Sunday Morning ~ Where the Bounty Originates

Sunday Morning ~ Where the Bounty Originates

Azidyera pa mutu pa mfumu. ~ They have eaten on the chief’s head.

~ Chewa proverb

November 21, 2021

Hi Everyone,

In my search for a proverb about giving thanks, I found one translating an expression of gratitude for the work others have done to provide for us. It seemed appropriate given the more accurate historical accounts of Thanksgiving rising to consciousness now. 

In grammar school I learned a story of Pilgrims and their Indian friends working together as a team to provide this happy day for us to enjoy. We made construction paper turkeys with Crayola colored tail feathers as a tribute to the suffering our forefathers endured on our behalf. They were grateful for their harvest and worked together in their gender specific roles to have a day as happy as I was having. How good of them. I loved that story. I loved the idea of people working to help each other. I saw simple illustrations of this feast, confirming the story was true. It was all there in black and white. 

Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday since I became conscious of holidays. It holds happier memories than Christmas, possibly because it was a day when the family, especially my mother, was happy. I find the memory of simple childhood Thanksgivings comforting. In our college years, when we developed unwelcome opinions and felt empowered to drop them at the dinner table, the day got tense, but so was everything else then. As a kid however, the day was filled with good food, good humor, and football. The meal was grand in abundance and presentation though there was no heirloom china or fancy linens. The excitement surrounding the day built as brown boxes from the Italian bakery, neatly stacked on counters, tantalized us. Their contents could only be imagined and we patiently awaited their debuts. Breakfast pastries were gooey jam filled delights that tore apart in layers, glaze dripping onto our hands. Desserts were eclairs and cream puffs, pumpkin tarts, and pecan rolls. There were no limits; they were piled onto a platter, placed on the table, and we went at it, eating all we wanted. Bowls of nuts had sets of excavation tools on top. Eating nuts required work but we were not deterred. Only then could we enjoy the pill-sized walnut piece. I despaired from even going after the cashews. They took forever to get results. My brother would work for awhile to collect a nice pile of nut meats, smile his superior smile, then eat them all at once. I did the same with my pomegranate seeds. While others struggled to get a few popped into their mouths, peeling away the clingy connective tissue, I’d perform my surgery steadily until I had a whole pile of seeds to consume at my leisure. This was as savored as the pastries. 

The weather was cold but the house was warm. The radiators hissed as bread dough rose on their shoulders. Once breakfast was consumed, we bundled up for the high school football game. It seems inconceivable to me now, but the final game of high school football season was played Thanksgiving morning. No one traveled; people put their turkey in to roast, left for the game, and returned to eat dinner in our own kitchens or dining rooms. I knew of no one who visited relatives in another state. Our Italian relatives called that day; my prominent memory being my mother fretting about how much the call was costing. Paying by the minute, a long distance call was a holiday treat. I’d hear my father speaking Italian in the hallway, the receiver to his ear, the phone attached to the wall. There was no chair, no illusion anyone would speak long enough for a need to sit down. If there was a lot to say it went into a letter.

My best friend Beth, lived across the street and we compared our Thanksgiving rituals. She had relatives come for dinner because they lived in the same town. This was a marvel to me. The women arrived dressed in nylon stockings and girdles, fur collared coats, corsages, purses, and hats. Men wore suits. The height of relaxation that day was when they took off their jackets after dinner. But in my house, it was sweaters and slippers once we got home from the game. We drank cider from the back porch and ate from morning until night. The whole day was about filling our bellies with goodness and co-existing in that warm house. The television glowed all day with men wearing pads and helmets sliding in mud while coaches on the sidelines smoked cigarettes. They wore suits and ties under big overcoats and we could only imagined what they were saying. Their mouths moved and hands waved and it was all left to the imagination. My memory is in black, white, and shades of grey, this happy home for a day.

My mother juggled gravy, mashed potatoes, and squash, trying to serve a perfectly cooked meal during half time. “I thought you said two minutes a half hour ago!”  she’d yell. This was all lighthearted and loving in my memory. I have no idea if it really was. Probably not. The table was set and turkey carved and marching bands were background music for our feast.

We said grace at our house when my mother’s uncle and aunt, a priest and nun, visited at random times of the year. Thanksgiving was not one of those times, but we said grace on Thanksgiving without them. It was never ad lib, but the standard, “Bless us oh Lord and these thy gifts that we are about to receive. In the name of the father, the son, and holy ghost, Amen.” Simple and easy whether sincere or not. We never went around the table voicing something we were thankful for. Children had no voice and it was only much later that mattered to me. At the time, having my parents happy was what I was thankful for. Where the food came from, the bounty, the warmth, were all taken for granted.

Despite all the world is enduring right now, I still love that we have a holiday celebrating gratitude. May we have a broader view of where the bounty originates and spread the sentiment to those who deserve it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Little by Little, Again

Sunday Morning ~ Little by Little

Pang’ono-pang’ono ndi mtolo. ~ A bundle is gathered stick by stick, little by little.

