Patricia Wild

“What Happened [to the women’s movement]?”

[Still-life in front of a Union Square storefront]

Thursday evening I attended a showing of Catherine Russo’s documentary, “A Moment in Her Story: Stories from the Boston Women’s Movement” at the Cambridge Public Library. When the lights came up, everyone in the 99% female audience, individually or in twos and threes, asked the same question: “What happened?” What happened to the vibrant, collective, in-your face movement depicted in Russo’s film? Why are we STILL fighting for freedom of choice? Wy are women STILL so disproportionally represented in politics, as movers and shakers in the arts, etc.* Why, why, why, after all this time, did Sheryl Sandberg STILL HAVE TO write Lean In? Huh?

Here’s my 2 cents—or, rather, my Susan B. Anthony dollar coin:

1. “Complacency:” (Those quotation marks indicate irony. Lots of irony) This complacency, the same kind of lazy and facile reasoning that declares “Racism is no longer an issue because, heh, Obama’s president.” says: “Women no longer burn their bras because, heh, women are doing pretty well these days: they wear pants, now, abortion is legal—although, in places like Texas, access is tricky—and, heh, look at Angela Merkel and Hillary!”

2. Actually, the beat goes on: (It’s just not Evening News worthy, anymore). For example, if you go to the “Her Story” link and click on the trailer, at 4:11 you’ll see a group picture of the women who created Our Bodies Ourselves back in the day. The incredibly important work of The Boston Women’s Health Book Collective continues. (Some of you will recognize one woman in that group picture—my dear friend Wendy Sanford.) And let’s not forget Mothers Out Front, a women’s mobilization re climate change!

3. 9/11: It’s next-to-impossible to analyze one’s own era; we live it, we breathe it. But every time I see a woman driving an SUV I’m reminded that I live at a time in history marked by pervasive fear. “Women want to feel safe,” SUV makers tell us. (How sad that auto makers, like politicians and the media, use women’s and men’s sense of vulnerability to their own ends.) How that plays out regarding women I only sense. Stay tuned.

4. Sexism, like the poor and racism and homophobia and anti-semitism, will always be with us. There’s always gonna be haters.

* Judy Chicago spoke at Harvard a couple of weeks ago and, not surprisingly, had lots to depressing things to say about the art scene these days.

“What Nourishes You?”

[Before the guests arrived; Easter dinner, 2013]

This year, instead of giving up something for Lent, I’m adding something*: every day I try to do something—in a meaningful sort of way— that nourishes me.

To be honest, this is a cheat. I pretty much always get to live my days and years doing exactly what I love, what sustains me, what feels like I’m supposed to do! (Lucky, lucky me. Privileged, privileged me. ) But, hey. When, in years past, I gave up something for Lent—cookies or chocolate usually—I inevitably forgot. Or cheated. Or once, I’m ashamed to admit, when I was reluctant to parade my spiritual practices in a social setting, weazeled. So, as I eventually came to understand, for me, this giving up something for Lent business is really about humility. About the “now face to face” moments when I have to admit my crassness, my weaknesses, my inadequacies. So why not design a Lenten ritual that acknowledges such inadequacies!

But there’s a deeper meaning around my adding-not-denying Lenten ritual. The Jesus who told of “Good News” nourishes me. The Jesus who reminded me that it rains on the just and the unjust. Who gave all of us so many confusing and intriguing parables, The Beatitudes, the story of The Prodigal Son. That’s the Jesus whose life and teachings most speak to me—not the Jesus on the cross.

So why not acknowledge and celebrate that Jesus during Lent?

* A lovely idea I picked up from a F/friend.

“. . . and good in everything.”

*And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
I would not change it.
[Shakespeare, from As You Like It]

And this is a Mother Nature update from the ‘ville: Last week, the heaping piles of filthy snow mixed with salt finally began to melt, forming exquisite spun-glass-like creations along the sidewalk. (The genesis of these lovelies has something to do with pure snow melting at one temperature, snow permeated with salt melting at another, and snow beneath dark objects like dirt and debris melting at yet another rate. And there’s mystery, too, right?) Most of these delicate towers and undulating sculptures were so thoroughly mixed with grit that their beauty was not at first apparent. Until they were. And sometimes, somehow, bits and pieces of snow remained pristinely white and sparkled when caught in the puny, March sun. Praise be!

