Sunday Morning ~ What Would the World Be Like?

Ufulu ubwezera ufulu. ~ Kindness calls for a return of kindness.

~ Chewa proverb

March 28, 2021

Hi Everyone,

It’s Palm Sunday, and as with most of the holy rituals I celebrated from the time of my birth, I knew little about the actual meaning of the day. I dreaded Palm Sunday as a kid because it meant a very long mass. The reading of the passion was done while we stood and it took forever. I was bored as well as frightened by the solemnity. I hated the smell of the incense and thought it would never end. Getting palms to take home was fun, though I’m not sure why. It’s not like we got to play with them or anything. But I liked laying them on the kitchen counter next to the box of doughnuts, a simple brown box from the local bakery, another Sunday ritual. The honey dipped, jelly, and chocolate covered Sunday breakfast would be surrounded by dry palm on this day and I thought little else about them except that they made the day feel special somehow. There was the anticipation of holy week and fasting, but as Easter approached it meant new dress, new shoes, new hat, and the end to the deprivation of whatever we had to give up for lent. 

I’d never given thought to the significance of the palms. I knew they were blessed and we couldn’t just throw them away. They had to be burned. I knew the ashes for the next Ash Wednesday would come from the burnt palm fronds, but hadn’t considered the palms being laid across Jesus’s path as a reason for naming a whole Sunday after them. For much of my life I’d accepted what I’d been taught in this regard and let the unanswered questions contribute to the mystery and intrigue. 

Palm trees evoked exotic fantasies for me. They grew in lands where I imagined everyone walked slowly and with grace. But they also grow in places that were harsher in my imagination. Dry, hot, desert lands where dust was part of existence and sandals kept the feet from burning had palm trees framing images of the holy family. Depictions of bible stories made me never want to go there. It looked too foreboding; something bad would surely happen. Angry mobs might kill you for no reason. Funny, images of polar exploration, starvation, and frostbite all seemed preferable to me. At least, I reasoned, if the elements kill you, you’ve only yourself to blame for being unprepared. 

This all makes me think of the deep seeded biases and unconscious preferences I have. Where I want to go, live, or travel has been shaped by stories I’ve heard and images I’ve conjured. Palm trees beg romantic scenes of luscious sunsets with soft trade winds caressing the landscape. Silhouetted, they are so unthreatening, so tame. I know little about the different types of palms though I have researched them when I’ve traveled. Date and coconut were all I thought existed, but there are over 2500 types of palm trees. Their fronds make lovely functional baskets. They are woven into mats. And they can even be laid upon the road to soften the way for a special guest, riding on a humble animal, about to face his death for being such a good community organizer and healer.   

Palm Sunday comes near Passover, but I never learned about Passover as a kid. In fact, I learned nothing of Judaism until my freshman year of college when I had a Jewish roommate.  I was spellbound listening to her stories of Jewish ritual. That was a time in my life when I created a strict new structure, based in religion, to keep me from having any fun. When I look back, it was an interesting time. I went to mass every day; going to a Catholic college, this was not difficult. There were masses all over campus at different times. I chose a twenty-five minute noon mass at a beautiful gothic chapel, grounding me in a familiar ritual when I was feeling alone and lonely. I hadn’t gotten on-campus housing so shared an apartment off campus with three roommates from different colleges. They were older than me and had established friendships and social lives. I did not fit in, though they were kind to me and became like big sisters. I sat at the knee of the one who practiced her religion and listened with rapturous interest about how her family life was protected and enriched by it all. I felt like we had a lot in common, though her stories had more background and intriguing food. I had never even heard of a bagel before my freshman year of college. Once introduced, they were the epitome of deliciousness,. Cream cheese and smoked salmon? I felt I had been given the keys to a new universe. How had this bulky, filling, rich, chewy vessel been hidden from me? We had a few Jewish families in my hometown but I don’t remember a single bagel in the bakeries. It was doughnuts and eclairs. And Good Friday? Everyone got that day off no matter which god you worshipped.

