Telling the Truth

connecting the dots of my life

Tag: the human condition

January 20, 2018

being at home

being at home
in her spacious small body
the caged bird sings

My life has felt unusually restricted this winter. It seems outrageous. Here I am, an adult woman with my working years behind me, and ‘nothing’ to do but record thoughts going through my mind.

I’ve almost finished my slow reading of Maya Angelou’s I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. I’ve been on the lookout for times when the caged bird sings. Times when it seems there’s no way out. No way to reverse what’s happening. Until someone begins singing or writing or speaking, creating a different reality. Intangible yet real.

In addition, this morning I read the following lines from a favorite book on writing.

We can travel a long way and do many different things, but our deepest Happiness is not born from accumulating new experiences. It is born from letting go of whatever is unnecessary, and knowing ourselves to be always at home.

Sharon Salzburg, quoted in Gail Sher’s book, One Continuous Mistake: Four Noble Truths for Writers, p. 36, Penguin Group 1999

As Gail Sher puts it, “Home is where writing happens. The writer’s desk is a miniature world. Self-contained. Hopefully quiet. Anywhere else is somewhere else.”

It’s easy to write about somewhere else, or wish I were somewhere else. In someone else’s body or circumstances. I’m as prone to wandering as anyone. Besides, I think I’ve already had more than enough to say about myself.

Yet here I am today, feeling a tug to say more. In particular, more about my relationships with men. And saying it in a way that sets me free. The way Maya Angelou’s words about her life set her free.

Though my life might seem tame when compared with others, I used to think I would rather die than talk about my history with men. This past week I pulled out notes I made years ago that will help me do this. It’s important, because I believe my history with men was driven by things I was looking for. Not by something inherently wrong with me.

In the end, I want what sometimes has felt like a cage to be part of my home. The platform from which I sing.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 20 January 2018
Image found at asfmtech.org

8 Comments
January 19, 2018

chilled to the bone

chilled to the bone
night’s deep silence descends
winter drifts through cracks

***

Disconnected from feelings
Numb and disbelieving
I want to write
So many unknowns
So much at stake
So little time left
Will I or Won’t I?
Sooner or Later?
Is Never still an option?

This week brought unwelcome news in a couple of areas. No catastrophic accidents. Just the knowledge of things I didn’t want to hear. About a friend and about my health.

Yesterday we drove through Valley Forge National Historic Park. Outdoor temperatures were subfreezing. Snow was on the ground, covering a thin layer of frozen sleet. We saw one brave soul walking his beautiful dog along one of the paths that circle and cut through Valley Forge. Everyone else was in heated four-wheel vehicles driving through the Park.

I didn’t write the haiku above after that drive. But it captures some of the angst and foreboding perhaps encoded in the few remaining buildings and cabins still standing here and there throughout the Park. Remnants of a winter nightmare followed by springtime diseases that took more lives than winter took.

They thought they would be going home to their families and friends.

foot paths meander
through fields of wartime sorrow —
home to the fallen

I want to find my way home. Don’t you? Life is filled with breathtaking beauty. The kind that makes leaving it breathtakingly painful. Right now I’m being invited to play life in a different key. And my cold fingers are stumbling around a bit, learning to be at home in what doesn’t always feel like home.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 19 January 2018
Photo of cabins at Valley Forge found at history.org

5 Comments
January 17, 2018

frozen branches

frozen branches
bent beneath iced snow –
blue-green brilliance

I can’t help thinking about the frozen beauty that resides in each of us. Waiting for a thaw. Hoping to make it through the harsh winter. Perhaps relieved when snow and ice transform our everyday into something magical. And grateful for the sun that eventually melts and softens us, one small drop at a time.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 17 January 2018
Photo taken by DAFraser, December 2013 

10 Comments
January 16, 2018

Why writing feels dangerous

Last night I read about a woman who couldn’t get in touch with sensations in her body because she felt disconnected. Numb.

I relate to her. All my life I’ve experienced numbing out—sometimes on purpose; other times as the general go-to mode of my body. That means I feel out-of-place, lost, or just not interested in the vulnerability of connecting.

Years of neglect also hang out in my body. No wonder I get weary and can’t always stay awake emotionally. Perhaps some part of me has lost its memory or its ability to function with and for me.

And so I move on to something else instead of sitting with it. Or wondering about it, loving or even soothing it. Or welcoming it as a major part of the woman I’ve been and have become.

I’m a writer. I want to connect with what’s going on inside me, not just with thoughts running through my mind. I want to listen to myself, speak from within myself. Yet I’ve guarded so much for so long.

Can numbness lead to death? I don’t know. Perhaps I’m hiding from my voice. Sometimes I’m apprehensive about what I might discover or write and then let go. Even before I understand it fully.

From the moment I became a living human being, You’ve been there. Even when I was too terrified to be there. Too terrified to sit quietly with whatever was going on inside this woman I keep calling ‘me.’

Am I afraid right now? I want to believe You hold me close and won’t let me stray far from home. Yet I still think it’s my job to keep myself from straying. Maybe that’s why writing feels dangerous. My words are out there. I can’t control how they’re read or used or abused. Or heard and dissected.