I would not change it.

March Light

Quakers talk a lot about Light: Light Within, Inner Light, Light of Christ, etc. Growing up, I never paid particular attention to the quality of light or how it changed, season by season. (Who did?) Indeed, the first time I consciously acknowledged that sunlight moved from room to room, I was twenty-five years old, living in West Hartford, Connecticut, pregnant, and for the first time in my life able to spend my time doing things like baking bread and reading about breast-feeding and natural childbirth. I shared a sunny, second floor apartment with my husband—off working—and a grey tiger tabby named Canopus. Whose catnaps, I noticed, followed the sunshine. Oh! (Duh.) And maybe ten years later, at a gallery on Boston’s Newbury Street at an exhibit of American impressionists, I suddenly realized that I could identify when the paintings’ New England coastal or farm scenes had taken place without reading anything, simply by the quality of their painted light. Which, apparently I had been unconsciously noting my entire life. “I know this light!” (Besides, who does light better than the Impressionists?)

This past week, I found myself on a stepladder in the kitchen wiping down the dusty, greasy potholder rack over the stove. Scrubbing the floor under the stove. Vacuuming under upholstered chairs and behind the couch. Okay, so people were coming, always a nudge to clean. Okay, so my husband’s been coughing and congested for much too long so reducing allergens is prudent. Okay, so it’s bitter cold; vigorous housecleaning is a great substitute for my daily long walks.

But when I took a moment to look outside, I realized that, yes, the light was early-spring light. Lenten light. My cleaning was an ablution, “a ritual washing or cleaning associated with religious observance.”

Oh!

Can We Talk About. . . ?

Sunday afternoon at Friends Meeting at Cambridge, after an excellent presentation on Jobs not Jails, a few hardy souls suggested ideas for this year’s Good Friday leaflet. The theme this year: Jobs not Jails.

It’s always hard to write something collectively, of course. (Especially if you’ve already been sitting at meeting for worship, a potluck, and an hour and a half presentation!) But I’m guessing that for the fifteen or so of us who’d stayed, that we’d been asked to contribute our ideas had been touching and gratifying. (In the past, this yearly leaflet-writing task has always been the sole responsibility of our meeting’s Peace and Social Concerns Committee—to be added to/amended but eventually approved by our monthly business meeting)

Our collectively-difficult writing assignment was made even harder by how much we wanted to say about the criminal justice system! How much there is to say! Yet how much we yearned to raise probing and engaging questions, to not preach, to not get holier than thou, etc. (Our multi-faceted mission was somewhat simplified by the decision to have a table nearby with Jobs Not Jails info sheets, flyers publicizing the April 26th rally, and petitions.)

So here’s a DRAFT of what I’d hope to include in such a leaflet:

On this somber, reflective Good Friday, we gather here to silently bear witness to the life and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth. Today we recall that when Jesus preached for the first time, the text was: The Spirit of the Lord God has taken control of me! The Lord has chosen and sent me to tell the oppressed the good news, to heal the brokenhearted, and to announce freedom for prisoners and captives. [Isaiah 61:1]

We are moved to ask:

Are not all people—people of conscience, taxpayers, residents of our deeply interdependent communities, those behind bars and those who love them—oppressed by our unjust, racially disproportionate, and incredibly expensive criminal justice system? Are we not all prisoners and captives?

The United States has 5% of the world’s population yet 25% of the world’s prisoners. What must we do to heal this national brokenness?

Can we talk about getting smart on crime instead of getting tough on crime (especially since getting tough doesn’t work!)

Can we talk about reconciliation? Can we talk about redemption? Can we talk about forgiveness?

Once upon a time . . .

