Sunday Morning ~ Thanksgiving Thoughts

Mbawala sikumwa madzi galu ali kumbuyo. ~ An antelope does not drink water when the dog is behind her. 

~ Chewa proverb 

November 26, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I’ll be leaving my home again soon and a bit of anxiety has set in. I’m excited about going, thrilled actually, but there are logistics to renting my house, packing my life, and saying goodbye; it sparks a little angst. I vacillate between giddy excitement and worry about what I am leaving behind. I miss my mom. I thought about her a lot this weekend. What would have been her 103rd birthday was on Thanksgiving Day and I tried to recall if I told her how much I appreciated all she’d done for me. Did I assume she knew I was thankful? I can’t remember. The years blur together and I may have expected more than she wanted to give. Having my kids here this weekend sparked some reflection and I felt desperate to tell her I am grateful. I fully accept where life has brought me but find myself indulging in a little sadness for what could have been. I feel so much responsibility; these remnants of childhood caretaking creeping in. If I could only be good enough, help out enough, attend to everyone, take on their feelings and angst, absorb their anger, sorrows, and shame, then I could make everything all right. It doesn’t work and never has.

I know many women who have put their goals and aspirations aside because of family obligations. This has always seemed tragic to me. When I went to Congo I left my elderly mother who worried she might die while I was gone. She wasn’t ill and I have other siblings who could step up for the year so knew she’d be cared for. I worried way more about my kids since their father had stopped parenting altogether. Now that they are middle aged you’d think I could let that go, but no. Maternal anxiety seems to be a life sentence. 

I felt oddly lonely this holiday. Four of the five kids were home and I went to bed listening to their laughter and chatter on Wednesday evening. It brought back memories of listening to them as teenagers. We were an intact family then and my husband and I would go to bed and listen to them talking downstairs. We’d cuddle up in happiness that our kids were such good friends and we’d created the family we’d dreamed of. We’d drift off to sleep with their laughter as a lullaby. This week I listened and worried: Are they arguing? No, they are laughing. They must be joking around. Why did it get quiet all of a sudden? How much are they drinking? Is this going to turn south? And thus managed to keep myself awake for hours worrying, knowing I’d be exhausted when I needed to get up and create the perfect day for my perfect imaginary holiday. I do this to myself. It’s so stupid.

When everyone left and I got some sleep I put this in a broader perspective. My kids don’t agree on everything and there was plenty of energetic arguing. They were raised with the same parents, the same religion, the same house, and they’ve all turned out so differently. It makes me wonder how anyone can be critical of the efforts heroically taking place in the middle east to negotiate an end to this horrific war? How can we influence when we don’t have control? I am a parent of children with considerable privilege and it’s hard for me. Little me, a nobody whose problems are minute compared with what much of the world faces. I am thankful for the diplomacy and skill of those negotiating. I am thankful we have a president with integrity and experience. I believe he is doing an amazing job with an impossible task. It all weighs heavy as I embark on what I feel with absolute clarity is my correct path. 

I wondered this year if the kids are worried about me? Do they think I’m selfish to take off again? No one says and I don’t ask, I guess because I don’t want to hear potential answers.  I’m clearing out loads of stuff preparing for the renters. I prodded tired butts up to the attic pulling out stuff: What about this? What about this? Want this? There were piles going to new homes, piles going to the dump, piles going to the library, and piles to goodwill. It calmed my nerves to have them there and for a little while I felt the dog was not chasing me.  

The waning light, the cold days, the dark nights, the memories of holidays past, nailing together a story that does not need to out shine any other but stand alone as what it is. No judgement. No control. Just is.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ The Right Place at the Right Time

Mimba si kupha namwino. ~ The pregnancy does not kill the midwife.

~ Chewa proverb

November 5, 2023

Hi Everyone,

At the Common Ground Fair in September, a woman came to our table in the Health and Healing tent and asked about the role midwives play in Maine. She had a friend in Augusta planning a memorial for Martha Ballard, a colonial midwife, from that area. I told her I knew the story of Martha Ballard very well and use the book about her for a course I teach on the history of women’s health care. The memorial was news to me and I was intrigued and excited. Could we possibly highlight midwifery and the good it could do in this state? I contacted the organizer and learned the celebration was still in the planning stages, but there were two events, one in the park where Martha Ballard’s statue would be situated, and one at the governor’s mansion in November.  On September 27th I drove two hours to the park where the Kennebec river and Bond Brook meet. This is where Martha lived crossing the river frequently by canoe and on foot over the ice to tend her patients. There was music and food and local officials eager and enthusiastic about creating this park. I was impressed. Three of Martha’s descendants were there and each spoke eloquently about their ties to the area and her legacy. 

Connie, the organizer, greeted me eagerly as if we were long lost friends. She asked me if I could get other midwives to attend the tea at the Governor’s Mansion on November 2nd. I told her I’d put the word out via the mailing list and was sure some would come. “Tell them the governor will be there. And, would you be a speaker? Would you do that?” she asked me. Without knowing what I would speak about I told her “I’d love to!” always eager to promote this profession. I had a month to think about it, but my many distractions with house guests and preparing my year away led me to a week of panicking as I tried to organize my thoughts. 

I’d written many notes about Martha Ballard. I’d written personal reflections on each chapter of the book; I related to her in so many ways. In my class I used the book to compare her practice with current midwives’ and how health care for women is delivered now. We examine how medicine creeped into the care of women during pregnancy and birth and took it over, resulting in worse outcomes and more invasive treatment. I wrote my speech then edited out the anger. It’s tricky. I wanted to honor Martha Ballard while educating the audience about how far we have fallen. The press would be there. How often do you get a chance to speak to the governor?

A week before the event a gunman killed 18 people in our state, wounded thirteen others, and traumatized hundreds. We wondered if the event would be cancelled. It was not, but Governor Janet Mills was not able to attend. Understandable. It was exciting nonetheless, and though my mouth was so dry from nerves I had trouble articulating words, I got the message out, hoping ripples spread. 

