Sunday Morning ~ Moving Through Water

Mlirira kwao adamka ndi madzi. ~ The one who wanted to go home at all cost was swept away by the water.

~ Chewa proverb

March 27, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I’m at a retreat, the first indoor, in-person event I’ve attended since the pandemic began. It feels momentous. Retreat. I’ve been thinking about the word. To pull back, go home. Withdraw. As if we haven’t already been doing that for a long time. It seems the opposite of what we planned: to come together again. We planned a healing retreat, the idea being to mend our hearts, address our trauma, support each other. Caretakers often don’t care for themselves and it takes a toll. There has been so much loss. We acknowledged that.  

I decided to start the weekend with a massage, something I rarely treat myself to, but I needed some alignment and thought I’d start off supporting local caregivers with an hour of being cared for myself. This was the weekend theme after all. The massage therapist asked me to fill out a health history form with the usual questions about whether I had any injuries, diseases, complaints, etc. then I came to a surprise question I had to think long about. It asked me to describe myself as water. I stopped writing. In terms of water what was I doing?  I’m not a water person generally. I am not a strong swimmer, don’t like to be in cold water, and am not drawn to boats. If I have any fears, they have to do with water. Yet, I obviously value the life sustaining substance in all sorts of ways. I know we take our water for granted. I took stock of my anxieties and complaints and thought of waterfalls (glorious to look at but deadly to encounter), rapids, crushing waves, or eddies. Do I feel like these? Dangerous and powerful? Not really. I’ve felt stuck not whooshing. I envisioned a stagnant pool with scum forming over the top. I quickly erased that vision as intolerable. But now that I write this, it doesn’t sound so bad. I could have eliminated the scum and thought about water bugs and croaking frogs, a more positive image in my mind. Something alive with better energy than scum. Though, I supposed I could dive deep into the wonders of algae. I was overthinking it and after a four hour drive, wanted to get on to that table, face down, letting someone take the stress out of my muscles. I impulsively wrote “whirlpool” and though that didn’t seem right either, but I was writing in pen and hate to cross things out. So I left it, thinking that’s not accurate as I’m really not feeling as powerful as a whirlpool. It was more the being caught up in one spot I was going for, the rock in there still lodged and trying to escape. Swirling water. I left the word on the page and moved on, wondering how it might affect my treatment or if the water question was for her own interest and something she’d go back and muse over later. I felt unbalanced and wanted her to get things straightened out. As I waited for her to call me, I wondered what actually caused whirlpools and made a mental note to look it up later. Whether it was my longing for human touch or the water question I don’t know, but it was the best massage I’ve ever had and I hovered in a blissful state between consciousness and unconsciousness for over an hour while the world disappeared. 

Whirlpools, I learned, are formed when currents flowing in different directions come together. Hmm, interesting. Lots to think about there. I wish I had looked this up before the healing circle and could have shared some great metaphor and seemed very smart and intuitive. Oh well. I read on…”the water from opposing currents start to swirl around each other.” (Oh wow. So many references. I wonder if she thought about this before my massage? How well did she know water and whirlpools? I didn’t ask her.) “If the currents are very strong they can spiral downward, forming a vortex. If strong enough, this vortex can pull things down into it.” (I’ll just leave that right there.)

I started wondering how strong I felt. Not very at the moment. Actually rather weak, or at least weaker than is comfortable for me. But I’m getting older and may need to rethink my notion of strong. It’s the changing of the season and this time of year does not energize me. I remind myself of that. There is change and flux and conflict. My instinct to fix it all, manage things, run around saving vulnerable plants, people, old socks–– all equally, confounds me at this time of year. When does a whirlpool stop spinning and start to move again? It’s not, I learned, when the rock gets dislodged. It’s when the tide changes, when the currents shift, the waters recede. It’s all much bigger than me or us. Everything in a cycle. If we just wait, the whirlpool becomes less dangerous; it’s easier to move through; the dam does not need to break; we just need to wait until it is safe to go home.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~  A Plan

Wa cake sacileka. ~ Someone who behaves like that will never change.

~ Chewa proverb

March 20, 2022

Hi Everyone,

After hearing from many people last week about wanting to help the people of Ukraine, I asked my family in Warsaw if there were some direct way people could contribute, knowing some are skeptical of how much of their money goes to administrative costs in an organization instead of directly to people in need.  