This past weekend, our family rented an art-filled, conveniently-located-for-most-of-us farmhouse in Old Saybrook, Connecticut; nine adults and three children under the same roof. Overjoyed to spend a couple of days with my daughters, three out of four sons-in-law, and precious grandchildren, it wasn’t until I got home yesterday that I realized why this mini-vacation had been so thoroughly satisfying and relaxing: no Wifi. (A son-in-law checked; the rental owners hadn’t paid their ComCast bill.)

Sunday night, after roasting marshmallows in the fireplace fire, instead of watching the Olympics or “Downton Abbey,” my four-year-old grand-daughter and I pulled a couple of pillows off the couch so we could cozily watch the flames—and tell stories. She’d overheard me tell the Jonah and the whale story* to her older brother that afternoon and wanted to hear it again. When I’d finished retelling that ancient tale, then she told me a story about tiny, tiny people living in a rock—I’d explained to her brother that Nineveh was a real place and located in Iraq—at the bottom of the ocean. When a giant squid came to eat the rock, she said, the little people didn’t hear the squid at first because they had water in their ears!

Both times I told the story, I used the word “God.” Because it’s impossible to tell the story without mentioning that all-powerful, key figure in the drama, right? God tells Jonah to go to Nineveh. God sends the storm. And the whale. Jonah prays to God from inside the whale. Etc.

And both grandchildren simply took in that highly charged, highly loaded, capitalized noun. For my logical, scientific grandson, who has often informed me that there is no God, my saying, “This is how this story is told in the Bible,” was apparently sufficient. He’s reading Harry Potter these days. He gets the internal integrity of a good yarn, the understanding between an author and a reader that between the covers of this book, this is what the world looks like and how things work. And for my tiara-wearing because she’s often a princess grand-daughter, magic happens.

Yes, it does.

* My (incredibly talented) musician co-teacher and I are writing songs based on Bible stories with our high school First Day School students. First song: Jonah and the Whale. So I, not conversant with the Bible, actually know that story.

All One Under One Sun

Like most urban residents, I’m guessing, I’m neither here nor there when it comes to squirrels, ranking them in the same category as feral cats, slightly more appreciated than pigeons, but way less gratifying than the cardinals and goldfinches of my neighborhood. So when a squirrel showed up on my deck, yesterday, and started eating bread crumbs thrown out for birds, at first I was annoyed.

But because yesterday was Lilian Day, i.e. the day I spend with an in-the-moment toddler, I decided to take a moment or two to just watch this creature so close by. (Lilian was frightened by this bit o’ nature two panes of glass away and quickly returned to the inanimate toys in the next room.) It didn’t take long to realize there was something seriously wrong with our little deck visitor: He/she swayed back and forth as if drunk and occasionally keeled over. But did not stop eating. I am not the Jane Goodall of squirrels so do not know if that squirrel was starving or sick (or, in fact, actually drunk from eating fermented berries at his/her feet?), I just know he/she wolfed down every crumb!

Seeing this disturbing behavior, that urban pest became the object of pity, calling forth both my compassion and the sort of mindfulness that sometimes accompanies such love. Oh, yeah, I realized, it’s been a hard winter for squirrels, too. Oh, yeah, I realized again, we’re all inter-connected. This wondrous creature—and being so close allowed me to see every luminous hair—and I share this backyard, this neighborhood, this planet.

We are all one under one sun.

Mother Love/Deep Solidarity

Pulling on my thick-soled L.L. Bean boots Saturday morning, I recalled that I’d bought those boots several years ago specifically to wear to peace demonstrations! (Some war or other; who can keep track?) Boots on, dressed warm, I made my way downtown to Mothers Out Front‘s “Massachusetts Campaign Kickoff,” eager to be counted as one more warm body in support of “mobilizing for a livable planet.”

