Despite my better intentions, I haven't been keeping up with writing here. When I tried to figure out why, I realized that what I likely need is a change in my schedule. I'm so accustomed to writing at night, and usually, the later, the better; that's the way I got through three graduate school programs. Now, however, I finally have had to accept that I get tired more easily and that by the time I would be ready in the past to write, most nights now, at that same time I'm ready to go to sleep, or at least to get into bed with a good book or sometimes even a catalog that requires little brain power. So, after tonight, Ill try a change in schedule by trying to write earlier in the day.
Late this morning, with the help of my friend and step-sister Jackie McKinney, I brought seven boxes of stuff to the condo -- mostly sweaters, other clothes, some towels, some cd's -- and four bags of clothes to Temple Beth Israel. The rest of this week and most of next week, I'll be dedicating myself to packing and moving over to the condo. I'll need to get movers to haul the furniture and boxes; my job is to fill the boxes, sorting as I go what to keep and what to give away / throw away. Last week, I put my keys on my mother's key ring, and that felt especially significant, a visible and palpable sign of a necessary but unwanted transition.
Since my landlord won't let me out of my lease for my apartment, once most of the stuff there is moved to the condo, I'll use my apartment to sort through the books & everything else I'll have brought up from Cheshire, CT, where the stuff is in a storage locker. That way, I won't need to pay for storage; I'll be paying for this apartment until the end of August. By then, I hope to have halved my library, donating most of my Judaica collection to the library at Temple Beth Israel, and almost all of my mystery collection and everything else I won't be keeping to the West Hartford Public Library. What I hope I'll be left with will be my Christian theology and related books; my Feminist collection; and my collection of US History focusing on the 1960's and '70's -- the War in Vietnam, the Anti-War Movement, and changes in country and culture, especially focusing on music and its role in cultural change. By the time that's done, I hope we will have found a buyer for the condominium; I also hope that I will have found a new place to live in Oakland or Berkeley, CA. My hope / plan is to move to the West Coast in September.
News from Japan grows grimmer each day with increasing levels of radiation from the damaged nuclear power plant. Today's Hartford Courant carried the story that radiation from the Japanese plant had been detected in the Boston area, although none has been detected in CT. My friends Christine and Todd Monterio just gave birth to their first child, a baby girl, Clara Sophia. What does the detection of radiation from thousands of miles away mean for baby Clara Sophia? I find it frightening, even chilling, that something so deadly is so easily spread around the earth by the wind, and that we are totally helpless to stop it. I think about this baby girl and the thousands and millions of baby girls and baby boys born since that nuclear plant began malfunctioning because of the earthquake and tsunami that killed so many, and I wonder what we are leaving these children, what our legacy will be.
When I think of all of that, it seems to me that we must, all of us, guarantee as best we are able that we will be leaving a legacy that is more than destruction caused by nuclear power and the threat of nuclear weapons proliferation, war, greed, a planet under siege from global warming, ethnic hatreds and inter-religious strife. We each have gifts, talents, skills, and abilities that could be put to ensuring a different legacy than the one I / we most fear. I believe that each of us is called to leave this world a little better than we found it, just as, when walking on the beach, if we see litter, we pick it up and throw it away with the feeling that we're called to leave the beach a little cleaner than we found it.
And perhaps that's what we're each called to do ~~ perhaps we're each called to take the simplest action, say the simplest words ~~ thank you, I love you, you're wonderful, you're special ~~ and remember that, literally and figuratively, we are all in this together. And by those simple mustard-seed actions and mustard-seed words, our impact and thus our healthful, loving, caring legacy will grow.
I have always loved the passages in Matthew's Gospel in which Jesus talks about the mustard seed and faith. I cook a good bit of Indian food, and very often the recipes call for mustard seeds. Mustard seeds are very small; they also are very bouncy -- they bounce around if you drop them! In Matthew 13:31-32. Jesus tells the disciples that "The Kingdom of Heaven is like a mustard seed planted in a field. It is the smallest of all seeds, but it becomes the largest of garden plants and grows into a tree where birds can find shelter in its branches." Then in Matthew "If you had faith like a mustard seed, you would say to this mulberry tree, 'Be uprooted and be planted in the sea'; and it would obey you.'" (Of course, Jesus never clarifies why anyone would want to tell a mulberry tree to uproot itself and then plant itself in the sea. Seems like a silly thing to do to me.)
I think I love these passages because what I get from them is that Jesus reminding his disciples that the Reign of G-D (Kingdom of Heaven) is far more vast than they could ever imagine. He is reminding them that the Reign of G-D will surprise them; they won't expect it to grow and flourish from such tiny, ordinary seeds ~~ actions. This G-D and this G-D's reign is far wider and wilder, far greater and grander than anything in the disciples' -- or our -- imaginations. And just imagine what we could do if we had faith like that -- faith that surprises, grows huge, even profligate. The funny thing to me is that, in our fear, our anxiety, our worry, we often wish to prune back the mustard field, that is, to take charge of and control the Reign of G-D, and / or to control our faith or, really, to control G-D by putting G-D in a box where G-D can be contained -- or so we believe. But putting G-D in a box / trying to control our faith only results in stagnation and eventually death of our relationship with G-D. G-D is not and cannot be an object; rather, G-D is G-D, the One with Whom we are in relationship, and for relationships to grow, we must let the other person grow and surprise us. With G-D, we must always remain open to the many ways in which we ourselves grow and change in that relationship.
