Telling the Truth

connecting the dots of my life

Tag: Relationships

My Mother’s Spirit – revisited

I still love this photo and the short poem below about my Mother (Eileen). She died in 1999 following a brain hemorrhage that was too much to overcome, given her post-polio problems and other physical ailments.

Mother looked nothing like the woman in the photo above with this exception: She never gave up. Eileen loved her favorite bright red winter coat. She also loved playing the piano, cooking with next to nothing in the larder, turning small bits of this and that into a miraculous feast. She also served as a lifeguard at swimming pools, and was like a child who always loved to sing and play games with her daughters and the neighborhood kids.

Still, she and I didn’t get to know each other from the inside out until late in her life. Her extrovert and my introvert rarely seemed to come together–except when one or both of us sat down to play the piano.

After my 1993 meeting with my parents, we managed to stay in touch. It wasn’t easy at first, but slowly we began to see each other from a different point of view. When she had her last stroke and was taken to the hospital and then hospice care, I began to understand how lonely her life had become, and how much she loved the music that tied us together.

Here’s the poem I wrote several years ago. It goes with the photo above, and still makes me tear up.

My mother’s spirit
came calling last night
I saw her footprints
in this morning’s snow
precise and measured
She passed quietly
beneath my window
step by small-hooved step
down the driveway
before crossing over
into the woods beyond
our house asleep
and dreaming

Thank you for stopping by today. This world continues to be very harsh toward women, especially during times of disorder and disarray. Mother’s Day gives us another opportunity to appreciate what it takes, especially in these troubled times, to carry on as a mother in the midst of chaos.

Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 13 May 2023
Photo found at fiftiness.com

A Pretty Song | Mary Oliver

Photo taken by DAF on our 56th wedding anniversary, 2021

Here’s yet another wise poem from Mary Oliver. This one hits close to home. My comments follow.

A Pretty Song

From the complications of loving you
I think there is no end or return.
No answer, no coming out of it.

Which is the only way to love, isn’t it?
This isn’t a playground, this is
earth, our heaven, for a while.

Therefore I have given precedence
to all my sudden, sullen, dark moods
that hold you in the center of my world.

And I say to my body: grow thinner still.
And I say to my fingers, type me a pretty song.
And I say to my heart: rave on.

© 2006 by Mary Oliver
Published by Beacon Press in Thirst, p. 22

To love a partner until death do us part is costly. Partly because there’s no getting away from what happens along the way from here to there. No easy exits. Just one unexpected complication after another with which partners must deal. Even when they decide to go their so-called ‘separate’ ways.

And yet, given the sudden twists and turns of life, what rises to the top is indisputable. Especially as the end of life creeps closer every day.

This morning D is having some not-so-wonderful tests to find out what’s going on in his heart. Not the heart that loves me, but the heart that will one day stop beating no matter how much he loves me or I love him.

Mary Oliver’s poem above is about the loss of her life partner, what it’s like to go on living without her, and what it takes get through the ups and downs of grief. Not a pretty picture, but an invitation to another way of loving.

Praying your day is filled with opportunities to let your partner and/or best friends know how much you love them. Now, instead of later.

Thank you for stopping by. On the whole, I think I’m becoming less distressed by the ups and downs of life. Then again….
Elouise

©Elouise Renich Fraser, 4 May 2023
Photo taken by DAFraser at Longwood Gardens, 2021

Getting back to ‘normal’

Thanks for visiting! I haven’t posted anything since March 11. Here’s a quick rundown.

On February 22 I had surgery to replace pacemaker I Love Lucy I with I Love Lucy II. The surgery went well, though the anesthesiologist arrived about 3 hours late (not her fault). Post-surgery was a nightmare of pain and itching due to use of a strong saline solution that messed up my skin. It’s still healing.

In the middle of March, two long anticipated events occurred. First, D turned 80 years old! Second, our daughter and her husband visited us for the first time in more than 3 years (thanks, Covid). They live in Oregon. Both are superb musicians. Our son-in-law was part of the recent Unwound coast-to-coast tour, playing two nights in Philadelphia a few weeks ago. No, I didn’t get to hear the concert in person. Too late and too much for an old lady like me. Besides, what I most wanted was to spend time with them–which we did, before they flew back to Oregon.