I remember asking my mother what would have happened if they didn’t kill Jesus. I remember her laughing at the question. She was busy doing some kind of house work––ironing or defrosting the refrigerator which took an entire day. Her response was, “No one knows.” and for some reason, I was satisfied with that. 

I have spent plenty of fantasy time rewriting stories of painful parts of my life. Not in a denial sort of way, but in a what-if sort of way. Today, I thought about rewriting the story of Easter and Passover. No exile, no crucifixion. What if… the kindness people showed Jesus by laying the palm fronds on the road were mimicked by his persecutors? What if they’d looked around and thought, how nice they treat each other! How kind is this man who cares about the poor and downtrodden! What if we winnowed out the kindnesses and celebrated those? What if the haters were stopped by the kindness. What if those were the stories we told children? Would it leave them unprepared for reality? I imagine Jesus on his donkey crossing the palm fronds, sharing a meal, hashing out differences, splitting up the leftovers, and making a plan to hand ladles of water to thirsty voters. What would the world be like?  

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Power of the Tail

Mphamvu za ng’ona zili ku mcira. ~ The strength of the crocodile lies in it’s tail.

~ Chewa proverb

March 21, 2021

Hi Everyone,

Thirty nine years ago today, at 7:29 a.m. I was clutching my new baby boy to my chest. He was nine pounds, two ounces and I was shocked at how my little body grew such a big baby. What a miracle. I’d labored through the night, walking the halls to make labor move along, worried it would stall like my first labor did. I should have rested. It was a long hard night. Images of a rosy future played in my mind as I got myself through each contraction. I imagined my two children growing up as best friends. I pictured them playing together in sandboxes, then on ballfields. I thought about their acne covered faces studying together, skiing together, laughing together. It was a time when we learned of the baby’s sex at birth so my fantasies were gender neutral. Then, as the sun came up on the first day of spring on that Sunday morning, I pushed this robust, healthy boy into the world.

My second child was born on the cusp of an ongoing fight between medical and midwifery birth. I was lucky to find a midwife to care for me during my pregnancy; it was before there were many practicing in our system and I clung to her to protect me. I was terrified of being medically manipulated and felt I needed a human shield. I’d wanted a home birth but had no cash to pay for that. My job as a visiting nurse, paid six dollars an hour, but at least provided health insurance. That meant I would pay nothing out of pocket for the birth and hospital stay, but meant I must subject myself to their routine procedures and (what I considered) torture. In 1982 my baby went to the nursery instead of staying with me. I was in a “quad” with three other women so no visitors were allowed. All babies came out on a schedule to feed. I was woken at 2 a.m. with unannounced overhead lights and four babies loudly rolled in and distributed. Exhausted, we four were startled awake, blood pressure cuffs attached, thermometers inserted, and name bands checked to make sure we were handed the correct child. It was absolutely barbaric. Completely spent from laboring the entire night before, I was nearly hallucinating. When my son was placed next to me, I said, “But he is sleeping!” The nurse (let’s call her Ratchet) said, “You get that baby on a schedule!” and proceeded to unwrap him and flick his feet to wake him. I pulled him toward me, rewrapped him, and when she left, we drifted back to sleep together. I barely woke up when they came to collect him, maybe they thought he’d eaten and burped and went back to sleep. I was scolded for sleeping with the baby there and didn’t see him again until six when they wheeled them all in again. A few hours later, the midwife came in to do rounds and, crying, I begged her to get me out of there. She agreed to discharge me as soon as the pediatrician let the baby go. It felt like prison.

I was so grateful to gather my tortured perineum, hemorrhoids, and sore nipples and take them home to a soft chair, loving husband, my two year old, and my sister who was staying with us. What a relief. My husband was a student and we lived in a cheap rental with no insulation and a wood stove for heat. When we got coats off and settled, my husband hit play on the cassette player and Elton John started singing, “The Greatest Gift”. It was romantic and sweet and I had all I could ever want in the world. My husband prepared a meal, my sister cuddled and read to my two year old, and I fell in love with my newborn and tried to forget the abuse. 