I said to a friend earlier today that I see my own future to be one of prayer rather than activism, in terms of the kind of activism in which I was engaged in the 1960's, '70's, and '80's. I believe that my prayers are little mustard seeds, planted in G-D's garden. I envision that garden to be our hearts. Our hearts must be tended, cared for, watered, fertilized, and that happens from the love, the care, the compassion, the constancy, the embrace from others. We need one another; we cannot do this alone.
A friend told me once that a mustard field is filled with bright yellow flowers, flowers the color of the sun. If we water our mustard seed actions, words, prayers, with our love, our care, our compassion, and our tears, the seeds will grow into a field, and, with the bright yellow flowers and our tears will form rainbows.
Perhaps I'm thinking along these strange lines because I feel close to overwhelmed by so much in this world, so much that I find more than problematic -- so much that is downright dangerous. And I think about that and then think about my friends who have young children, like Susan and Liam in Jamaica Plain near Boston, MA, whose son Peter is (if I'm not mistaken) just a few months older than 3, and my friend Nancy in Oakland, CA, whose grand-daughter, Natalie, is about two and a half, and a couple in our parish whose son Lucas is about Peter's age and whose new daughter, Danielle, is just over three months. I saw Danielle & her mom the other afternoon after the 11:30 Mass. Danielle was wide awake and looking around at everything, and that gave me a chance to see that she has the most phenomenal gray-blue eyes. I've never seen eyes that color in anyone before. She is such a beautiful little baby.
Since I seem to be better at trying to pray than I am at many other things, I will pray for Danielle and Lucas and Natalie and Peter, and for little Clara Sophia, and for all of my friends' children and for those children's parents. I believe that prayer has power, no matter how unskilled or sinful or inarticulate the one trying to pray is. And perhaps, if we all pray ~~ or if you don't pray, then do what feels comfortable, e.g., send good energy, light incense or a candle, do tai chi, cook or bake with intention ~~ maybe, just maybe, we'll grow that mustard field. If we all join together, maybe we will decide to become activists once again, in the spirit of the best parts of the 1960's and early 1970's, to change the world. For although I shy away from activism at this point in my life, I'd be willing to get back in there; more than that, it would be, and perhaps even now is, a moral imperative to get back in the fray. Doing that, getting back in the fray, will take lots of thinking, lots of reflection and prayer, a long discernment process. And I thought after 60 I might be able to rest... (Do I hear cosmic laughter, or is that just the cats play-growling...)
Thank you, everyone, for not thinking I have totally lost it! I love you.
Much Shalom and Blessings, Pat
Finally, I'm able to end on a very happy note: The UConn Women's basketball team won tonight in its game against Duke and has secured a spot in the "Final Four." And Maya Moore reached 3,000 career points. GO Huskies and GO MAYA!!
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sunday, March 13, 2011
First Sunday in Lent & The Rite of Election, or, Pat has a speaking part at St. Joseph's Cathedral!
Happy Daylight Saving Time, everyone!! I really like Daylight Saving Time, to the point that I'm thinking of declaring the day it starts a personal holiday. Having the extra daylight helps my mood; it also helps me get things done, since I figure that more light means I have more time. I really don't; in fact, to get here, we all had to lose an hour. But it still feels like I have more time. I especially needed more time today; I left my apartment at 10:30 am EDT -- rushing for the bus -- on Sundays, the bus on my route comes only one every half hour -- SO different from Boston, where I could catch either the "T" (train) or a bus, both of which arrived every 7 to 10 minutes! I didn't return until nearly 6 pm EDT. I still haven't washed either the breakfast or supper dishes, but at least I ate something for both breakfast & supper.
Today is the First Sunday of Lent. Among other things, that means that, for Catholics world-wide, it is the day of Election -- and this one has nothing to do with voting. On the First Sunday of Lent, adults who will be joining the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil by receiving the Sacraments of Initiation -- baptism, confirmation, and first Eucharist -- who, up to this point have been called catechumens, go with their sponsors and God-Parents to the cathedral of their diocese or archdiocese. NOTE: Those of you who are / were Catholic and / or who already know about the Rite of Election may want to skip the rest of this paragraph. There, they are welcomed by the bishop / archbishop. (For clarity's sake, from hereon, I'll just use the term archbishop, since that what Hartford has, as an archdiocese.) The catechumens answer questions put to them by the archbishop, as do their God-Parents and everyone in attendance, attesting to the readiness of the catechumens for the "Easter Sacraments." The archbishop then invites all of the catechumens forward, however, they are no longer catechumens; rather, they are the Elect, and they come forward to sign the Book of the Elect. After this, the candidates -- adults who have been baptized in another Christian tradition who are now joining the Catholic Church, and Catholics who have not been confirmed or received first Eucharist -- are recognized by the archbishop with a similar script, except they don't come forward to sign anything. They, too, are welcomed by the archbishop, as are their sponsors.
I spent part of my afternoon at the Rite of Election at St. Joseph's Cathedral in Hartford; earlier in the day, I participated in what we call the Rite of Sending in our parish, since the idea is that the local parish "sends" our catechumen(s) and candidate(s) to the cathedral. Both times, I had a "speaking part" as the person who "presented" the catechumen and candidates, first to St. Patrick-St. Anthony's pastor and then to the archbishop.
