Author Archives: Patricia Wild

January 2, 2011: Lesson # 1

So a big part of this month-long Light and heat project should be bumping up against those irrational, stuck places in myself, right? And  acknowledging those uncomfortable, oh-that-again moments? Seems necessary. And honest.

So I’ve already discovered that although I thought I wanted to be open to whatever methods are currently available to save energy, my (ridiculous) house-pride/entitlement just might keep me from big-time changes. Like covering my drafty windows with plastic weatherizing. Way too tacky, m’dear! And, besides, just using Saran Wrap’s a huge challenge for non-dextrous me; I seriously doubt I am capable of effectively covering an entire window.

So I walked to Tags, a local, independently-owned hardware store about a mile from my house, to see what the latest, recommended-by-a-salesperson method to plug up leaky windows might be. Which turned out to to be a clear liquid you apply with a caulk gun (My VT daughter had recommended this stuff. You gotta listen to someone from VT, right?). Problem: The package warns that this stuff produces fumes. And, yeah, my windows are not airtight but it is the middle of winter. Everything’s shut tight. So shut tight that I can still detect the slightest whiff of the fish curry we had at Christmas. So, reluctantly, must pass on “the latest.”

So, promising myself to get the liquid sealer in, say, October, and to seal up everything one window at a time—with the back door wide open—I bought rope caulk and, relishing the playing-with-clay/hands-on work, plugged up the most egregious gaps. I’ll wait for a windy day to finish the job.

Oh! Something I don’t know: is this caulk toxic? Would Ruby, my precious, toddler granddaughter, get sick if she grabbed a handful? Since she won’t visit here until the summer, not an issue. But I’m investigating, anyway.

January 1, 2011: The Premise

Gotta admit: When I saw “Julie and Julia,” my immediate reaction was, “Damn! Wish I could blog about some interesting project like that.”

Well, now I can.

For the next month, every day, I will blog re my (probably meandering/non-linear) exploration of how best to heat my old, drafty house.

Why?

Lots of reasons:

# 1. Every time I try to visualize a post-fossil-fuel future, I always get stuck at: How the hell would I heat this house after we run out of natural gas and oil? Related things to figure out:  how do I reduce my carbon footprint? And how do I prepare myself for the inevitable blackouts and brownouts which will accompany the climate change we are already experiencing?

2.  Just as, ten years ago, I felt like Spirit was asking me to do Something about race and white privilege—and, eventually, about our broken criminal justice system—I sense that same sort of nudging re climate change. (And, yes, I pray that way will open so these seemingly disparate leadings will somehow converge.)

Hence: Light and heat.

December 28, 2010: . . . “And it’s all still in there.”

To paraphrase W. C. Fields: All things considered, I’d rather have the Blizzard Christmas of 2010 to the Norovirus Christmas of 2007 (when our entire family took turns being violently ill.). Although the terrible driving conditions meant some family members had to leave our Boxing Day dinner early—so we didn’t have our annual opportunity to systematically check-in, easily my favorite Christmas tradition—two members of our far-flung family stayed an extra day. A treat. Being housebound also meant all those special holiday leftovers were especially appreciated and grandchildren’s toys entertained their owners and their doting aunts and uncles and grandparents.

And, of course, we were lucky: We didn’t lose power and this drafty old house, which shook and swayed every time a stiff wind roared past, kept us (relatively) warm and dry. And when we ran out of coffee—ohmygosh!—we could simply climb over the snow banks of Union Square to buy locally roasted French Roast.

The people of Scituate, a seaside town south of Boston, were not so lucky: homes and businesses were flooded, two houses burned down, dozens of people had to be evacuated from the chest-high water.

Maureen Trayers, who lives next door to one of the burned homes, and whose own house was heavily flame-damaged, said this as she was being rescued: “We just had Christmas. And it’s all still in there.”

Presumably, at that very traumatic moment, as she’s climbing into a rescue vehicle, by “all” Ms. Trayers meant the presents and the gift cards, the tinsel and the wrappings, the decorated Christmas tree, stockings; cookies and a turkey and eggnog.

But I’ll bet that very soon she’ll realize that, yes, the wonder of the winter solstice, of light in the darkness, the hope of a peaceful, promising new year, the blessings of being alive and together and safe; yes, Maureen, all that is still in there. In you. In me. In all of us.

December 20, 2010: “Star of wonder. . . “

There’a a little beauty parlor on Somerville Avenue that’s hung some cheesy, glittery Christmas ornaments in its large, plate glass front window. Feeling glum a couple of days ago, I’d walked past that window just as the morning sun struck those ornaments. And the world—at least my teeny part of it—was transformed.

OK, I thought. Instead of viewing the asphalt and concrete and heavy traffic of Somerville Avenue as portents of doom and destruction (which is what I’d been doing), maybe I should instead look for something that speaks to the GLORY of my species.

And, immediately, there it was: the brand-new bike lanes of Somerville Avenue. Truly, those lanes are a miracle, a gigantic break-through, yes? (Unfortunately, there were no riders on the bike lane when I had this revelatory moment. That would have made this Ah HAH perfectly cinematic!)

