For Christians and those who live in the United States and celebrate the winter holiday – time is passing much too quickly. Two and a half weeks more of Advent, and Madpriest is fussing about putting up Christmas decorations during Advent. Let me tell you, if we didn’t start putting up decorations right after Thanksgiving (and some stores do it immediately after Halloween), we would never get them all up.
And, what would motivate us to buy all those presents. And, how would the stores stay in business without the wonderful Christmas promotions that lure us into the store and send us away with bagsful of stuff that no one really needs. I mean, how many pairs of fuzzy “stay-at-home” socks can you use in a warm climate? But they were on sale at half price – so nearly everyone on my Christmas list will get a pair. Of course, a few of them do live in areas where warm fuzzy socks might be really nice. The only one who is not getting warm fuzzy socks is Jonathan, whose size 13 or so foot prevents my finding ones to fit.
For others time is erratic. Christmas is speeding nearer, and they have done little in preparation. For instance, my God-daughter has been to court several times with her seriously disturbed daughter who is soon to be placed in a therapeutic home. She spends much of her day at the hospital with her husband, who had antibiotic resistant pneumonia, a serious kidney reaction to the contrast dye, a heart attack, and who knows what else. He’s been there more than three weeks now, and there’s no talk of sending him home. So time is dragging for her at the hospital. Her section 8 housing inspection is next week, and she’s not the greatest housekeeper in the world under normal circumstances. So time is speeding along with the government system.
How do we understand time? I can’t possibly be as old as the calendar says. A few days ago I saw a delightful woman, and I thought, “I’m a lot like her.” Then I realized that I am probably 20 years older than her, 50 pounds heavier, and have many more physical ailments and less physical ability. I am getting old. I am getting disabled. But, I don’t think of myself that way. Some days are much slower than others – by choice or not. And, some days seem to slip by without my having noticed that another day is gone. I’m busy, I’m active, I’m slow, I’m in bed, I feel good, I hurt. These are all aspects of time for me.
And, Christmas – the incarnation of God – is so special that I could never celebrate it for only 12 days. Sometimes I leave the red bows up until February, take them down after Valentine’s Day. It seems to me that crowding the cycles of life, the cycles of the church, the cycles of God into a year’s schematic, is just not workable. I agree that the Christmas decorations must come down, Advent must come and go, Lent must come and end at Easter, which must dawn glorious. But, I never seem to be ready for one season to end before another is already begun. Perhaps I am just time-disabled.
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Saturday, November 18, 2006
About me
It’s all about me. While I can rejoice with others or cry with others, I’m usually end up thinking about how this will affect me, why I’m not like that, why I am like that or why I’m not as good as the other person. So, no matter how much I empathize with you, it’s all about me.
I begin too many sentences with I because what I think and how I feel is really the topic of this blog. Events, incidents and other people are merely carriers for talking about me. I like to see my name in lights (not that it has ever happened) or in the stars on a walkway. I don’t understand why my hometown has not recognized the wonderful things I’ve done in my life. (Never mind that they are more concerned with getting enough to eat and money to pay the electric bill since that is one of the poorest areas of Mississippi). They should properly recognize how far I have come and what a credit I am to that community. Of course, I wouldn’t go back there unless I wanted something there, and I can’t think of anything they have that I want. I sold the farm, what little bit of it I inherited. And, I can’t imagine much worse than having to live there again.
The place is like – well, I can’t think of a good comparison. But, the white kids go to private school, play sports with other white private schools, and many go on to college. The other kids (African-American, Hispanic, Asian) go to public school and many never graduate. Some never make it to high school since compulsory attendance ends at age 16. Can you imagine being in sixth grade at age 16? It happens there.
And, living conditions. In most places Section 8 Housing pays partial or entire rent for low income families so they have decent places to live. Usually a family is put on a waiting list and may have to wait a few months or maybe even a year before there is enough money to fund their housing. In Mississippi, people can wait a lifetime. There are so many people with no income whatsoever that those who have any income will never be able to get Section 8 Housing.
Not only is lack of funding a problem, finding adequate housing is an even bigger problem. My sister-in-law lived in a house where the bathtub was gradually falling through the floor. The landlord wouldn’t fix it – too much trouble, too much money. The electric wiring had caught on fire at least once, and she heated with her oven and kerosene heaters. She had a tiny disability income and SSI for her retarded daughter; so she gave up on getting Section 8 Housing or even getting Food Stamps.