Since I've been involved in RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) programs in both Boston (at the Paulist Center Community) and here in Hartford, I've been to several Rites of Election, including at least two at which the now rather infamous Cardinal Bernard Law presided. A couple of things always strike me at these events, things that really do make me stop & reflect. First, each time I attend a Rite of Election, I am reminded how much of a truly universal church we are. At Catholic cathedrals all over the world, people were doing the exact same thing that we were doing today. The script may be different; the languages WILL be different. But I doubt that there was a Catholic cathedral anywhere that did not have a Rite of Election today.
That brings me to my second point, that, looking around St. Joseph's Cathedral, I was also reminded just how global, how international the Catholic Church in the Archdiocese of Hartford has become. Gathered today, we were African-American, Hispanic, Caucasian, Caribbean, Asian, African, Latin American and European. I could see it in the faces of the people gathered, hear it in their voices. After having been away from Hartford for over 35 years, except for short visits, I missed the processes that led to this change -- and I say change, because I am quite certain that the Archdiocese was not this diverse in 1973, the last year I lived in Hartford. In 1973, I recall the Greater Hartford Area having lots of Caucasians, lots of African-Americans, and a growing number of Puerto Ricans, most of whom were first- or second-generation immigrants. This past nearly year and a half, when I've gone to the Cathedral as I have on occasion, I've seen tremendous diversity in the worshipping community there. I recall one day -- it may have been Christmas Day of 2009 -- I saw several Hmong families there, identifiable because the women wore their Hmong dresses. Yes, the Greater Hartford Area and the Archdiocese of Hartford had changed a great deal in my 35+ years' absence.
My third thought isn't original, and I probably think it every year and have thought it every year since 2002, when the sexual abuse crisis hit the Boston Globe and then went national. That is that I am amazed, in awe, and truly humbled that, in spite of everything and especially in spite of the sexual abuse crisis, people still want to become Roman Catholic, still want to join this denomination, still feel drawn or called or summoned by G-D and Christ and the Spirit to become members of this particular church. And having been involved in the RCIA process over the course of the past 15 or so years, I know from a micro perspective just how wonderful the people who are coming into this church are. The ones I have known -- and they have ranged from physicians to classical musicians, from lawyers to financial planners, from social justice activists to stay-at-home-moms, from high tech developers to mystics (and probably some high tech mystics) -- have been / are among the most compassionate, intelligent, searching, ethical, and committed people I've known. Their faith continues to renew mine; after 35+ years, it's too easy to "skate," to take for granted, to pay only half-attention. Then, I encounter our Elect or one of our candidates, and I'm brought right back to the preciousness of this incredible gift called faith; to the joy of being in relation and in relationship with The Holy; to the wonder of feeling that The Holy One Who created me / us has Her / His Arms around me / us, loves me / us unconditionally, accepts me / us unconditionally, forgives me / us unconditionally, and never, never, never abandons me / us, even if at times I / We feel abandoned. Our Elect and Candidates have always renewed my faith, and never so much as now, THIS year, THIS Lent, with the death of my mother two months ago this date. This year, when there hasn't been a Mass at which I haven't cried since my mother died, when it's all too easy to feel abandoned, the Elect and Candidates in my parish have strengthened my faith by sharing their own as they grow and deepen their relationship with G-D, as they continue their journey with Christ, as they continue to be enlightened by the Spirit.
That doesn't mean that I won't fall back into feeling the abandonment that a mother's death marks for a daughter, especially since my father died in 1994. As a couple of people have noted, my sister & I are now orphans. It's a funny term to use for two adult women, one who just turned 58 (my sister) and the other who will become 61 in early April (me, obviously). But my sister and I are now alone in the world in a way we've never before experienced. To understand that better, I'll likely be doing quite a bit more writing about it.
Right now, though, I'll feel grateful to our Elect and Candidates and will let them know that at some point in the future. At this point in my night, I'll finish some house chores and get ready for bed. Blessings to all of you!
Today is the First Sunday of Lent. Among other things, that means that, for Catholics world-wide, it is the day of Election -- and this one has nothing to do with voting. On the First Sunday of Lent, adults who will be joining the Catholic Church at the Easter Vigil by receiving the Sacraments of Initiation -- baptism, confirmation, and first Eucharist -- who, up to this point have been called catechumens, go with their sponsors and God-Parents to the cathedral of their diocese or archdiocese. NOTE: Those of you who are / were Catholic and / or who already know about the Rite of Election may want to skip the rest of this paragraph. There, they are welcomed by the bishop / archbishop. (For clarity's sake, from hereon, I'll just use the term archbishop, since that what Hartford has, as an archdiocese.) The catechumens answer questions put to them by the archbishop, as do their God-Parents and everyone in attendance, attesting to the readiness of the catechumens for the "Easter Sacraments." The archbishop then invites all of the catechumens forward, however, they are no longer catechumens; rather, they are the Elect, and they come forward to sign the Book of the Elect. After this, the candidates -- adults who have been baptized in another Christian tradition who are now joining the Catholic Church, and Catholics who have not been confirmed or received first Eucharist -- are recognized by the archbishop with a similar script, except they don't come forward to sign anything. They, too, are welcomed by the archbishop, as are their sponsors.
I spent part of my afternoon at the Rite of Election at St. Joseph's Cathedral in Hartford; earlier in the day, I participated in what we call the Rite of Sending in our parish, since the idea is that the local parish "sends" our catechumen(s) and candidate(s) to the cathedral. Both times, I had a "speaking part" as the person who "presented" the catechumen and candidates, first to St. Patrick-St. Anthony's pastor and then to the archbishop.
