Author Archives: Patricia Wild

Everybody’s got a backstory.

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So here’s the story:

Last month I showed up at a MA Mouth story slam at the Rosebud in Davis Square, just to recon—and won! (there hadn’t been enough storytellers that afternoon to make it an “official slam,” was urged to tell a story simply to have the required ten warm bodies on the stage, yadda yadda yadda.) So last night, having stumbled into this whole thing, nervously walked to Club Passim in Harvard Square to compete against other winners of other storyslams  at other greater-Boston MA Mouth venues.

Didn’t win, of course—several of the competitors were gifted, experienced storytellers—but didn’t throw up onstage, either. (I was the 16th out of 19 storytellers so had plenty of time to work myself into a lather.) The presence of dear and recently-made friends calmed me. A receptive, supportive audience meant that the actual storytelling experience was fun! And at its heart, my story had been about my love and admiration for my women’s creative writing class students; my love for those “wise, resilient, funny”women grounded me and my story.

So Suzanne, Harriet, Mary, Irene, Gladys: thank you.*

Both last night and during a Friends Meeting at Cambridge retreat this past weekend, I got to listen to a LOT of stories. And was reminded that everyone has a backstory and that when we hear that story, our ability to acknowledge “that of God” in others is so much easier!

* Harriet, Mary and Irene have died, Suzanne’s in a nursing home, Gladys, who was the only student my age, is happily retired.

 

Present Moment

 

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Sunday morning I walked to Friends Meeting for a 9:00 meeting. Much of Friday’s heavy snow had melted the day before and Sunday was also supposed to be a gloriously sunny, early-spring day. Later, that is. Later it would get warm; melt would melt. NOT at 8:15 as I gingerly made my way over icy sidewalks.

Although I’m slowly getting better at settling into the present moment, ignoring my To Do list and listening to that timeless, small, still voice, on Sunday a scared sixty-eight-year-old inner voice begged the Universe, “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon! Hurry up, sun. Hurry up, future. I don’t want to fall.”

Later that morning, safe and warm, no bones broken, I sat at meeting for worship and considered that morning’s walk. And how I need to remember that those zen-imbued words, “present moment,” can be fraught. I thought about my own future and how my intentional settling into the Here and Now most likely will begin with the acknowledgement of pain.

Warm and healthy and blessed, in Sunday’s silence I remembered this: That I was recently eldered to remember that I am privileged. I’m afraid I did not receive this eldering well! I was defensive and indignant; “I really don’t need you to lecture me!”

But apparently I did. And do. Because although on some level I am aware of my privilege, there’s way more to understand. Like how how much easier it is for me to settle into silent worship and that wondrous, timeless, Light-filled present moment because of my easeful life.

Oh.

 

 

Sand, Sandy.

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Friday I took the Amtrak (ah, Quiet Car) to Westerly, RI to spend the day with my dear friend, Diana. She picked me up from the train station; first stop, Westerly’s waterfront, devastated by Hurricane Sandy.

Driving past beachfront homes, some still in tough shape, I suddenly realized: my lifelong dream to own a house on the water is GONE! Poof. Buy expensive property exactly where the super-storms of the future will strike? That’s just crazy.

There’s a mild sort of freedom, of course, to be free of this covetousness. (There’s some nasty family history folded into this lifelong desire, too, but why get into that?) More importantly, of course, I am deeply, deeply sad, a sadness shared by my generation, to acknowledge that the world we grew up in is no more.

Diana and I stopped at Watch Hill for a brief walk. Sandy-swept sand had reshaped the beach, sculpted odd spots such as the entrance to an ancient carousel, covered sidewalks. Sand was pervasively, immutably, grittily, chafing-against-skin everywhere.

May I remember that chafing. May I remember to keep asking, keep asking: What is it I am asked to do to help heal a broken world?

 

 

Branded #1

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Last night I had a wonderful phone conversation with a Harvard student investigating service projects for herself and her classmates. Through another Kennedy School student, she’d heard about Friends Meeting at Cambridge’s Prison Fellowship Committee and our Wednesday night sharing circle —so arranged for our phone call to learn more.