So little money; so much need. So few jobs; so many untrained people. Young people with any education leave. Young people without education sell drugs and become prostitutes. Wealthier people from the large city to the north come down to hear the blues, to snort cocaine, and to have sex with the young women (and men) who stand on the street corners.
Smart farmers allot part of their acreage to growing marijuana, one of the largest cash crops in Mississippi. Of course, they must conceal this crop in the midst of another ordinary field. I suspect that elected officials and law enforcement officers still get paid to look the other way.
Recently I found among my family papers a note written on the back of a campaign card, “Mike, give this man a pint. He voted for me.” My granddaddy Mike was a bootlegger, and, although I understand he made some fine brandy and some good whiskey, I’m sure that “this man” got the lesser quality stuff. I can remember handing out campaign cards around town, but I certainly didn’t realize that I got to do that because my granddaddy was a bootlegger depended on by most of the candidates. Payola?
So, see, it’s all about me. It’s not about those hungry, homeless souls in Mississippi. It’s not about the lack of industry and jobs. It’s not about the failure of the United States to compete in the world market with agricultural products. It’s not about drug abuse, school dropouts and prostitution. It’s about me. I escaped.
I begin too many sentences with I because what I think and how I feel is really the topic of this blog. Events, incidents and other people are merely carriers for talking about me. I like to see my name in lights (not that it has ever happened) or in the stars on a walkway. I don’t understand why my hometown has not recognized the wonderful things I’ve done in my life. (Never mind that they are more concerned with getting enough to eat and money to pay the electric bill since that is one of the poorest areas of Mississippi). They should properly recognize how far I have come and what a credit I am to that community. Of course, I wouldn’t go back there unless I wanted something there, and I can’t think of anything they have that I want. I sold the farm, what little bit of it I inherited. And, I can’t imagine much worse than having to live there again.
The place is like – well, I can’t think of a good comparison. But, the white kids go to private school, play sports with other white private schools, and many go on to college. The other kids (African-American, Hispanic, Asian) go to public school and many never graduate. Some never make it to high school since compulsory attendance ends at age 16. Can you imagine being in sixth grade at age 16? It happens there.
And, living conditions. In most places Section 8 Housing pays partial or entire rent for low income families so they have decent places to live. Usually a family is put on a waiting list and may have to wait a few months or maybe even a year before there is enough money to fund their housing. In Mississippi, people can wait a lifetime. There are so many people with no income whatsoever that those who have any income will never be able to get Section 8 Housing.
Not only is lack of funding a problem, finding adequate housing is an even bigger problem. My sister-in-law lived in a house where the bathtub was gradually falling through the floor. The landlord wouldn’t fix it – too much trouble, too much money. The electric wiring had caught on fire at least once, and she heated with her oven and kerosene heaters. She had a tiny disability income and SSI for her retarded daughter; so she gave up on getting Section 8 Housing or even getting Food Stamps.
So little money; so much need. So few jobs; so many untrained people. Young people with any education leave. Young people without education sell drugs and become prostitutes. Wealthier people from the large city to the north come down to hear the blues, to snort cocaine, and to have sex with the young women (and men) who stand on the street corners.
Smart farmers allot part of their acreage to growing marijuana, one of the largest cash crops in Mississippi. Of course, they must conceal this crop in the midst of another ordinary field. I suspect that elected officials and law enforcement officers still get paid to look the other way.
Recently I found among my family papers a note written on the back of a campaign card, “Mike, give this man a pint. He voted for me.” My granddaddy Mike was a bootlegger, and, although I understand he made some fine brandy and some good whiskey, I’m sure that “this man” got the lesser quality stuff. I can remember handing out campaign cards around town, but I certainly didn’t realize that I got to do that because my granddaddy was a bootlegger depended on by most of the candidates. Payola?
So, see, it’s all about me. It’s not about those hungry, homeless souls in Mississippi. It’s not about the lack of industry and jobs. It’s not about the failure of the United States to compete in the world market with agricultural products. It’s not about drug abuse, school dropouts and prostitution. It’s about me. I escaped.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Powers of Ten
Elizabeth Kaeton, in her blog Telling Secrets - Dia de los Muertos writes about time as being at once and forever, saints alive and saints before and after. Linear time is a human construct that I have never understood very well. Even as a child I can remember asking, “Why” – a million whys – and “What” and “Where” but seldom “When”. I learned about “When” as I became a writer, a journalist, telling people in words about events that had happened, were happening or were to happen. I learned to put dates and times on stories for newspapers and magazines and newsletters.