A voice seems more fragile than a body. More connected to soul. More vulnerable to attack. Yet when I’ve done my best to be truthful, and have given it away so that the river moves on within and through me, I’m not sure what else I can do except build a dam.

I know about dams. I’ve constructed many in my lifetime. Little dams. Big dams. Complex, contorted, impenetrable dams. Trying desperately to escape the truth about me.

And what if the truth about me is beautiful? Lovely? What then? Have I killed it?

A small Christmas cactus blossom rests in front of me on my desk. A lovely, fading pinkish magenta. Its fragile petals look like limp gauze wings folded around its core. It isn’t ugly; it’s dying. Doing what lovely flowers do after giving themselves away.

It’s the only way to live. Not forever, but in this present moment. My calendar lies to me daily. It promises more than it or I can deliver. I want to live this one day as if there were no tomorrow. No more, and no less.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 15 January 2018
Photo found at pxhere.com

19 Comments
January 13, 2018

blustery wind blows cold

blustery wind
blows cold against my face –
shadows lengthen

I’m just back from a brisk walk outdoors with D. In freezing temperatures, with the bright sun in my eyes and an unpredictable icy wind gusting at will. Imagine the sound of waves against the shore on a stormy night. That’s the sound of tall evergreen trees being tossed around by winter winds.

Almost the moment I finished writing the haiku above I thought about the current sound and fury of winds of change if not warfare.

Our airwaves are full of blustery wind these days. The kind that gives me a chill. I don’t laugh easily or often at political ineptitude. From my perspective, it feels like I’m shrugging it off, defanging it, or even giving up and not facing it for what it is. Which right now includes facing the reality that Mr. Trump’s presidency isn’t going away anytime soon. Nor will we ever return to the way things were.

This isn’t necessarily bad, except for this. The damage done by Mr. Trump’s bold ‘initiatives’ is going to trickle faster than predicted. Not up to the good of those who most need help, but down (yes, down) to the ‘good’ of the most wealthy corporations, men, women and families in the USA.

Shadows lengthen. All the laughter and bluster in the world won’t cover up growing disgust, betrayal, and in-your-face nastiness being dished out to immigrants and to citizens of this nation, many of whom voted for Mr. Trump. The fact that I didn’t vote for him doesn’t make me righteous. We’re in this together, and are already paying the price. One way or another.

Even so, nothing will take away the grandeur of a walk outdoors with D in brisk cold weather, the sun in my face and the wind whipping around me. It’s a tangible reminder that Mr. Trump does not own or control the sun, the wind or the temperature. He is not now, nor will he ever be the Creator of this universe. Much less its Savior.

Praying you have a wonderful Sabbath rest, if not a lovely walk outdoors in the freezing cold!

Elouise♥

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 13 January 2018
Photo found at staticflickr.com

7 Comments
January 11, 2018

Counting the hours

A small
Limited world
Greets me
With a question –
And what of today…?

Indeed –
What of it?
With or without me
It will cycle by
Rehearsing its hours
Yet again in a chain
Of semi-predictability
Without need
For me to sit
At this window
Watching the day slip
Before my eyes
Through fingers chilled
By winter’s dull sky
And frozen vegetation
Waiting for spring
And release

Life is in a different key these days
I’m still not sure what it is
Or how to play it

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 11 January 2018
Image found at ytimg.com

4 Comments
January 10, 2018

Scars upon scars

Scars upon scars
cover futile attempts
to distance pain
of yet another blow
to my body, soul, dreams
or soothing denial

It’s nothing
I can take this
I don’t need to talk about it
I dealt with that long ago
Didn’t I?

And how can I help you today?
I have plenty of time.
I can proofread that if you’d like.
It’s nothing. Really. Nothing at all.
No problem. It won’t take long.
No need to apologize
for anything, really.
We all make mistakes.

Time passes
skin thickens
spine goes rigid
demeanor tentative
neutral eyes scan
from the periphery
avoid other eyes
awkward at best
antennae soar heavenward
nothing and nobody is
safe but this last remnant of
body-soul on alert
not to be lulled into
carelessness

It wasn’t being born female that scarred me. It was overtime, double duty hyper-vigilance plastered layer upon layer with each attempt to control, use or fix me.

Over time petrified limbs of my body and soul cowered whether I wanted them to or not. I fell into protective behaviors that stifled every hint of unhappiness or, God forbid, revulsion. I was physically and emotionally exhausted.

Each woman is different. Internal scars from child abuse, and sexual harassment or unjust workplace practices that disadvantage women are not the same as external scars or physical challenges. Sometimes the best way to begin healing is to find a trusted friend or referral service to suggest next steps that might work for you.

I was initially helped by a twelve-step group of over 20 women meeting weekly in a church basement. It didn’t cost me anything but my pride plus $1 a week (optional) in the basket. For 5 years I showed up 2 or 3 times each week for this and other twelve-step meetings. All while I was teaching full-time at a seminary. It took me that long to realize I needed professional help. By then I was in my late 40s.

