I.
restless wind
whips through ice-cold air
branches bow and scrape
II.
pale green buds
reach for the sky
defiant
I saw this from my kitchen window, though not on the same day. The first was a week ago; the second was yesterday. All things considered, I’d rather be a pale green bud defiantly reaching for the sky, than a branch bowing and scraping before restless wind.
There’s a lot of restless wind in the White House these days. Comings and goings. Bowings and scrapings. Tweets and retweets. Fed by an overload of anxiety, frustration, rage and intrigue.
Given the direction of the latest eruptions, I’m sorely tempted to give up hope. Not hope for a great conversion–though that would be welcome. But hope that we’ll make it through the next three years without destroying ourselves and others.
Yet I still have hope. Like those pale green lilac buds and against all odds, I’m committed to doing what I’m meant to do, no matter what’s on the ground or in the air. Those tiny buds point defiantly to a higher Power that calls forth life, not death and destruction.
I want to be one of them, defying a religion or politics of despair and retribution. And without losing my roots in the messiness of this world that God loves so much.
rising far above
earth’s chilling chaos
the sun smiles warmly. . .
inviting me to bask in its light
instead of teetering on the brink
almost but not quite addicted
to insurgent adrenalin
coursing through veins and heart
chaos begets chaos of similar
proportions while inhumanity
goes for the jugular of decency
draining me of common bonds
erased by more urgent notifications
arriving by the millisecond
I emit gasps of horror about
this or that gross inhumanity
perpetrated against him or her
or us or them here or over there
breakdowns firings and hackings
poisonings fake smiles and killings
threaten to deliver our undone humanity
to the evil we deplore yet cannot
banish from titillated eyes and ears
rising far above
earth’s chilling chaos
the sun smiles warmly. . .
inviting me to bask
in its healing light
the red cardinal
sings his bright clear spring song
perched on bare branches
When I published my first post, Dear Dad, on 27 Dec 2013, my voice was anything but bright and clear. Singing was definitely out of the question. As a survivor of childhood PTSD, I used an elaborate strategy of calculated silence and half-truth.
How much did I owe the world? How much did I owe my family? How much did I owe the church? My father was a clergyman. Revered, respected, loved and sought after by people with sorrows such as mine.
But I wasn’t one of his followers. I was the first-born of four daughters. I had to watch my tongue constantly. Smile when expected. Stifle tears. Do as I was told. Set an example. And take the beatings like the contrite spirit I was not.
Breaking my silence of decades took decades. It started when I was in my 40s, with trips to Al-Anon meetings for five years. There I learned to relax and share things I’d never told anyone. Then I worked with an intern therapist who helped me complete a genogram (family tree, with notes). Finally, in the early 1990s, I began working with a psychotherapist with whom I’m still connected.
I put in hours and years of work. Did tons of homework. Cried buckets of tears. Filled unnumbered journals with dreams and personal entries.
Yet my recovery isn’t measured in months, years or numbers of pages written in journals. It’s measured in my voice. At first feeble, halting, self-conscious and terrified. Beginning with my husband and immediate family, then with my sisters and parents, slowly but surely with several trusted friends, and finally, a few years before I began blogging, with my large extended family on my father’s side.
My voice is the measure of my recovery.
Regardless of the weather, the political climate, or my health, the question is the same: How free am I to tell the truth? That’s the thermometer that matters.
I’ve always cared about issues that have to do with women. I used to think that getting a decent academic position would somehow ‘prove’ my worth. Or set me free. Especially if I was granted tenure.
Well, that wasn’t my riddle to solve. My riddle was my voice.
I began blogging because I knew it would challenge me to tell the truth freely, with words chosen by me, not by someone else.
So the little red cardinal outside my window caught my attention. The ground was covered with snow, and the laurel bush had been beaten down by more than one Nor’easter. Yet the little red cardinal was singing his heart out. Freely. Telling his truth about life and announcing his territory and the hope of spring.