Here’s what I said:

Clara Barton, founder of the American Red Cross and grand niece of Martha Ballard, wrote “From the storm lashed decks of the Mayflower to the present hour, woman has stood like a rock for the welfare and the glory of the history of this country, and one might well add…unwritten, unrewarded, and almost unrecognized.”

Recognition of women in this country has improved since those words were written, but the profession of midwifery is still misunderstood and under-appreciated. For that reason, I am thrilled that midwifery is being celebrated here today with the incredible story of Martha Ballard. 

I was a practicing midwife in Bar Harbor when A Midwife’s Tale was published. Its author, Laurel Ulrich was the keynote speaker that year for the American College of Nurse-Midwives and described her experience of discovering Martha Ballard’s diary. Though it had been disregarded by male historians as trivial and unimportant, she saw it as a rich text filled with detail about the role women and midwives played in colonial society.

With so little history told through the voices of women, Ulrich had the skill to take this diary and weave it into the story of Martha’s life, and the life of her community. Most women of that time could not read or write. The daily work of maintaining home and family was more than a full time job for them. There were no hospitals, yet society depends on a healthy population. Women were the healers and survival of the community depended on them.  

From Martha’s diary we learn that a vibrant economy existed among women that was also vital to the survival of the community. Martha’s documentation of barter and exchange is an extraordinary description of an economic system of highly valued domestic work. Warping, weaving, quilting, carding, knitting, gardening, washing, all were essential jobs and part of the female economy. 

Midwifery is a profession requiring long periods of time away from the home. In Martha’s time a midwife’s career began around age fifty after their children were raised. Martha documents a communal system of women providing care with a deep spiritual connection to their environment. It makes one acutely aware of how desperately they needed each other. If no one was home tending the hearth for Martha, she could not be out attending to the sick and needy. In this isolated setting, neighbors were dependent on each other, and professions were dependent on their children’s gender for success. For example, farmers depended on having sons; a midwife was more able to tend her patients if she had girls to tend the home.

Martha was the first person in this country to keep a record of vital statistics. Without explaining why, she recorded each birth, the sex of the baby and condition of both baby and mother. From these records, Ulrich calculated Martha’s complication rate at 5.6%. This is remarkably consistent with current midwifery rates of 6%. We know from Martha’s diary that 38% of babies were conceived out of wedlock, debunking a social myth of that time. Birth certificate data is now used for determining health care policy, allocating funding, hiring staff, planning for schools and public health services. Could Martha have imagined any of this?

Midwives are healers and have always cared for the poor and underserved; they still do. In the dark ages, women healers were feared and eliminated, often violently. They took with them wisdom and knowledge of ways to tend the poor and desperate, people who then suffered more desperately from the loss of their caregivers. Though modern persecution does not include being burned at the stake, elimination of midwifery practice still exists. In rural communities all over this country, women’s services are being eliminated and, I believe, is a form of gender and professional discrimination. Midwifery services are the most cost effective means of providing women’s health care, with lower complication rates and healthier outcomes.

We know from Martha’s diary that her birth numbers changed from year to year. She did not, however, discontinue serving women because of fewer chances to profit. In Maine, eleven rural hospitals have discontinued maternity services even though midwives could provide safe, respectful care in those communities. Studies show women have the healthiest pregnancy outcomes when they are cared for by a trusted member of their community close to home, or at home. The CDC reports that 84% of maternal deaths are preventable. This means having a trusted, skilled caregiver available. There were not enough midwives to care for the growing population in Maine in the early 1800’s, and today we have a similar story. 

Martha describes her travels to attend patients. She documents long and sometimes dangerous journeys to care for women in need as opposed to writing about the birth itself. Ulrich surmised that, “Martha, having mastered her craft, had no need to describe it. It was the journey that was the story.” Our current practice makes vulnerable women do the traveling, leaving their families and support systems, forcing them to do this on small roads in winter storms and summer traffic. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have a Martha Ballard in every Maine community? 

Despite her advanced years and physical limitations, Martha did not hesitate to run to a neighbor when there was a report of physical violence. She was called and she went, and she dealt with the situation she found. In the aftermath of that violence Martha describes sitting with a traumatized woman and doing ordinary tasks, understanding that familiar rituals are necessary in times of confusion, chaos, and despair.

Martha’s craft was learned by apprenticeship, what we now describe as clinical teaching. Currently there are few midwifery education programs nationwide and none in Maine, despite the desperate need. Creating an education program both for Certified Nurse Midwives and Certified Professional Midwives is necessary and possible.

Martha’s diary documents physician involvement leading to increased maternal mortality. Aggressive maneuvers led to higher rates of infection and hemmorhage. She mistrusted the new young doctor in town. He had a higher fee and higher complication rate. Martha doesn’t record training another midwife to carry on her role after her death. It’s not known whether no one showed interest, or didn’t have the calling, but Ulrich wondered, “did the aggressiveness of the new doctors discourage younger women from practicing midwifery?” Now, when looking at how to best care for women in Maine, Martha Ballard’s diary provides historical context and insight and we should be paying attention.

Martha attended a birth on April 26,1812 and died about a week later. In her last diary entry she wrote “made a prayer adapted to my case” then signed her name. At a time when women had to surrender their names and identity to men, she was wise enough to know how important her name was.

In closing, I have five lessons to take from Martha Ballard:

1.  Live the life you are passionate about

2.  Be devoted to your community

3.  Be respectful in caring for others

4.  Help your neighbors 

5. Storytelling is powerful. Tell your story

Thank you to those who are telling Martha’s story, recognizing what a midwife contributed to this state, to the people she cared for, and to this young country.   

The Blaine House

November 2, 2023

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

October 15, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I recently made a big decision about a new roof, a huge financial and esthetic consideration. I fretted. I overthought. I collected so much information I got confused. Metal or asphalt? If I go with metal, should it be corrugated or standing seam? What color will complement my house, gray, black, or brown? How will it hold up in wind and snow? Will snow fall off and kill someone? Will a fifty year life span be adequate or should I go with “lifetime”? What does “lifetime” even mean? How should I finance this? I got so much conflicting information I spun in circles for awhile before taking deep breath and committing. Metal. Burnished slate. 