Finally, about three months ago I began taking a small capsule twice a day for pain caused by peripheral neuropathy in my feet. It isn’t a drug, and it won’t heal anything. Instead, it reduces pain in my feet. If you’re interested in knowing about this kind of nonprescription approach to many inflammation problems, here’s a Harvard University article. Long, and incredibly interesting.

Finally, it seems we are in yet another Trump show, whether we like it or not. In addition, climate change seems here to stay, and we have fallen into world war whether we like it or not. What will come tomorrow? I don’t know. So here’s small poem about what I do know—about myself.

Cast onshore
Of a deserted island
Shaking water
From my eyes
Seeing nothing
And nobody
As unanticipated
I wonder aloud
Who am I
And why am I here
Now and not then
When all seemed well
That ended well

Published in Without a Flight Plan, p. 61
© Elouise Renich Fraser, 2021

Thank you for stopping by, especially in the middle of trying times.
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 3 April 2023

Life with Lucy

Seven years ago, in early 2016, two events changed my life. First, I got a pacemaker to help with my heart issues. It went well. I was relieved and slightly ecstatic to have this new gadget that has helped keep me alive for the last seven years.

As some of you already know, Lucy (as in “I love Lucy“) is the name I gave my new pacemaker. She’s been with me through all kinds of ups and downs. That includes breaking my jaw in 2016, just two weeks after getting my pacemaker. There aren’t words to describe how devasted I felt. Especially because I’d just met Lucy and was on my way to a much-needed hair cut!

Suddenly I was living with wired jaws for about five weeks, followed by rehab exercises and drastic food changes. I’m not a party animal. I am, however, a people person. I know beyond a doubt that Lucy, along with D, Smudge, music, family members and friends got me through days and nights of despair and pain.

Two days from now I’m scheduled to get a replacement battery for Lucy. I’m told it’s nothing compared to getting the pacemaker. We shall see.

Do I still love Lucy? You bet I do! Right now I’m looking at a lovely Valentine’s Day card from a member of my church. The front of the card says “Love is patient and is kind.”  Sometimes I wish I could blame my body for the pain it causes me. Thankfully, I’m learning to be patient and kind toward my various bodily aches and restrictions.

That’s my news for today! We’re in a mess here in the USA. All the more reason to be patient and kind with ourselves and with neighbors and strangers near and far. Right now.

Thanks for stopping by!
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 February 2023
photo found at wallpaperweb.org

Through the valley of the shadow of death

On 28 December 2005, I wrote a letter to my sister Diane. After more than nine years, ALS had done its worst. After an emergency visit to the hospital, she chose to return home to die. During the long wait, she was surrounded by family, friends, and caretakers. I’m grateful I could fly from Philadelphia to Houston once more before she died. I’ve reformatted most of my letter into poetic form. I still tear up when I read it.

Dear Diane,

I can’t stop thinking about the way Jesus’ birth was, for him,
a valley of the shadow of death—
leaving the most glorious home he’d ever had,
taking the final and first step all at the same time—
leaving heaven and stepping into earthly reality.
Did he have time to get ready?
I imagine him choosing this new form of life
without struggling against it
as God’s fullness of time approached for him.

I wonder how death is unfolding for you.

I pray you aren’t struggling to hang on,
and that your faith is growing as things keep falling relentlessly away.
I pray the steady sound of your breath
moving through the ventilator
will calm your mind and your heart.
I pray fear and anxiety will give way to
peace in the midst of pain, grief and deep sorrow.
I pray the Christmas tree in your room will remind you
of the tree of life—a small sign of Jesus Christ
who is with you and for you.
I pray the willingness of your beloved family members
to bid you farewell will be nurturing and sustaining—
A small sign of Jesus Christ who is with and for you.
I pray the loyalty, skill and tenderness of your caretakers
will comfort and cheer you on.
I pray the small dogs and the big human animals egging them on
will have you in stitches from time to time.
I pray your grandchildren will plant sloppy kisses on your cheeks,
and the adults, too!