As I became more storyteller myself, I put away my watch (during Cursillo) in 1987 or so and have never put it back on. Clocks and calendars exist in my world – on my desk, in every room of the house, and sometimes they hold power over me, as long as I am willing to submit. I can say, “No, I won’t go now.” But, when I say that I must be prepared to take the consequences: paying for the doctor’s visit because my insurance won’t pay for a missed visit, rescheduling an appointment with someone who is usually busier than I am, missing a performance, disappointing a friend. I have the option of saying, “No.”
When I am most aware of the uselessness of linear time is when I am telling a story with a timeless truth, a mythical portrayal of human and/or divine nature. We are always watching people climbing Jacob’s ladder; we continue to be baptized and have our sins forgiven; we reach out to touch the hem of a garment in hopes of being healed. We translate these stories, these timeless myths, into the here and now of our lives: attending wakes and baptisms, re-membering our own baptismal vows and being forgiven for breaking them; listening with respect to our spiritual mentors in hopes of changing our lives.
As surely as Jesus healed the 10 lepers, traveling evangelists or television evangelists are healing ten times ten as they reach out with the gospel, the good word, to those who need healing or hope. Someone is offering a cup of water to an outcast. Someone is feeding five thousand. Yet, Saul continues to try to kill David, alienating his own son and eventually causing his death. Change the names – the time is then, is now, is tomorrow.
Elizabeth quotes from A Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin.
Have you ever seen the slide show about Powers of Ten - a wonderful display of our universe moving from x to the plus tenth power to x to the minus tenth power. It repudiates our sense of linear time, and it is “quite astonishingly beautiful.”
I cannot imagine a God that would limit his creation to linear time or place or any dimension. I can imagine a world beyond any of our created dimensions, and it is “quite astonishingly beautiful” all the time.
As I became more storyteller myself, I put away my watch (during Cursillo) in 1987 or so and have never put it back on. Clocks and calendars exist in my world – on my desk, in every room of the house, and sometimes they hold power over me, as long as I am willing to submit. I can say, “No, I won’t go now.” But, when I say that I must be prepared to take the consequences: paying for the doctor’s visit because my insurance won’t pay for a missed visit, rescheduling an appointment with someone who is usually busier than I am, missing a performance, disappointing a friend. I have the option of saying, “No.”
When I am most aware of the uselessness of linear time is when I am telling a story with a timeless truth, a mythical portrayal of human and/or divine nature. We are always watching people climbing Jacob’s ladder; we continue to be baptized and have our sins forgiven; we reach out to touch the hem of a garment in hopes of being healed. We translate these stories, these timeless myths, into the here and now of our lives: attending wakes and baptisms, re-membering our own baptismal vows and being forgiven for breaking them; listening with respect to our spiritual mentors in hopes of changing our lives.
As surely as Jesus healed the 10 lepers, traveling evangelists or television evangelists are healing ten times ten as they reach out with the gospel, the good word, to those who need healing or hope. Someone is offering a cup of water to an outcast. Someone is feeding five thousand. Yet, Saul continues to try to kill David, alienating his own son and eventually causing his death. Change the names – the time is then, is now, is tomorrow.
Elizabeth quotes from A Winter’s Tale by Mark Helprin.
No matter, it all happened at once, in less than an instant, and time was
invented because we cannot comprehend in one glance the enormous and detailed
canvas that we have been given – so we track it, in linear fashion, piece by
piece. Time, however, can be easily overcome; not by chasing the light, but by
standing back far enough to see it all at once. The universe is still and
complete. Everything that ever was, is; everything that ever will be, is – and
so on, in all possible combinations. Though in perceiving it we imagine that it
is in motion, and unfinished, it is quite finished and quite astonishingly
beautiful.
Have you ever seen the slide show about Powers of Ten - a wonderful display of our universe moving from x to the plus tenth power to x to the minus tenth power. It repudiates our sense of linear time, and it is “quite astonishingly beautiful.”
I cannot imagine a God that would limit his creation to linear time or place or any dimension. I can imagine a world beyond any of our created dimensions, and it is “quite astonishingly beautiful” all the time.
Saturday, November 04, 2006
A New World?