I listened to the news and thought, good God, I did not have to consider whether the roof would survive a bombing. Or a wildfire. It was heat efficiency, maintenance, and rot that I lost sleep over. I thought of my children’s inheritance, not their survival. 

I thought back to when we built this house and had to make multiple big decisions every day. A couple then, it offered ample opportunity for disagreement. How much of the budget should we use? What will it look like? How long will we have to live with it if we don’t like it? I just wanted it DONE! There were conflicts. We’d anticipated that. We’d heard the maxim “Build a house, lose a spouse!” and were prepared. It was definitely hard on our relationship but we came through with a little professional help (another decision). It made us closer. We were proud of what we’d built. It sheltered our large family so well, so comfortably. We could entertain guests without disruption of the family routine. My ex would often look around and say proudly, “What a ripping little house this is” a line we loved from The Wind and the Willows. We’d laugh. I was happy. I loved the life we’d made. On Sunday nights, we’d get the kids to bed then build a fire and read the paper, swapping sections until we got to the crossword puzzle. I loved Sunday nights. I was sure it would always be that way. We’d made the right decisions.

As life wore on and kids got older, there were more decisions and they got harder. How much leeway to give teenagers? What consequences were appropriate for their poor (and sometimes dangerous) decisions? There was a lot of discussion, disagreement, conflict and compromise. And that was just our little nuclear family: seven people with a common experience and culture. 

Decision making can cause some wear and tear. Even small decisions like which movie to watch or what to meal order can cause low level stress. Though wrong decisions in those circumstances can cause disappointment, we can go out to eat another time or watch that other movie later. But what about the irreversible decisions? The ones that can ruin relationships, cause harm, completely change the trajectory of lives? 

We all have a personal process of decision making based on our past experience and emotional state. I like to talk it through, out loud, to another person. Using English, my first language, I gather data, consider options, and come out with final decision. I like hearing other perspectives, input, and stories. Then I like to moll it all around and settle it. And since I’m on my own, I can make the decision that works for me. After all, it is my resources, my body, my home, at risk. What an incredible position to be in. What privilege. 

So I’m thinking of those who have neither the time nor luxury of mulling over all the possibilities. Those whose safety is in such peril they must make decisions about whether to stay or leave. What to bring? How will they protect their families? Would I decide to flee, knowing I may never be allowed back to my home? I’ve made a life here that I love. I have a community I value and an environment where I feel safe. What if I had to leave my home forever? Would I forsake all my belongings? My few family heirlooms? All the photos that remind me we once had a happy and intact family? Or would I stay, looking at the adornment of my life and decide that is enough. There but for the grace of God go I… a decision I do not have to make. 

At this time when I wonder what I can do, I focus on voting for those who know how to make decisions for the common good with empathy for humankind.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Searching for Balance

Mlandu sugwera pa mtengo. ~ A tree never has a court case.

~ Chewa proverb

October 8, 2023

Hi Everyone,

I’ve spent the last three months chasing deer out of my yard. Once they got over the garden fence for the first time in twenty-five years, they’ve come every night consuming every new leaf that sprouts. I sprayed a rotten egg mixture, hung bars of soap, covered plants with netting, in a vain attempt to salvage what I’d planted. While visiting my neighbor one Sunday I saw a deer munching her shrubs and pointed to it. She was non-plussed. “I can’t stop them.” she said. I was surprised she didn’t try to shoo it away as I do. I thought about her reaction and decided she has the right attitude. I’m the one encroaching their turf. They should not have to alter their behavior for me.  

I love growing my own vegetables. Until this summer, my biggest problem was not enough sun to ripen my tomatoes. Slugs had previously been my most challenging pest, so I laid a copper barrier around all the beds and marveled at how well it kept the slugs away. When the first deer jumped the fence and invited all her friends and family to the feast, the copper was not a deterrent.  I put up netting, they pulled it down. I propped up a taller barrier, they made a new entrance. Envious of my neighbor’s nonchalance, I started thinking about how I might enjoy the sight of deer instead of being angered by it. When I declared my garden a total loss, I decided to shift my tack. Since I won’t be here next summer, I’ll spend time planning a landscaping renovation. It’ll give me something to do on long lonely evenings. I’ll take down the shorter fence and erect one high enough to ensure a safe garden space. I’ll reclaim my summers. If deer want to see what’s on the menu at my address they can eat their fill of acorns. 

On this Indigenous Peoples Day I’m reflecting on how to live in harmony with my environment. I’ve never fertilized my lawn or used herbicides. I only use organic matter in the garden. My useless deer repellent was not toxic, and though I did get traps for the carpenter ants, I only use mint spray to keep the rodents away. But I started thinking about the losing battle of keeping the deer out of the yard and thought about what it might be like to welcome them and create a space where we can live together without angst. I want to look out my window and be grateful. I want to live in harmony with creatures and seasons.

We had a severe storm Saturday night that brought down a lot of trees. One fell close to my little house, blocking the back door. I’m grateful it did not hit the roof, but as I inspected it this morning I thought, I’m the one who put the house there. The tree is not trying to ruin my house; it falls where it must. I’m thinking more and more about how we have tried to impose our will upon nature instead of living in synch with it. It’s only me I can control.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Common Ground 2023

Padutsa khasu sipanama. ~ Where the hoe has passed one can not lie.

~ Chewa proverb

September 24, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Because of the pandemic and travel, it’s been a few years since I’ve been back at the Common Ground Fair, a wonderful fall event. The Maine Organic Farmers Association produces an immense agricultural fair focused on organic and rural living. The innovation, the commitment to the environment and living close to the earth, the political action, it’s all so encouraging and hopeful. I’m thinking of a hoe and how it leaves its mark, how it cradles a seed, how it fosters change. This fair always inspires me to advocate and think creatively.

