Author Archives: Patricia Wild

Speaking Through the Super-Storms (and the Droughts and the . . . )

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This is an entry about leadings. This is an entry about discernment. This is an entry about process—so this is an entry about bumbling around:

In the odd way these things happen, sometimes, the day after way opened* for another leading (my role vis a vis Opportunity Knocks, an exciting, greater-Boston re-entry initiative for ex-offenders became clear), I met with the incomparable Vanessa Rule of the Better Future Project, who’s working on another exciting initiative: Mothers Out Front.

As my sister would say, “I was torn.” Mobilizing mothers in Massachusetts to become a political force around climate change is a terrific idea. Yet who’s the most stretched-to-the-max group there is? Mothers.

What to do?

Well, the first thing I did was talk about this idea with a young mother—who also happens to be a daughter. “Sure, Mom,” she said. “Send me more information.” So I did. And to 4 other mothers, too.

Guess what? Only one mother responded. But then she had to beg off our scheduled lunch date. And still hasn’t gotten back to me to . . .

So, apparently, this is also an entry about Having It All and about the scarcity of time for most mothers and about how incredibly challenging it is to have “come a long way, baby.”

This morning, however, in the wonderfully odd way these things happen, sometimes, I woke up  thinking maybe I’d direct some of MY time towards developing a curriculum for parents and children that addresses climate change. Or as the wise Maggie Edmondson puts it: “Deicide.” A curriculum that acknowledges, as the wise Joanna Macy puts it: “We are our world knowing itself.”

BTW:  As a brand-new member of my Quaker meeting’s First Day School Committee, I’d decided to work on such a curriculum TWO YEARS AGO! But in the way that these things happen all the time, I never quite got around to it. Because although passionate, I was working solo, disconnected and overwhelmed. But now, I’m sensing, there’s energy around such an idea. Resources.

I’ll let Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier have the last word:

Breathe through the heats of our desire

Thy coolness and Thy balm;

Let sense be dumb, let flesh retire;

Speak through the earthquake, wind, and fire,

O still, small voice of calm.

 

* “The old Quaker expression ‘Way Opens’ describes the serendipitous unfolding of God’s will for a person or community.” —Alex Levering Kern—

Branded # 2: Easter Parade

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On Friday, David and I took the T to Park Street to join other Quakers at the Good Friday vigil on Boston Common. “Busy about the work of the earth,”* I hadn’t really considered this upcoming event until I caught sight of my reflected self in the T’s window: “Oh, right. I am about to become a Public Quaker. Better get my pious face on.”

And instantly felt, well, sheepish! (Sheepish perfectly describes how I felt—and given the season, is also conveniently pascal, isn’t it!)

Most Good Fridays (and I’ve been showing up for these vigils for over thirty years), standing in a silent line with fifty or sixty other Quakers is holy.  But not this year.

This year I felt like a freak show: “Oooh. Look at the real life Quakers!” This year, I felt as if I served as a fleeting distraction for crowds of tourists “entranced by the sight of distant goals.”* (goals, I gloomily surmised, that involved serious SHOPPING.) This year I felt as though I was reluctantly participating in a Quakercentric activity, well-meaning, to be sure, but grossly ineffectual, and more about making me feel righteous than about real witnessing.

Fine, I thought, standing there. If this vigil is, indeed, really about me, let’s use this time effectively: What is it I’m supposed to glean from this?

Lots.

1. Strategy matters. I have shown up—in courtrooms, for example or when visiting legislators—where my mere presence did have an effect. But being a Public Quaker on Good Friday on Boston Common as hundreds of tourists and people on their lunch hour scurry by? Uh uh. NOT effective. Not strategic. (As close readers of this blog will certainly remember [see “Bling”] being strategic is now a huge part of my “What am I asked to do?” discernment.)

2. Only engage. How I wished we could have engaged with the parents and children who walked past us, the children whispering: “What are they doing?” Such wasted, teachable moments. Which leads me to:

3. Engage 2.0: This year’s vigil pamphlet, written by FMC’s Peace and Social Concerns Committee and distributed to passersby, was about gun violence. If we peacemakers want to truly inherit the earth, maybe we ought to be engaging with those with whom we strenuously disagree? Like the  NRA?! Now THAT would be real witnessing. (and, yes, as I stood in silence I, of course, remembered Rufus Jones and Hitler. Talk about speaking truth to power!)

And today, this:

4. Rituals matter. This morning I walked into a living room filled with the smell of our Easter lily to instantly remember childhood Easters in Bridgeport, CT at my grandmother Lil’s house, the rituals around dying eggs and lilies and too much candy and getting all dressed up on Sunday morning—another kind of being-public experience. (A self-aware child, I didn’t feel the least bit sheepish about knowing how nice I looked all dressed up!) And realized that for many dear, dear Friends, the Good Friday Vigil is an important ritual which obviously speaks to their condition. So I need to sit down with these good people to discover why they faithfully show up every year.

And then, together, we figure out how to engage with the NRA?

 

“To arrest, for the space of a breath, the hands busy about the work of the earth, and compel men entranced by the sight of distant goals to glance for a moment at the surrounding vision of form and colour [sic], of sunshine and shadows; to make them pause for a look, for a sigh, for a smile—such is the aim [of a writer], difficult and evanescent, and reserved only for a very few to achieve.” —Joseph Conrad, 1897—

 

 

That Thing With Feathers

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Maybe because the snow’s melted enough to reveal tulip and daffodil shoots and in sunnier yards, actual crocuses. Maybe because of soft, vernal light. Maybe because Easter—as confusing and complicated as it is for me—is Sunday. Certainly being on the other side of a several, recent, challenging events helps. But I’m hopeful.

Why? Because of two articles in The Boston Globe, one on the statewide pushback re drug-sniffing dogs in Department of Correction visiting centers, the other, a scathing report re Massachusetts’ regressive get-tough-on-crime policies . Could these articles mark the moment when the proverbial paradigm shifts? Is something different emerging? I choose to believe so.

This morning, the online writing group I am blessed to discover I’ve “joined” has been oohing about the wonderful poem that follows (sorry about the mishmash fonts):

WHAT THE LIVING DO 
by Marie Howe
Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil probably fell down there.
And the Drano won’t work but smells dangerous, and the crusty dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven’t called. This is the everyday we spoke of.
It’s winter again: the sky’s a deep, headstrong blue, and the sunlight pours through

the open living-room windows because the heat’s on too high in here and I can’t turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street, the bag breaking,

I’ve been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush: This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss–we want more and more and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I’m gripped by a cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I’m speechless:
I am living. I remember you.

I live. I hope.

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.