“The Revolution Will Not Be in English”

Pretty sure the Big Changes a-comin’ will not come easy. Yet am moved to suggest that not only will the revolution not be in English, it might not be in words. It might be/could be as quiet and as powerful as love. William Penn suggested in 1693: “Let us then try what Love will do.” Now, there’s a revolutionary idea!

An example: After I’d read on Facebook that dandelions are a much-needed early-Spring flower vital to bees —so please don’t pick or uproot—I began noticing those sunny flowers—formerly considered pesky weeds— everywhere! Left in peace. Allowed to grow. And flourish. Even on Harvard University’s manicured campus. “Inconceivable!”

I know, I know; right about now you’re saying: “Patricia’s nuts. The inmates run the asylum and hatred is rampant. Love? Faggetaboutit.” (You might be right.)

So let’s unpack that at-first-glance-ridiculously-fey example: For starters, let’s talk about Facebook and game-changing social media. And how new, good ideas like The Dandelion Story get instant play with a simple picture and a slogan. Powerful stuff! And no blood was shed.

The Dandelion Story goes deeper, taproot deeper. Because how many of us as kids spent our suburban Saturdays pulling up those pesky weeds? (Some kids got a nickel for every plant dug up. My parents didn’t roll that way. No, my “reward” was to discover the joy of completing hard, sweaty work! And, when done, how delicious a glass of cold water tasted.) And how many of us, by the second hour or so on our youthful knees, wrestling with those dandelions’ stubborn, deep-in-the-ground taproots, wondered: “Why the heck am I doing this? Because this plant’s fighting me. It wants to live. It has gained my respect! Why, besides the fact that my parents told me to, am I doing this?” (Or something mystical or in-the-moment or At One With The Universe like that.) So how many of us, now knowing what we know about endangered bees and dandelions’ newfound respect and recalling our rebellious yet In Tune With Nature youthful selves can think: “I was right!” More important: How many of us now begin to wonder about other “weeds” we need to look at more appreciatively? Other long-held ideas we haven’t rethought. Other ways Mother Nature is asking us for our respect?

Answer: Enough people to make a revolution!

Whence Cometh My Strength?

[Salt Lake City International Airport, April 18, 2016]

Although I have visited Salt Lake City several times (two precious grandchildren live there; need I say more?), on last week’s trip, I could not get enough of those Rocky Mountains! Again and again I found myself gawking—and since two mountain ranges encircle the city, such open-mouthed opportunities were plentiful. At the zoo, at the Natural History Museum, at two different soccer fields, at playgrounds—do you detect a pattern, here?—there they were!

Why? Why, now? What is it about souring, snow-capped mountains that so deeply spoke to me? Whose spiritual life is, generally, inward. A couple of thoughts:

I think I was thirsty for an overpowering, not-human-scale experience. (I think lots of hemmed-in East Coast people are.) I needed to drink in sheer, magnificent, soul-nourishing Beauty; “Living Water.” And so I did.

And I think I needed to somehow connect with other, live-beyond-Route 128 Americans for whom the sight of a snow-capped mountain or corn fields as far as you can see or the mighty Mississippi or . . . is routine. To try, as best I can, to imagine how such daily sightings might play out in others’ lives; a baby-step spiritual exercise.

And so I am trying.

Family Business/Family Secrets

[1800’s Chinese rice-paper painting of a “cloud couch” (used for smoking opium) in a Chinese home : a Wild family heirloom.]

Saturday, I drove to Bristol, Rhode Island to spend some precious, one-to-one time with my twenty-year-old nephew, a student at Roger Williams University. My first time there, he showed me around the campus; touring the glitzy Global Heritage Hall, he referred to Bristol’s slaving trade history—in the way only a principled young man can bring up such a charged subject: with pain, horror, and outrage behind his widened eyes. Global heritage, indeed!