There are many Ukrainians who are internally displaced, meaning they did not cross into another country but have left their homes for safer parts of Ukraine. A refugee staying with my family has contacts who remained in Ukraine and are delivering money directly to mothers and children sheltering without resources while their husbands are fighting. Money can be wired to them from Warsaw. So if anyone wants to trust me with their donation of cash, contact me directly and I will give you instructions on how to get the money to me. I’m setting up a separate bank account for this. I will get the money to women in Ukraine directly. The other use for cash is to buy supplies needed by refugee centers around Poland. They put out lists each day of what they need and supplies can be purchased and dropped off. No one is asking for material donations! These are hard to transport and take labor to sort through. Much of it is wasted. I learned this in Haiti where the donations became a horrendous disposal problem. It is much more efficient for me to check the list and go buy supplies and directly drop them where they are needed. I am not soliciting. My trip is paid for and I am going no matter what. I’m writing this in response to requests I’ve received from generous people who want to help.  

There are many organizations assisting and if you want a tax deductible contribution you should donate to one of those organizations. The two I am going to volunteer with are Caritas (a Catholic Relief Services) and World Central Kitchen. Donations can be made easily on line. 

https://caritas.pl

https://wck.org/volunteer

I am imagining myself in the horrifying situation of Ukrainians. I’m listening to, and reading arguments that we didn’t give diplomacy a good enough chance. This may or may not be true; I wasn’t there. I don’t know what was said in the negotiations or in what tone. I need to go by what I’m hearing second hand, because, I wasn’t there. I listen to arguments on both sides and assess what is said, where the source originates, what their experience is, etc. and I incorporate my own biases based on my own experiences. This is only what I’m doing personally to formulate my thoughts. Everyone else is certainly entitled to their own. 

What strikes me about this argument––if we had only done A, then B wouldn’t have happened–– is how it resounds of domestic abuse. From the abuser: If you’d only not said that; if you’d only come home when you were supposed to; if you’d only made the right dinner; had the right attitude; worn the right clothing… then none of this would have happened. 

Now, again, I wasn’t there for the talks leading up to the invasion. Maybe just the right language would have turned the tanks. But based on the past twenty years, much has been given up in the hopes that things would change. The war industry has it’s beneficiaries for sure. Our lifestyle, which exploits people all over the world, leads to conflicts. I recognize being part of the problem. I use gasoline. I have a cell phone. But a brutal invasion of a country that was expected to roll over and take it?

I’ve listened to women for more hours than I can count telling me he’ll change. They want to believe it so badly. I lived it every day of my childhood and relived it in relationships. It’s easier than leaving. It’s easier than imagining your kids suffering or losing your house. It’s easier than being blamed for everything gone wrong. Just wish and hope and pray he’ll stop being violent, stop lying, stop making empty promises. I get it. I’ve been there and been jaded by my experiences. Change can happen, but it’s rare. Patterns of violence and thirst for power don’t just go away. These patterns are not hard to identify and talk is cheap. “I’m sorry” means nothing when the pattern doesn’t change. In fact, it’s part of the abuse.

It’s embarrassing when you realize you’ve been duped. You think of all the times you’ve defended him to your friends. That alone can make you stay. You think about how you’d have to admit you were wrong. But at some point the damage is too irreparable, the price is too high, and you’ve had enough. Then the real beast is unleashed. Is it better to settle for rape? Or risk being killed? How do you know he won’t kill you next time? How do you feel about the ones who said you should have just accepted the rape, because you know, you shouldn’t have interfered. It’s your own fault. 

We have shelters for women who can’t take it anymore. They fear for their lives and depend on kindnesses of strangers and philanthropic programs. They are counseled on the risks of going back, but they do go back because they believe he will change. He said this time will be different. He doesn’t want to lose you. Many women will die when they go back. Because, he doesn’t change. It’s easier to see if you’ve been there; not so easy if you haven’t. Everyone has their story. Everyone can choose who to believe. 

I’ve heard some say the videos and photos of Ukrainian destruction are fake. I’ve heard abusers accuse victims of faking bruises and injuries, too. As a forensic nurse I learned how to document the injuries so the testimony would hold up in court, because, you know, why should you just believe her? He seemed like such a nice guy.  

Thank you everyone who reached out. I will make sure there is a story attached to your generosity.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Decisions

Khoza lipita ndi mwini dzanja. ~ The ivory bangle goes if the owner of the hand agrees.