I wonder—
Do you hear angel choirs singing from time to time?
I pray you’ll hear them more and more—singing over and beneath
your fears and the emotional pain of saying goodbye
to the wonderful friends and family members God has given you.
You have been a wondrous gift to us.
I’d like to think you were given just to me!
But I know you were given to an entire world of people
whose lives have touched yours and been touched by you.
If you can imagine us as an angel choir—
or at least a faint echo of that—
I pray it will bring a smile to your heart and a tear to your eye.
We’re singing God’s praises for giving us time on this earth with you—
God’s beloved daughter child.

With love, from the only oldest sister you’ll ever have,
Elouise

Thank you for stopping by. There’s so much heartbreak these days. I pray you’ll find peace and comfort as we watch and participate in these days of uncertainty and sorrow.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 11 February 2023
Photo found at greengateturf.com; Texas azaleas

Mary Oliver | Three Poems for 2023

How are we doing today? Not just as individuals, but as citizens in a world screaming with pain. Mary Oliver’s three short poems below, one after another, ask us to turn our attention inward. Whether we like it or not, we’re in this together. My brief comments follow.

The Morning Paper

Read one newspaper daily (the morning edition
is the best
for by evening you know that you at least
have lived through another day)
and let the disasters, the unbelievable
yet approved decisions,
soak in.

I don’t need to name the countries,
ours among them.

What keeps us from falling down, our faces
to the ground, ashamed, ashamed?

~~~

The Poet Compares Human Nature
To The Ocean From Which We Came

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth,
it can lie down like silk breathing
or toss havoc shoreward; it can give

gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth
like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can
sweet-talk entirely. As I can too,

and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

~~~

On Traveling To Beautiful Places 

Every day I’m still looking for God
and I’m still finding him everywhere,
in the dust, in the flowerbeds.
Certainly in the oceans,
in the islands that lay in the distance
continents of ice, countries of sand
each with its own set of creatures
and God, by whatever name.
How perfect to be aboard a ship with
maybe a hundred years still in my pocket.
But it’s late, for all of us,
and in truth the only ship there is
is the ship we are all on
burning the world as we go.

~~~

Published by Penguin Books in A Thousand Mornings/Mary Oliver, pp. 65-69
Copyright © 2012 by NW Orchard LL.C

I love poems about beauty and truth. I’m not sure, however, how to mix beauty and truth when we seem to be falling apart. Ignoring what can’t be ignored. Making ‘exceptions’ for those who seem to hold the most power of any kind.

Mary Oliver invites and even dares us to see the world as it is. Not the world as we wish it were, or the world we think we can ignore. She also invites us to repent. To turn around. To see and live whatever truth we can with at least one other person. One day, one problem, one fleeting moment at a time, regardless of what others may think about us.

Praying we’ll find renewed life with each other in the coming year, regardless of our country, religion, politics, gender, or age. And . . . I wish each of you a truly happy new year in which you find courage you never thought possible.
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 30 December 2022
Photo found at phys.org/news/2022-23

winter then and now

Looking back just 1 1/2 years ago, I never would have guessed I would be so housebound, or that this would become my new normal.

Days dwindle down quickly, especially in winter. First light turns into fading light. The list of things I can reasonably accomplish grows shorter by the day. However, the amount of time I think I need to get through each day grows larger. For example: food prep and cooking, exercises, walking, doing my laundry, and endless weeding out of papers and other items I no longer need.

Still, I’m more as ease with my aging body than I was just one month ago. Today it’s way too cold to walk with D in the afternoon. Besides, there’s no way I can keep up with him. Our attic (remember the renovations?) has been my home away from home on most days. It’s quiet, with windows at each end, and plenty of space to get moving, or go through my exercises.

I cry more than I did a year ago. I’ve always been a weeper. However, it hasn’t been easy to weep at will when I feel pain or am discouraged. Yet if I don’t, it won’t help me accept present realities. In addition, though I’m content to post only as I’m able, I’m not thrilled with the constraints I now have.

Here’s an early haiku and poem about ‘frozen grief’. It seems I’m still learning to deal with this. Not just grief from my childhood, but the grief I’ve experienced at the hands, mouths and attitudes of people who wanted to change or take advantage of me.

winter sun
6 February 2014

winter sun pierces
my paralyzed heart waking
frozen grief at will

***

Buried deep, forgotten
Denied, minimized, ignored
Silenced, unexamined

Held at bay
‘It wasn’t that bad’
‘Others had it worse’

Ashamed of my own story
Just another privileged woman
Who doesn’t get it

Afraid to shine a light
On darkness that seems
To have overpowered me

You mean you’re this old and
You still haven’t gotten over it
Beyond it, done already?

Normal
We want normal
How much longer will this take?

Winter sun does its work
In the fullness of God’s time
Not one moment sooner


Thanks for stopping by today. Or tomorrow…
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 December 2022
Photo found at pinterest.com
Attic photos taken by DFraser and me in 2018

What I’m FOR today

Here’s my short-version report about my health and wellbeing. I am alive; I am reasonably happy most days; I am unreasonably crabby at night when I can’t sleep so well; I have several unresolved health issues upon which I will not dwell at this time. I am, however, Alive! And coming up on my 79th birthday.

I first posted this piece in August 2018. Just looking at this photo, reminiscent of my childhood home in Georgia, makes me happy, though not equally happy for every day of my life. I pray this finds you reasonably at peace with yourself.