And I immediately remembered “Traces of the Trade: A Story of The Deep North,” an excellent documentary I’d seen years ago re the DeWolf family and its incredibly lucrative slave-trading “family business,” a film so powerful and eye-opening that my own horror—and realization that many New England families were very much complicit in this national shame—is still with me.

What hadn’t stayed with me was the name of the DeWolfs’ hometown. So while driving through the charming and well-appointed seaside village of Bristol before arriving at the Roger Williams campus, I had not thought: this wealth is the result of slavery! But going back into town for lunch, I saw that waterfront resort through informed eyes.

Which begs the question: what about my own New England family? Were Wilds (and Horries and Coghills and Miricks and Faulkners and . . .) complicit? And it seems to me that the Truthful/spiritual answer is: of course! In some way, large or small, all 18th and 19th century white families in New England were complicit, tainted; all had benefitted by slavery in some way. Family business, family secrets, indeed!

A Prayer: May that acknowledgement light my way.

A final note: That accompanying rice painting is one of a set of three hand-painted Chinese scenes that had been given to me by my Aunt Amy ( Prescott Wild Zlotnick) in 1980; they’ve hung on a hallway wall for years and years. But one day, prompted by that opium pipe and “Traces of the Trade,” I became curious: did my family have another, more explicit dark secret? Did we have anything to do with the opium trade? The rice paintings had been brought back from China by Isabella Faulkner Ranlett, the wife of a clipper ship captain, Charles A. Ranlett, Jr. Belle, who died in China, had been the sister of my great grandmother, Amy Faulkner Wild. Had Belle’s husband’s clipper ship, The Surprise,* delivered opium? Had Belle known?

Answer: It seems not for 2 reasons: a) the dates when that ship sailed the China seas and the (again, incredibly lucrative) period when the British and Americans sold opium to the Chinese do not align [see Jay Dolin’s excellent When America First Met China for an excellent account) and b) probably not since, unlike other New England families of that era, like the Delanos and the Forbes and the Cabots, my family isn’t that rich!

This link, re the Delano family aboard The Surprise, briefly and covertly acknowledges the source of their wealth!

“More powers and personalities than are visible”

[Chevy Hubcap; San Diego, 2015]

I was ten years old the first time I saw “Friendly Persuasion”— at a small-town movie theater in upstate New York.* Surrounded by classmates and friends, devouring, sating myself on an entire box of Welch’s Pom Poms, I watched lots of movies at that movie theater. Kids did that in those days.

Later in my life, after I had become a Quaker, I watched that 1956 movie again and was pretty horrified by this schmaltzy version of Jessamyn West’s best seller. But by then I’d understood enough about child development—and movie making—to realize that this “In Magnificent Colour” feature, with its simpy theme song sung by simpy Pat Boone and its other Hollywoodisms, had nevertheless made a real and lasting impression. About war. About the challenges of living out one’s faith. And, to some degree, about what it means to be a Quaker.

So last week, when I spotted a used copy of Jessamyn West’s short stories for sale at my Quaker meeting, I eagerly bought it, curious about this Quaker writer who may be better known these days as a distant cousin of Richard Nixon than as an accomplished writer in her own right/write. And as a Quaker writer, myself, I was also curious if I’d discover overt or covert references to her faith in her writing.

What a beautiful writer! For the past week I’ve been sating myself as if devouring Pom Poms again. A fairly frequent visitor to southern California, I have especially relished her exquisite descriptions of Inland Empire wildlife and small-farm family life as it once was.

But, no, I haven’t come across much “Quakerly” writing—but perhaps I’ve missed them. Because, as you will see, West was a SLY Quaker writer:

“My God, my God,” Mr. Fosdick said.

