Patricia Wild

Can We Smile? Interact? Acknowledge One Another’s Humanity?

[A pic from this year’s Honk—which is ALL about takin’ interactions to the streets!]

I’m missing intercourse—in the 19th-century sense of the word. I’m missing eye-to-eye sidewalk interactions as I walk. (And I walk a lot!) Those brief yet vital moments when two strangers pass each other and lift chins or smile or even say “Nice day,” or “How ’bout those Sox?”

How ironic. At a venerable age, when I am no longer in the slightest danger of being misinterpreted if I smile or say hello to another adult, my friendly, only-connect gestures go un-noticed, as men and women and even children stare at their I-phones as they stumble along. It’s sad, really, to see someone “walking” (more like zombie lurching, really) down a busy sidewalk, totally engrossed in whatever they’re viewing on the tiny screen in their hand when suddenly, for whatever reason, they look up. Such befuddled, dazed, “What the—?” confusion—”Oh, right, I’m actually in the middle of Davis Square!”—breaks my heart.

A moment of paranoia: Walking past a Brooklyn subway station I-phone ad recently, I noticed that someone had carefully written in large, block letters, “Your new master.” It is a little scary, isn’t it? This massive zombiefication? MIllions of people lurching along, under the sway of—what? Not the here and now, obviously. Not the living and breathing reality of the moment, whether precious or fraught, they’re experiencing. Yikes.

For us empty-handed folks, as has always been true in New England (a region historically not celebrated for its warmth and friendliness—even before I-phones), there’s always the weather as an interaction-with-strangers starter. “Cold/hot enough for ya?” remains an accepted opening remark around here. Which, unfortunately, amplifies another challenge of the Here and Now: How to answer that seemingly innocuous question? When the actual, real, True answer is along the lines of: “Are you kidding me? This unusually hot day in the middle of November’s scaring the bejesus out of me! I’m guessing it scares you, too, huh?”

Interesting times, huh?

“A Sort of Salvation”

[A Palm Springs, CA decorator’s store window]

Yesterday was my 69th birthday. And although I’d just gotten back from a wonderful, restful, super-fun vacation and received many, many generous, thoughtful gifts and sweet phone calls and cards (several hand-made) and e-mails, my natal day was a little hard. Jet lag and probably coming down with something and lingering doubts re my decision to no longer write for First Day Press and, after sorting a week’s worth of mail, to pick up the latest issue of The New Yorker and to absolutely, gut-wrenchingly KNOW that I don’t have enough time left to reach the writing achievement of an Alice Munro or an Adam Gopnik—can you understand why it was a little hard?

But as the late afternoon sun began to fade, I received another gift: a visitation from my Muse. Just like William Stafford’s experience,* my Muse reminded me that I have my own way of looking at things. Unlike Stafford’s drama queen, however, my Muse chose to gently, lovingly fill me. No belled-forth voice, no buzzing glasses; no. Just a sense of Light deep within me and a small, still voice whispering: “Keep pluggin’.”

* When I Met My Muse

I glanced at her and took my glasses
off–they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. “I am your own
way of looking at things,” she said. “When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation.” And I took her hand.

William Stafford

“Where the Words Come From”

And afterwards feeling my mind covered with the spirit of prayer, I told the interpreters that I found it in my heart to pray to God and believed if I prayed right he would hear me, and expressed my willingness for them to omit interpreting; so our meeting ended with a degree of divine love. And before the people went out I observed Papunehang (the [Native-American] man who had been zealous in labouring for a reformation in that town, being then very tender) spoke to one of the interpreters, and I was afterward told he said in substance as follows:” I love to feel where the words come from.” John Woolman, 1762

I do, too. And in this season of thanksgiving, sing a joyful hymn of praise to that Source.

But:

Although that Source is infinite, my abilities are not. Specifically, winnowing what’s Good and True from Ego and Coffee-Buzz and “pink-cloud”* delusions takes time and prayer. So I am no longer posting weekly for First Day Press.