If we achieved our goal of world peace and everyone had food, clothing, shelter and health care, if all the animals were protected and loved, if the economy kept growing, if disease was conquered, what would we write about in our blogs and what would the video reports be? Reporters could still write about tornadoes, hurricanes, the weather, crop failure, unethical politicians and executives, but the media would shrink. Who wants to read about James going to the nursing home every day to feed his mother? At least, who wants to read about it more than one second?
If violence was eliminated from the world, what would we talk about? I try to imagine a world like that, and I can’t. The kingdom may be at hand, but I’m not seeing the big picture of it. Lions are still eating lambs, snakes are still biting children, and arms manufacturers are still getting rich.
Imagine this headline: Last slum lord sells apartment house to tenants. Or this: Salvation Army soup kitchen closed, no clients. ER waiting time now 20 minutes. Population growth slows. I’m sure you can write your own headlines and stories. The “what if” hopes and dreams, changing from generation to generation but still concerned with the earth, with people, with creation.
Eliminating the power struggles and the industries that feed them would produce problems also: unemployment, lack of capital, food shortages, and all the concerns that surround the shutting down of the largest industry in the world. So, how would we solve those problems? What system could be used to distribute the wealth of the world to all peoples? How could we change the attitudes of those in power and those with wealth? What about our tax structure?
Each year our legislators build more complicated legal structures and grapple with new situations and things that previously did not exist. Each year our religious leaders confront different variations of relationships and non-relationships. Each generation has increasing amounts of basic knowledge that is expected and varying ways of coping with life. And, we are living longer.
So, with all the complications, the differences, the multiple generations of the world, what would peace and plenty look like? I just can’t imagine it. Can you?
If violence was eliminated from the world, what would we talk about? I try to imagine a world like that, and I can’t. The kingdom may be at hand, but I’m not seeing the big picture of it. Lions are still eating lambs, snakes are still biting children, and arms manufacturers are still getting rich.
Imagine this headline: Last slum lord sells apartment house to tenants. Or this: Salvation Army soup kitchen closed, no clients. ER waiting time now 20 minutes. Population growth slows. I’m sure you can write your own headlines and stories. The “what if” hopes and dreams, changing from generation to generation but still concerned with the earth, with people, with creation.
Eliminating the power struggles and the industries that feed them would produce problems also: unemployment, lack of capital, food shortages, and all the concerns that surround the shutting down of the largest industry in the world. So, how would we solve those problems? What system could be used to distribute the wealth of the world to all peoples? How could we change the attitudes of those in power and those with wealth? What about our tax structure?
Each year our legislators build more complicated legal structures and grapple with new situations and things that previously did not exist. Each year our religious leaders confront different variations of relationships and non-relationships. Each generation has increasing amounts of basic knowledge that is expected and varying ways of coping with life. And, we are living longer.
So, with all the complications, the differences, the multiple generations of the world, what would peace and plenty look like? I just can’t imagine it. Can you?
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Keep 'em at home
Did you see Michael J. Fox being interviewed by Katie Couric this week? Amazing. He thinks he’s still a star. He’s not staying where those who have disabilities should stay – in the far background. He’s out in public with his spastic movements and repudiating mean comments about his political videos. He’s there in front of the camera as always he has been, getting our attention and making a fool of himself.
And, it’s just as effective now as it was when he was starring in movies. Amazing, isn’t it, that someone with such a disease could be so personable and so honest? He just won’t stay where he belongs – at home, out of sight. Ever since Betty Ford went public about her alcoholism, prominent people are admitting to their infirmities. I just don’t know what the world is coming to when we can’t watch television without having to see someone who has survived breast cancer or drug rehab (ask me about them again after they’ve been clean for 15 years) or some other unmentionable thing.
Of course, their public admittance of their problems may have saved many lives and influenced many people to get help who would otherwise have suffered in silence at home. People who used to peek out from behind curtains and sneak into the closet when they went to work are now being their own humiliating selves wherever they go. My grandmother would be horrified and say we should not even look at such things lest we shame the person. Don’t embarrass him/her by looking; pretend nothing is wrong, and, if you must speak, keep it impersonal and brief. Don’t get involved.
Personally, I think it’s about time we got involved and spoke to those who have been shunted to the sides of society. When will we see pictures of a debutante in a wheelchair or with Downs Syndrome? And, what’s this spat over which bathroom the transsexual in the House of Commons should use? Who cares?
