Author Archives: Patricia Wild

February 12, 2011: Let Go, let Rumi

[from A Year With Rumi: Daily Readings—here’s an excerpt from the February 12th poem]

Humankind is being led along an evolving course,

through this migration of intelligences,

and though we seem to be sleeping,

there is an inner wakefulness that directs the dream.

It will eventually startle us back

to the truth of who we are.

February 11, 2011: Let Go, Let the Years

If you might be tempted to ask, “Did you like the Beatles?” of someone you’d just met, as one character does in “Another Year,” then you just might love Mike Leigh’s new film.

I do and did. And found how the film’s four middle-aged characters—two aging pretty gracefully, two not so much—enormously touching.

february 10, 2011: Let Go, Let Gravity

Yesterday I discovered that a different route to where I needed to go—Davis Square and Porter Square—was 98% smooth sailing; sidewalks were mostly cleared, mostly easy to walk on. Yet this morning, about to walk to Porter Square again, hesitated to take off my YakTrax.

Whoa, I realized. I am really, really scared to fall. Even when I know my journey will involve, tops, a couple of yards of ice.

Time to reconnect with Learning to Fall, I advised myself, striding along.

May I suggest you do, too?

February 9, 2011: Let Go, Let Truck

Readers to this blog know that this month is all about spiritual exercises: letting go, letting  . . . Something. For readers not living in Red Sox Nation, today’s posting may seem, well, weird. But for those of us who know the answer to the question: “What is a directional turn signal?” (Answer: “A sign of weakness.”),* you’ll completely get it.

Yesterday was Truck Day**. So all over New England, there was a collective sigh: Together we let go of our fears that winter will never end. Although sometimes a stern, Puritanical bunch, at about noon yesterday we allowed ourselves to imagine a hot summer day at Fenway Park, cold (incredibly overpriced) drink in hand and, maybe, Jacoby just stole a base. Or something equally thrilling.

Aaaahh.

*[I think this comes from  a Dunkin’ Donuts ad. Not sure, though.]

**[Truck Day is when a green moving truck carrying Red Sox equipment leaves Yawkey Way for Fort Myers, Florida, the first visible sign in Boston that spring training has begun.]

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.]