Mr. Fosdick used the name of God, Christ, Jesus, heaven, hell, the devil, and damnation very often. I wouldn’t exactly call it cursing. It was more as if he felt himself the resident of a universe where there were more powers and personalities than were visible, and that this was his courteous way of letting them know that he was aware of them and was trying to include them in his life. (from “Up A Tree”)

*Think “Bedford Falls”—which was actually Seneca Falls, NY—from “It’s A Wonderful Life”

“Its Hardship is Its Possibility”

[“Upheaval”: Arlington, MA sidewalk, 2016]

So many stories! There’s the story of an orange-haired, petulant racist we’re forced to hear again and again. And, oddly, there’s another story, the Feel the Bern story, notable for not being told—or gets “stealth-edited” within hours! (“Get me Rewrite!”) There’s an ancient, horrible story we lament this morning about innocents losing their lives in war, this time in Brussels. There’s another story many tell this week, the Holy Week story, that begins with strewn palms and hosannas and ends with betrayal and death.

I am trying to listen to another timeless story. It comes out of the earth. You can hear it in birdsong and the soughing of pine tree branches. (A wind chime will do.) It’s told every spring when the Northern Hemisphere tilts towards the sun. It demands we listen when a blizzard or hurricane or tsunami strike.

But because so many of us are not listening to this timeless story, it’s editing itself. And not by stealth, either, right? Superstorms, record-breaking temperatures, drought; undeniable plot twists.

Troubled by this edited story, fearful it is doomed to end tragically, grieving for Mother Earth and for my grandchildren’s future, I turn once again to Wendell Berry. (No, not “The Peace of Wild Things” this time.) This one:

A POEM

If we will have the wisdom to survive,
To stand like slow growing trees on a ruined place,
Renewing, enriching it,
If we will make our seasons welcome here,
Asking not too much of earth or heaven,
Then a long time after we are dead
The lives our lives prepare will live here,
Their houses strongly placed upon the valley sides,
Fields and gardens rich in the windows.
The river will run clear as we never know it,
And over it the birdsong like a canopy.
On the levels of the hills will be green meadows,
Stock bells in noon shade
On the steeps where greed and ignorance cut down the old forest,
An old forest will stand, its rich leaf-fall drifting on its roots.
The veins of forgotten springs will have opened.
Families will be singing in the fields.
In their voices they will hear a music risen out of the ground.
They will take nothing out of the ground they will not return,
Whatever the grief at parting,
Memory, native to this valley, will spread over it like a grove,
And memory will grow into legend,
Legend into song, song into sacrament.
The abundance of this place, the songs of its people and its birds,
Will be health and wisdom and indwelling light.
This is no paradisal dream. Its hardship is its possibility.

Wendell Berry

What The Living Do

[“Whitewashed”: lawn ornament, Somerville, MA, 2016]

Every Monday my husband and I care for our three-year-old granddaughter who arrived yesterday not feeling well. So the three of us spent as-quiet-as-it-can-get-with-a-three-year-old day. Although she never napped, much of the day she created cozy spots for herself and her toys to snuggle under various “blankets”; at lunchtime she even carefully tucked her pomegranate-pear squeeze food pouch under her napkin!

But by 5:00 even cuddly pleasures and rereading favorite books and . . . had lost their charm—so sitting on the couch together and perusing that day’s mail proved an excellent alternative. After scouring a couple of catalogs, she decided Grandma’s “Vanity Fair” (I know!) pretty intriguing. (Can you imagine what a three-year-old makes of a Gucci ad?!)

“Why is that woman smiling?” she asked when we turned another glossy page to discover a full-page Chopard (a jeweler) ad. “Because she’s happy that she’s wearing those fancy diamond earrings and that fancy diamond ring,” I tiredly replied.

Good God! What did I just do? I thought. Bad Grandma! Bad Grandma!

“No, sweetie,” I quickly amended. “That’s not why. She’s happy because she got—” I was about to say “. . . to spend the whole day with her granddaughter.” But the precious creature beside me was way ahead of me, already leaning close and reaching up to give me the most tender, loving kiss on my cheek. “Yes!” I affirmed. “You guessed it! She’s so happy because she just got a kiss from her wonderful granddaughter.”