For the past twenty-five years the nurse-midwives in Maine have had a table here in the Health and Healing tent, sharing space with naturopaths, yoga instructors, reiki masters, reflexologists, nature spas, chiropractors, and other midwives. There have probably been a few others over the years I’ve missed but it is an interesting and loving environment. Struggling to educate people about what we do, we decided years ago this would be a great venue. Over twenty thousand people a day come to this fair, many interested in alternatives to corporate health care. We are able to talk one on one with people, direct them to care in their part of the state, answer questions, listen to their stories, help find advocacy, educate them about their rights, and encourage them to promote those rights. 

The fair is remarkable in many ways. There are talks given all day long over the three days, in a wide range of topics. Farming, gardening, forestry, livestock, cooking, herbs, environment, and whole living. Health falls under that last category and each year I put in a proposal to talk about some pertinent issue in women’s health. This year I spoke about what is happening in rural Maine with maternity care as yet ANOTHER hospital has closed its maternity ward. My time slot wasn’t ideal, but ten people came and they were energized. As I spoke, the fury about what is happening to women welled up and there was no one there shooting me down. The audience was all over it. Then I thought I’d summarize my presentation in my blog and see how far it spreads.

I acknowledge the privilege I’ve been afforded. I was able to pursue my career in nursing and midwifery at an early age, without discrimination. My passion for working toward justice for women has grown steadily, though now morphs from clinical practice into teaching and advocacy. I have worked with marginalized communities and have a fair amount of international experience that guides me toward a global perspective when discussing health care for women.

When we talk about problems within our health care system we don’t frame it in terms of human rights, but I think we should. The frustration about how long it takes to get an appointment, short and impersonal office visits, long commutes for care, limited choices of practitioners, all sounds more like inconvenience than what it really is: a glaring abuse of human rights. The media and public relations teams at hospitals minimize the effect of vanishing services for pregnant women, but I believe we need to reframe these problems and describe them using a human rights perspective. 

The World Health Organization defines universal rights for childbearing people including:

*Freedom from harm and ill treatment.

*Information, informed consent, and respect for choices including refusal of care.

*Confidentiality and privacy.

*Dignity and respect.

*Equality, and freedom from discrimination.

*Timely healthcare and the highest attainable level of health care.

*Liberty, self determination, and freedom from coercion.

In order to advocate for these rights we first must know they exist. Then we need a voice to speak out in support of them, and then we need the energy to persevere in maintaining them. It’s a lot to ask of women who live in poverty and are struggling to survive day to day.

When I moved to Bar Harbor in 1992 there was a movement, initiated by local women, to create a health center that specifically addressed the needs of women. At that time, maternity care was controlled by a doctor who did not provide the respectful care women sought. Alternatives were home birth or traveling to a nurse-midwife an hour away. The board at the Mount Desert Island hospital was sensitive to the problem of families leaving their community for their birth. It was, and still is, an economic factor for communities. Where people have their births influences where they obtain health care for the entire family, so not only is it morally and ethically responsible to provide this service, it behooves a community economically.

Founders of the Women’s Health Center envisioned a setting where women could feel safe, heard, and have their needs specifically addressed. The endeavor was not without controversy. There was pushback from the existing establishment but it is a story of what is possible. The practicing OB/Gyn there at the time was not supportive. He ultimately quit in protest, leaving the hospital without this specialty. There was a lot of discussion about how we would continue providing maternity services without him, the major factor being the ability to perform cesarean sections if needed. Our general surgeons stepped up and committed to being on-call and willing to do this and for the past thirty years that community has provided a place where people could have a respectful, safe, birthing experience. We worked with home birth midwives to create a safe transfer system for those choosing home birth. Midwives and doulas could remain with their patients if they had to have a hospital birth. Outcomes have been excellent. But instead of becoming the norm, the MDI hospital has become the outlier. 

Access to maternity care in rural settings is becoming more and more difficult. In Maine, hospitals in eleven communities: Calais, Millinocket, Lincoln, Greenville, Pittsfield, Blue Hill, Bridgeton, Sanford, Rumford, Fort Kent, and now York have eliminated maternity services. 

Maternity services in rural areas close because they are not financially lucrative. Think about what this means. An essential service, one that will be needed as long as the human race exists, is eliminated. They argue that specialists are too expensive. Well, I argue specialists are not needed in those settings. As we’ve demonstrated in our community, midwives and general surgeons can provide the service safely and with excellent outcomes. Why isn’t this held up as a model? When these services disappear women must travel hours to get both prenatal and birthing care. On bad roads and in unreliable cars, they miss work, leave families, and often abandon getting care altogether. Is it any wonder that our maternal mortality rates are rising?

Volumes of data demonstrate better outcomes when women are cared for in their own community. For all it’s touting of evidence based practice, our system feels free to ignore this evidence. Obstetricians are not needed in rural hospitals that can’t afford them. Midwives are. A general surgeon can perform a c-section if needed, a surgery well within their capability, but most refuse to do it. So why do doctors have the right to refuse necessary care? The argument we hear is “they don’t do enough of them to keep their skills up” but I reject that argument as invalid, and discriminatory. I’d be embarrassed to say that if I were a surgeon. Small hospitals have requirements for skills training for other procedures they do few of, but again, for this one affecting only women, they are allowed to refuse.

All of this is birthing injustice. All of this adds to the rising maternal mortality rate in our country, the highest of any industrialized country in the world. Most maternal deaths are preventable with access to qualified respectful caregivers WITHIN THEIR COMMUNITIES.

Addressing maternal mortality also means preventing unwanted and unintended pregnancies: this means access for all people of childbearing age to contraceptive services, safe abortion services, and safe post abortion care. 

So, what can we do?

1. We can understand our rights and identify barriers to them.

2. We can speak up locally when our communities are faced with decisions about services. Letters to the Editor can be powerful. Storytelling is powerful. Tell your story!

3. We can educate our legislators and vote for those who will uphold our rights to health care.

4. We must educate more midwives and support diversity of those seeking midwifery education. Many labor and delivery nurses could become midwives if more educational programs were available.