Since I've been involved in RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults) programs in both Boston (at the Paulist Center Community) and here in Hartford, I've been to several Rites of Election, including at least two at which the now rather infamous Cardinal Bernard Law presided. A couple of things always strike me at these events, things that really do make me stop & reflect. First, each time I attend a Rite of Election, I am reminded how much of a truly universal church we are. At Catholic cathedrals all over the world, people were doing the exact same thing that we were doing today. The script may be different; the languages WILL be different. But I doubt that there was a Catholic cathedral anywhere that did not have a Rite of Election today.
That brings me to my second point, that, looking around St. Joseph's Cathedral, I was also reminded just how global, how international the Catholic Church in the Archdiocese of Hartford has become. Gathered today, we were African-American, Hispanic, Caucasian, Caribbean, Asian, African, Latin American and European. I could see it in the faces of the people gathered, hear it in their voices. After having been away from Hartford for over 35 years, except for short visits, I missed the processes that led to this change -- and I say change, because I am quite certain that the Archdiocese was not this diverse in 1973, the last year I lived in Hartford. In 1973, I recall the Greater Hartford Area having lots of Caucasians, lots of African-Americans, and a growing number of Puerto Ricans, most of whom were first- or second-generation immigrants. This past nearly year and a half, when I've gone to the Cathedral as I have on occasion, I've seen tremendous diversity in the worshipping community there. I recall one day -- it may have been Christmas Day of 2009 -- I saw several Hmong families there, identifiable because the women wore their Hmong dresses. Yes, the Greater Hartford Area and the Archdiocese of Hartford had changed a great deal in my 35+ years' absence.
My third thought isn't original, and I probably think it every year and have thought it every year since 2002, when the sexual abuse crisis hit the Boston Globe and then went national. That is that I am amazed, in awe, and truly humbled that, in spite of everything and especially in spite of the sexual abuse crisis, people still want to become Roman Catholic, still want to join this denomination, still feel drawn or called or summoned by G-D and Christ and the Spirit to become members of this particular church. And having been involved in the RCIA process over the course of the past 15 or so years, I know from a micro perspective just how wonderful the people who are coming into this church are. The ones I have known -- and they have ranged from physicians to classical musicians, from lawyers to financial planners, from social justice activists to stay-at-home-moms, from high tech developers to mystics (and probably some high tech mystics) -- have been / are among the most compassionate, intelligent, searching, ethical, and committed people I've known. Their faith continues to renew mine; after 35+ years, it's too easy to "skate," to take for granted, to pay only half-attention. Then, I encounter our Elect or one of our candidates, and I'm brought right back to the preciousness of this incredible gift called faith; to the joy of being in relation and in relationship with The Holy; to the wonder of feeling that The Holy One Who created me / us has Her / His Arms around me / us, loves me / us unconditionally, accepts me / us unconditionally, forgives me / us unconditionally, and never, never, never abandons me / us, even if at times I / We feel abandoned. Our Elect and Candidates have always renewed my faith, and never so much as now, THIS year, THIS Lent, with the death of my mother two months ago this date. This year, when there hasn't been a Mass at which I haven't cried since my mother died, when it's all too easy to feel abandoned, the Elect and Candidates in my parish have strengthened my faith by sharing their own as they grow and deepen their relationship with G-D, as they continue their journey with Christ, as they continue to be enlightened by the Spirit.
That doesn't mean that I won't fall back into feeling the abandonment that a mother's death marks for a daughter, especially since my father died in 1994. As a couple of people have noted, my sister & I are now orphans. It's a funny term to use for two adult women, one who just turned 58 (my sister) and the other who will become 61 in early April (me, obviously). But my sister and I are now alone in the world in a way we've never before experienced. To understand that better, I'll likely be doing quite a bit more writing about it.
Right now, though, I'll feel grateful to our Elect and Candidates and will let them know that at some point in the future. At this point in my night, I'll finish some house chores and get ready for bed. Blessings to all of you!
Friday, March 11, 2011
Friday of the Earthquake & Tsunami
Somewhere at about 3:30 or 4 am, I awoke to news of the 8.9 earthquake and subsequent tsunamis off the northeastern coast of Japan. Truly horrifying. I turned on the tv for a short while and then went back to the BBC on the radio until I fell back to sleep until 5:30, after which I couldn't return to sleep. I've tried to get hourly news when I've been home, and at some point I heard that this earthquake was the third worst, in terms of magnitude, in human history. Is there a patron saint of protection from earthquakes and / or tsunamis? Or a patron saint of disaster relief? If there isn't, we definitely need at least one. Many, many prayers are going to G-D, Jesus, and His Mother this night.
In the meantime, after seeing my psychiatrist this morning, I did some shopping and then came home to do laundry and finalize the assignment for my memoir-writing class tomorrow afternoon. Because the dryer on my floor is terrible -- it takes putting clothes through the dryer twice to get them dry, and yes, I've reported it and nothing gets done -- I didn't get finished with everything until 9:30 pm. Too late to cook dinner, I thought, and I should have listened. I ended up burning my right hand on the toaster. (I don't know how I did it; all I know is that I thought something near the toaster was going to fall, so I went to catch it. In the process, the fleshy part of my right hand between my little finger & wrist ended up on the metal part of the toaster. Of course I'm right-handed. And I've spent most of the last hour & a half holding a bag of frozen peas (les petit pois) on my hand. Does anyone ever eat these things? It seems everyone I know keeps a bag of them in the freezer for accidents: twisted ankles, sprained wrists, burns. Don't worry; this is fairly minor, even though it hurts like hell right now!