~~~

There’s so much going wrong today that I decided to make a roll call of what I’m FOR on this remarkable day. Remarkable because I lived to witness it! Including, in my past, the Vernon River, and dock-life when I was growing up. Plus at least the following other items for which I’m grateful:

  • this beautiful world in places increasingly touched by human tragedy
  • family members more distant in miles than ever, yet close to my heart
  • churches standing up to tough challenges without capitulating to visions of grandeur, glory or isolation
  • real places that offered me refuge and peace when I needed solitude and reassurance that my life matters
  • our son who lives reasonably nearby, and reminds me why I risked everything with my parents on the eve of my 50th birthday
  • our daughter who lives on the other side of the USA yet is present to me in ways I was never present to my mother
  • the Carolina Wren, Chickadees and Cardinals singing and chirping, plus the small ground squirrel who sits on our back yard wall surveying his spacious kingdom
  • courageous women, men and children who speak out and work for a better world for all of us
  • my neighbors: Roman Catholic, Muslim, Jew, Protestant, or Nothing at All who greet me, invite me into conversation, groan and smile with me, and sometimes offer me tea
  • my dear husband whom I sometimes thought might be the wrong man for me, yet has become precious beyond words
  • my local church with its challenging mix of cultures, ethnicity, political persuasions, youth and decrepitude
  • days of such unexpected delight that I don’t want them to end, yet can let go because I love my water-bed and the partner swimming in it with me
  • my body and the way it’s leading me deeper into and out of myself in these early days of autumn

And of course, I’m for you, my wonderful readers–an invisible family loosely held together somewhere out there beyond our control.

Elouise

©Elouise Renich Fraser, 22 August 2018; lightly edited and reposted 15 November 2022
Photo found at pinterest.com

Defending My Space

For the last several weeks I’ve been dealing with more health issues, which I’ll report on later. I’ve also been re-reading my book, Confessions of a Beginning TheologianThe excerpt below gives a peek into life with my father, an ordained clergyman. It also describes my inner struggle to maintain my identity as a young white girl in a preacher’s family.

The memory may seem to be about parental authority. In reality, it’s about what it took daily for me to live (and die) due to my father’s overbearing commands, passed on to him by his rage-aholic clergy father.