5. We can honor and acknowledge those working within their communities  supporting women in childbirth. 

6. We can facilitate licensing for midwives trained in other countries to care for their immigrant communities.

7. We can support legislation addressing the unacceptable maternal mortality rates in the U.S.

There is a bill before congress called the Midwives for Maximizing Optimal Maternity Services Act  (MOMS bill). This bipartisan legislation will increase access to high quality, evidence-based midwifery providers with federal grant funding for midwifery education programs.  The goal is diversifying our nation’s midwifery workforce. There is A LOT of support for this legislation, but unsurprisingly, Congress hasn’t acted on it yet.

I urge everyone to contact their House and Senate members and urge support for this bill. I can provide talking points on this so contact me if you want them!

I want to reiterate that the crisis in rural America with lack of maternity services is blatant discrimination and a human rights abuse sanctioned by hospital boards and administrators. We need to start calling it such.

When compromised care becomes the norm, expectations are lowered. Vulnerable populations suffer disproportionally. It doesn’t have to be this way. There is a problem and we can problem solve. Don’t believe anyone who says it’s not possible. If we sued hospitals and doctors for discrimination things might change. For some reason this is what motivates them. Just a thought. 

Whew! 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Parcel of Life

Fukusi la moyo sakusungira ndi mnzako. ~ The parcel of life is not kept for you by your friend.

~ Chewa proverb

September 10, 2023

Hi Everyone,

In June I was traveling in Bali and saw a large fire in an open area near a road. It was a hot afternoon and people were sitting around and eating, men in one group, women in another. “Cremation”, my driver said. “What? Did you say cremation? Like a burial? Burning a body?” I asked, rather incredulous. “Yes, a body. A dead one.” he said. And under my breath I said, “I hope so”, not sure if that remark would be offensive. I knew almost nothing of Hinduism. I knew they did cremation like many cultures, but did not know it was so public. This was not something I expected. I saw several cremations during my month there; the family carries the body in a portable (and flammable) temple, and they set it on fire in a park and then serve food and visit while it burns. It’s impressive as I can’t imagine eating during that. I am intrigued by rituals surrounding death and believe they are an important part of life and it’s cycles. 

My cousin, Tom, died August 15th. It was not unexpected; he had been sick for awhile. But it’s still a shock when the end comes. Our fathers were brothers, his older than mine by seventeen years, so Tom was a teenager when I was a baby. My parents chose him for my godfather. As a small child I thought he was very cool: skinny, smiling and teasing, his Brylcreemed hair with a little wave on top. He later became a Navy pilot and when he’d visit in uniform, handsome and well spoken, my parents would get all a flutter when he arrived. It was like a royal visit. As I write this I can see how the happiness his visits brought my family added to my love for him. He drove a convertible; a big red convertible with a white hood. In my adolescent years he’d take us younger cousins for a ride with the top down. We thought he was the coolest person on earth. So free. So competent. So sure of himself without being cocky. I’d always hoped I would find someone just like him to marry. My father and Tom seemed to have a special relationship. They skied together and sat up late in our living room talking when he’d come to visit. Tom seemed to walk the adult/child border with a special skill. He was one of us, the cousins, but he fit in with the adults, meaning my father respected him and treated him as an equal. That was unique. Much later in life Tom and I shared father stories, another peg that bound us, and I gained a deeper sense of connection.

I was in middle school when Tom called to say he was bringing his fiancé to our house. The anticipation was thrilling. My mother scurried around the kitchen all day cooking. She barked at us to get the bathroom clean and vacuum the living room. We sprayed Pledge on the coffee table and polished the silver. It was a big deal that Tom was coming with, what was her name? A fiancé! He’d never even brought a girlfriend before, never mind a fiancé! It was all so exciting. We loved that we were important enough to have an official visit before the wedding. 

When they arrived, we all crowded into the kitchen to meet the guest of honor. My mother was happy and effusive welcoming this soon-to-be family member, and oh! this beauty did not disappoint. She had gone to Vassar my mother gushed to neighbors, as if we were now Ivy League just by having her marry into our family. My father got home early from work, mixing manhattans, a sign this was a really important event. Kathy was beautiful, blond, smiling, poised, and perfect. Of course, this is the woman Tom would marry! She was all at once comfortable in our humble home, a blend of big sister and movie star. She told of how she and Tom met with such ease I sat and wondered at her lack of fear for my father. During dinner my father razzed Tom with, “So you are some romantic guy getting married on Valentine’s Day, huh?” as if a warning not to let any woman get an upper hand. Kathy laughed; Tom laughed, then gaily told the story of how the date was chosen. I sat in my awkward twelve year-old body enthralled. Could this ever happen to me, I wondered? 

That meeting was fifty-four years ago. Quite a bit of life happened between then and now. I grew up to be more of a peer than the little silly cousin. We shared parenting stories, aging parent stories, childhood abuse stories. Visits weren’t frequent, but correspondence was. A few months before my book came out I was joking with him, saying “I don’t expect a pulitzer prize, but I’m proud of it.” His response was, “Why not?! I think it deserves a Pulitzer prize!” He’d asked me hopefully if I’d put my maiden name on it. His support meant a lot to me.

When our fathers’ sister died in February 2020 (at 107 years old), she gave us a gift of a family reunion just a week before everything shut down. Tom had been struggling with a chronic disease for several years by then but was still vibrant. He looked more like our grandfather than the skinny teenager, but when he spoke, his voice and words were Tom. I heard from him less and less after that, then not at all. A devoted reader of these blogs, his comments stopped. For a year I’ve been thinking I need to get to Rhode Island for a visit and planned to go after dropping the grandkids back home before Labor Day. When Kathy wrote and said he had taken a turn for the worse and was no longer talking, eating, or going for treatments, I knew that visit was going to be too late.  

His funeral was another reunion. I remember my mother saying laughingly, “Weddings and funerals! That’s when we see each other! Imagine!” And…here we are. We are the old folks now, and as I looked at his four beautiful sons and their beautiful children I could see Tom will live on. I was comforted by the familiar Catholic ritual and grateful for it. Rituals bring order out of chaos and we need them, whatever they are. I’m sorry for those who lost loved ones during the pandemic and did not have the chance for a familiar cultural ritual. We left the mass at the church where he practiced his faith and proceeded to the cemetery for a military burial with the flag, gun salute, and taps. As the trumpet played it’s final note, a plane flew low over us and I wasn’t the only sobbing person who looked up quickly and looked around murmuring, “Did they plan that?” 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Cycles of Life

Bango likauma, libwera linzace. ~ When one reed becomes dry, another one shoots out.