~ Chewa proverb

March 13, 2022

Hi Everyone,

My mother’s cousins came to visit me yesterday. It was an old fashioned family visit, like the ones I remember from my childhood when friendly familial faces entered the house amid laughter, hugging, glee. Coats and scarfs were tossed over railings, large bodies moved into the kitchen or living room where there was tea, coffee, and cookies. Their girdles swished against silky skirts, nylon stockings, pearls, perfume all a blur of bustle and happiness. They smiled with funny teeth, so many smiles on old faces, greeting us children with utter delight at how big we were, how smart we were, though, what did they really know? But the delight was genuine. Everyone was so happy. They’d driven maybe an hour? But it seemed like they’d been separated for decades. Had they? There was reminiscing, news, and expressions of awe with gasps of sadness peppering the chatter. I’d sit on the sidelines and watch this display of connection and love, not really understanding who everyone was or how they were related. 

When my mother died twelve years ago, I received a forwarded Christmas card addressed to her with a chatty message from people in Maine I’d never heard of. I wrote back to tell them she’d died and learned they were her first cousins, family I did not know I had. They spent the day here yesterday, and told me they didn’t really know my mother; they’d only seen her once or twice when they were young. Their father (my grandmother’s brother) moved their family of eleven children to Maine when the depression hit and he’d lost all his savings. They squatted in an abandoned farm and made a new life here. We sat by my fire learning about who were were, telling stories of displacement and suffering and how everyone came through it back then. They’d lost siblings from childhood illnesses, went to war, waited at home for the return, started new lives. I listened to them, now in their 80’s and 90’s, with such love and admiration. Such hearty stock I come from, I thought. They can laugh at such stories of hardship. I thanked them for making this trip to visit me for a day. They inspire me; they give me hope.

When my plans to spend a month in Poland this spring got complicated by a war, I spent some time in the uncomfortable state of indecision. For the past two years my travel plans have been disrupted by the pandemic and I’ve spent the time at home, exploring Maine, and broadening my understanding of classics and pop culture. (I’m reading The Odyssey and watching Succession for God’s sake.) I thought we were coming out of a stressful separation and never suspected traveling again would involve factoring in a war. I wondered how to help in this crisis? Unclear about how to be of use, I bought a ticket to Poland and immediately felt better. I’m in a constant  state of anxiety and the news literally gives me heart palpitations, but at least I have a rough plan. I sit shaking, hearing of women in labor fleeing a crumbling building. I wonder how brave I could be?  Decisions. Those women had no luxury of time to ponder what to do as bombs were falling. 

My house is quiet. The clocks leap forward so we can enjoy another hour of light though it’s the same 24 hours. There are no bombs falling here, only branches falling from the wind. I eat breakfast in my sunny kitchen and am warmed by the fire at night while I read any book I choose. I knit something superfluous while I watch something to make me laugh. But I make the decision to leave here, find a job doing something useful, offer anything I can, hoping it may make a difference. When I weighed the two choices: staying here, and going there, the one that brought peace to my heart and calmed me, was going. 

When I told my relatives yesterday I was going to Poland to see if I could be of some help, their reaction was all very matter-of-fact, reminding me of my mother. Oh well, you do what you need to do. 

What should I bring? What should I plant before I go, or should I deal with the garden when I get back? How should I finish up obligations I’ve made here? These decisions are easier to make. I started looking for organizations to work with, and sent in two applications. I’ll figure that out once I get there if nothing comes through before I go. At the very least, I know I can work with World Central Kitchen. I’m happy to make sandwiches, ladle soup, or wash dishes if that’s what they need. But when I think of women delivering babies in a subway, my God, I want to help there if I can. 

The priest at mass last night asked us to pray not only for the Ukrainians and their heroism, but for the Russians as well. “Pray for Putin”, he said. “It may be our prayers that turn his heart. It may be the Russian people who can end this. Both sides need our prayers to bring peace. There are brave Russians protesting this. They need us as well.”  I thought of 2016 when I wanted people to pray for America, too. 

The proverb refers to the inability to force someone to do something against their will. You cannot force a child to go to sleep. You cannot make someone love you. You cannot force someone to stop drinking. I read this proverb and felt both hope and despair. Putin can not be forced to end his madness. The Ukrainians can not be forced to live under Russian rule. It’s only when we agree.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Praying for Peace

Ngwazi ikufa ndi mpeni umodzi. ~ Even a big warrior can die with one stabbing.

