Sunday Morning ~ Making Our Own Dust; A First Communion Thought

Pa gule pfumbi ndiwe mwini. ~ At a dance you, yourself, have to produce the dust.

~ Chewa proverb

July 18, 2021

Hi Everyone,

A dance in Malawi is a dusty affair in the dry season. Dances are energetic, passionate, theatrical, and joyful. I love to dance. I love moving to the music and wish I did it more often. I sway in church, tap on the steering wheel, bounce at a concert. Depending on a partner is something I’ve learned not to do. I love this notion of making my own dust. It speaks of self-care and inner spirit. Which brings me to…rosary beads.

Yesterday was Amelia’s First Communion. I sat next to her in the church missing my mom, knowing how important this was to her. My mom, wouldn’t have said that, though. She would never have declared that she had a need or desire. She never articulated how her faith helped her survive or how she cherished the community she gained from it. She’d expect you to know that inherently. In her generation choices were few; rituals and traditions were not questioned. I doubt she would have listed the good she gained from those rituals but they were everything to her. She kept her wisdom sheltered along with her affections. It was survival.

When I learned Amelia’s First Communion would happen this summer, having been postponed a year, I started thinking about a gift for my eight year old granddaughter. I wanted something meaningful but also perhaps, useful. I’d wanted to make her First Communion dress, but she’d already picked one out and my daughter had purchased it. My hand-me-down First Communion dress was a bit of a disappointment. I wanted puffy sleeves and skirt, and veil with a crown. Instead, I wore my cousin’s beautiful straight-sleeved embroidered dress. The veil had a band of   silk flowers, which were also beautiful, but it did feel like my only chance to ever wear a crown was slipping away. I remember feeling beautiful. 

When I was clearing out the space for my summer tenant, I found a box of things I’d moved out of my mother’s apartment after she died. There was a satin lined jewelry box holding a few inexpensive necklaces, lapel pins, and a set of pink plastic rosary beads. There was a lapel pin, a gold butterfly with a body of three pearls. I didn’t think Amelia would wear a lapel pin, but could imagine it settled into Amelia’s golden curls and hoped she’d let me do her hair. I set about creating a beaded barrette with the butterfly perched on top. I looked at the rosary beads and thought, though they weren’t the delicate white First Communion kind, but they were pretty and my mother had saved them. That meant something. I cleaned out the box, and placed them back in the satin covered nook. I don’t know where my mother got them; a gift? Maybe purchased outside a religious site somewhere? The nice ones she used for her own contemplation, comfort, and serenity were buried with her, draped around her once graceful fingers. I wanted to give the pink ones to Amelia, not sure if she’d appreciate their meaning. She never knew my mother, but I wanted to tell her story and explain how much this cord of prayer beads was part of her life. My mother wasn’t a women who knelt alone and said the rosary every day (that I know of), but she would hold them in church and pray when I was young. It comforted me somehow to see her do this. She looked peaceful, a rarity in those years. 

When I was learning to say the rosary around my First Communion, when we traditionally got our own set, it was all about saying the right prayer on the right bead. I remember worrying I might screw that up resulting in some tragedy. The rosary is not part of preparation for this sacrament now and when Amelia opened them up yesterday morning, she held them up not sure what they were. I explained they belonged to her great grandmother, who used them like worry beads. I told her I wanted her to have them because my mother, who Amelia is named after, had a hard life and these beads helped her cope. She would say a prayer on each bead and sometimes just rub them around in her hand. They made her feel better. I told Amelia I wanted her to have them and if she were ever worried or troubled she could hold them and remember someone loved her all the time, no matter what. I said, “It might make you feel better remembering that.” She smiled and rubbed them around in her hand.

Then I started thinking about these beads. Chanting is a part of many cultures, a comfort and tool for reflection and insight. Saying ten Hail Mary’s might be similar. I hadn’t thought of this before. The times I’ve said the rosary in a group my focus was on how my knees hurt. At the mass yesterday the priest asked people to either stand, sit, or kneel, whichever was most comfortable. I thought, how sweet. What progress. We got scolded by nuns for putting our feet on the kneelers because it might dirty our dresses. Our elbows were not allowed on the pew when we prayed. Posture was emphasized. Discipline. Doing it right. I wonder what it would have felt like if someone had said, “Here, rub these if you get scared and you might feel better knowing someone cares about you.” or “Stand, sit, or kneel, whichever is most comfortable for prayer.” 