Much is made about the increasing incidences of mental illness and other diseases such as autism in recent decades. Don’t you think that we are able to diagnose those things better and that less stigma is attached to the diagnosis? Are there really more autistic children or do we just understand the disease better? Perhaps both. Perhaps, we are creating an environment where neurological abnormalities happen more often.
Diagnoses of many diseases are still intuitive in spite of the many tests we have developed. But, families are no longer willing to hide their symptoms under a basket. They are asking for the intuitive thinking of internists and specialists. I can’t watch House on television because the tension makes me want to scream, but he’s using all the resources he can have in order to help people. We need more doctors and more people who are not afraid to use their intuition along with the facts to make decisions.
People with disabilities and illnesses, like Michael J. Fox with Parkinson Disease, are telling the world the facts of their problems and using intuition to help find solutions. They are brave in the face of societal shunning and horror.
And, it’s just as effective now as it was when he was starring in movies. Amazing, isn’t it, that someone with such a disease could be so personable and so honest? He just won’t stay where he belongs – at home, out of sight. Ever since Betty Ford went public about her alcoholism, prominent people are admitting to their infirmities. I just don’t know what the world is coming to when we can’t watch television without having to see someone who has survived breast cancer or drug rehab (ask me about them again after they’ve been clean for 15 years) or some other unmentionable thing.
Of course, their public admittance of their problems may have saved many lives and influenced many people to get help who would otherwise have suffered in silence at home. People who used to peek out from behind curtains and sneak into the closet when they went to work are now being their own humiliating selves wherever they go. My grandmother would be horrified and say we should not even look at such things lest we shame the person. Don’t embarrass him/her by looking; pretend nothing is wrong, and, if you must speak, keep it impersonal and brief. Don’t get involved.
Personally, I think it’s about time we got involved and spoke to those who have been shunted to the sides of society. When will we see pictures of a debutante in a wheelchair or with Downs Syndrome? And, what’s this spat over which bathroom the transsexual in the House of Commons should use? Who cares?
Much is made about the increasing incidences of mental illness and other diseases such as autism in recent decades. Don’t you think that we are able to diagnose those things better and that less stigma is attached to the diagnosis? Are there really more autistic children or do we just understand the disease better? Perhaps both. Perhaps, we are creating an environment where neurological abnormalities happen more often.
Diagnoses of many diseases are still intuitive in spite of the many tests we have developed. But, families are no longer willing to hide their symptoms under a basket. They are asking for the intuitive thinking of internists and specialists. I can’t watch House on television because the tension makes me want to scream, but he’s using all the resources he can have in order to help people. We need more doctors and more people who are not afraid to use their intuition along with the facts to make decisions.
People with disabilities and illnesses, like Michael J. Fox with Parkinson Disease, are telling the world the facts of their problems and using intuition to help find solutions. They are brave in the face of societal shunning and horror.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
God versus Nothingness
Oh, Maggie Dawn has recalled a quotation from Karl Barth that I love.
[God] knows the Nothingness. He knows that which he did not elect or will as the creator. He know Chaos and its terror. He knows its advantage over his creature. He knows how inevitably it imperils his creature. Yet he is Lord over that which imperils his creature. Against him, the Nothingness has no power of its own. And he has sworn faithfulness to his threatened creature...
He would rather let himself be injured and humiliated in making the assault and repulse of Nothingness his own concern than leave his creature alone in this affliction. He deploys all his glory in the work of his deepest condescension. He intervenes in the struggle between Nothingness and the creature as if he were not God but himself a weak and threatened and vulnerable creature…. This is how God himself comes on the scene. —Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics III/3, 358
I’ve been sick now since late August, and I’m not only getting tired of being sick and tired, I’m beginning to feel hopeless. Sunday was such a day. The Nothingness sucked me in. I couldn’t go to church, even though my favorite preacher and priest was there. I couldn’t enjoy food, even though the leftover cake was wonderful. My legs cramp when I lie down; so I couldn’t even sleep the day away. Plus, in mopping up cake crumbs, I slipped and did the splits for the first time in my life – thought I might rather die, couldn’t walk for a few minutes and still hurt some.
Now, I have words to express my feelings. I am a creature of God, and I know I am loved by God and by many humans. But, the Nothingness took over, and I was powerless. I felt trapped in a black hole where hope and love and kindness could not reach me. I was scared of facing the darkness and paralyzed to turn to the light.