I’ll let Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler elucidate:

Claudia said, “But, Mrs. Frankweiler, you should want to learn one new thing every day. We did even at the museum.”

“No,” I answered, “I don’t agree with that. I think you should learn, of course, and some days you must learn a great deal. But you should also have days when you allow what is already in you to swell up inside of you until it touches everything. And you can feel it inside you. If you never take time out to let that happen, then you just accumulate facts, and they begin to rattle around inside of you. You can make noise with them, but never really feel anything with them. it’s hollow.”

Next week, I shall take some time to let the things inside me swell up. So my next post will be December 3rd.

May you, in the coming weeks, find boundless—and unexpected?—things to be thankful for.

* A Twelve Step expression, meaning the high someone in recovery experiences in the early days of sobriety. While not in recovery, myself (although we’re ALL recovering from something, right?), I truly understand this phenomenon. And how critically important humility is!

The View from Here

Saturday night, the Cambridge Bail and Legal Defense Fund hosted its first-evah silent auction. A needed, organic offshoot of Friends Meeting at Cambridge’s Prison Fellowship Committee’s ministry, the Fund supports those in need—with an additional, deal-breaking criteria: People on Prison Fellowship must know these potential recipients. People who come to our Wednesday night sharing circle—another PF initiative—or people our members visit in prison, or people our members drive so those folks can visit loved ones in prison, or people known or recommended to PF by greater Boston allies* also working on criminal justice reform; all are eligible for Fund support.

Because PF had never hosted a silent auction before and because we only had about six weeks to pull this thing together, we kept the event small and simple. In-house. So there were a couple of moments Saturday night when the commodious Friends Room felt a little echo-y. Despite the less-than-optimal attendance, however, the Fund raised almost twice its goal! (In lieu of showing up, several people simply mailed us checks—much appreciated!)

Some examples of what was donated: To teach up to 4 people how to make a flaky-crust, amazingly delicious apple pie (my husband donated this so I KNOW all about his pie skills). Or 3 hours of gardening work. Or advice and support re de-cluttering.

Here’s What I Want To Say:

As point person for the auction, I interacted with the (mostly FMC) people who’d donated goods and services. Their generosity was deeply touching—especially those of modest means who nevertheless gave. Equally touching were donors who bravely offered something that involved some personal risk—but offered, anyway. So I have come away from this experience with such gratitude! To have witnessed such generosity, such trust—and faith—has been an enormous gift.

Because the Fund hoped to refill its coffers, the silent auction came from a place of need, offering a few, selected-carefully “big ticket” items (in the hundred$, not the thousand$ range, I hasten to add). The comfortable and the well-off would, basically, have no choice but to bid for these $150 to $300 items, in other words. But the next time we run a silent auction, it’ll come from a place of community-building. We’ll have lots of $5 items. People can just show up on the night of the event with whatever they want to auction; the more stuff the better! We’ll do extensive outreach and publicity. We’ll fill that Friends Room!

Most important: The next day, pretty exhausted, I attended an FMC meeting for business. One agenda item elicited much discussion of “the invisible wall,” i.e. the barrier between our privileged, white, faith community and the rest of the world. “Why aren’t we running a soup kitchen,” someone questioned by way of example.

And I realized that my meeting does run a soup kitchen every Wednesday night at the sharing circle. My FMC entails weekly worship and communion with people of color. My FMC is teaching me the wisdom of Mother Teresa’s commentary: “We can do no great things, only small things with great love.” My FMC is building connections with others in greater Boston doing prison ministry, re-entry support for ex-offenders, criminal justice advocacy et al. My meeting overwhelms me with its generosity and love.

I say these things, not out of smugness but, like the blind man and the elephant, because I only know my own experience, what I, myself, have touched or been touched by.

So, maybe, PF’s outreach needs to begin with FMC?!

