Author Archives: Patricia Wild

February 8, 2011: Let Go, “Call 311”

Today walking up sleety, icy College Avenue, I saw an older woman coming in the opposite direction slip and fall maybe 20 feet from me.

“Are you okay?” I asked as we walked closer together.

She brushed off her pants. “Some of these people,” she said, her voice trailing off. She looked behind her to the spot where she’d fallen—right in front of a church.

I nodded in sympathy, then showed off my YakTrax. Still smarting, still angry, she was not impressed. That she could buy something that would allow her NOT to be victimized by poorly maintained sidewalks wasn’t appealing; she wanted some one to pay!

Mentally acknowledging her anger—heh, such homeowner neglect makes me furious, too—I shifted gears: “Do you live in this neighborhood?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Then why don’t you call 311 and complain? You can tell the operator what happened to you. And give the exact address.”

She smiled.

I have a feeling she’ll call.

February 7, 2011: Let Go, Let Nudge

Yesterday, during silent worship, I let go of my plan to revise a two-act Armenian-themed play I’d written a few years ago—mostly because in many ways, the book I finished last summer and am now marketing tells the same story. (In both the play and the book, the relationship between an old guy in a wheelchair and a young, feisty home health aide is central to the plot.)

Instead, I am intrigued/nudged by another Armenian-based concept and have begun initial research (I love research!).

Is this nudge about another play? Is it a book and if so, fiction or non-fiction? (I’ve become intrigued by Alice Stone Blackwell, a suffragette and daughter of Lucy Stone—she of Keep Your Own Name fame. Aided by “Armenian friends,” the bluestocking Lucy translated Armenian poetry into English in the early 1900s. Hmm.)

Yes, it was hard to let go of the play; it’s got some good stuff. But this decision feels like a vote of confidence for my book and as if, maybe, I’ve finally finished with the old guy in a wheelchair theme. (For the record, my grandfather, Paul Revere Wild, was “a cripple” from birth and, yes, used a wheelchair for much of his life.)

But on this sunny day, when there was just the slightest hint that Spring might come someday, to begin something new, emerging, challenging, is very exciting.

February 6, 2011: Let Go, Let NStar

We had a power loss again last night. And although I’d been sleepy before the lights went out, suddenly I was wide awake and hyped-worried. So I got out of bed to look out the window—yes, indeedy; it was dark out there—and, stumbling around in the dark, smashed my baby toe against a wooden trunk. So I limped back to bed.

Really, I counseled myself, what else could I do except remain in my warm bed?  And just wait for someone to fix whatever power lines were broken.

So I tried simply going to sleep (almost immediately heard lots of sirens. That was reassuring. Until it wasn’t.) But my mind couldn’t help itself: Instead of letting me sleep, it insisted on obsessing about all the things that would now go terribly wrong because we’d lost electricity.

But, really, I scolded myself in my darkened, spookily quiet bedroom (Never realized how many things HUM in my house). Worrying is nuts. You are powerless. Get it?

The NStar truck rumbled past soon after that and, maybe a half hour later, my house hummed again.

February 5, 2011: Let Go, Let Light

Sometimes when it’s overcast because another storm’s coming, and I’m a little worn out from dealing with snowbanks and ice—today, in other words—it’s hard to “walk cheerfully over the earth.” I’m glum, chum, and see, as I walk, the very worst of human nature as represented by icy, dangerous unshoveled sidewalks and dog shit.

But the Light comes through—even on a gloomy day. Like it’s compelled to shine or something.

Completely randomly, my YakTrax-shod boots today brought me to 3 locations that lifted my spirits, nourished my soul, reminded me that, yes, humans are capable of wonderful things.

First stop: Somerville’s bustling winter farmers’ market. Expecting nothing but turnips I’d gone simply out of curiosity. But, hey, there was locally produced wine and coffee and cheese and baked goods and seafood—and root vegetables. And lots of people. Heart Lift # 1.

Second stop: Anticipating staying home tonight, decided to go to the library to get some DVDs. Again, the place was packed. After selecting some films, managed to do the teeniest bit of research for a new writing project. A few clicks on the library’s catalog site, connected to greater-Boston’s libraries’ collections and—presto chango—what I need will be delivered to my library. For free. So, OK, there are dog owners who don’t pick up after their pets. But there’s also this incredible, free, accessible-to-all service called our public library system. Heart Lift # 2.

Third stop: Waking home, an SUV stopped beside me and a woman rolled down her window: “Excuse me,” she said in a Somerville accent. “Are you wearing something strapped to your boots?” (Maybe she’d noticed me confidently striding along and figured  I was either suicidal or had special gear.)