Walking along traffic-clogged Somerville Avenue, joining the throngs of commuters at the Porter Square T and then on the crowded sidewalks downtown, I felt something I’d never felt before on my way to a demonstration: Love. Deep, profound love for every individual I saw, passing by. Mother Love. Fierce, tender, sustained, respectful—no—awed by Life, by the Life Force, by the living, growing, evolving, wondrous creatures all around me. As if I were each and every stranger’s mom and would anything, anything to ensure each and every person’s blessed and healthy life.

“This is the gift of the Great Turning. When we open our eyes to what is happening, even when it breaks our hearts, we discover our true size; for our heart, when it breaks open, can hold the whole universe. We discover how speaking the truth of our anguish for the world brings down the walls between us, drawing us into deep solidarity. That solidarity, with our neighbors and all that lives, is all the more real for the uncertainty we face.” [Joanna Macy]

Branded # 7: Amity*

Last night I attended a reading at Porter Square Books by Debby Irving, an attractive, personable, and righteous Cambridge resident, re her brand-new book, Waking Up White And Finding Myself in the Story of Race.

Reader, I was upset. And jealous. Especially when Irving flatly stated that after taking a course at Wheelock College—where I went, for heaven’s sake!—and awakening to race matters, she couldn’t find any memoirs by white people on the subject! So decided to write one, herself.

Still stewing, I came home to find an e-mail from my dear friend, Delia, with this link. “Apparently I’m not the only one who’s been thinking about this poem first thing in the morning lately!” she wrote. As Delia knows, Robert Hayden’s incredible “Those Winter Sundays” introduces Chapter 2 of my memoir re awakening to race in this country. How grateful I was to be gifted with such loving—though inadvertent—support of a dear friend when I needed it! How lovely to again contemplate, “What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?” !

My memoir’s entitled Way Opens: A Spiritual Journey. That journey continues. So when, ahem, I woke up this morning, I realized I’d heard something else last night: How there’s another, little-known narrative in this country about people of color and white allies. (And, yes, although although our record has been definitely checkered, Quakers have historically been counted among those allies.)

Post Way Opens, here’s where Spirit had led me: To be, as best as I am able, a criminal justice ally. And here’s what I believe I am led to explore: how best I can support Jobs Not Jail. (Not completely clear; need more discernment for sure.)

Reader: care to join me?

PS: Upon reflection, I realized that the above was clumsily written. Let me be clear: I commend Debby Irving and the wonderful and important work she’s done. There can’t be too many books on this incredibly important and difficult subject!

* “Friendship, peaceful harmony; mutual understanding and peaceful relationship.” My alma mater runs a National Center for Race Amity; who knew?!

Redemption Happens

[The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. John 1: 5]

I am not Erin Downing. My mother was not brutally murdered. Most likely, I will never know what it means to be Erin Downing.

As Erin Downing painfully and well-knows, the facts are these: On July 23, 1995, Erin’s pretty and vivacious mother, Janet Downing, was found by Erin’s brother, Ryan, lying in a pool of blood on the dining room floor of the Downings’ Somerville home. Janet had been stabbed 98 times and had eventually bled to death. Almost immediately, suspicion centered around the Downings’ neighbor, Edward/Eddie O’Brien, age 15, who lived across the street. Two years later, deemed beyond redemption by the prosecution, Eddie was tried as an adult, found guilty, and sentenced to life in prison without parole. (In 1997, had he been tried as a juvenile, Eddie would have faced the possibility of parole after 20 years.)

And Erin knows this: On December 24, 2013, the Massachusetts Supreme Court ruled that juveniles sentenced to life imprisonment for first-degree murder are entitled to the opportunity for parole. This ruling was made retroactive; Eddie’s entitled to appear before the MA parole board.

Which is why Erin Downing is spearheading a petition campaign to stop Eddie O’Brien’s parole process.

Here’s what I know:

Nothing will bring Janet Downing back.

The criminal justice system will never alleviate the pain and suffering of victims’ families.

Eddie O’Brien isn’t 17 any more. And while I don’t know what kind of counseling or therapy or help he’s received behind bars over the past 17 years, I believe that whoever he was when he entered prison is not who he is, today. (And don’t all of us know so much more re “the adolescent brain” than anyone knew in 1997?)