As somebody noted at yesterday’s meeting for worship—which preceded Friends Meeting at Cambridge’s always tear-producing Christmas pageant—when the Holy family knocks on the door of that crowded Bethlehem  inn, it’s a “metaphor” for letting in light/joy/wonder/God. We get to choose if we open that door.

And how often.

December 13, 2010: Disquiet = Repeating Joy (Eventually)

Haven’t we heard this story before? A gentle and Spirit-imbued man, a traveler, a stranger, by his powerful yet graceful presence, shakes things up, challenges the complacent and the easeful, but then dies much too soon.

For me, Elphas Wambani was such a man. (And Elphas would roar at being paired with You Know Who!)

A Quaker from Kenya, Elphas had come to this country a few years ago to study at Episcopal Divinity School—and, although his Kenyan Quaker/FUM tradition was decidedly programmed, to worship at decidedly unprogrammed Friends Meeting at Cambridge.

From the very first time I met him, Elphas pushed my “I’m not doing enough; I should be. . . ” button: Enormous pain about his country, its AIDs epidemic, and how little I have done, how unfair it is that I have so much; you know, the usual White American Woman’s Guilt.

At his memorial on Saturday, a gathering for EDS and FMC folks, I reflected on that disquiet: And I think it’s because he was so gentle, so loving, such a man of faith, that I couldn’t discount his witness. His presence keenly reminded me: Yes, Patricia, there is a Kenya. And a Bangladesh. And a . . . Had he been a hectoring, rhetoric-spouting guy, had he been angry or unpleasant, how easy it would have been to not allow myself to acknowledge his reality. And my own.

Tragically, Elphas died in his sleep this summer at age fifty-four, after returning to Kenya. Such a loss. So unfair.

But there is such joy to be reminded that, yes, gentle and loving are so powerful they can change the world. Because, yes, we have heard this story before.

December 6, 2010: Repeat the Sounding Joy—again

Saturday morning, I invited my husband to join me to shop at a crafts fair and to pick up our Christmas wreath.

He declined. “We’ve gone there for several years,” he pointed out. “It’s always the same.”

Exactly!

This holiday season, more than ever, I relish same-old, same-old. Aside from not sending Christmas cards (“[Sending Christmas cards is] expensive, and time-consuming and environmentally unfriendly” declared The Boston Globe‘s Miss Conduct yesterday.), I joyfully repeat my holiday traditions.

Why?  It’s not just because lately it seems as though the loonies have taken over my country. Or that my father died. Or that my writing’s stalled. Which make keeping my balance and perspective and equanimity hard sometimes, so that same-old feels safe. Not entirely.

It’s also because when I light a candle  or deeply breathe in the living, green, verdant smell of our Christmas wreath, I connect with the billions of my species who feared/fear the dark and the cold and mortality, yet remain hopeful but yearning.

And I am finding enormous comfort in that connection.

December 2, 2010: About Repeats

As I see it, the two most important things about repeats are so absurdly obvious that their implications can be easily overlooked. The plain but pregnant facts are, first, that a repeat allows a piece to be heard twice; and second, that it makes the music twice as long.

Hearing the music twice is an advantage if the piece is complex, subtle, original, profound and at the same time terse.

John Gibbons, liner notes, The Goldberg variations of Johann Sebastian Bach.

A terse writer, I copied out this passage years ago because I loved the string of adjectives preceding it.

November 17, 2010: What Would John Woolman Do?

The bells of mindfulness are calling out to us,

trying to wake us up, reminding us to look deeply

at our impact on the planet.

Thich Nhat Hanh

When, in 1770, John Woolman connected “retailed rum, sugar, and molasses [to be] the fruits of the labour of slaves,” he practiced the sort of mindfulness Thich Nhat Hanh espouses.

But sometimes that gets very complicated.

Every morning, rain or shine, hail storm or snow storm, The Boston Globe is delivered right to my door. Literally. Andrey Goncalves, the delivery guy, throws my paper from his car onto my front porch; most mornings, his aim is so precise the paper lands right onto my doormat.

Can you spot the mindful/environmental/spiritual dilemma? Of course you can! It’s that damned car.

“Should I continue to pay NYT BostonGlobe  $46.56 every month?” I began to wonder. “Environmentally, maybe it would be better if I walked to a store every morning where stacks of Globes had been delivered.”

Ah, but just as I was contemplated this, what should arrive with my morning paper but a cheesy Thanksgiving card from Andrey Goncalves!

So what, you might say. It came with an addressed envelope, you might point out. That card was obviously your Paper Delivery Guy’s underhanded way to get a tip.

Maybe so.

But Something about that card “spoke to my condition,” as JW would put it. I remembered Andrey’s faithfulness—even in terrible weather. And his excellent arm. I remembered how long he’s been my Delivery Guy. Which just might be saying something about how much he—and his family?—need this cruddy job? I regarded his name, considered what it might be like for anyone named “Goncalves” to survive in this economy, this anti-immigrant environment. And, cheesy as it was, there was Something heartfelt about that card which, indeed, asked me to take a moment to reflect upon the bounty that informs my cushy life.