“We can do no great things; only small things with great love,” Mother Teresa (reportedly) said. In the spirit of racial harmony we whitewash a lawn ornament. We vote. We leave our cans and bottles next to our recycle bin so that the people who rely on “redeemables” to survive don’t have to paw through our trash. We cherish.

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.

“A Softness of Compassion”

[“Feeding Seagulls”; Tengelfjord, Norway, 2015]

Lately I’ve been thinking about a Ray Bradbury short story I must have read fifty years ago. Here’s how I remember it: a man pays an enormous amount of money to time-travel. At the time of his back-through-eons trip, a fierce presidential campaign wages; it pits a blowhard, right-wing, bullying, hate-monger versus a peace/love candidate. And the peace/love candidate is way ahead in the polls.

Now, this time-traveler had been repeatedly cautioned by the people operating the time machine not to leave a specially designated boardwalk. ( I can’t remember where he traveled—the Jurassic Period, maybe?) But, of course, he does step off the wooden path. And accidentally steps on a small insect. When he returns to his own time period, he’s amazed to discover that the bully is now a clear front-runner. The language he’d spoken had also morphed.

Bradbury explains why the bully won (He probably explained why language had radically changed, too, but I never understood that bit): The death of that one insect began a chain of depressing events, beginning with the subsequent death of another creature—a bird, perhaps—that had depended on that particular insect for its survival and then . . . And thus unfolded an alternative world dominated by an abiding sense of Not Enough. Deprivation. Fear. Might Makes Right. Me First.

Is it possible that, post 9/11, many now believe we live in that same mean, selfish, dog-eat-dog world Bradbury so insightfully created, a world so fear-filled that a bully could be seen a savior?

I wonder.

*From Elizabeth Strout’s excellent My Name is Lucy Barton (And, by the way, this softness was viewed with revulsion by one character.)

“It’s Complicated”

[“The Science Behind Pixar” exhibit, Museum of Science, Boston, MA; 2015]

WordPress, which makes this site possible, recently alerted me to a pending comment that had confused its algorithms. And when I investigated I could see why. Because, yes, the source was actually an auto insurance company, i.e. spam. But the comment, re being a white ally, was actually right on: “A slick response to a complicated question,” a wise soul at that company had noted. (Or words to that effect.) Ouch!

So while I decided to delete that self-promoting communication—and its link to a business—I am also reflecting on its accurate observation. Yup. Guilty as charged. Sometimes these posts are facile. Sometimes they are simply recording where I am; more discernment is required. Always. And, always, they are written by a white and privileged and incredibly blessed woman whose assessment of The Big Picture is as limited as that blind man holding the elephant’s tail.

“Be wise as serpents and innocent as doves,” Jesus coached his disciples. Which I take to mean: While life is complicated and often dangerous, an open, loving, and childlike sensibility is absolutely necessary. Which I also take to mean: pray. “Pray without ceasing,” Paul counseled. Be still and know that I am God.

So, Dear Readers (and car insurance companies), please keep in mind that whatever I write here is, as Quakers love to put it, “the Light we/I am given.” (And more shall be given to you/me.)

Always.

I Gave Up Donald Trump for Lent

[Sunset Cliffs Park, San Diego,CA]

There’s a story going around; maybe you’ve heard it? Here it is:

ONE EVENING, AN ELDERLY
CHEROKEE BRAVE TOLD HIS
GRANDSON ABOUT A BATTLE THAT
GOES ON INSIDE PEOPLE.

HE SAID “MY SON, THE BATTLE IS
BETWEEN TWO ‘WOLVES’ INSIDE US ALL.
ONE IS EVIL. IT IS ANGER,
ENVY, JEALOUSY, SORROW,
REGRET, GREED, ARROGANCE,
SELF-PITY, GUILT, RESENTMENT,
INFERIORITY, LIES, FALSE PRIDE,
SUPERIORITY, AND EGO.