~ Chewa proverb

August 9, 2023

Hi Everyone,

My cat died Saturday. I knew it was coming but I’m still sad. She was old and getting thinner, though, she maintained her appetite and vomited less and less frequently. Vomiting was her calling card from the day I’d gotten her eleven years ago. She was a feral cat, trapped after many years of reproducing at a local yacht club. I heard they were looking for a home for her and having been plagued by chipmunks and mice, I thought a feral cat would be perfect. I needed a huntress. Or at least a deterrent. She came named Bracy in honor of the cove whose shores she inhabited for several years. I kept her in the cage for a week feeding and talking to her. She took to those activities well, but when I tried to pet her, she’d have none of it. She’d made a living out of being elusive and clearly was setting her terms. She’d been neutered and vaccinated when she was caught, and her right ear was clipped to mark her as such if she refused to be domesticated and escaped back into the wild. After a week, though, when I left the cage door open to see what she would do, she stayed close by. She acclimated to domestic life rather well. In fact, she loved it. Room service was a delight to her after years of fending for herself and family. She vomited daily but it just became part of her routine. She required no instructions on the litter box. I found it amazing how she knew what to do. She rarely went outside, and then only if I did. Gradually she allowed me to pet her head, but did not like to be touched anywhere else. She did not allow anyone to pick her up. She never once bothered with a mouse or chipmunk. They’d walk right by her and she’d barely look up, showing neither contempt nor interest. 

After we’d lived together for about a year I noticed she would come into whatever room I was in, find a spot to lie down and unobtrusively offer her companionship. A few years later she decided one of the chairs was her personal bed and claimed it for her own. A couple of years after that she changed chairs, never going back to her original. Two years ago I noticed she abandoned that one, too, and only slept on the floor. She stopped coming into my bedroom in the morning, refusing to climb the stairs. Instead, she’d give her single “meow” at the bottom of the stairs to tell me she was ready for breakfast. A year ago, she stopped doing that. 

I knew she was old and wouldn’t be with me forever. I worried about what I’d do if she was still alive when I left for Malawi in December. But the sweet old girl spared me the tough choices. Early Friday morning she wanted to go outside, which I thought was odd, as it was raining. She never went out in the rain. I opened the door and watched as she walked out to the pond and lay down at the edge. It looked as if she were watching the frogs. I thought to myself she was dying. I checked her bowl and she hadn’t eaten any of her food from the day before. A few hours later I saw her sitting under a chair on the patio, out of the rain, but still odd she wanted to be outside. She never went outside without me. In the late afternoon I was going to a lecture and looked to see if she wanted to come in but couldn’t find her. I wondered if she’d gone off into the woods to die. It was useless to call her; she’d lost her hearing a while ago. I trusted she knew what she was doing. 

When I got home later that evening she was back on the patio but lying out in the rain. She barely lifted her head when I approached her. I wrapped her in a towel and picked her up. She didn’t fight me. It was the first time in eleven years I’d held her. I brought her in and sat with her in my arms, stroking her head, talking to her, thanking her for the companionship, wishing her well on her journey. She felt so comfortable, breathing shallowly, peaceful. After a while I laid her in her usual spot, and said goodnight. In the morning she lifted her head when I spoke to her, but laid it down again, and a few hours later she was gone. 

I’m grateful to her. I’m grateful she came back to me to die and didn’t leave me wondering what had happened. Sweet thing. During the pandemic it was just her and me. That meant a lot. She asked so little of me. She seemed grateful to have a place to be comfortable in her last years. She decided to go peacefully and naturally, something I wish for everyone. 

Knowing how finite life is, what a gift to live it with kindness and without sacrificing one’s own terms.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Digging

Galu wamkota sakandira pa cabe. ~ An old dog does not dig where there is nothing to be found.

~ Chewa proverb

July 30, 2023

Hi Everyone,

It has been several weeks since I’ve written anything. In my travels over the past nine weeks I kept a hand written journal and tried to make an entry every day, but didn’t. I decided not to bring my laptop with me to Indonesia and found I just couldn’t write a blog on my phone, wondering the whole while how I’d done that in the past. I felt a bit detached from myself and wondered what kind of transformation was happening. Writing every Sunday had become such a part of my life, and I finally had stories to tell. What was my problem? I felt small and insignificant. Every sentence I formed in my head seemed dumb. I decided to let it go and come back to it when it felt right, wondering if what I’d considered a discipline had turned into an obsession. After all, this is not my job. It’s my hobby. I wandered around Bali wondering what I’d do with my journals if I ever got a terminal diagnosis. Burn them? People do that. 

I’m back in Maine, sitting on my porch swing, sipping my tea and feeling more grounded. The fog has lifted from this island and now hopefully the same will go for my brain. I’m feeling all kinds of ages now. I feel old when I think back to traveling without GPS, carrying travelers checks, and showing up in a strange place without a reservation. My youthful escapades in foreign lands seem like some character in a novel. How did she survive? Travel seems so easy now it hardly takes any adventurous spirit at all. No one has to wait for a bank to open, or look for a vacancy sign. This is all at our fingertips twenty four hours a day. It makes for less stress but fewer stories. I’m not sure where growth of character fits into all this. Cultures and languages blur; our phones can do it all for us. 

My journey started with a train ride to a wedding. Did I even write about that? My godson, little Danny, is now a grown man with a bride. I was one of the old people at the event. Not the oldest, but pretty close. This was frightening. I had childhood flashbacks of stuffed souls sitting together, laughing as they reminisced about events transpiring long before, looking gay and content but, oh, so strange. They were like creatures in a zoo to my young eyes. They danced beautifully, as if they’d been fused together from birth, floating, floating in shoes designed to stabilize. I marveled at their grace. But they were a different species and I did not imagine it possible I’d be cross-bred into one of them. But here we are. I wonder what the children at this wedding thought of us…the elders. We didn’t float to romantic tunes, but tried (and failed) to keep up on the dance floor. I gave up when I did not recognize three songs in a row. 