So tonight's blog will be brief. Please pray for all those affected by the earthquake; if you are able, please donate to disaster relief organizations such as Catholic Relief Services or Partners in Health. There is presently so much need in the world. I'm very worried about the outcome of the struggle in Libya. So as I bid all of you a good night, I think of the hopeful words of Blessed Julian of Norwich: "All will be well; all will be well; and all manner of things will be well." (From The Revelations of Divine Love) Good night everyone!
In the meantime, after seeing my psychiatrist this morning, I did some shopping and then came home to do laundry and finalize the assignment for my memoir-writing class tomorrow afternoon. Because the dryer on my floor is terrible -- it takes putting clothes through the dryer twice to get them dry, and yes, I've reported it and nothing gets done -- I didn't get finished with everything until 9:30 pm. Too late to cook dinner, I thought, and I should have listened. I ended up burning my right hand on the toaster. (I don't know how I did it; all I know is that I thought something near the toaster was going to fall, so I went to catch it. In the process, the fleshy part of my right hand between my little finger & wrist ended up on the metal part of the toaster. Of course I'm right-handed. And I've spent most of the last hour & a half holding a bag of frozen peas (les petit pois) on my hand. Does anyone ever eat these things? It seems everyone I know keeps a bag of them in the freezer for accidents: twisted ankles, sprained wrists, burns. Don't worry; this is fairly minor, even though it hurts like hell right now!
So tonight's blog will be brief. Please pray for all those affected by the earthquake; if you are able, please donate to disaster relief organizations such as Catholic Relief Services or Partners in Health. There is presently so much need in the world. I'm very worried about the outcome of the struggle in Libya. So as I bid all of you a good night, I think of the hopeful words of Blessed Julian of Norwich: "All will be well; all will be well; and all manner of things will be well." (From The Revelations of Divine Love) Good night everyone!
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Missing Daily Mass
When my sleep has been disrupted for more than one night, as it has been these past couple of nights, I feel somewhat zombie-ish the next day. This morning, after waking at 3:30 am & eating breakfast at 6:30, I fell back to sleep at 8 & didn't wake up until 10. That, of course, threw my whole day a-kilter. After a quick shower, I figured that, if I dressed quickly enough, I'd have enough time to get the bus downtown so I could go to daily Mass, something I promised myself I'd do during this Lent. So I wasn't quite totally awake when the phone rang & I answered it. The caller was one of my mother's friends.
It seems I've inherited a whole cohort of my mother's friends. Most, although not all, attended synagogue with her. They're all women, every one; my mother never had very many male friends -- only Howard (her partner of 40+ years) & Brad (with whom she worked during her days at Connecticut General Life Insurance). I really love and like all of these women, and what's wonderful is that two of them are my friends as well as my mother's. This morning, the friend who called -- I'll call her Jane -- is a marvelous woman, and I'm tremendously fond of her. She loves to talk & loves to tell stories. She knows, she has told me, that she tends to talk too long (according to some people) & that she tends to ramble (again, according to some people), & she has warned me that I need to intervene to stop her if I need to end a conversation.
Jane had a stroke a couple of years back, & she is very sensitive to how the stroke has impacted her cognition. She struggles at times for words, although since I've known her & seen her on a more frequent basis, I've seen that her word recall has greatly improved. She is in her mid-80's & the widow of a physician. She openly states how fond she was of my mother, how good they were together -- for one, they could talk politics together & agreed almost all of the time -- and how grateful she was for their friendship. I know that my mother felt the same way about her, and I've told her that.
At some point in our conversation, I realized that, if I didn't cut Jane off in the next 2 minutes, I would miss Mass. But I couldn't cut her off; it was clear that she misses my mother & clear as well that I've been remiss in not calling her, although she would never say that. So I missed Mass. I think G-D was giving me the opportunity to choose caring, compassion, and relationship over ritual & something I really love to do that is easy. All I could think was how often Jane tells me that people tell her she talks too much & goes on too long, and how hurtful and humiliating that must feel, how dismissed she must feel when someone says, "Jane, you're taking up too much of my time," which is what the message to her is in reality. I suspect that hundreds of people hear each day, in one way or another, "You are taking too much of my time," which really means "You are not worth my time."
Yet I truly believe that the G-D we love & in whom we put our trust & faith finds each & every one of us worth Her / His time. Each & every one of us is precious in G-D's sight, as precious as the sparrow, as valued as the lilies of the field, which is, ultimately. This Lent, I believe I am called to follow Christ, to deepen my life with Him, to more closely imitate Him. And for me, that means especially imitating Christ's compassion. That means slowing down, listening in & to the silence, & also hearing when someone speaks from the silence. People gravitated to my mother because she listened to them & heard them, & I think her friends are expecting the same from me. What I learned today is that G-D is expecting it, too.
Being home in silence & without the radio on is harder than I'd expected it would be. The radio provided instant distraction from whatever I'd been thinking, especially when I didn't want to be thinking that particular line of thought. It acted as a buffer between my thoughts & myself. I'll explore that more tomorrow night. Right now, although it's still early, I'm going to sleep.
It seems I've inherited a whole cohort of my mother's friends. Most, although not all, attended synagogue with her. They're all women, every one; my mother never had very many male friends -- only Howard (her partner of 40+ years) & Brad (with whom she worked during her days at Connecticut General Life Insurance). I really love and like all of these women, and what's wonderful is that two of them are my friends as well as my mother's. This morning, the friend who called -- I'll call her Jane -- is a marvelous woman, and I'm tremendously fond of her. She loves to talk & loves to tell stories. She knows, she has told me, that she tends to talk too long (according to some people) & that she tends to ramble (again, according to some people), & she has warned me that I need to intervene to stop her if I need to end a conversation.