I appreciate many medical advances, vaccines for instance, but when it comes to pregnancy and childbirth, we’ve gone so overboard dehumanizing this natural event that I devoted my professional life to changing that. Like so much else in our culture, it’s evolution was based on power and greed.  We could have created a system ensuring mothers were safe, shielding them from infection and hemorrhage. Basic measures and education would have reduced maternal and infant mortality. Soap and clean water goes a long way. But the profits that could be had off the backs and vaginas of women were there for the taking. They scared women into believing their babies would die, subjecting them to unnecessary (but profitable) tests, tortured them with straps and monitors shown over and over to improve nothing. “Cause no harm” never seems to resonate when women’s bodies are concerned.

What we have done to women in our system and how we have failed them and motherhood at large weighs heavy on me. How I wanted to be part of fixing this problem. How I struggled as a midwife to resist becoming part of the machine that profits off of maternal anxiety. Always on the birthdays of my children I think about my experiences as a patient in a health care system I always found lacking. Yet, I was part of it, always struggling to make into something I believed in.

I thought about all this yesterday when I got my first dose of Covid vaccine. I’m fortunate that I can drive, have a functioning car, have fuel, and the ability to schedule a time slot. I drove an hour to the massive vaccination site. I parked, donned my mask and got in line. I had my identification, my confirmation number, my insurance card, all ready to hand over. I moved forward in the long line, stepping from marker to six-foot marker. I was met by a greeter who directed me to a woman who handed me a second mask. I put that over the one I wore and went to the next station where hand sanitizer was squirted into my palm. I rubbed my hands together and moved to the table where a volunteer asked my name. I was ready to show all my documentation, but ended up putting all that back in my pocket when he checked me off the list and thanked me for coming. I said, “That’s it? You don’t need any of this?” I showed him my cards. “No, you are all set, move this way” and he pointed to the next station. There, a volunteer entered my information about allergies, confirmed my name and birthdate, gave me my card and information about the vaccine, and pointed me toward the next station. As I moved forward on the floor markers, other volunteers greeted me, their eyes showing the smile the mask hid. I was nearly crying. I thought, see what we can do? See how we can give people the health care they need with compassion! See how this can work? It is possible, we can do this. My turn came, I rolled up my sleeve, got my shot from the friendly nursing student, and moved on to the waiting area, where I was choked up watching the appropriately-spaced chairs fill with people from all walks of life. I thought about Yo Yo Ma playing the cello while he waited. I thought of how all the horrors of the past four years was becoming less vibrant in my mind because of all the goodness I saw around me. This is possible. We’re proving it. 

The proverb I chose today teaches that it’s not the head with the real power, it’s the tail. The leader is important, yes, but the power really comes from those in back. We can make this so much better.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Mindful Movement

Mtunkha-tunkha udatayitsa lipande. ~ Moving all the time spilled the pounded maize.

~ Chewa proverb

March 14, 2021

Hi Everyone,

Among other things, the pandemic has forced me to stop moving around. It is unfamiliar but I’ve tried to embrace it, and I’ve had some success. I’m more settled, take more stock in what I have, what I need and what I don’t. I’ve connected with many distant friends, read a lot, walked a lot, written. I’m still in motion but the circle has diminished to my kitchen island. I thought about this as I paced around it today, eating cornbread, wondering why I can’t sit still to eat anymore. Someone, somewhere said that’s not good for you, to stand and eat, but I don’t believe it. 

It’s been a year since this enforced homestay began. A year in a long life is a blip. I think of the years in school, wishing them to be done so I could move on to exciting things. I could have, should have, relished those years  more. My constant motion always had me looking ahead to the next adventure, planning another before I finished the one I was on. I think of the years with babies, loving them but also wishing for the days when they could buckle their own seatbelt, carry their bag, zip their own jackets. It always seemed like life would be easier around the bend. And so, I have tried to relish this year of being home, knowing I am so much more fortunate than many. I am trying today, the day when the time lurches forward, to sort through my feelings about this year.