We’re in a mess these days, dealing with layers of abuse, anger, and self-righteousness passed from one generation to another. Tomorrow is an official voting day. What will become of us? Do we have the courage to step up and out of order? Not just in our frightened hearts or minds, but in the way we live our adult lives regardless of the cost.

~~~

I’m about eight years old. I’m sitting at the dinner table, just around the corner from my father. The table is set, the food is spread before us, and we’re all in our seats waiting to begin. We haven’t yet asked the blessing. I’m playing with my dinner fork, just to the left of my plate. I’ve moved it a few inches away from my plate.

My father’s voice interrupts me. “Elouise, put the fork back where it belongs.”

I move it to the right, in the direction of my plate. “Elouise, put the fork back where it belongs.”

I move it slightly closer. My father’s voice remains firm and controlled. “Elouise, put the fork back where it belongs.”

By now my sisters are watching to see what will become of me. My mother is silent. This has become an event. Slowly I raise my hand to my fork and move it ever so slightly closer to my plate.

My father persists. So do I. Many repetitions later he’s satisfied; the fork has been returned to its proper place.

He proceeds with the blessing. He doesn’t know what I know: the fork is ever so slightly to the left of its proper place.

My father’s mission as a parent was to train us to keep the rules. My mission as his child was to break and keep the rules simultaneously.

Back then, perseverance meant getting through another day, using whatever survival skills lay close at hand.

If my father was persistent, I would be more persistent. If outward rebellions were too costly, I would invent creatively invisible yet superbly effective inward rebellions. If I was ordered to sit down and stop talking, I could continue standing and talking on the inside for as long as it took to comfort myself.

Indeed, this was the better way. In the private spaces of my mind no one could put me down, refuse to listen to me or try to break my will. In a family system intent on turning out obedient daughters, I survived by being secretly disobedient.

This memory from the 1950s, published nearly 20 years ago, is as vivid today as it was then.

The territory I defended was interior. I applaud the little girl who figured out how to do this. Nonetheless, my efforts were costly. They required constant vigilance, no matter where I was.

Abuse of power destroys safe space. It expects and demands behaviors, words, looks on faces, subtle and open signs of unquestioning and subservient submission.

What does it take to create and maintain safe space? Not just in our marriages and families, but in neighborhoods, nations, churches and schools? And how does my personal history connect with the racial history of the USA?

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 29 March 2017, reposted 7 November 2022
Photo of 1938 family dinner found at bbc.com
Story excerpted from my book, Confessions of a Beginning Theologian (InterVarsity Press 1998)

The Arrowhead | Mary Oliver

My home is full of relics. Bits and pieces I’ve gathered over the years. Memories, yes. But is it more? Mary Oliver invites me to think about this. My comments follow.

The Arrowhead

The arrowhead,
which I found beside the river,
was glittering and pointed.
I picked it up, and said,
“Now, it’s mine.”
I thought of showing it to friends.
I thought of putting it—such an imposing trinket—
in a little box, on my desk.
Halfway home, past the cut fields,
the old ghost
stood under the hickories.
“I would rather drink the wind,” he said,
“I would rather eat mud and die
than steal as you still steal,
than lie as you still lie.”

Mary Oliver, from Why I Wake Early, 2004, p. 185
© 2017 by NW Orchard LLC
Published by Penguin Books, 2020

Was this a waking dream? The last four lines of the poem gave me a jolt. The unexpected jolt I always have when Mary Oliver’s lovely poetic words suddenly rip the cover from our complacency. The topic of this poem is stealing. It seems our nation might be addicted to stealing.

However, this is about more than our nation.

It’s tempting to think of Mary Oliver as a nature lover who sees beauty in everything. But truth be told, many of her lovely poems are salted with barbed wire. Her words dare us (and herself) to ignore what’s right in front of us.

These are hard times. Some might say we’re headed toward doomsday. However, this poem isn’t about doomsday. It’s about what many, if not all of us, do daily and without forethought.

Could it be that we’ve forgotten what our own special versions of stealing and lying look like? Especially when it involves highly prized possessions or status.

I recall occasions when my words or ideas were stolen and passed off as someone else’s. Of course, there were also times when my words or ideas were scoffed at. However, most painful was hearing someone else use my words or ideas and pass them off as their own inventions.

The older I get, the more I recognize my desire to ‘discover’ or pretend to own what doesn’t belong to me. Words, ideas, and even arrowheads that catch my eye.

Will we ever learn to live with integrity? As citizens, and as a nation? Or have we so muddied the waters that we don’t know where to begin telling the truth. Not just about ourselves, but about our nation.

Praying for honesty, integrity, patience, and determination to honor truth. Especially when it costs.

Thanks for stopping by today,
Elouise

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 30 September 2022
Photo found at rockseeker.com

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