Yes, I told her.

“Where did you get them?”

“My husband bought them for me.”

“Ohh,” she said. “What a wonderful gift!”

What I heard was: Aren’t you lucky to have a husband that gives you gear that allows you to walk safely. And she said this without rancor. Without jealousy. What I heard was someone, a complete stranger, able to express joy at another stranger’s incredible blessings. Heart Lift # 3.

February 3, 2011: Let go, try sand, shoveling.

Today, walking down a slushy, snowy, side street, I walked past a guy in his car trying to get out of his driveway. But he was stuck. What did he do? He kept gunning his engine—literally, spinning his wheels. And even though it was obvious that his just-overpower-the-problem approach was not working, he continued to push his foot on the accelerator. Like maybe something magic would happen the two-hundred-twelfth time he tried it that hadn’t happened before?

Where does such stubborn inability to accept the obvious come from? My guess is that guy—middle-aged, white, flabby—doesn’t  have much experience with problem-solving without some machine being involved. Something comes up, something needs to be fixed or changed, he uses a computer, grabs a power tool. And, I’m also guessing, that means of problem-solving works for him so much of the time, the idea that he should give up on the mighty power of his car engine and do something low-tech like shoveling or throwing sand under his tires simply doesn’t occur to him.

Or maybe he just loves the smell of burning rubber.

February 2, 2011: It’s official: the Prison Fellowship* fundraiser’s been postponed. (Yuck)

This letting go is so much more complicated: There’s a man sitting in prison, waiting for our Prison Fellowship committee to raise the money to pay his legal costs so he might appeal his life sentence. “Sorry,” we have to tell him. “You’ll just have to keep on being patient.” (He’s been in jail for something he didn’t do for 23 years.) There’s a loss of momentum by deciding to postpone—definitely a handicap when confronting that monolith known as the criminal justice system. There’s my innate fear that by giving in to weather conditions and no parking and the rest of the complications due to these back-to-back storms, what we’re really saying is: This prison work is too hard.

Yes, it is hard. But, I believe, it’s also what I’m being asked to do. And I know the others on the committee believe so, too.

So, we’ll reluctantly accept what we cannot change (some key speakers were not going to be able to make it, either.). And regroup.

* [What is the Prison Fellowship Committee? We are a committee of Friends Meeting at Cambridge (MA) doing prison ministry. Committee members visit prisons and work for better prison conditions.  We take families to visit family members in prison and we visit individual prisoners ourselves. Every Wednesday evening, we offer a meal and sharing circle for the formerly incarcerated and those who care about them. We have raised funds for bail or legal costs; the recipients are those in need whom individual members of our committee have met through our prison work. We do this work because we can and because we are unable to stand by and not take action when we see so many suffering unfairly.]

February 1, 2011: Surrender!

Like many Americans of a certain age, my first experience with today’s title was when the Wicked Witch sky-scrawled “Surrender Dorothy” with her sulphur-spewing broom. NOT a positive association.

But, this morning at breakfast as the snows fell—as they’re destined to fall for several days—that usually-scary word  just welled up and, ohmygoodness, what a relief! What unexpected joy!

Surrender to the weather. Surrender to not being able to do what I’d expected to do for the next couple days. So, for example, I postponed tomorrow’s scheduled Mohs surgery. (I did check in with my dermatologist; she said a 2-week wait was OK.)

At my Quaker meeting’s Wednesday night meal-and-sharing-circle, the formerly incarcerated circle members often remind us to “Let go, let God,” or “Go with the flow.”

Good advice. Especially when you have no choice!

January 31, 2011: I did it!

Hey, I posted every day for a month—and a month with 31 days, too!

Outcomes:

My meanderings re heat and Light led me to arranging for a Home Energy Assessment.

I got to use the word permaculture.

I discovered all kinds of resources—including my own friends— re ways to conserve heat.

I now receive frequent mailings from Mayors Against Illegal Guns (maybe not the greatest outcome but, hey, anything to support a worthy cause, right?)

I’ve gained a few new readers.

I learned a ton. Like where my electricity comes from.

So maybe I’ll try this posting-every-day-thing again next month? (I only have a few more hours to decide.)

January 30, 2011: Dress rehearsal?

So,  a housebound friend, in between reading good books today, has been listening to the news. She reports that because of the unrest in Egypt et al, oil supplies might be compromised and global markets are already reacting, shall we say skittishly?

“I’m telling you this because I know you’re interested in peak oil,” she told me.

This is NOT the scenario the “We must prepare for the end of cheap oil!” Cassandras have envisioned (Big surprise.).