Since 2010, parole in Massachusetts has been and remains no slam dunk. So although I believe Eddie O’Brien’s entitled to his shot at parole, he won’t get it. Even if he’s completely and convincingly and, in Truth, reformed, redeemed, remorseful. No way.

Redemption happens.

“People Don’t Come to a Memorial for the Brownies!”

They say God doesn’t give us more than we can handle.

Bullshit. [17:04 -18:20, especially]

Yesterday, I get a phone call from my Meeting’s facilities manager* telling me that the memorial scheduled for this coming Saturday is now a double memorial. (I’m the clerk of FMC’s Memorial Committee.) What was to have been a celebration for the life of a son, age 50, who died New Year’s Eve, will now also celebrate the life of his father, who died this past weekend. Oh, yes, and the mother/ex-wife is in the hospital recovering from surgery!

Although it has been pointedly pointed out to me that people do not come to a memorial for the brownies, as clerk of the committee responsible for an FMC memorial reception, I strive for abundance. I want to see the three, tableclothed tables in the middle of FMC’s commodious Friends Room absolutely covered with overflowing platters!

Usually, when someone well-known, well-connected at Meeting has died, abundance is not an issue. (We have delivered leftover food to a homeless shelter from time to time.) But because so very few people at FMC actually know this tragic family (they’ve not been attending Meeting for some time), it seems likely that very few people from FMC—and their overflowing platters—will come on Saturday.

So after speaking with John, I sent an SOS to Meeting’s list-serv—and, God bless ’em, several people quickly and warmly and generously responded.

Hosanna!

I believe both these things are true:

Many people face way more than any human being can possibly endure and are irrevocably broken.

Through simple acts of kindness and generosity—yes: brownies!—we manifest “that of God”in ourselves and to others and, sometimes, sometimes, we assuage broken-ness.

* John Field, a wonderful guy, who, among other responsibilities, books Friends Meeting at Cambridge events, arranges parking, supervises the Center Residents who wash the tablecloths and mop the floors, etc.

All Kinds of Love

[A neglected yet wondrous front yard in Cambridge, MA; January 31, 2013]

No paperwhites this year. My pretty, blue-and-white Chinese bowl, ceremoniously filled with smooth, small stones, water, and five or six bulbs on New Year’s Day and then placed on the piano, remains in the basement. My ninety-year old mother, preoccupied by her move into assisted living, didn’t distribute carefully bundled bulbs at Christmas to her children and grandchildren. Didn’t even mention them.

So, naively, I walked to Tagg’s last night, a locally-owned, new-style version of a country store. Hardware and upscale kitchenware and small appliances and nifty umbrellas that don’t collapse in heavy winds and garden supplies? Yup; Tagg’s got them. Paperwhites? Seems you’re supposed to buy paperwhites in November! Oh.

As my daughters would say: “A First -World Problem.” I get that. Believe me, as I sit here, warm and dry and safe, I know that the lack of paperwhites is not a big deal, okay?

And I get this: my mother’s no longer able to mother me; not really. And I get that although I’m a mother and grandmother and much loved, I will always long for that mothering. I’m too much a Quaker to whine about this. Just sad.

But, hey. There’s all kinds of love. At least four, according to the Bible: Storge, the familial love that once upon a time drove my mother to her version of Tagg’s to buy paperwhites; Eros (Yum); Philia (so very present in the halls of Congress these days, right?); and my personal favorite: Agape.

I will always remember my Wow! Does Everybody Know About This But Me? reaction when I first learned about all-loving, unconditional agape, that love that passeth all understanding. Pretty sure I was going through another divorce at the time. Pretty sure I was singin’ “When Will I Be Loved?” a lot. (BTW: did you know that Phil Everly, who died last week, wrote that song after he’d split up from his brother?)

And, hey: the wonder of a precious, living thing unfolds every Monday in my living room when I get to spend several hours with my granddaughter.

I mean, c’mon!