and take a collective giant leap.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Way It Was Leaning

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

~ Chewa proverb

December 6, 2020

Hi Everyone,

We’ve had a couple of big storms here with strong wind and gusts up to seventy miles per hour. I was worried part of the roof would come off. The rain was coming sideways from the south, hitting the house where it’s least protected. Storms usually come from the northeast not the south and the rain was impressive, let me tell you. At one point, water dripped from my kitchen ceiling and I scurried around looking for the point of entry. Finding all floors above it dry thereby eliminating any broken pipes, I figured the sideways rain had found it’s way in through a window and decided to ignore it while I had a taping for a radio show we were doing about midwifery in Maine. I was grateful the internet hadn’t gone out. I figured the water would dry up sooner or later, but I needed the internet for the next hour and a half. In my hierarchy of needs at the time, internet was more important than a collapsing ceiling. When we were done with the taping and happy with how it went, I went to check on the ceiling and it had stopped. The rain had lessened to a light mist and the wind had died. It was eerie how quiet it was after twenty four hours of howling. Darkness had set in so I had to wait until morning to see how many trees I’d lost. Thank God the huge maples standing close to the house were safely split into sixteen inch logs in my wood rack and I no longer had to worry about them falling on my house. Others however, are still out there leaning.

The last time my son was home he pointed skyward and said, “That pine is dead at the top.” I looked straight up; that’s how tall this tree is. It’s trunk is like a wall next to my car. I said, “Holy smokes, you’re right. I never look up at the top.” I could see the top third of the tree was dead and branches the size of smaller trees were hanging over the cars. It’s not a redwood or anything, but the tree is at least sixty feet high, and I couldn’t imagine having to take it down. It’s part of the landscape here. Small spawns struggling for sunlight crowd around it. Each storm brings down more and more branches and it’s only a matter of time before one hits the car. My gaze followed the way it was leaning and I could see if it fell it would crush my cabin, and depending on the time of day, it’s inhabitant.

When we first bought this land I fell in love with every tree. We mapped out where to build the house around some of the most beautiful pines, maples, and oaks. We hired a guy with very small equipment who was willing to work around them when digging the foundation. I piled rocks around their bases to protect them when we backfilled around the house. Given new space and sunlight, they grew like crazy. Their branches sprawled out until they were scraping the house during each storm, and heavy snow would have them resting on the roof. It got to the point where I would lie awake at night listening to them creaking close to my ear, envisioning them entering through some window. Two years ago I said goodbye to four of them, the ones closest to the house, and had them taken down. I tortured over it, but when I finally made the decision, I thought better to do it surgically then have them fall and take the house with them. About ten minutes after they were down I barely missed them. No one even notices they’re gone. 

In September, standing in my bedroom I heard a loud quick crack. I looked out the window and watched a large birch fall by my pond. I watched it drop as if lightening was striking, just missing my garden fence. It bounced a little as it hit the ground, then just laid there. I imagined it sighing, as if grateful to rest. It had been leaning that way for awhile and I shuddered, not because I loved that tree (which I did) but because my grandkids were always out at the pond looking for frogs. I imagined them under that tree. It would have killed them. I wondered which way they would have run. In a panic, they might not have escaped. It fell rather cleanly, missing both the garden fence and the teak love seat, so no damage done, but I couldn’t shake the what ifs. Birches don’t live that long. They shoot up gorgeously, dot the woods with their pretty bark, offer up canoes and baskets, yield sap for syrup in the spring, dappled shade in the summer, and pretty yellow accents in the fall. But their base rots earlier than other species, and they fall the way they are leaning, easy, dropping to the ground becoming food for various insects and an occasional mushroom. Or in this case, pretty logs for the fire.

I have loved this land from the minute I first set foot on it. We walked two steps into the thickly wooded lot and I said, “This feels right”. I could feel the slight incline and thought what a nice driveway it would be. I saw the diversity of trees and imagined the yard and garden surrounded by them. Thick evergreens would protect us from the road. I’ve spent a lot of time with these trees. We cleared the lot ourselves, cut smaller trees with a chainsaw and  dragged them out to a pile. That allowed us to see which others had to come down as we sculpted the woods into a frame for our lives. Life was always so full, so many people, so many guests, so much living on this land. I have always felt connected, but the tie I feel now is more so. To be here, without distraction, alone and continual, gives me an even deeper connection to the trees. I see the buffer from the road getting spindly and tired. Each storm leaves more and more of the weaklings either leaning on their superiors or supine. I haven’t pulled them all out, a chore usually reserved for the day after Thanksgiving when in (what I consider) a fun afternoon, guests and I create a teepee for the bonfire. That didn’t happen this year; I will leave them where they lay for now. I will have the huge pine taken down before it falls. The first thirty feet of it are so straight and solid, I’ll be sad to see it go. Turn, turn, turn.  My guy came to give me an estimate and I lamented the change it would create. He said, “Within two years you will see all this small stuff flourish once the sun is allowed to get in theyah.” I looked up at the hundred pound branch above my little car and said, “Okay. I’m letting it go.” 

I looked at the nail in the trunk where I hung a vase of flowers for Rachael’s wedding, where I hung a candle for winter parties in years past. Below that were missing chunks of bark where drivers misjudged this landmark, the sap immediately dressing the wound. Just like other stuff I’ve had to let go in life, I’ve got the stories and the memories, and the vacancy will allow others to grow.

Love to all,

Linda