Amelia liked the barrette. She let me brush and curl her hair. She donned her dress and shoes. We went to the church, where Zack, (her godfather) gave her a nice set of white rosary beads. In the pew, she took them out and held them in her hands, fingering all the beads. A few minutes into the mass, she turned to me and said in the faintest whisper, “I’m afraid to go up there.” meaning the altar, which was imposing, I admit. I told her her parents would be going with her; she would not be alone. I said, “I was afraid at my First Communion, too.” She nodded and rubbed the beads in her hand, let the chain drop down from her fingers, looped around her palm and rubbed the beads one by one between her fingers, just like my mother. She smiled up at me as if she found the secret of them and I choked back a sob. 

I’ve been asking myself why I connected the dancing to this chain of prayer beads. I think it’s because I value having inner strength to go it alone. Having this…tool? Is that the right word?  “Charm” seems too flimsy, but something you can hold, put memory and meaning to, that helps you cope on your own, be less dependent. It feels less lonely when lonely times come. Amelia dances when she wants, all alone, joyful, because no one has told her she shouldn’t. It feels connected somehow. 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Change

Masiku athena ku citseko.~ Days come to an end, a door opens to let things in and let things go.

~ Chewa proverb

July 11, 2021

HI Everyone,

Transition summer: isolation to sociality is more of an adjustment than I anticipated. Change is uncomfortable, even when that change is desired. Entrenched in our groove, the familiar is comforting and derailing is painful, unsettling and confusing. When change is thrust upon us, our choices are to adapt or suffer. It’s been interesting to watch. As Megginson said, “It’s not the strongest or most intelligent who survive, but those most adaptable to change.” At the Mammoth Caves I learned of the fish adapting to the darkness whose eyes gradually disappeared. No need for them. I wonder if our skin will darken as the planet warms, protecting us from the searing sun. 

Until last year, summers here were full of fundraisers, galas, music festivals, art exhibits, craft fairs. I was hardly still for two consecutive hours over the summer. It was a balancing act to fit a job in there. With my guests being on vacation I’d pretend I was on vacation, too, scooting away for a bit to earn a paycheck. When the kids were teenagers I put thousands of miles on the car dropping off and picking them up from summer jobs. Then last year, nothing. Streets were quiet. I hardly entered a grocery store, and when I did it was only to buy milk and leave. I adjusted to the solitude and discovered I liked the peacefulness of it. I painted. I knit. I read. I had my census job that I’d do for a few hours a day, then come home to an empty driveway, house, and garden. It felt so strange. I didn’t set up my porch bed last year because it felt strange to have the house unoccupied at night. It was one less chore to set up and take down in the fall. I thought maybe I’d give that practice up and sleep inside year round. But the early heat wave in June nudged me to make my bed, crawl under my net, and let the night sounds lull me to a sleep that is sound and deep. 

I have always been happy to share my home; there is space for many people and the summers have historically been a constant flow of students, musicians, family, friends, and friends of friends bunking for one night or several. In summer the house is alive. The top floor fills with working students grateful to find a room. They work odd hours, usually more than one job, and I greet them coming and going and see them off with a wave in late August. Last summer was strange having the house to myself. The only slap of the screen door was when I walked through it.

This year, the bodies are back. It was slow at first. Just one person living upstairs, not the usual two or three. I adjusted to footsteps and doors creaking, fans whirring and dryer spinning. Now another guest, a member of the opera cast and there are fresh conversations, cocktail hours, morning coffee. I’m remembering how much I love meeting new people and hearing about their lives. I love hearing their reaction to the nest I’ve created. I love see them settle into it; it’s what I always wanted this to be. That said, it’s an adjustment, just as it was the other way around. My organization is rusty. I am slow to combine following a recipe with carrying on an engaged conversation. But at least I’m cooking again, so that’s something. That had taken a seat way in the back over the past year. Aside from scrambled eggs and corn bread, I did nothing more complicated for the table for one. Now I am trying to remember which serving plate and salad bowl is where. I’m dusting off the steak knives and wine glasses. The toilet paper stockpile in the basement is dwindling.