Though I’m a follower of Jesus, I don’t believe this makes my life easier. In fact, I’d suggest it makes it more difficult because it means both living and telling the truth. Especially when it’s most unwelcome or unexpected.
Many thanks to Candice for this topic! Though I’ve already written elsewhere about this blog, this is another way of looking at it. Equally true and challenging.
warming to the sun
thick snow relaxes
its grip on winter
II
listening to silence
broken by heartbeats
I hear God calling
III
when least expected
the tired old dam bursts
sweeping me away
What is this strange season? Just when I think I’ve got it, I have nothing. Nothing but unformed words that want to be written.
No great prospects for anything in print. Nothing but words that point in a direction I know rings true, but cannot capture.
Elusive as air, what I want to say comes and goes through my heart. Scattered clouds of connections and insights of a semi-experienced warrior feeling her way along.
I trust my heart and my fingers to find my way in this uncharted wilderness. Breathing deeply, I relax my mind and body’s fierce grip on wornout habits of self-preservation.
Last week D and I took a day off to visit the Orchid show at Longwood. It wasn’t crowded, though the café and restaurant were closed for renovation. Still, it was breezy and bright, with temperatures in the low 50s (Fahrenheit).
The photos below show the entrance–not when we arrived, but just before we left late in the afternoon. The wall of orchid plants was an extension of the gift shop. Orchids for sale! The second photo is a close-up of what we didn’t buy.
Overall, I thought this year’s Orchid show wasn’t as spectacular as last year. I missed the giant ‘orchid tree,’ and didn’t think the main hall of the conservatory did justice to the theme. Nonetheless, D took some beautiful photos. Here are several of my favorites, minus their names.
Near the end of our visit we found empty seats beside the Conservatory stream and had a nice sit-down, and took photos to prove we were there.
Then D played with his camera while I rested my feet. Here are his Monet look-alike studies in water, preceded by a photo of the waterfall and stream at the far end of the main entrance to the Conservatory.
Looking at all this beauty, even in retrospect, I can’t help thinking about Jesus’ words of encouragement to the crowds of people who brought him their sick and afflicted, hoping to be healed. In addition to healing, they heard these words–the words I can’t help thinking about when I see these photos.
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will God not much more clothe you–you of little faith?
Matthew 6:28-30 (NRSV)
No promise that everything will be as we would like it to be. Just the promise that when we seek first the kingdom of God we will have enough. Even more than enough–when we share it instead of hoarding what we do not own and cannot keep alive.
These are troubling days for this planet and all its inhabitants. I’m grateful for the beauty of nature, especially in the middle of a bleak winter.
wild nor’easter
whiplashes its way
through the night
And we aren’t even at the center of the storm. Fury comes to mind. Along with chaos, heavy wet snow, traffic at a near standstill, unpredictable wind gusts and icy cold. Our generator has run since about 6pm last night. The sun is out and the damage is visible. Not much in our yard, but a mid-size tree fell during the night, roots and all, across our neighbor’s driveway. It was chaotic.
I can’t help thinking about our President and the current state of our disunion. Chaotic. I know…some think chaos is inevitably linked to creativity. Perhaps it is.
I think of it as a sign of breakdown that may or may not end well. Especially when chaos comes to dominate the multiple pronouncements, tweets, behaviors, faces and voices of POTUS. It’s so all-encompassing that I’m tempted to expect and demand nothing better. Or adjust to it as the new normal.
Many years ago, for three seemingly endless years, I had a Dean who thrived on chaos. The kind he created around himself and across the seminary daily. I remember vividly the day I figured out how to comport myself in his presence.
Say as little as possible.
Don’t answer questions about any of my colleagues.
Stick to the point and get out the door as quickly as possible.
That day I knew exactly who was in his office before I went in for my appointment. It was someone I worked with often, and depended upon as a faculty colleague. Almost as soon as I sat down across from the Dean’s desk, he began asking questions about the colleague who had just left the room. I refused to answer, and got my agenda on the table.