THE OTHER IS GOOD.
IT IS JOY, PEACE LOVE, HOPE SERENITY,
HUMILITY, KINDNESS, BENEVOLENCE,
EMPATHY, GENEROSITY,
TRUTH, COMPASSION AND FAITH.”

THE GRANDSON THOUGH ABOUT
IT FOR A MINUTE AND THEN ASKED
HIS GRANDFATHER:

“WHICH WOLF WINS?…”

THE OLD CHEROKEE SIMPLY REPLIED,
“THE ONE THAT YOU FEED” *

I’ve been thinking a lot about that story. And which wolf I’m feeding. Which means, for me, answering a very simple, basic question: How do I spend my time? Guess what? I spend a lot of time purposely putting myself in situations where I can feel outraged! (They don’t call it “righteous indignation for nuthin,’ you know.) Apparently I like being upset. I am feeding that arrogant, angry, superior and, I might add, prurient wolf! (Yes. There’s something lascivious about reading Donald Trump’s latest spewings, I think. Like all those other situations where you know you should turn away, close the curtains—but you just can’t.)

So this lenten season—and I hope for the rest of my life—I’ve given up reading about, talking about, and most beneficially, becoming outraged about Donald Trump and all the other hate-mongers both foreign and domestic. Which means—again quite basically— some time has been freed up! So, yesterday, when a dear friend sent me an email chain letter involving sending a favorite poem to someone (and, unfortunately, asking 20 of your super-busy friends to do the same), I signed up.

And this morning I received three glorious poems!

Here’s the poem I sent off; it’s an excerpt from “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, on Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour, July 13,1798” by William Wordsorth:

For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

William Wordsworth

*Copied from the Nanticoke Indian Tribe website

“I Accept the Universe.” (Margaret Fuller)

First time I read this well-known Margaret Fuller quote, my reaction was probably the same as yours: “Duh! Of course you do, Maggy. You don’t have any choice!” But pretty much the same thought has come to me, lately.

First, some context: Transcendentalist, feminist, universally acclaimed to be brilliant, widely-read author and skilled editor, Margaret Fuller was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts in 1810. (She died, at age 40, with her infant son, when their ship shipwrecked off the coast of Fire island, New York.) Which means, of course, that the Universe she accepted included both slavery, an American evil most (not all) transcendentalists vigorously condemned and fought, and sexism. Northeast-based for much of her short, fully-lived life, the horrors of slavery may very well have been an abstraction for Margaret; not so regarding sexism. That form of oppression she knew first-hand. She was denied an education at Harvard, for example—although later in life she became the first woman allowed to use the prestigious college’s library. (To rectify the abominable education most women of that time received she later conducted “conversations” for/with other women.) In other words, Margaret Fuller’s Universe “ain’t no crystal stair.”*

Neither is mine. So when I say I accept a Universe of climate change denial and racism and Donald Trump and the Kardashian family and unending war and the Zika Virus, I am saying, “Yes. I am mindful of all of it. My acceptance means humility. And embracing complexity. ‘It is what it is.’ All of it. I accept that I am to ask: What am I called to do? And who do I can cheer on from the sidelines as they do what they’re called to do? And to embrace all of it; to let my acceptance be joyful.

And to be grateful as I keep climbing on.

* Langston Hughes’

Mother to Son

Well, son, I’ll tell you:
Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor —
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.
So boy, don’t you turn back.
Don’t you set down on the steps
‘Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now —
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,
And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Water: The New Oil?

Sunday afternoon as my Loved One napped, I took a delicious post-snowstorm walk around Fresh Pond. (Loved One’s long term care facility sits on the Fresh Pond Reservation, 162 acres of open space and nature trails protecting the 155 acre, fenced-in, Fresh Pond Reservoir, the City of Cambridge’s water supply.)