* Like the Committee of Friends and Relatives of Prisoners

“This Is Water”

As Simon and Garfunkel remind us: “The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls and tenement halls.” (Or spray-painted on a sidewalk in Harvard Square.)

The Divine surrounds us. We swim in it.

How we take in, let in, interpret these Prompts—ah! That’s the hard part, huh.

When you have a free 22:44 minutes, do yourself a huge favor and click on this link to an amazing talk by David Foster Wallace. (Who, BTW, was apparently reading Eckhart Tolle at the time he gave this talk at Kenyon College.) He offers some insights (get it?) re just this question.

A Brief Visit to the Now

Mondays I babysit for my grand-daughter Lilian; every Monday teaches me something.

This Monday, having just started Eckhard Tolle’s The Power of Now: A Guide to Spiritual Enlightenment, an intriguing passage from the book came to me while Lilian played:

Realize deeply that the present moment is all you ever have. Make the Now the primary focus of your life. Whereas before you dwelt in time and paid brief visits to the Now, have your dwelling place in the Now and pay brief visits to past and future when required to deal with the practical aspects of your life situation.

So what does it look like when you’re totally focused in the Now? I decided to watch Lilian to find out. Here’s what I observed:

It looks totally engaged and absorbing and sounds happy—lots of humming and non-verbally-expressed delight.

It looks haphazard, random, even a little dopey although, perhaps, undetected by older, rational, linear eyes, some sort of complicated problem-solving’s going on.

It looks experiential. The surrounding world to be worked upon, discovered, or arranged is stroked, smelled, sucked on, chewed, i.e. all senses are more relied upon.

It looks pure. And holy.

It looks like a place I would like to visit more often.

Showing Up

Another fall, another all-Meeting meeting for worship in front of Textron. On a beautiful, sunny and cloudless Sunday, about fifty of us from Friends Meeting at Cambridge sat, knee-to-knee, on the sidewalk in front of Textron’s Wilmington plant, silently witnessing.

Sitting so close to buildings (which give the benign appearance of a sprawling, suburban high school campus) where cluster bombs are manufactured, I felt the military-industrial complex’s immense, relentless and deadly power, its mighty, driving force. How’s my/our sitting here for an hour going to change anything? I wondered. Is this yearly FMC ritual just a feel-good activity?

I don’t have answers. Next fall, when I again show up in front of Textron*, I suspect the same questions will rattle around my peabrain, again. But just like posting this blog every week, I know I am called to be faithful. To show up. To join with others—who, I’m betting, also sometimes question their efficacy—doing peace work.

It’s what we do, right?

*Some sturdy souls from FMC show up one Sunday every month, rain or shine or snow or sleet.

Buttonin’ Up

Ah, fall. Vibrant foliage, crisp apples, scarlet and amber mums on porch steps, unearthing a forgotten sweater, that first whiff of smoke from a neighbor’s wood stove. And, every Columbus Day weekend here in Somerville: Honk! The best street festival evah.

This year, Honk! served as the backdrop for an even more important event: My husband David’s 70th birthday! Our children and their children and one sib and her family came from all over the country to celebrate this milestone. Saturday night, 20 of us ate barbecue in our recently spruced up carriage house—the all-summer-long, major construction project of The Birthday Boy. There was meh pecan pie with whipped cream and candles. Like our guest of honor: lowkey. (And because several family members were sick and couldn’t come, a little subdued, too.)

He didn’t plan it this way but the carriage house rehab, which required daily hefting of 60-pound bags of concrete, was an excellent way to launch the next decade. Apparently, having worked so long and hard all summer and into the fall, David’s more strong and resilient than ever!

“A First World Problem”

Egg-throwing is a time-honored dis in Somerville, a nasty and hard to clean up communication to ‘ville newcomers: “You are not welcome.” (A couple of impossible-to-reach places on my house still bear eggy scars from an attack on Halloween a few years ago.)