I began blogging four years ago to break silence about my childhood and teenage years. Today it’s about more than that—though dealing with my past helped free me to write as I do today.

When we women invest wisely in our emotional, spiritual and physical health, we do the most important work of our lives. We don’t deserve to carry heavy layers of scars. Some can be laid aside. Others we get to keep. They connect us to sisters and brothers, and can, from time to time, add to our beauty and wisdom.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 10 January 2018
Photo taken by my father, 1954/55, my youngest sister and I, Savannah, Georgia

6 Comments
January 9, 2018

hovering

hovering
betwixt and between
slow drip to nowhere

This morning small icicles were dripping outside my bathroom window. Destined to be gone by the end of this sunny day.

I wrote the haiku thinking about icicles. Yet the truth goes deeper. It reflects how I feel about our national preoccupation with the Washington DC ‘Reality Show.’ Guaranteed to make multiple appearances on popular late-night commentary shows dedicated not to commentary or thoughtful analysis, but to making one side or the other a laughing matter.

On top of which we now have a newly released tell-all book, guaranteed to bring gasps of horror and indignation, not thoughtful analysis.

And what of our future, our cohesion as a nation? Are we caught up in a slow drip to nowhere? Mesmerized by the theatrics of reality-show performances supported by friend and foe alike? Laughing our way to nowhere?

It’s good to ask questions. But not if the answer that most pleases us is a lame joke that takes the edge off our responsibility to be actively informed citizens. The future of our nation and our planet deserve out best efforts. Especially when it feels like the tide is against us.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 9 January 2018
Photo found at beachfrontbroll.com

3 Comments
January 5, 2018

Playing my card – a poem

,

Is being born female a scar?
A blemish a blot an
unfortunate role of the dice?
Something to disguise or
hope might fade over time?

Mind your scar dear
You wouldn’t want to be
laughed at, jeered at, taken
for granted or trashed

Here love let me help you make
the most of your scar perhaps
then they won’t notice it so much

Who knows
you might even win adulation
and a real man if you play
your scar card just right

Remember you’re in this
for the long haul so buck up
and smile like a million dollars
someday you’ll be rewarded for
your dumbed down version of
the woman every man wants

Not to worry there’s still plenty
of time to make your mark you
just need to keep at it no cracks
in the façade

Don’t get me wrong dear I’m not
saying you haven’t been doing it
the right way

It’s just that the cracks in your
scar are showing and we wouldn’t
want you to bleed all over the place
and your clothes

So you’ll just have to stop picking
at it and let it heal the way it’s
supposed to heal all flat and flawless and
invisible just like you

This is my attempt to capture the ethos that informed my growing-up years, as seen today through my adult eyes. I would be less than truthful if I said this kind of approach wasn’t also part of my professional life. It was. Gratefully, by then I had a company of women and some men who helped me make it through. Not as a scar on the face of humanity, and not all flat, flawless and invisible.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 5 January 2018
Photo taken by my father in 1947 — Seattle, Washington, with Daughter #2 (of 4) and a young friend

10 Comments
January 4, 2018

powdered snow

powdered snow
pirouettes on storm-tossed wind
iced firs sparkle

A winter wonderland set to silent music blowing here and there – rising and falling – whirling, twirling and sweeping rooftops at will. This morning’s glory—enjoying it while it lasts.

The naked snow pairs nicely with a poem I read this morning. It’s from a gathering of larks: letters to Saint Francis from a modern-day pilgrim, by Abigail Carroll.

Here’s the poem.

Dear Son of Pietro Bernardone,

Nicodemus had nothing on you:

When he heard, You must be born again,
he wondered how on earth
to climb back inside his mother’s womb,

but you knew precisely what to do: remove
your clothes in the public
square, by your nakedness loudly, irrevocably

declare whose you were, whose you chose
to be. It was a start, and though
the bishop tried to spare you shame, protect

your rich father’s name with his holy golden
robe, hide your tender
olive frame, you refused. Instead, walked

shoeless toward the winter woods wearing
nothing but a hair-shirt
and a song (in French, no less). Priest

to beggars and sparrows, hills, and the lilies
of the field, it wasn’t long
before the lepers took you for their own.

Francis, what was it like to finally belong?

With admiration,

© Abigail Carroll, 2017, a gathering of larks, p. 14
William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company 2017

What does it mean to go ‘all out’ in order to live a life of openness and truth? Nature shows me how, without the agony of having to decide what to wear or which dance it will be today or what to eat or not eat. Even closer to home, with whom will I stand when push comes to shove?

There’s something about the nakedness of a wild snow storm that’s terrifying. The little sparrow being hurled by my kitchen window this morning comes to mind. He was able to land in a shrub, but barely.

Unpredictable winds of war and change are here, whether we choose to acknowledge them or not. I pray for  grace to let the Spirit’s wind carry me where it will, depositing me where I belong, with my voice and spirit intact.

© Elouise Renich Fraser, 4 January 2018
Photo found at shutterstock.com

8 Comments