Until Sunday, my relationship with Fresh Pond had been mixed: Yes, I’d always relished joining the parade of dog walkers and bicyclists and strolling couples and joggers circling the pond. (It’s about a 2 mile walk). In fact, walking around Fresh Pond on New Year’s Day has become a hallowed tradition in my life, a contemplative (and usually freezing) way to begin a new year. Yet, inevitably, as a Somerville resident, I have also resented that in order to enjoy this urban treasure, I have to drive to Cambridge! Where, as a non-resident. I might easily get a parking ticket.

No more. My car now neatly parked in Loved One’s facility’s parking lot, Fresh Pond is mine!

So, on Sunday, instead of muttering “Why can’t Somerville have acres and acres of unobstructed space—maybe beside the Mystic River? Nature trails and woods and community gardens as far as the eye can see? Huh? Huh?”* or stressing about a possible parking ticket, I was able to appreciate where I actually was. To be present. To grok.**

So, of course, walking past Cambridge’s water supply, I thought of Flint, Michigan. And how black lives didn’t matter when it came to making viable, decent decisions regarding that struggling city’s water supply. How inexpressively outrageous! And how, more and more, we’re seeing water as A Thing. A commodity as precious as oil. (and, like oil, a liquid to spill blood over.)

So as I walked listening to the pond’s gentle lap lap with newfound gratitude, I was also sobered by a water-scarce future suddenly more clear and more fraught than it’s ever been.

“Is Clean Water The New Oil? “What am I called to do?

*So many things to love about my community but its long-term commitment to open space is not one of one.

** A verb meaning to really, really get it and used in that 60s classic, Stranger in a Strange Land—in which for the protagonist, a human raised on Mars, “sharing water” was a Huge Deal.

Tears, Tears*

[Fort Rosecrans National Cemetery, San Diego, California]

Back in the day, when I taught in greater-Boston homeless shelters and drove a lot, it sometimes seemed as though Spirit manifested Itself through NPR (WGBH, in particular). Heavy-hearted after a particularly grueling or heart-wrenching session with a troubled student, I’d get in my car, turn on the radio, and lo: one of my favorite pieces of music was being played—and at just my favorite part! Although I knew Spirit didn’t actually work this way, this “personalized programming” happened so often that I allowed myself to take comfort from this gratuitous, wondrous gift.

Last Tuesday: same thing! Only this time it was the New York Times website that offered me just what I longed for at exactly the moment I needed it. I’d just come home after visiting Neville Center, a highly respected long term care facility (what we used to call “a nursing home.”) And, yes, although I liked what I saw and, yes, I could imagine My Loved One** staying there and receiving excellent care, my visit triggered a panoply of emotions—some of which I still cannot name, identify.

Idly I sat at my computer and clicked on Safari/the Times website— just as the word “Live” flashed on the screen and, it turned out, just as President Obama marched towards the podium to give his gun-control speech. Oh, Reader, how I needed to hear that impassioned speech! Our insane gun laws tearing me apart, how I needed to see Obama weep over the lost lives of those children at Sandy Hook. I cried, too.

Until last week I would have declared myself way too old and way too contrary to need an elected official mouthing what I long to hear. That I’d feel I was being played should any politician sing my song. Not true any more, apparently. Apparently the horrific and mean-spirited right-wing rhetoric of these past few months has taken such a toll that Obama’s reasoned speech—well, it gave me hope. And lifted my spirits. On a day when I really, really needed it!

This week, renewed and grateful, I wait to see how Spirit will continue to break through as I shepherd My Loved One’s transition to Neville Center. And lo: it’s already happened in the form of a wise and patient social worker who helped me fill out a “Do Not Resuscitate” Form. (Yikes)

Thank you, Spirit, for all your blessings.

* The first as in crying; the second, the verb meaning to break apart (and rhymes with stairs), as in to tear a piece of paper in half.

** I’m being discreet, here, because a) it seems respectful and b) recently had a nasty phising incident so am reluctant to put much personal info online.