I felt sort of young again when I hit the road for the next month. The similarities between being young and free and old and free were reassuring. It was nice to be able to take extra days to travel by train. It was nicer yet to not have to rush back to work. I could be flexible like in my younger days, but this time with wisdom and more money. It was great.

I was heading for Bali for an international midwifery conference, held every three years. It was canceled in 2020 for obvious reasons and, always wanting to attend one of these, I’d decided to make it in 2023. I’d never been to Indonesia and it seemed a good reason to go. Since it was a long way for a four day conference, I decided to stay a month and visit a few friends along the way, so after my stay with friends in Santa Fe, I continued west to Phoenix.

Amtrak does not have a route from Santa Fe to Phoenix (an omission I hope will be rectified) so I took an overnight bus from Albuquerque. I desperately hope there are plans for more train routes. The bus got me there, but in much less comfort. The seats were small and full of passengers in various states of mental wellness. The frequent stops made sleeping difficult and I was nervous about my bags being underneath with little security. My bags and I made it safely and I was surprised at how good I felt when arriving. It must have been the excitement.  I was so happy to reconnect with my BFF from Samoa days I barely felt the lack of sleep and was reassured I wasn’t totally over the hill by this ability to rally. After three great days of girlfriend time, my friend drove me to Flagstaff where I caught the night train to Los Angeles. I loved standing on that platform with other travelers, watching the train approach, boarding, settling in, and being rocked to sleep with the rhythmic rattling. Ten hours later I was at the end of the line and debarked at Union Station, a beautiful architectural specimen, where Peace Corps friends were waiting to greet me. 

What took me so long to visit Los Angeles? I’d passed through the airport once. I’d spent one night there thirty-five years ago on my way up the coast, but I’d never stopped to visit the city. I am humbled at how wrong my image of the city turned out to be. I had always thought L.A. was one big traffic jam. Instead, it was one of the most pleasurable city visits I’ve ever had. Now, I know that having friends leading me by the hand, doing all the driving, selecting spectacular sights and venues had something to do with it. We went to little local restaurants where the food was amazing. The landscape was gorgeous, the air clear, the sidewalks a delight. I hadn’t even known they had sidewalks! I am still marveling about it. It was one of the best lessons of traveling: finding out how wrong I was about what it would be like. Three days, a botanical garden and tour of Warner Brothers Studios later, I was headed west again.

I flew from L.A. to Bali via Taiwan with a twelve hour layover in Taipei. This was another delight I hadn’t expected. We arrived at 9 p.m., losing a day in the crossing. I’d slept pretty well on the fourteen hour flight from California and didn’t feel the need to get a hotel for only a few hours so just hung out at the airport. I did not expect such a comfortable experience. In all the many airports I’ve spent time in, this was by far the most interesting and comfortable. Each gate was set up like a museum exhibit. It was fascinating! There were the Tribes of Taiwan exhibit, Birds of Taiwan exhibit, National Parks of Taiwan exhibit, Art exhibits, Spiritual exhibits, it was just amazing! I got a little cart and pushed my bag around for hours reading and learning about a country I knew very little about. It’s such a great model. Around 3 a.m. I curled up on a comfy bench in Gate 3 among the Birds of Taiwan and rested against a big stuffed egg and slept for a few hours. I woke when the airport came to life at six, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and checked out places to eat. I bought a meal for six dollars that consisted of soup, bean curd with fish sauce, cabbage salad, and tea. It was all delicious. All the walking had reduced the swelling in my feet and I was ready for the next leg of the trip. Five more hours to Bali, which, before this trip, I could not find on a map.

I’ll leave Bali stories for next week… something to dig for.

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Remembering

Kudya n’kudyabe, kumbuka uko unacoka. ~ You are eating, keep eating but remember where you came from.

~ Chewa proverb

May 28, 2023

Hi Everyone,

When my daughter was in elementary school, one of her assignments was to interview a relative who’d lived during World War II. When my husband’s aunt was visiting for a holiday my daughter took the opportunity to get her homework done. We were all sitting around a fire in the living room while Rachael got herself set up with notebook and pencil looking like an adorable junior reporter. She had prepared a set of questions, the first being “What did you think of the war when you were growing up?” Her great aunt replied without hesitation, “I thought it was marvelous!” The entire family stopped what they were doing and gasped! I was expecting a somber answer of praying for loved ones to return safely, or enduring the privations war imposes, but she laughed and repeated, “I did! I thought it was wonderful!” Hoping for some context and not wanting my ten year old to write in her report that war was wonderful, I said, “Gee, Audrey, would you like to say more about that? It’s not the answer I was expecting.” Her response surprised me. She said, “You have to remember, I was a young girl growing up in Boston. What I knew of the war was that we were winning! Our soldiers were the heroes, and the atmosphere was one of victory. It all seemed like a triumph. I knew nothing of what war was really like.” The men in her family all came back alive and victorious. She was being honest about her girlhood memories not cluttering family dysfunction with war-inflicted trauma. She said it was much later in life she learned the realities of that war.

My oldest brother survived active combat in Vietnam. Understanding nothing of what made him so, he was our family hero. Was it just that he came home alive? To this day my happiest family memory is picking him up at Logan airport, uniformed, physically intact, smiling, and alive. My parents were so happy. I had no understanding of their worry, fear, and relief. None. I was just happy that everyone was happy. At age twelve, the nightly news reports had been wallpaper to me. I don’t know if it was denial or oblivion, but there was never any question in my mind he’d come back alive. It was years later I learned what horror that war was. 

I’m in Santa Fe having had a beautiful train ride from Albany, appreciating how vast, varied, and spectacular our country is. I sat in the observation car imagining the landscape through the ages. I thought of the varied peoples inhabiting the land, the wars over control and resources, the pain and trauma inflicted, and how none of this was visible as we passed by. All I could see was the magnificence. If I knew nothing of our history, I’d look out the windows at the bison and elk in the foreground, the mountains behind, the wildflowers in bloom, and think everything had been done right. 