Guilt crops up. I’ve felt guilty about having so much comfort and security. Not immobilizing guilt, I’ve worked hard for what I have. I know many people who would blame my Catholicism for this guilt, which always makes me laugh, since they don’t say this to guilty-feeling non-Catholics. I experiment changing the internal dialog from guilt to gratitude. I’m grateful for what I have and wish others could have the same. We all make choices and I chose a road that led me to a comfortable life. But I was also lucky. I had parents who worked hard and paved the road I walked. I was lectured at length as a kid that hard work was the only way to a comfortable life and I learned that lesson well. I also acknowledge there was much more circumstance to that end. I chose a profession that allowed me to work anywhere around the world, there being a universal need for nursing. I recognized my calling fit well with my need to move. While friends were reading What Color is Your Parachute? I was moving closer and closer to my career goals and always found moving an exciting prospect. Settling in to new places and creating a new life has always been my default setting: when upset, move. 

Once settled into this house that took so much of our resources, heart, and mind, I vowed never to move from it and it has been my mooring ever since. Moving and returning has been my pattern. Until now, however, I’ve never spent this much time in it. I’ve traveled or spent days away at my workplace, returning to this anchorage in a whirl of accomplishment and relief. I took this place for granted. Now, day in and day out, I’m here looking around at ceilings and walls, decor, window latches, door knobs, floors and newel posts. I watch the angle of the sun coming in and have been analyzing it’s progression.  It’s given me an attention to detail new in perspective. I haven’t decided if it’s good or bad; I’m still thinking about it. Sometimes I think I’m going crazy, and sometimes I feel smart and handy. I move through the house this time of year when the light is a tease, the temperature deceives, and lose myself in details and what to do about them. 

I look out the window and feel I should be outside. But more than any time of year, I want to be in. This is not new; it’s my reaction to spring. I’ve always resisted this but I’m not a spring fan. The light says, “Come out!” But when I do, the air is like a cruel boyfriend who teases and lies. It tortures me when I step out. I think, “This isn’t what you promised!” Your light said, “Lightweight sweater! No long underwear!” But in reality, I must bundle up and watch my step because the going is hard and dangerous. It’s not easy or fun. And so I admit to myself that I’m out of sync. This season does not love me and I don’t love it back. I cling to my beloved winter, knowing it’s leaving and won’t be back for awhile. I pick my skis off the dirty snowbank, toppled after a fleeting thaw, and hope for another go on the white trails, the soft scene surrounding me with happiness and gratitude. It’s so fleeting. It’s like an affair, a lover you know you can’t keep. It’s that ugly time when the affair is over but you’re still fighting. You know it is right to end things, it’s best. But you only half believe that. You want things the way they were and now need to sit with your grief and find pleasure in other things. A thaw is around the corner now, but it’s only to mess things up before freezing again so the softness is turned to a treacherous dare. 

Eventually the sadness will fade. As the forsythia start to bud I’ll anticipate the next lover, and one day I’ll open the door to a welcome breeze that says it’s real this time.  Then I’ll leave the bitterness behind, barely remembering how I ever felt anything but joy. Those days are coming.

Mindful movement, keeping this dramatic year in perspective. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ First Words

Nchenzi inamva mau oyamba. ~ The rat heard the first words.

~ Chewa proverb

March 7, 2021

Hi Everyone,

The rat, hearing the trap would be set tomorrow, got caught when he failed to hear: “On second thought, I’ll set it today.”    

Our women’s writing group met yesterday over zoom. It was odd initially, this simulated gathering, but as we wrote and read it relaxed into a comfortable acceptance; for it was this or nothing. It was uplifting, nourishing, accommodating. Almost thirty years ago a discussion about women telling their stories morphed into this group and a monthly Saturday morning of writing. With a desire to tell those stories we learned to abolish the editor, the ghostly voice telling us we can’t write; it’s not good enough, no dangling participles please! We write without judgement. Then we read. It is a treasured part of my life, this group of women. It began with women who wanted to write, that’s it, their lives revealed in short, raw, funny, painful, garish segments. The authors alone decide whether to reveal them anywhere aside from this safe and sacred place. There is no judgement and the only commentary an occasional sigh, a nod, a tight smile, a tissue handed across a room, a pat on the knee, an outburst of laughter. Silence. Then another story. 