Today I feel better. The soreness from my slip on the wet floor is almost gone. My cough is better. My energy level is better. My legs still ache, but I did get to rest on the bed for 20 minutes or so early this afternoon. And, it’s my birthday, 61 mostly delightful years.
God comforts me with the words of Karl Barth: that God has all power over the Nothingness, even when we humans do not. God intervenes in the struggle between the black holes of our lives and the light. When I could not lift myself, God did.
I want to examine this text a bit more because it implies that the crucifixion and resurrection are the ways that God demonstrates care for “his threatened creature.” And, I am not sure what I think about crucifixion and resurrection. I tend to be more of an incarnational believer – it was enough that God became human in the form of Jesus Christ, and the crucifixion and resurrection were a bit of overkill. But, this makes me wonder how rephrasing the passion and its purpose (not changing the purpose, but making it more understandable in my world) might change my belief a bit.
[God] knows the Nothingness. He knows that which he did not elect or will as the creator. He know Chaos and its terror. He knows its advantage over his creature. He knows how inevitably it imperils his creature. Yet he is Lord over that which imperils his creature. Against him, the Nothingness has no power of its own. And he has sworn faithfulness to his threatened creature...
He would rather let himself be injured and humiliated in making the assault and repulse of Nothingness his own concern than leave his creature alone in this affliction. He deploys all his glory in the work of his deepest condescension. He intervenes in the struggle between Nothingness and the creature as if he were not God but himself a weak and threatened and vulnerable creature…. This is how God himself comes on the scene. —Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics III/3, 358
I’ve been sick now since late August, and I’m not only getting tired of being sick and tired, I’m beginning to feel hopeless. Sunday was such a day. The Nothingness sucked me in. I couldn’t go to church, even though my favorite preacher and priest was there. I couldn’t enjoy food, even though the leftover cake was wonderful. My legs cramp when I lie down; so I couldn’t even sleep the day away. Plus, in mopping up cake crumbs, I slipped and did the splits for the first time in my life – thought I might rather die, couldn’t walk for a few minutes and still hurt some.
Now, I have words to express my feelings. I am a creature of God, and I know I am loved by God and by many humans. But, the Nothingness took over, and I was powerless. I felt trapped in a black hole where hope and love and kindness could not reach me. I was scared of facing the darkness and paralyzed to turn to the light.
Today I feel better. The soreness from my slip on the wet floor is almost gone. My cough is better. My energy level is better. My legs still ache, but I did get to rest on the bed for 20 minutes or so early this afternoon. And, it’s my birthday, 61 mostly delightful years.
God comforts me with the words of Karl Barth: that God has all power over the Nothingness, even when we humans do not. God intervenes in the struggle between the black holes of our lives and the light. When I could not lift myself, God did.
I want to examine this text a bit more because it implies that the crucifixion and resurrection are the ways that God demonstrates care for “his threatened creature.” And, I am not sure what I think about crucifixion and resurrection. I tend to be more of an incarnational believer – it was enough that God became human in the form of Jesus Christ, and the crucifixion and resurrection were a bit of overkill. But, this makes me wonder how rephrasing the passion and its purpose (not changing the purpose, but making it more understandable in my world) might change my belief a bit.
Friday, October 20, 2006
The ugly humbles
Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. So, supposedly, is art. Well, I have created the ugliest piece of artwork that I may have ever seen. What began as a wonderful drawing, very graphic, very smooth and soooo good has turned into a nightmare. The round iconic drawing of a raven with a woman in the center became a horrifying mess of purple turning to black messed up with streaks of white. Ugly! Ugly!
Susie tried to tell me that it wasn’t ugly, and, if it was ugly, why did I keep it? Well, it’s ugly, and I kept it to remind me that not everything I try will work. Not everything I do will be good. Progress is being made, but that painting so ugly that I turned it away from the clock so the clock wouldn’t stop. She finally agreed that it was not pleasing.
What value does ugly have? If we, as Christians, should embrace our suffering and offer it up to God, then, should we also offer up the ugly? I can’t imagine God being pleased with such an offering. God might be pleased that we are making progress, and we can offer our progress and our learning up as blessings, but ugly?
This painting was humbling. I was so pleased that I was progressing in learning how to paint and draw. I was actually creating pleasing things. I even liked my color exercises. And, oh me, when I did this round drawing of the raven, I was ecstatic. Susie kept saying, “Paint it.” So I did.