My godson’s wedding was this weekend and my grandchildren were flower girl and ring bearer. They were the only kids there, and after adorably playing their part in the ceremony, they went with a babysitter back to the hotel to enjoy their time eating fun food and swimming in the rooftop pool. When I asked Amelia how she liked the babysitter, she said, “She was good. She is a college student and has her license, which is good in case a dangerous person came into the hotel and we needed to leave quickly. Which, probably wouldn’t happen, but in case it did, I felt better knowing she could drive us away if we needed to leave quickly. Sometimes in an emergency there wouldn’t be enough time to call my parents.” Oh my God, what child should have to think like this? She is nine years old and spoke so maturely. Clearly this had been discussed in school and I could imagine the challenge teachers have in preparing kids for a shooting without terrifying them. My sweet grandchild felt the need to prepare for escape and protection at a luxury hotel in downtown Santa Fe. She is carrying more fear in her young life than any child should. I shudder to think of what survivors of shootings and wars are going through. I wonder what memories she’ll share when her grandchildren ask her how it was to live through a time when shooters came into schools and randomly murdered people. What was it like to live in a country where those who had the power, chose money over your life? Will the victims be considered war dead on Memorial Day seventy years from now? 

Love to all,

Linda

Sunday Morning ~ Mothering

Ncembere ya mapasa izigona cogadama. ~ A mother with twins should sleep on her back.

~Chewa proverb

May 21, 2023

Hi Everyone,

Mothers Day was a week too early for me forty-three years ago. I was alone in the capitol city of Lilongwe, uncomfortable, bored, lonely, and eager to go into labor. My husband arrived a few days later and after a thirty hour slog of fearful contractions, my son was born, lusty and huge by Malawian standards. Today is his birthday. I spent yesterday with him as he balanced on the roof  fixing some in the greenhouse, a capable, skilled, smart, and sober man. I went up and down the ladder handing him tools wondering how differently the course of his life would have been if our family had been smaller. He grew up fast with four younger siblings. I’m so grateful for him in my life now, having had an estrangement for several years. After all the worrying I did for him during that time it’s endearing to hear him voice worry about me traveling on my own. How sweet. I’d long ago stopped imagining this.

I love being a mother. I wanted to be a mother as far back as I can remember. I find this interesting because my mother didn’t seem particularly happy to me growing up, so it wasn’t from watching her. She was always harried, worried about my father’s reaction to everything, constantly cooking and cleaning, impatient with us, and generally making the role seem tragic. Though she never said so, I knew she loved me and I always longed for my own baby. I treated my dolls as if they were real. I’d scream if someone held them inappropriately. I changed their dry diapers on a regular basis, comforted their silent cries, and loved the feeling of their stuffed cuddles. They loved me back so very reliably. Having my own real live baby in my arms was the most natural and complete feeling for me and despite all the sleepless nights and constant demands, I found mothering babies easy. It wasn’t until they were older I’d spend my nights wondering what I’d done wrong. 

Having a forty-three year old child is surreal. Already facing the fact that I’m aging out of certain fashions and activities, a middle aged child really brings it home. Up until recently I referred to myself as middle aged. Now I realize I’m well past the halfway mark, and am grappling with that more than I imagined. As I plan for my upcoming trip which includes a wedding in Santa Fe and travel in Indonesia, I find all my clothes obsolete. First, they don’t fit me anymore and second, they are too youngish. Between the pandemic, my aging waistline, and the fact that certain styles are no longer becoming on a sixty-something, I’m having a major reckoning. This is hard! I had a basic wardrobe which suited me and would pull out the appropriate outfit for the occasion and put it on. Simple. Summer wedding, winter wedding, all just hanging on a different hanger. Since the pandemic, everything seems to have shrunk. I look at skirts and think, “Did I actually wear that?” It’s harsh. Obtaining a new wardrobe was not in my plans, but here I am. Accepting this is a process. I’ll get there, but need a minute… I digress from my motherhood thoughts.

I was reading about the history of Mother’s Day and how it evolved through the ages–– from honoring Greek goddesses to anti-war statements to flowers and brunch for one day––it seems some of the context is missing. Not that taking a day to honor our mothers isn’t lovely, but it feels like what Christmas has become––a bit showy and hollow. I’ve been cleaning out cabinets getting ready for another year away and found some old Mother’s Day Cards. They were store bought by my ex, of questionable humor, and filled with large “signatures” of the kids scrawled with backwards letters. I may have saved them for those writing samples. I sure hope it wasn’t for the quality of the card. 

I’m heading, via the Santa Fe wedding, to the International Confederation of Midwives in Bali. This is a congress held every three years where midwives from all over the world gather to learn and share. I can’t wait to be there. I’ve never been to one and was planning to attend in 2020 when the pandemic intervened. I dreamt of presenting our midwifery ward project in Malawi at the conference but that came to a halt along with the rest of the world. I was pleased to learn that it is in Bali this year, a part of the world I’ve not visited and I’m excited to have a reason to go. The midwives in Malawi (I’m hoping I’ll see some of them there) told me that once you go to this conference it will ruin all other conferences for you forever. It’s that good. I’m excited! I love being surrounded by midwives and the loving support of motherhood. I long to be where the profession is mainstream and everyone knows what a midwife is and what they do. We have a long way to go in America. But, like the mother with twins, we adapt.

It’s been a full month of home improvement and seasonal upkeep getting ready to leave. The summer residents move into my house today, the garden is planted, screens are in, and maybe soon it’ll be warm enough to open the windows. Last night’s deluge was a good test of the roof repair and I think I’m ready to go.  

Tomorrow I’ll visit family in Albany for a few hours before boarding a train to Santa Fe. Next weekend will be the wedding of my godson, then on to Phoenix to visit friends from Samoa, then LA, then Bali. I’m looking forward to having travel to write about. There’s a lot of delayed celebration ahead and I’m not getting any younger.

Cheers to all those who mother and care for others. You are needed and loved.

Love to all,

Linda