What would JW do? Well, truth be told, I have no idea.

But TNH has this to say: “To bring about real change in our global ecological situation our efforts must be collective and harmonious, based on love and respect for ourselves and each other, our ancestors, and future generations.”

So here’s what I’m planning to do: Keep on shelling out almost fifty bucks every month for my newspaper. Keep on giving Andrey generous tips. And, on a rainy or snowy or miserable morning, when I hear that familiar thunk at my front door, to sleepily offer a prayer of thanksgiving to Andrey and all the millions of unseen, unknown men and women whose fruits of labor I partake every single, mindless day.

November 7, 2010: Collective mindfulness

Wade Drayton, currently serving a life sentence at MCI-Norfolk for a crime he says he did not do, wants to appeal his sentence. An expensive proposition.So last night at the Friends Meeting at Cambridge (FMC) meetinghouse, forty to fifty people attended a fundraiser for Wade. There was wonderful folk music performed by Kristin and Jonathan Gilbert, the multi-talented Trecia Reavis sang, members of Wade’s family told stories about him and read his poetry; there was fellowship and laughter. The first such event organized by FMC’s Prison Fellowship Committee, the evening exceeded our wildest dreams! We’d been hoping twenty people would come; we raised far more money than we’d dared to anticipate.

As the evening wound down, we sang “How Can I Keep From Singing” together. In prison cell and dungeon vile/Our thoughts to them are winging. And I couldn’t help but thinking that when that many people collectively sing those words, Something happens.

November 1, 2010: Bells—or Violins

The bells of mindfulness are sounding.

Thich Nhat Hanh

A week after my father died, my husband and I used a gift certificate from Jeremy and Vita (my husband’s son and his wife; thanks, you two!) to help pay for two Boston Symphony Orchestra tickets. Entering that august, lofty, historic auditorium, I realized that the first time I’d been in Symphony Hall, it had been my dad who’d squired our family there—for Tufts Night At the Pops in 1962. And I remembered a time when I’d been, maybe, six or seven, when he and my grandmother attended a BSO concert and, much as I had begged, had left me home. “You’re too young,” they’d declared. “You’ll squirm and fidget and bother the other concert goers.”

“I’ll be good,” I’d promised.

“Maybe when you’re older,” they’d told me. But we moved, my grandmother died; it was not to be. In college as now, however, whenever possible, I’ve attended concerts in Symphony Hall—but not in the black patent-leather mary janes I’d once imagined I’d wear on my BSO outing.

As I took my seat and perused the program, I was aware both of my own grief and my intense joy to be back in a space that has been such a significant place in my life.  My grief worried me a little: “There’s a lot attached to this evening,” I acknowledged. “I really need for this be perfect!”

Our orchestra seats were wonderful, we’d gotten there early enough for excellent people-watching and, oh, the sheer thrill to watch the orchestra members stroll in, schmooze, play a few riffs, tune their instruments. So far, so good.

But at about 7:55, two women in their late twenties/early thirties breathlessly brushed past us and took their seats beside us, just as the “Please turn off all cell phones” announcement flashed. But the woman beside me didn’t notice: She was checking her messages!

OK, Patricia, I counseled myself. You’re in a diminished state. You came here, tonight, with an unrealistic expectation for perfection. And, I reminded myself, you were raised in a family where concert-going behavior was held as something so significant, SO important, that you weren’t deemed worthy enough to attend.

But still . . .

Just as the conductor entered, the young woman slipped her Whatever The Hell It Was device  into her very nice evening bag (Spiffy electronic gadgetry, spiffy bags; please don’t judge me because I care for neither. OK?).

“Is that thing off?” I asked her. Firmly. But, I’m hoping, with a wee bit of gentleness, a tiny bit of I-know-I’m-a-mess-so-please-forgive-me.

But here’s the thing: That woman spent the entire concert with her head bent down while she leafed through her program. But, I realized, watching her with dismay, that’s what young people DO. (Some do.) In a crowd, on the T, waiting, walking along a crowded, city sidewalk, for crissakes, they bend their heads and check their messages, text, whatever.

No, she wasn’t a complete philistine. It was a sheaf of bound pages on her lap, not an eerily glowing electronic screen. (Thank you, Jesus.) But here’s the other thing: She missed an amazing, electrifying performance by solo violinist Pinchus Zukerman. Who, when he interacted with the orchestra or simply felt/took in Beethoven’s music, had been well worth watching.

Sad, huh?


October 18, 2010: Query, Query, Query, Query

My father, Albert F. Wild, died on October 15th at the age of 95. So to end this “query” series, I’d like to post the very last question my father asked me.

Like all doting and watchful fathers, my dad asked me lots of questions:

“Did you bring your money?”

“Have you done your homework?”

“How many cigarettes are you smoking a day?” (Until the day I quit, I’d always lied.)

“What sort of health plan do you have?”

“Have I ever told you about the time. . . ?”

His last couple of days, my sailor father imagined many, many scenarios to give meaning to what he clearly sensed was happening to him. Most of these stories involved water, boats, cruises. So it’s altogether fitting that his last question to me was:

“What do you do in the Navy?”