I am certain there are a lot of sayings about messing up good things, and several come to mind – none that I would put them in print. So I am considerably more humble about my artistic talent. Which is probably a good thing. My mother would say that it needs to carry over into the rest of my life, too; I have little humility according to her. But, she’s dead; so what does she know now. Humility is thinking more of God than you do of yourself, and I have a lot of humility – at least about most things.
Perhaps our mistakes, our uglies, serve to keep us humble and grateful. I will keep the ugly raven painting just as I keep memories of times when I have hurt others or made ugly mistakes. They will serve as a reminder to me not to think more of myself than I do of God. But, I really wanted to be God.
Susie tried to tell me that it wasn’t ugly, and, if it was ugly, why did I keep it? Well, it’s ugly, and I kept it to remind me that not everything I try will work. Not everything I do will be good. Progress is being made, but that painting so ugly that I turned it away from the clock so the clock wouldn’t stop. She finally agreed that it was not pleasing.
What value does ugly have? If we, as Christians, should embrace our suffering and offer it up to God, then, should we also offer up the ugly? I can’t imagine God being pleased with such an offering. God might be pleased that we are making progress, and we can offer our progress and our learning up as blessings, but ugly?
This painting was humbling. I was so pleased that I was progressing in learning how to paint and draw. I was actually creating pleasing things. I even liked my color exercises. And, oh me, when I did this round drawing of the raven, I was ecstatic. Susie kept saying, “Paint it.” So I did.
I am certain there are a lot of sayings about messing up good things, and several come to mind – none that I would put them in print. So I am considerably more humble about my artistic talent. Which is probably a good thing. My mother would say that it needs to carry over into the rest of my life, too; I have little humility according to her. But, she’s dead; so what does she know now. Humility is thinking more of God than you do of yourself, and I have a lot of humility – at least about most things.
Perhaps our mistakes, our uglies, serve to keep us humble and grateful. I will keep the ugly raven painting just as I keep memories of times when I have hurt others or made ugly mistakes. They will serve as a reminder to me not to think more of myself than I do of God. But, I really wanted to be God.
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Madpriest http://revjph.blogspot.com/2006/10/conspiracy-theory-anyone.html#links points out today that broadcast coverage of an apparent accident where a small plane crashed into an apartment building in New York and two people were killed has taken precedent over a misguided war in which 650,000 people have lost their lives. Hours of live coverage of smoke, the fire was put out quickly, have shifted our minds from the seemingly impossible task of creating a democracy in a country where blood wars are prevalent and compromise is increasingly unlikely. But, we are all tired of the war, tired of hearing about bombings and bloodshed and death. Even a major pile-up on the highway could have distracted us from a war that is insane.
Our individual and collective attention spans are getting shorter and shorter. I don’t read stories about the war in Iraq any longer. I try to forget that the war in Afghanistan is ongoing. And, I really don’t want to know about Darfur, human slavery, abduction of young girls, and how many people were killed in a mudslide someplace in the South Pacific. That’s all very depressing. I want to be happy and have fun and enjoy life. I’m entitled; after all, I’m a white female American.
Maybe not. No matter how deep I bury my head in the sand, the voices of the dead and dying cry out for mercy and peace. The hungry stomachs rumble like thunder while I laugh about Mom’s saying I should eat my peas because there were starving children in Africa. Well, starving children and adults are still in Africa, and I ate my peas. What do I do now?
Mother Teresa said that love begins with one person, but how can we concentrate on loving even one person when we are besieged with the injustice, violence and degradation of the world. When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember you came to drain the swamp. That’s an old saying from my childhood, not that I would want to drain the swamp, appropriately called wetlands now. How can we concentrate on feeding the hungry, caring for the sick and comforting the dying, when newspapers, magazines, television, internet news and blogs all are discussing the various horrors of the world?
So, periodically, I take a break from it all. I don’t read the newspapers, not even the comics (which I now get online). I never have watched much television. I don’t turn on the radio. But, I never expected to find an article about Iraq in my latest copy of Vogue. I didn’t read it. I kept looking at the glamorous people and their beautiful clothes and jewelry. Even though I didn’t read the article, the fact of its being there has me agonizing over the stupidity of violence and greed.
I write letters and make my concerns known to those in power, and little comes of it. I will vote in this election and all elections because that’s one way I do have a voice. But, one person’s letters, voting and prayers don’t seem to do much good. I’ve diversified my retirement funds so that I’m not supporting those who seem to be grabbing for power or those that harm the world, the people or the animals (at least as far as I know). I do what I can. But, the situation seems to escalate. Or is it just that we know more about what’s going on in the world than we did when I was younger?