To get to know a group of women by what they write then choose to read, in short segments, six or nine minutes, sometimes only three, has been deeply meaningful. Our souls and hearts bared, our deepest worries, questions, regrets, triumphs, joys, and sorrows laid out in poetic phrases, unpunctuated, often illegible. It’s all okay. No judgement. No advice. Just gratitude. All this makes for a unique human connection. Our monthly gatherings are personal, we’re older, with varied pasts and skills. Ordinarily, we sit in crowded living rooms, the most comfortable chairs are first come first serve. The windows, the teacup, the scone, the artwork, all highlighted as we seat ourselves. Hallways filled with boots and scarfs, coats and purses, frame the scene. Apologies for icy walks and distant parking places all shaken off with smiles and hugs, warmth, welcome. It’s as healing as a full day at the spa.

This ritual stopped a year ago. While everyone shook off the shock and adjusted to the new rules, the women’s writing group sat on a shelf like an classic novel. Creative outlets sprouted here and there, there may have been talk of frustration, of missing this, if so it wasn’t to me. I only felt it. I still wrote, but missed these friends. Turns out, others felt the same. So they organized a way to do it over zoom, again, odd, but it’s what we have to work with and are lucky for that. I was excited! In the morning I flitted around the house, feeling like I should make scones and clean the bathrooms, as if they were all about to arrive at my house! I wanted everything ready, the smell of bread baking, coffee brewing, and some sort of living green dotting mantlepieces and side tables. I came back to reality, adjusted to the times. I arranged the laptop for an attractive backdrop, a comfortable writing space, a perfect angle of light. 

While I waited, I sorted and organized piles of stuff from a cabinet I impulsively opened and emptied earlier in the week when I’d received an upsetting phone call. A little side bar in my brain wondered what I was doing? It seemed my arms belonged to someone else as they pulled piles and piles of stuff out on to the floor. I listened intently. offering only, “Oh,” and “I’m sorry” and “What now?” and “I’m glad you called.” I hadn’t opened this cabinet in a very long time. I had to move stuffed baskets away from the cabinet doors just to open them. I put it all in the hallway: baskets, bags, bundles, cast offs, and well-intentioned future projects. Half done or less, they looked up at me from the hallway floor, pained, like the voice in my ear. I looked at the hallway, now nearly impassable, and thought, I’m sorry I’ve hidden you away, imperfect and incomplete, unacceptable, and undone. I just shoved you away waiting for a day when either I or my prodigy would decide what your future would be. The voice in my ear said goodbye and thanks for listening. My heart was like a stone in my chest, not cold and uncaring, but heavy, bulky, solid. It weighed me down. I looked around at the mess in the hallway and wondered what I had done? Why did I just pull all this out? Knowing it can not go back in the way it was. Maybe I needed something to control as I had none over the pain on the phone. Clear out what I’m not using, haven’t used, held and stored. I need to make space to breathe and think, organize, control, reorder to a form that makes sense and in the end, might keep someone warm.

I wrote about this, about letting go; how we decide what to keep, what to abandon. I think many of us are considering this now. We’ve been home so much, noticing cracks, collections, sentiments gone stale. Framed gems that seem hollow and well past their expiration date. What to compost and what to trash? Then there are the words. I found old journals. I refrained from reading them, knowing I’d neglect the piles for days to come once I started. I stacked the journals and wondered, if I died today, would anyone read them? And if they did, my kids for example, would it be painful? Would they devour them and discover who their mother really was? Or would it all get scooped up in a weekend, deposited in a burying site, lost, because no one has any space for anyone else’s stuff anymore. Armoires, dishes, linens, and silver relegated to archeological overload. I consider how much we are learning now about incentives of historical figures, dredged from their journals that someone has finally taken the time to read.  Paper fades. Words don’t. Their meanings morph and first words may not reveal the truth. 

Love to all,

Linda