Given the potential scariness, here, let me offer a prayer: Should, indeed, the violent unrest in so much of the Mideast seriously disrupt oil production and supply, let this momentous moment be a teaching moment for this planet. A dress rehearsal without bloodshed.

Oh. And this: May this moment, when a resource we have so heavily relied upon may be at risk for God knows how long, allow us to think deeply about all the resources we have been blessed with. To think long and hard about, as Buckminster Fuller enjoined us, how “to do more with less.” Let us look at the ways we squander resources. And, yes, certainly, may war-waging be the first thing we look at.

January 29, 2011: Cool It, lady

So today I was invited on a tour of possible locations for  T stations when the extension to the existing Green Line subway comes through Somerville. What an enormous project! Standing on a couple of different bridges spanning the existing commuter rail lines—the light rail subway will eventually run alongside these tracks—everything covered with a couple of feet of snow, the enormity of the project, the complexity of meeting the needs of so many different and worthwhile groups and concerns seemed overwhelming.

I was there because, as a member of Somerville Climate Action, I’m supposed to raise the “What about. . . ?” questions re sustainability, open space, permeability, planning from a permaculture point of view. (Other partners on this ambitious Green Line Extension project include, for example, Somerville anti-poverty agencies who are looking at issues like gentrification: what happens to existing, low-income neighborhoods when, ohmygod, suddenly they become enormously attractive due to easy access to public transportation?)

Frankly, before this tour, I honestly didn’t think I knew enough to be able to put my 2 cents in. But I am slowly being schooled to think of systems, of patterns, of visioning what the world’s going to be like when we can’t simply hop into our cars anymore. I’m slowly thinking about linkage and neighborhoods and, this is my favorite, about the fact that this planning needs to take into consideration living things besides ourselves.

For example: Here’s this densely populated city, 79% paved over, and, from its earliest, earliest days, a city swayed by the needs of developers and business owners. (Translation: almost NO open space.)  But, as I recently learned, Somerville has a secret wilderness! It’s the neglected, no-man’s land alongside the two commuter rail lines running through our fair city. All kinds of wildlife live there.

So, on our tour, I mentioned that. In fact, I couldn’t shut up! I talked about construction along those tracks not happening when birds are nesting (Oy. ) And, mindful that post-cheap-oil, we need to be rethinking transportation BIG TIME,  I reminded my tour-mates that, indeed, a river does run through Somerville: the Mystic River. Why aren’t we also thinking about linkage with a really, really easy way to get from Somerville to downtown Boston? By boat! (Frankly, I think my ritual of reading a Dickens novel every winter is really helping me vision. There’s nothing like early 19th century England-—including industrialized, coal-burning, nightmarish London—to clarify the mind.)

As I sit here, I realize  there was so much more I could have been wondering aloud about: like where will the energy for these shiny new subway trains come from? Nuclear power? Coal?

“Hose that woman down,” my tour mates probably thought from time to time. (It’s been said before.) And I wouldn’t blame them.

But I am also deeply committed to the concept of synergy. So although I am way too effusive and mouthy, sometimes, I’m going to trust that the energy I’m bringing to a laudable project like this Green Line extension is easily matched by other passionate folks and that, together, we’re going to create something freakin’ awesome!

January 27, 2011: Tiger Mother, Tiger Balm*

Like every other writer in America this week, I have something to say about Amy Chua, author of Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother. Well, to be precise, I have something to say about Chua and about Elizabeth Kolbert’s piece re “America’s Top Parent” in this week’s New Yorker. It’s not Chua’s stringent, some say abusive parenting  Kolbert first discusses. No. The New Yorker writer is worried that “Western mothers” just might be aiding and abetting our nation’s decline, pointing to international test scores as an alarming indicator that our self-esteem-focused child-rearing means our kids are being “out-educated.” (That’s Arne Duncan, U.S. Secretary of Education’s, characterization.)

No matter what their ethnicity, parents’ responsibility, I think, is to imagine the sort of world their children will be living in and to prepare their children, as best they can, to survive in that future. A wise parent these days, then, needs to spend some time wondering: what traits, what skills will my children need to thrive in the post-cheap-energy world they’re inheriting—poor darlings.

So I would advise Ms. Chua, who insisted her daughters receive only As in everything except gym and drama, to rethink that position. For the brave, new world her children will inhabit will rely heavily on collaboration and community-building and, no doubt, physical strength—skills taught in gym and drama. After a strenuous day of lifting and carrying and shlepping, of working in a garden, perhaps, or working with neighbors on some project, maybe knowing how to work as a team and Tiger Balm will be more to the point than test scores?

[*The heat of today’s post]