So walking past Brooklyn Boulders Somerville to see egg smears all over its fancy-shmancy windows recently wasn’t a surprise. Once the Ames Envelope factory, BBS is now a multi-story climbing facility. These days when you look through those fancy-shmancy windows, you’ll see crowds of tethered Millennials spidering up, up, up. (Definitely click on the link to see for yourself.)

My personal connection with that valuable bit o’ Somerville real estate dates from the nineties. Still a vibrant, bustling factory, Ames Envelope contracted the adult-learning center where I worked to offer on-site classes for its employees. It was a terrific, part-time gig. Most of my students, some of them neighbors, were from El Salvador and a joy to teach. (Let’s face it, that they were getting off from work for a few hours certainly enhanced the classroom mood!) Besides being the kind of employer that offered these and other amenities to its employees, Ames also gave away reams of colored paper to local teachers and generously sponsored a variety of community projects.

So, yeah, although I can’t condone them, of course, I get those tossed eggs.

Caught!

The same day my 90-year-old mother put herself on an assisted living community’s waiting list, I received a snail mail notice from Enterprise car rental. Seems that my “rental vehicle incurred a citation or toll during [my] rental period.” Huh?

First reaction: This is a scam.

Second reaction: Well, if someone’s ripping me off, it’s a pretty modest ripoff: Enterprise informed me it was fining me, using my credit card number—which they had, of course—$18.00!

Third reaction: OK. Maybe I did mess up. One look at the date and I knew exactly what happened: Cruising up Interstate 95 on a beautiful, late-summer day, a dear friend in the passenger seat, the two of us chatting away, we arrived at the tolls in New Hampshire. So I breezed through the EZ Pass lane. Because that’s what I always do. In my own car. Ooops.

Two take-aways:

1. “You never call and the NSA can back me up on that!” Yup. This is my Big Brother moment. Just imagining the surveillance and the computerized systems’ interconnectedness activated by my one, stupid mistake, then multiplying this one incident exponentially? Yikes. Messing up has never before been so fraught! They got us; we’re caught.

2. This incident may be my first, public, Getting Older & Less With It moment. (I have plenty of these moments in private, 90% of them before drinking my morning coffee.) As egg-on-my-face moments go, as the customer service woman at Enterprise pointed out,”You got lucky.” $18 is incredibly cheap. Making the same stupid mistake in another state would have really cost me. Given that I am living in Surveillance Land, though, and I’m not getting any younger, heightened attention, constant vigilance is called for, I guess. Gotta bring my A game to these kind of situations. I can’t cruise, go on auto-pilot.

Sounds exhausting. Naptime?

On a Cellular Level

Months ago, when I’d bought season tickets to the American Repertory Theater, “All the Way” had simply been the name of the first play I would be seeing. Beginning in September, however, the greater-Boston buzz re this ART offering and its star, Bryan Cranston, got louder and louder—in fact, local media crowed, the show was completely sold out for its entire run! So, on Friday night, as I took my (excellent, central, a few rows from the stage) seat, I was pretty psyched.

In this heightened state, I took in this live-theater experience as if I’d never seen a play before. What struck me keenly was live-theater’s ephemeralness: this night, this moment, this line, this gesture would, most likely, never happen quite the same way ever again. Which made what I was watching all the more wonderful.

Sunday, in the earliest minutes of quiet worship, a little girl, maybe 3 or 4, seated on her mother’s lap asked,”What do we do with this?” Meaning, maybe, what’s going on, here? Why are all these people not saying anything? And is something expected of me?

In the ensuing silence I played with her question. Treasure the “this” first came to mind. That’s what we can all do with this. Be grateful for the freedom to worship in the manner of Friends without fear or persecution. (Coming home to learn of the suicide bombing of a Christian church in Pakistan has highlighted this preciousness.)