~ Chewa proverb

March 6, 2022

Hi Everyone,

I was on a chairlift with my daughter when I said it out loud, “He invaded.” I’d seen the headline early that morning but quickly shut my phone off and pretended I hadn’t. “I know”, she said. We said nothing more about it, not wanting to ruin our ski trip by acknowledging the reality of the collective nightmare. We did not discuss our fears for the future. We said nothing about our concern for family living in Eastern Europe. Our worry about what this would mean for the lives of the two, innocent, sweet kids sitting between us went unexpressed. We focused only on keeping them firm in their seat, keeping their tips up as we debarked, moving out of the way for the skiers behind us. Instead we celebrated the kids’ progress in staying upright, keeping their knees bent, their noses unfrozen, their fingers warm, and spirits full. Participating in an expensive and elitist sport, I was well aware of my privilege that day, relishing my freedom and ability. What absolute luxury. I wanted my grandkids to love it as much as I did. So, I spent that final day of our ski trip in denial. 

We’d driven there separately so at the end of that day we loaded our skis into separate cars and went our separate ways, tired, cold, and grateful. I settled into my warm seat and braced myself to face the news. It took an hour to get out of the mountains and get a radio signal. I listened grimly, heart sinking, anxiety rising, and prayed. 

In grammar school, the first history book I read with interest was The Diary of Anne Frank. It was not a collection of dates and events but a story of a young girl I could relate to. I was riveted by her writing; I wanted to learn about what was happening to her. She was thirteen when she started writing; I was ten when reading it. My mother was a young nurse during the second world war, not serving in the military, but working near Boston. I remember asking her what it was like and if she were scared. There were never specifics revealed from her. “Oh, we had to grow our own food and couldn’t travel.” she’d say, as if it were a mild inconvenience. She never sat me down and said, “War is terrible. We all suffered; the people in Europe most of all; the Jews ultimately.” No one ever said that. It was like a Hollywood movie, the images I had, and we were victorious. Growing your own food? That sounded a perfect romantic life to me and good prevailed in the end. My father was on a Navy ship in the Pacific and, in addition to the photos of him posing with what looked like a canon, there were photos of men dressed up with mops as wigs crossing the equator. It looked like fun. There were sunny skies and men smiling for the camera. It was all heroic. He came back intact, at least physically, and war talk was of victory and strength. None of it fit with the story of the young girl locked in an attic. 

When I saw the movie Sofie’s Choice I was a young woman with babies of my own. I left the movie theater barely able to walk. That was what it was like. Holy God. No. It must never happen again. And because I believed it must and would never happen again, I thought the rest of the world believed it too. Smart people who lived through this would never let it happen again. I had blind faith that we were all smarter now, the information more clear, citizens more worldly, more compassionate. It would never happen again. But what was I talking about? There are wars all over the place, but not wars we can relate to. Their cultures are too strange, their landscape too exotic, their depiction in our media too unreal. They aren’t us. Conflicts that escalate over time, have their roots in colonialism, and begin internally are so complex that we give up trying to understand them. But now a deranged bully, sick and powerful, has shown us what is possible and we can relate.  I have no doubt at some point, he’ll fall, but am terrified of the cost. I am sick with worry and wonder what to do.

I have family in Poland, and though I don’t believe Putin will directly attack there, war does not  stay contained. My experience with MSF taught me that refugees are welcomed for awhile during the crisis, but those displacements soon result in other conflicts. Resources eagerly shared at the onset become stressors when those resources become scarce and need to be distributed fairly. Those stressors then lead to internal conflicts and the pattern ripples. 

I had been planning to go for a month this spring to visit Poland and Ukraine. A  friend was teaching in Ukraine and I thought, why not see that country as well? But he was evacuated in January, the state department taking it’s own advice seriously, and is now staying in Budapest. My family remains in Warsaw. So I’m deciding what to do. I’m wondering if I could volunteer somehow with refugees. I’ve started looking into it and will decide this week. 

I listen to the news constantly, getting updates of cities decimated, people fleeing, numbers killed. I sit with my book group and look around as we discuss furnace troubles and plumbing problems. We meet inside for the first time in a year, but all stay masked, because we are not  risking any illness. And I think, what if we had ten minutes to flee? How much can you grab?What would I take if I had no idea if I were coming back? If my house would stand? 

I do not understand warfare or what is to be gained by these atrocities. I’m relieved to see most of the world condemning this and the actions taken thus far. I constantly pray the heroism in Ukraine will prevail with as much support as possible. I will not complain about prices or inconveniences. It is so small compared to what others are facing. I do not take my liberties for granted. 

Love to all,

Linda

“War is the greatest plague that can afflict humanity, it destroys religion, it destroys states, it destroys families. Any scourge is preferable to it.”  

~Martin Luther