Early on I’d warned her that I’d have lots to say. And I did. But, bless her, she hung in there. So I blathered. Oh, my, did I!

At one point I heard myself reference the early Quakers and their historic interest in prison reform since they’d spent a fair amount of time in gaol themselves. I even mentioned Elizabeth Fry.

This morning, as I often do post-blather, I wondered if my (way too many) words had been well-chosen. Specifically I wondered what right I had to claim this history as mine.

But Quakers’ penal reform history is much a part of the brand as The Peace Testimony, right? (And, of course, we mustn’t forget that that history also includes Quakers’ well-meaning but misguided belief that sitting in penitent silence with, perhaps, a Bible, i.e. in penitentiaries, was a good idea.) “And this is our testimony to the whole world.”

The brand. A concept I both loathe and am intrigued by. (So why this post is a I; there’ll be more, I’m guessing. Especially since positioning a Quaker Oats container in other settings could be such fun!)

I am confused re brand but do know this: Prison ministry means a version of mindfulness that has enlarged my life.

PS: During that long-winded phone call, I also referenced “The House I Live In.”

 

 

 

 

 

Bling

 

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The first S of the Quaker principles “SPICERS”* is Simplicity. Which I used to interpret as anti-stuff, i.e. “Live simply that others may live.” But at a recent retreat, a wise soul pointed out that simplicity can also mean looking at ALL the tugs and pulls for our time, our love, our energy, and making careful, thoughtful choices. “What am I asked to do?” (May I suggest adding strategically to that all-important question?)

So I am presently experimenting with this inward simplification. Was bummed not to be one of those 40, 000 climate change activists in DC Sunday. But that day, I could be present when a member of our Prison Fellowship Committee downloaded.

“We can do no great things; only small things with great love.” Mother Teresa.

 

[* Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community, Equality, Respect, Stewardship)

Aging Beauty

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When I was in my thirties and first attending Friends Meeting at Cambridge, one of the ways I got through an hour of silent worship was to check out fellow worshippers—especially the older women. What beautiful skin they had! What lovely, soft, gentle, serene faces! (Their sensible shoes and L.L. Bean clothing I found far less intriguing—although there was this one, ancient mohair suit I adored.) A Quaker newbie and quite sure I’d never quite measure up,  I knew those elderly women’s beauty was because they’d led deeply Spirit-led, mindful lives.

“I mean, it’s not like they all have a secret face cream,” I joked with a F/friend of my generation.

“You do’t know that!” she replied. Sharply, as I recall.

Thirty years later, I am now a white-haired grandmother with a medicine cabinet full of Origins’ latest anti-aging creams and serums. (My beauty secrets revealed! You read it here!) Thirty years later, it’s finally dawned on me that everyone—even lovely, serene-looking old women—has a backstory/ain’t perfect. We’re all just doing the best we can.

So if my wrinkled face appears serene during meeting for worship, it’s not because I have lived an unblemished life. Far from it. It’s because I am delighted to be in silent, collective worship. And listening to that small, still voice.

And, yeah, checking out my fellow worshippers.

 

Winter Light, Random Light

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My friend David tells a story I’ll never forget:  One Sunday in early summer, he’d been struggling with a difficult decision during silent worship—at Friends Meeting at Cambridge.  Something came to him so he decided to test this something. “Give me a sign,” he prayed. And a beam of light shone directly on him! “So now I know that every June 21st, the sun shines directly onto the spot where I had been sitting that day,” David concludes. (And, BTW, the decision he’d made that morning turned out to be the right thing to do.)

Light happens.

 

 

January 6, 2013: Night Voices

In the wee hours of this morning, I was wakened by two loud voices outside my first-floor window, one a young man (ethnicity undetermined), the other a young woman who, I think, was inside her car, its engine running.

Their voices muffled and, maybe, ten feet away, only two words were audible: “. . . . fight!” shouted the young man.

“. . . no fight!” shouted the young woman. And then she high-pitched laughed as if trying to keep their conversation light and breezy. They repeated this exchange several times.

Three-quarters asleep and not aware of the time (it turned out to be a little past 4 am), my first reaction was, “They’re Somerville High School students on their way to school. Someone from the high school’s mediation program can handle this.” (It was only after they’d moved on that I was awake enough to realize that today is Sunday and that these two had probably just come from a club on Somerville Avenue.)