Jane had a stroke a couple of years back, & she is very sensitive to how the stroke has impacted her cognition. She struggles at times for words, although since I've known her & seen her on a more frequent basis, I've seen that her word recall has greatly improved. She is in her mid-80's & the widow of a physician. She openly states how fond she was of my mother, how good they were together -- for one, they could talk politics together & agreed almost all of the time -- and how grateful she was for their friendship. I know that my mother felt the same way about her, and I've told her that.
At some point in our conversation, I realized that, if I didn't cut Jane off in the next 2 minutes, I would miss Mass. But I couldn't cut her off; it was clear that she misses my mother & clear as well that I've been remiss in not calling her, although she would never say that. So I missed Mass. I think G-D was giving me the opportunity to choose caring, compassion, and relationship over ritual & something I really love to do that is easy. All I could think was how often Jane tells me that people tell her she talks too much & goes on too long, and how hurtful and humiliating that must feel, how dismissed she must feel when someone says, "Jane, you're taking up too much of my time," which is what the message to her is in reality. I suspect that hundreds of people hear each day, in one way or another, "You are taking too much of my time," which really means "You are not worth my time."
Yet I truly believe that the G-D we love & in whom we put our trust & faith finds each & every one of us worth Her / His time. Each & every one of us is precious in G-D's sight, as precious as the sparrow, as valued as the lilies of the field, which is, ultimately. This Lent, I believe I am called to follow Christ, to deepen my life with Him, to more closely imitate Him. And for me, that means especially imitating Christ's compassion. That means slowing down, listening in & to the silence, & also hearing when someone speaks from the silence. People gravitated to my mother because she listened to them & heard them, & I think her friends are expecting the same from me. What I learned today is that G-D is expecting it, too.
Being home in silence & without the radio on is harder than I'd expected it would be. The radio provided instant distraction from whatever I'd been thinking, especially when I didn't want to be thinking that particular line of thought. It acted as a buffer between my thoughts & myself. I'll explore that more tomorrow night. Right now, although it's still early, I'm going to sleep.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Ash Wednesday 2011
Ash Wednesday has happened again, and I sit at my computer with a big splotch of ashes on my forehead that somewhat resembles a cross. I've been intrigued by the presence of Ash Wednesday on Facebook, especially by the number of organizations that ask "What are you giving up for Lent?" Even the Women's Ordination Conference asked that question! I'd long been under the impression that making positive changes or altering a bad habit were preferable to the old-fashioned notion of "giving something up." Giving something up does have a measure of the punitive in it. It can also lead one to become a bit obsessive, as we get deeper into Lent and miss what we've "given up" more & more. And then there's the worry about cheating & the temptation to cheat, or, conversely, the temptation to feel a bit "holier than thou" because we haven't cheated. Unless one is seriously addicted to something, I wonder whether it's worth the hassle. I mean, seriously, how much time do you really want to spend thinking about chocolate?
So, of course, now it's time for me to let our little corner of the world know what I'll be doing for Lent. Since I'm not giving something up, what am I taking on? It's quite simple. I've decided to cultivate silence in my apartment. Ordinarily, I leave the radio in my bedroom on most of the day, in part to keep the cats company. The radio is tuned to NPR, and over the years of listening, I've learned some really wonderful and even awesome things. During this Lent, however, I've decided to listen only to the hourly newscasts & to listen just before going to sleep. I know how easy it is to keep the radio or tv on for "company." That's especially true, I think, for those of us who live alone & have lived that way for a good while. With silence, my thoughts are right there, out in front, with no excuses, no matter how uncomfortable or foolish, banal or sinful, goofy or just plain wrong -- wrong as in evil, not wrong as in incorrect. The only things I'm hearing right now are the typing of the keys & one of my cats trying to get every last morsel of food from his dish.
So Lent has begun. This year, I'm much more aware than usual of the connection of the Lenten journey to vulnerability. That, no doubt, arises in large part because of my mother's death nearly two months ago. "Human, thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return" takes on a much starker reality this Lent. In the journey of Jesus, we see a man who is profoundly vulnerable. He allows himself to be touched, offers his power for healing, for reconciliation, for justice. He meets people exactly where they are and in moments creates relationships of trust in which those who approach him not only trust him but also trust themselves for the first time in their lives. The people who encounter Jesus come to know how very deeply they are loved by G-D, not because of anything they did; rather, they come to know they are loved by G-D because of their faith -- a faith that leads them to be healed, to love others, to forgive others, and to love and forgive themselves.
That's all I'm able to write tonight; I'm fighting the effects of a sleepless night last night, so I'm about to eat something and then try to go to sleep early. A most blessed Lent to all of you who are journeying with Christ this holy Season.
So, of course, now it's time for me to let our little corner of the world know what I'll be doing for Lent. Since I'm not giving something up, what am I taking on? It's quite simple. I've decided to cultivate silence in my apartment. Ordinarily, I leave the radio in my bedroom on most of the day, in part to keep the cats company. The radio is tuned to NPR, and over the years of listening, I've learned some really wonderful and even awesome things. During this Lent, however, I've decided to listen only to the hourly newscasts & to listen just before going to sleep. I know how easy it is to keep the radio or tv on for "company." That's especially true, I think, for those of us who live alone & have lived that way for a good while. With silence, my thoughts are right there, out in front, with no excuses, no matter how uncomfortable or foolish, banal or sinful, goofy or just plain wrong -- wrong as in evil, not wrong as in incorrect. The only things I'm hearing right now are the typing of the keys & one of my cats trying to get every last morsel of food from his dish.