~ Chewa proverb

November 14, 2021

Hi Everyone,

I’m the first to admit I’m impatient. I used to allow a week or even two before getting agitated waiting for a response to a written correspondence. It made mail delivery an event, like being handed a gift. Now, if I don’t hear back in a day I’m on edge. This has made creating sustainable accomplishments frustrating with expecting results in an unfeasible timeframe. The media exacerbates my impatience so this proverb is a good reminder. Itcomforts me. If making the bundle involves people of varying viewpoints and tendencies, well, accomplishments can take awhile. This week I received the news that the midwifery ward first put forth four years ago by the wise and wonderful Ursula Kafulafula, dean of the midwifery school, became a reality. It was something we thought might take a few months, then maybe a year, then God forbid, maybe two. It was the reason I extended my contract as I was so excited about working on this project. It hadn’t happened when my time was up the first go-round but surely it would be up and running by the end of the second year! Well, I have a lot to learn from those who don’t give up. 

From the minute Ursula described her dream of having a ward at the teaching hospital run solely by midwives where women without complications could get care, where we could model respectful care to student midwives, and demonstrate, with hard data, how many fewer complications and healthier outcomes resulted, I was self-appointed cheerleader. This had been my pipe dream for teaching hospitals here where women could choose midwifery care and receive that care in a designated ward apart from the invasive technology rampant in the high risk wards. We are all well aware of how low risk women become high risk when they are part of that milieu. In Malawi, step by step, stick by stick, it went from a casual conversation in a car ride to Lilongwe, as we aired complaints about the student experience on the wards, to the opening of the first ward fully led by midwives. Well, first in this day and age. It used to be all the maternity wards in Malawi were run by midwives. Just like here, it used to be all maternity care was delivered by midwives. Now, it’s innovation. What a circle.

A global pandemic was not something we foresaw or factored in. The original space we had been given was perfect. It was close to the school of midwifery so faculty could conveniently walk over for teaching and supervision. It was large enough to expand once established, and proximity to the high risk ward meant a woman could be easily transferred if needed. When the pandemic took hold, the midwifery ward space was transformed into a Covid ward and another space was acquired about five miles away. I was disappointed to learn of the location, but happy the project wasn’t dropped altogether, and this past week I learned via WhatsApp message from Ursula that the ward had opened with great fanfare. There were chitenjes made for the event: a circular logo with the words *Transforming Maternity Care in Malawi * Midwives Leading the Way* around a simple image of a midwife holding a baby. It’s amazing. The Minister of Health gave a speech. The current dean Elizabeth Chodzaza gave a speech. The video sends us walking through the ward with functioning sinks, showers, air circulation, clean beds, and mosquito nets. This can be a model for maternity care everywhere. The ripple effect can be fantastic. I’m so happy it finally happened and so sad to not be there to see it.

All this was on my mind at church as I listened to the priest, who originates from Cameroon, give his thoughtful sermon. I wondered what he thought of us. The music in our tiny church on the ocean is weak at best. We have an organist whom I admire; she’s been playing music for decades and is now well into her 90’s, but the congregation mumbles through the songs, the octave too high for all but one or two parishioners, and it sounds pathetic. I thought of masses in the African countries where I’ve lived or visited and chuckled. They are veritable rock concerts. The congregation belts out their love for the Lord from the depths of their beings. There is dancing and whooping shaking the rafters. I wondered how they convinced priests to come to our dwindling parishes. Was he wondering if there was any hope? Did we all sound like we were giving our dying gasp of faith? How ironic, I thought, that he would be here as a missionary trying to save us. 

At our social time after mass I asked him what he thought of the difference between mass here and those in Cameroon. I told him I’d lived in Malawi and Congo and I find our masses rather anemic comparatively. I told him I’ve not been to Cameroon so was generalizing, but wondered what his impressions were. He was ever so polite and dignified and said, “Ah, we go through an orientation before we come so it won’t be so much of a shock.” I laughed. It was the most delicious cultural exchange I’d had in two years. 

I thought of the midwifery ward and how progressive and healthy it will be, how amazing it would be to do the same here, but how much harder it will be to move the concept through our system. Despite reams of evidence supporting the benefits, our health care system cares deeply about control and money. If I take the long view, impatience be silent, it might be something to work toward.

On election day I collected signatures for a citizens’ initiative to get a universal health care resolve on the 2022 ballot in Maine. This would require the Maine legislature to implement a publicly funded health care system for Maine residents by 2024. It is a brilliant strategy to approach universal health care with a mandate. Twelve hours at the polls convinced me there is enthusiasm for this. It was not a hard sell. Most people lunged at the petition to sign. They were desperate to get some kind of understandable, universal system that covers them when they need care. I had to deliver the explanation in a few short sentences to keep the line moving. Some waved me off but they were the vast minority. People from all walks of life were eager to sign from construction crews to lawyers. One retired physician enthusiastically cheered when I explained the petition which triggered one of the poll workers to come sign when there was a lull. She told me it was his response that made her believe this could be possible. 

Our actions make a difference, little by little. 

Love to all,

Linda