This moment is making me take a breath and evaluate what activities are worth it to me. How social was enough? Do I need to say “Yes” to everything? How much was obligation and how much desire? I am anxious about carrying on a conversation, something I never used to worry about. The French group meets this evening and I realize I haven’t spoken French since Bastille Day two years ago. Will everyone be as rusty as me? My brain seems slow in response and I can’t remember words or names. I’ll force myself to go. I remember it brought me pleasure and no one judges. I’ll listen more, talk less. Smile more.  Adapt.

Love to all,

Linda  

Sunday Morning ~ Apologies of the Road 

Tapita m’njira adasiya tonse m’khola. ~ Those who say we just follow the road (not branching off to visit the village) have left us all in the kraal.

~Chewa proverb

July 4, 2021

HI Everyone,

Fresh off a girl’s trip to Tennessee, I’m sitting on this rainy Fourth of July morning and considering lessons from the road. I couldn’t write last week; it was the first Sunday I’ve missed in years. I sat at the breakfast table while others drank their morning coffee, my laptop open, pretending to type. It looked like I had a lot to say, and I thought I did. But my brain was fuzzy and confused and nothing made sense. I couldn’t put the trip together in a way that seemed worth reading so just sat, grateful for this group of friends, and decided to stop pushing the blog uphill. 

I’m quite sure there will be eight people reading this week wondering what I’d say about them. Five of us took to the road and three flew to the one who lives there, making perfect attendance for the first time in a while. There were many hilarious moments and a few intense ones. There’s something special about being with people who know your past and accept you for who you are despite the irritations and conflicts. The storytelling and laughing is nearly non stop and seventeen hours in the car flew by. Conversation may lag for a post prandial moment, but it recurs with no effort and I’m constantly amazed at how many unshared details of our lives still exist. We are like a bunch of sisters who assemble and meld our aged experience with adolescent immaturity. It makes us seem simultaneously wise, competent, youthful, and petty and it feels great.

In normal times we get together annually. We alternate locations between my house one year and an alternative destination the next. When the pandemic hit we started doing weekly zoom calls that cut off mid sentence at forty minutes. This trip was planned during one of those sessions when Kathy (“most dramatic” class of ’74) said she was auditioning for a play. Margie said, “Hey, if you get the part we should all go!” and months before we knew that might be possible we eagerly jumped on the train. She got the part (of course) as Nat in Rabbit Hole, an intense play about a family dealing with the loss of a son. Kathy was perfect, lighting up the stage whenever she walked on. I love watching people do what they do well and she was born to act. Though, I thought it a strange choice of shows for post-pandemic entertainment (a comedy maybe?) the portrayal of dealing with grief, feeling heard, making ones own way through, was poignant. Kathy executed the occasional funny moment perfectly, relieving the tension and giving the audience a break. Well done, my friend. 

Now, Kathy wants to write a play about us. She presented this idea as we floated around a neighbor’s pool while the day-drinking wore off. Grand Dame of ideas, Kathy dramatically described how we (meaning she) should write this script, but we all needed to participate in the shaping of the play. We must whittle down the dramas into a plot that can be acted out in two hours. Since it would be complicated to stage our horse back riding calamities in Iceland (one of the funnier stories) there was a thought this theatrical performance should be honed to our first weekend reunion; the stage sets would be more manageable. Considering this idea, I’m really appreciating the skill it takes to portray a story on stage! A lawsuit was threatened by the most private among us, fearing something or other about her life becoming public, while the rest of us hang dirty laundry out without a care. I chuckled at the thought that a) the project would actually get to the point where it might conceivably happen, and b) what great PR a lawsuit would be for the show. I started imagining what I’d wear to the Tony awards, but then Kathy thought nine was too many actors and we’d have to eliminate her part anyway. 

We learned a lot on this trip. Not only at our National Park visits (Harpers Ferry, Mammoth Caves, Abraham Lincoln’s Birthplace), but about how we interact and revert to childhood patterns when we’re together. It’s like going home to mom again and can be both comforting and unsettling. We had ample hours in the car to analyze and discuss this and there was a lot of apologizing. I thought about how much of our lives are sound bites, how misunderstandings fester because we don’t spend enough time hashing things out. It takes patience, investment in friendship, recognizing value in long term relationships, acceptance. I’m learning more about what shapes us and am often dumbstruck at the fact that we are even here to tell our stories. We lived through some crazy shit and not everyone we knew did make it out alive. We’ve got material for more than one show. 

As we start the next phase of our lives with medicare and senior discounts, we are keeping each other young and willing to branch off to visit the villages. I’m grateful.

Love to all,

Linda