But here’s what I, a peace-loving Quaker, want to say: How deeply I was struck by the excitement in that young man’s voice every time he said “fight.” How, lying under my covers, without seeing him, without knowing anything about him save his gender and approximate age, his zeal for violence—and its attendant drama—made perfect sense! As if, at last, he were being offered an amazing opportunity! I wasn’t hearing rage. I was hearing his relief.

Oh.

 

January 1, 2013: No Man’s Land

The Boston area was graced with a (moderate) snow storm on Saturday and by now, anyone planning to shovel sidewalks or driveways has done so.

Last night, walking to a Sanders Theater/Boston Baroque concert along a well-known route, I joyfully noticed  a couple of first-time-ever shoveled paths, i.e. sidewalks that had never been shoveled in the past. (Inveterate walkers keep track of such things.)   And I also saw those little gaps—usually about two or three feet long—between shoveled paths where two, adjoining property owners (or the crew hired to shovel) had just quit: No Man’s Land.

[BTW—and this is probably only interesting to me! Recently during a meeting for worship I realized that when I think “war” my mental image is of trenches and Big Bertha and cratered, barbed-wire covered No Man’s Lands et al, i.e. World War I?!]

These unshoveled gaps used to make me angry. “What’s the matter with these people?” I’d mentally sputter. “Can’t they see where their property ends? I mean, thanks a lot of shoveling what you did do.  But now I have to trudge these last few feet through the snow because you’re so clueless?”

But now I’m more, as Dickens would say, benignant. Because isn’t it obvious that our interconnectedness isn’t obvious to most people?

So why not just accept that?

December 19, 2012: Rush to Judgment?

[Here’s another op-ed piece hot off the press—or, should I say, JUST e-mailed toThe Boston Globe.]

Rush to Judgment?

How easy, immediately after the Newtown massacre, to want to blame or to fix. How easy to blame the death of twenty-six people, twenty of them children, on a horribly troubled young man’s “personality disorder” or on our inadequate mental health system. How easy to want to fix our gun safety laws and to ban assault weapons immediately, or to radically improve access to quality mental health services. Let’s fix this nightmare right now, our hearts cry out, while our sadness and outrage are most acute.

But, I’d like to suggest, before we can fix—and there’s plenty to fix—we need to mourn. Individually and collectively we need to pause, to take whatever time is needed to acknowledge our pain and our brokenness. For, I suggest, it is from that deep, sorrowful place within each of us that the hard questions will eventually emerge. It will be our answers to these hard questions, not our all too human impulse to blame or to fix, that must inform our future actions.

Why do I, an ardent supporter of gun safety and accessible mental health care suggest this? A stunned and pained face I glimpsed yesterday among the holiday-shopping crowds at Porter Square is why. That young woman’s public sorrow reflected my own and called to mind the days following September 11th when so many of us were visibly bereft.

On a lovely fall afternoon a couple of weeks after the attack, for example, strolling to the end of Rockport’s Bearskin Neck, I came upon a hushed crowd simply sitting on the jetty’s rocks and looking out over the water. Seated among that silent crowd and looking at their pained faces, I’d felt our shared grief meant something different, something thoughtful, something wise would happen in response to that heinous attack. I believed that our shared grief meant a different outcome from a response engendered by anger or fear or the need for revenge. Eleven years and two wars later, thousands killed, our civil liberties thwarted, trillions spent on The War on Terror; how dead wrong I was!

I also remember, soon after that lovely afternoon, calling Senator Kennedy’s office to say much the same things at much the same length and to hear a young, bored voice on the other end reply, when I’d finally stopped to catch my breath, “So. Restraint?”

Our shared grief can guide us; so can the thousands of voices among us who have lost family members to violence; Representative Carolyn McCarthy of New York, for example, or the September Eleventh Families for Peaceful Tomorrows or the Boston-based Louis D. Brown Peace Institute. Let’s listen.

After Columbine, after the brutal attack on Gabby Gifford and eighteen others in a Tucson parking lot, after Aurora, after Newtown, let’s get it right this time.