Later in the hour, a young man stood up to speak, referencing “Kundun,” a film about the Dalai Lama he’d seen before but watched again—and found clarifying—during the Syrian air strike threat. Thinking about his ability to see a beloved movie again, I was again struck by ephemeralness and how no two meetings for worship are ever the same. So to that little girl’s earlier question I silently added this answer: Treasure the preciousness of this fleeting, never-to-be-repeated experience.

A huge difference between those two ephemeralnesses (There really has to be a better word!)? Although there were moments when Friday night had been a collective experience, I more powerfully connected with what happened onstage than I did with my fellow theater-goers. On Sunday, I sat in such a way so as to potentially have eye-contact with just about everyone in that room. Sometimes, in the silence, I almost felt as though we even breathed together. And certainly when, as a sort of benediction, a dear friend told all of us how much she needed her community; well!

I’ll never be able to watch a DVD of Bryan Cranston’s performance on Friday night. I’ll never be able to rewind the tape to be reminded of who said what on Sunday—or any Sunday. Poof! Gone.

What I can do, maybe, is to trust that these fleeting experiences have had a shared, collective impact. Just as sharing food connects everyone seated around the same table because the same nutrients and delicious flavors are incorporated, literally, into everyone’s bodies, right?

Maybe, on a cellular level, we’re forever connected when we share the same fleeting and powerful moments, too?

Branded #6: “The drop becomes the ocean.”

A peak-religious-experience moment at New England Yearly Meeting [see “Bread for Home”]: Jay O’Hara was showing pictures of the coal-burning plant at Somerset, MA; one pic featured a veritable mountain of coal—and someone commented on its enormity.

“Oh, yeah,” Jay said off-handedly. “It gets really tall in the summer.”

As Quaker scholar, Michael Birkal, would put it: “The drop became the ocean.” That mountain became what makes my air conditioner work. I knew this, I felt/saw/experienced the whole damned thing, from mountain-top-removal in West Virginia or Kentucky to pushing my AC remote control power button—totally and whole-heartedly.

Other faith traditions, of course, also speak of and practice this mindfulness, this Consciousness*, this perpetual connectivity, this grokking The Whole. And, of course, drugs do the trick, sometimes. A friend I’ve sadly lost track of, once told of a similar peak-experience moment when he was super-high so scribbled down something, ya know, profound. The next morning he couldn’t wait to look at what he’d written: “Everything is everything.” (Yup.)

Being a Quaker’s my faith tradition, however; here’s where I’ve landed. So as I continue to join others working on climate change, that mountain-top to mountain-top to my bedroom moment will feed me, sustain me, my very own, inner power button.

* A Garden Beyond Paradise

Everything you see has its roots
in the unseen world.
The forms may change,
yet the essence remains the same.

Every wondrous sight will vanish,
every sweet word will fade.
But do not be disheartened,
The Source they come from is eternal—
growing, branching out,
giving new life and new joy.

Why do you weep?—
That Source is within you,
and this whole world
is springing up from it.

The Source is full,
its waters are ever-flowing;
Do not grieve,
drink your fill!
Don’t think it will ever run dry—
This is the endless Ocean!

From the moment you came into this world,
a ladder was placed in front of you
that you might transcend it.

From earth, you became plant,
from plant you became animal.
Afterwards you became a human being,
endowed with knowledge, intellect and faith.

Behold the body, born of dust—
how perfect it has become!

Why should you fear its end?
When were you ever made less by dying?

When you pass beyond this human form,
no doubt you will become an angel
and soar through the heavens!

But don’t stop there.
Even heavenly bodies grow old.

Pass again from the heavenly realm
and plunge into the ocean of Consciousness.
Let the drop of water that is you
become a hundred mighty seas.

But do not think that the drop alone
becomes the Ocean—
the Ocean, too, becomes the drop!

Jelaluddin Rumi, “A Garden Beyond Paradise”,
A Garden Beyond Paradise: The Mystical Poetry of Rumi
(translated by Jonathan Star), Bantam Books, NY, 1992, pp. 148-149