So Lent has begun. This year, I'm much more aware than usual of the connection of the Lenten journey to vulnerability. That, no doubt, arises in large part because of my mother's death nearly two months ago. "Human, thou art dust, and to dust thou shalt return" takes on a much starker reality this Lent. In the journey of Jesus, we see a man who is profoundly vulnerable. He allows himself to be touched, offers his power for healing, for reconciliation, for justice. He meets people exactly where they are and in moments creates relationships of trust in which those who approach him not only trust him but also trust themselves for the first time in their lives. The people who encounter Jesus come to know how very deeply they are loved by G-D, not because of anything they did; rather, they come to know they are loved by G-D because of their faith -- a faith that leads them to be healed, to love others, to forgive others, and to love and forgive themselves.
That's all I'm able to write tonight; I'm fighting the effects of a sleepless night last night, so I'm about to eat something and then try to go to sleep early. A most blessed Lent to all of you who are journeying with Christ this holy Season.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Answering today's Ignatian Spirituality Question
Today's Ignatian Spirituality question on Facebook is: Where are you finding God in all the winter weather? I realized that earlier this morning, I went outside, first to go to my building's office and then to dump my trash in the large dumpster behind my apartment building (!!), and I found The Holy both times in both places. Tiny little ice pellets fell from the sky as I walked; each one that hit me bounced off in a different direction. Some hit my face, gently caressing it with a teeny ice kiss. Today, The Holy felt cold & bouncy.
As I walked, the ice crunched and creaked a bit under my booted feet. Each step I took sounded a bit different, because with each step, the ice was differently configured. Because the ice came from pellets, it wasn't slippery as a sheet of ice would have been, so I felt fairly safe walking on it, listening to the strange sounds. Today, The Holy sounded crunchy, like crisp Rice Crispies cereal before it sits in milk.
As I walked, I watched the little ice crystals bounce around and then stick-- on bushes, on trees, on the ground. The snow piles from previous snow storms are already SO HIGH that I could barely see over the top of them. I know, though, that each now has a coating of tiny ice cubes on the top, like giant sugar cookies with the sugar poured out all over them. Today, The Holy looked like huge cookies sprinkled with sugar.
The outside this morning was beautiful. Inconvenient, yes, and risky if one walked too fast -- something I dare not do. Because I HAD to walk slowly, I had the opportunity to experience The Holy in Her / His Creation. In this MOST frustrating of winters, when no one I know ISN'T commenting on just how tired and frustrated she / he is with the seemingly-endless snow and the problems it brings, I am so very grateful that my risk of fracturing my fragile bones caused me to slow down. In slowing down, I found The Holy One.
As I walked, the ice crunched and creaked a bit under my booted feet. Each step I took sounded a bit different, because with each step, the ice was differently configured. Because the ice came from pellets, it wasn't slippery as a sheet of ice would have been, so I felt fairly safe walking on it, listening to the strange sounds. Today, The Holy sounded crunchy, like crisp Rice Crispies cereal before it sits in milk.
As I walked, I watched the little ice crystals bounce around and then stick-- on bushes, on trees, on the ground. The snow piles from previous snow storms are already SO HIGH that I could barely see over the top of them. I know, though, that each now has a coating of tiny ice cubes on the top, like giant sugar cookies with the sugar poured out all over them. Today, The Holy looked like huge cookies sprinkled with sugar.
The outside this morning was beautiful. Inconvenient, yes, and risky if one walked too fast -- something I dare not do. Because I HAD to walk slowly, I had the opportunity to experience The Holy in Her / His Creation. In this MOST frustrating of winters, when no one I know ISN'T commenting on just how tired and frustrated she / he is with the seemingly-endless snow and the problems it brings, I am so very grateful that my risk of fracturing my fragile bones caused me to slow down. In slowing down, I found The Holy One.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Tribute to my mother, Joanne Shechter, 23 July 1926 - 13 January 2011
When my mother died two and a half weeks ago, I knew to expect much of what happened, especially since I was the daughter who was geographically close by. My sister lives in Seattle, WA, so Andi & her partner needed to figure out flights, ground transport, clothes for nearly a week in a much colder climate. I live four blocks from my mother's condo. So with my mother's surrogate step-daughter, I met with the funeral home person, shopped, made calls, tried to comfort my mother's cat while her friends tried to comfort me.
What did surprise me was how quickly I took and found refuge in writing, although why that surprised me I don't know. I've been writing all of my life, from as early as I'm able to remember. So I sat with my notebook, jotting phrases, images.. When Pamela, the Cantor who would lead the funeral service, asked if I would like to say something, I said an immediate yes." What surprised me even more was how quickly and easily I was able to write something new. I hadn't written poetry in years, yet the poem came easily, quickly, although not effortlessly. And here it is, a poem in tribute to my mother, entitled "Petting My Mother's Cat."
Petting My Mother's Cat
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and my voice one of the last you would hear.
In between in the years between
we grew to know each other.
And yet we knew each other
from before the beginning when I –
infinitesimally small – grew
you cradling me your body providing
all I would need.
From infinitesimal to infant
I grew, and you knew my every movement
every turn every kick.