I also knew that the moment the next person walked through the door, the questions would be about me. Indeed, he found ways of gathering bits of information and turning them to his own benefit. I knew I was on his hit list, as were several other colleagues.
There had been a warning sign I missed the very first day I met him. I was on the search committee tasked with finding candidates to be our next dean. He was one of several we interviewed in person.
He didn’t know me prior to that day. Yet the moment he walked into the committee room he broke out into a great big smile, came straight over to shake my hand and tell me how much he had heard about me and how much he was looking forward to meeting me. Indeed. Had I only realized….I’d just met another version of divide and conquer.
Through a series of unexpected events, he became our Dean and left us broken and divided as a faculty, not sure what had just hit us. We were reluctant to talk with each other about it until he was gone and we knew we were in safe space away from the seminary.
I credit our interim Dean for calling us together in a hospitable setting. Many, including me, carried unexpressed shame, anger and tears that broke out when we met to process what had happened.
Never again. Chaos as a management technique was like living hell. I’d rather endure a fierce Nor’easter any day or night.
Outside my window
The green spruce rises majestic
Into a clear blue sky
Golden cones glisten in morning sun
Pregnant with a new day
So it isn’t a bumper crop of cones this year and I didn’t see the squirrel. I did, however, see the gorgeous spruce, the clear blue sky, the golden cones and the morning sun! And better yet, I just told D it’s a great day to go to Longwood Gardens. So we’re out of here! Off to see the Orchid Show and the clear blue sky while it lasts.
slow cold drizzle
hangs in late winter air
song sparrows sing spring
I’m just back from a morning errand. Chilled to the bone, umbrella in hand, winter hat and gloves in place along with multiple layers of warmth. As I walked down our driveway, I heard and then saw a resident song sparrow getting a jump on competitors that might want his staked-out territory! Here’s to an early spring–which we seemed to have for two glorious days this week before another cold front came through yesterday.
Enjoy the birdsong, if not the weather, wherever you are. (There are two song sparrows on the short video.)
morning sun
hangs out behind a curtain
of glowing fog
Yesterday was glorious. Foggy and gray at first, before turning into a bright sunshiny day that included tea with a friend in the afternoon.
Hanging out doesn’t come naturally to me. From very early, my parents programmed me to keep my little hands busy because the devil might find work for idle hands to do. In addition, my later commitment to running away on the inside discouraged me from doing ‘nothing.’ The enemy was always just one step or one breath behind me.
So race on I did. One step after the other. With time out only when forced to take it.
The year after I left the dean’s office I had a full year sabbatical. Glorious! I decided early that I wanted to write more. So I began working through Julia Cameron’s book, The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity. Fortunately, most of her assignments required that I write.
Unfortunately, one did not. It stuck its ugly neck up at the end of the first chapter, in a list of tasks to accomplish.
Task #1 was to write morning pages first thing every morning. Stream-of-consciousness. No problem. I was like a duck playing in water. Next came
Task #2.
Take yourself on an artist date.
You will do this every week for the duration of the course.
Fortunately, Cameron lists several sample ‘dates’ for the socially challenged who prefer to stay in our little dens. All these ‘dates’ will be fun, silly or even outrageous. If we had to learn how to do this, so be it! I felt awkward and more than silly at first. But then I got into it—for a while.
Big sigh. So yesterday morning I decided to resume weekly artist dates with myself. I inaugurated this by spending the entire day with no agenda except fun things I wanted to do strictly for myself. Which included tea in the afternoon with my friend.
The day was beyond wonderful. I know the sun won’t come out every day. Yet the freedom my body and spirit felt was remarkable.
Finally, for those out there who don’t quite see what the problem is, I’m positive you’ll read this and feel nothing but good-will for the rest of us. If not more understanding or empathy. For which we are grateful.
Telling the Truth 