You knew me before I knew there was a “me” to know.
And we both grew from there and
from my emergent birth when, stubborn,
I at first refused to breathe.
Yours was the first face I ever saw –
so beloved so treasured a face for which
my small hands reached.
We each grew from those
earliest years and I learned.
I learned from you many things including,
I learned, my stubbornness. Yes,
I learned my stubbornness from you
and still prefer to call it
determination commitment
even stability.
You taught me and then two of us --
Thanks for my younger sister!! --
your values
of beauty
of justice
of steadfastness.
Where did you think
I derived my politics
if not from you?
Yours was the first face I ever saw
filled with love
with tenderness
with joy
with a fierce intelligence that grew
and a curiosity and thirst to know that opened
like the tulip fields in Holland that you loved.
The very day you died
we’d spent 20 minutes dissecting
the President’s speech the evening before.
You bequeathed all that and more
to your daughters – biological and chosen – and your
chosen grand-children.
As your bio-daughters grew & left home –
as I chose to come of age on another coast –
your surrounded yourself with your chosen family
gathering friends around you and
years later finally marrying Howard.
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and still sought on visits
from New York Berkeley
Cambridge Boston.
It was 37 years before
I returned to settle four short blocks
from you yet in a different city,
still prizing that at-this-point-only-proverbial distance
which even now kept closing.
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and watching I learned from you
your love of music
a love both wide and deep,
from the classics to Gershwin
Kurt Weil, Mahler, Edith Piaf.
So your embrace in the 1980’s of
Holly Near – California feminist radical
political lesbian musician – delighted me
more than you could ever know.
I learned so much from you ~~ cooking and
love of literature; baking and love of poetry;
a terrific sense of style – and finally and
especially love.
And if, in the necessary crises of being-mother –
being-daughter, if I ever doubted,
I never doubted your love.
Lately our connection sat comfortably with us.
We would relax in your den
on your wonderful red couch
with Sam the Cat between us.
Petting Sam and stroking his belly
we would talk about mostly
inconsequential things.
That is where most of life happens,
while petting a cat and talking
about inconsequential things.
Yours was the first face I ever saw and loved
and my voice perhaps the last voice
you heard, a voice telling you
of my love for you, abiding
and always, love.
©Patricia Shechter
16 January 2011
Love and Much Shalom to all,
Pat
What did surprise me was how quickly I took and found refuge in writing, although why that surprised me I don't know. I've been writing all of my life, from as early as I'm able to remember. So I sat with my notebook, jotting phrases, images.. When Pamela, the Cantor who would lead the funeral service, asked if I would like to say something, I said an immediate yes." What surprised me even more was how quickly and easily I was able to write something new. I hadn't written poetry in years, yet the poem came easily, quickly, although not effortlessly. And here it is, a poem in tribute to my mother, entitled "Petting My Mother's Cat."
Petting My Mother's Cat
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and my voice one of the last you would hear.
In between in the years between
we grew to know each other.
And yet we knew each other
from before the beginning when I –
infinitesimally small – grew
you cradling me your body providing
all I would need.
From infinitesimal to infant
I grew, and you knew my every movement
every turn every kick.
You knew me before I knew there was a “me” to know.
And we both grew from there and
from my emergent birth when, stubborn,
I at first refused to breathe.
Yours was the first face I ever saw –
so beloved so treasured a face for which
my small hands reached.
We each grew from those
earliest years and I learned.
I learned from you many things including,
I learned, my stubbornness. Yes,
I learned my stubbornness from you
and still prefer to call it
determination commitment
even stability.
You taught me and then two of us --
Thanks for my younger sister!! --
your values
of beauty
of justice
of steadfastness.
Where did you think
I derived my politics
if not from you?
Yours was the first face I ever saw
filled with love
with tenderness
with joy
with a fierce intelligence that grew
and a curiosity and thirst to know that opened
like the tulip fields in Holland that you loved.
The very day you died
we’d spent 20 minutes dissecting
the President’s speech the evening before.
You bequeathed all that and more
to your daughters – biological and chosen – and your
chosen grand-children.
As your bio-daughters grew & left home –
as I chose to come of age on another coast –
your surrounded yourself with your chosen family
gathering friends around you and
years later finally marrying Howard.
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and still sought on visits
from New York Berkeley
Cambridge Boston.
It was 37 years before
I returned to settle four short blocks
from you yet in a different city,
still prizing that at-this-point-only-proverbial distance
which even now kept closing.
Yours was the first face I ever saw
and watching I learned from you
your love of music
a love both wide and deep,
from the classics to Gershwin
Kurt Weil, Mahler, Edith Piaf.
So your embrace in the 1980’s of
Holly Near – California feminist radical
political lesbian musician – delighted me
more than you could ever know.
I learned so much from you ~~ cooking and
love of literature; baking and love of poetry;
a terrific sense of style – and finally and
especially love.
And if, in the necessary crises of being-mother –
being-daughter, if I ever doubted,
I never doubted your love.
Lately our connection sat comfortably with us.
We would relax in your den
on your wonderful red couch
with Sam the Cat between us.
Petting Sam and stroking his belly
we would talk about mostly
inconsequential things.
That is where most of life happens,
while petting a cat and talking
about inconsequential things.
Yours was the first face I ever saw and loved
and my voice perhaps the last voice
you heard, a voice telling you
of my love for you, abiding
and always, love.
©Patricia Shechter
16 January 2011
Love and Much Shalom to all,
Pat
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