We are bombarded with so many images – natural disasters, wars, rape, drugs, police cars with lights flashing, fire sirens and the images change so quickly that comprehending the first one is impossible before another is there. Juxtaposed against these images are the advertisements that ask to buy more and more expensive and luxurious products touted by the famous people of the world. And, produce placement within ads – that Coke bottle on the table of the ad for convenience food – proliferate. Now, a company in North Carolina is producing scents that will enhance the appeal of certain products to certain shoppers. Sony has customized a scent that would appeal to women so that more women will shop in their stores.
The relationship between wars, greed and violence and the American (and perhaps world) desire for MORE is readily apparent in any newscast, magazine or other media. Love is the most renewable resource in the world, but fuel oil is not. Ideas that are innovative and creative multiply, but gold does not. We all seem to want more of those in limited supply.
This is another discussion that has no good ending for me. I still want to be happy and I don’t want to hear about war and violence. On the other hand, I want everyone to have all they need and lots of what they want. What some people seem to want is my life because I am a white female American, because I do have a retirement account, because I am gay, because I am a liberal and a Christian. I can’t give them my life. I’m not that good.
Our individual and collective attention spans are getting shorter and shorter. I don’t read stories about the war in Iraq any longer. I try to forget that the war in Afghanistan is ongoing. And, I really don’t want to know about Darfur, human slavery, abduction of young girls, and how many people were killed in a mudslide someplace in the South Pacific. That’s all very depressing. I want to be happy and have fun and enjoy life. I’m entitled; after all, I’m a white female American.
Maybe not. No matter how deep I bury my head in the sand, the voices of the dead and dying cry out for mercy and peace. The hungry stomachs rumble like thunder while I laugh about Mom’s saying I should eat my peas because there were starving children in Africa. Well, starving children and adults are still in Africa, and I ate my peas. What do I do now?
Mother Teresa said that love begins with one person, but how can we concentrate on loving even one person when we are besieged with the injustice, violence and degradation of the world. When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember you came to drain the swamp. That’s an old saying from my childhood, not that I would want to drain the swamp, appropriately called wetlands now. How can we concentrate on feeding the hungry, caring for the sick and comforting the dying, when newspapers, magazines, television, internet news and blogs all are discussing the various horrors of the world?
So, periodically, I take a break from it all. I don’t read the newspapers, not even the comics (which I now get online). I never have watched much television. I don’t turn on the radio. But, I never expected to find an article about Iraq in my latest copy of Vogue. I didn’t read it. I kept looking at the glamorous people and their beautiful clothes and jewelry. Even though I didn’t read the article, the fact of its being there has me agonizing over the stupidity of violence and greed.
I write letters and make my concerns known to those in power, and little comes of it. I will vote in this election and all elections because that’s one way I do have a voice. But, one person’s letters, voting and prayers don’t seem to do much good. I’ve diversified my retirement funds so that I’m not supporting those who seem to be grabbing for power or those that harm the world, the people or the animals (at least as far as I know). I do what I can. But, the situation seems to escalate. Or is it just that we know more about what’s going on in the world than we did when I was younger?
We are bombarded with so many images – natural disasters, wars, rape, drugs, police cars with lights flashing, fire sirens and the images change so quickly that comprehending the first one is impossible before another is there. Juxtaposed against these images are the advertisements that ask to buy more and more expensive and luxurious products touted by the famous people of the world. And, produce placement within ads – that Coke bottle on the table of the ad for convenience food – proliferate. Now, a company in North Carolina is producing scents that will enhance the appeal of certain products to certain shoppers. Sony has customized a scent that would appeal to women so that more women will shop in their stores.
The relationship between wars, greed and violence and the American (and perhaps world) desire for MORE is readily apparent in any newscast, magazine or other media. Love is the most renewable resource in the world, but fuel oil is not. Ideas that are innovative and creative multiply, but gold does not. We all seem to want more of those in limited supply.
This is another discussion that has no good ending for me. I still want to be happy and I don’t want to hear about war and violence. On the other hand, I want everyone to have all they need and lots of what they want. What some people seem to want is my life because I am a white female American, because I do have a retirement account, because I am gay, because I am a liberal and a Christian. I can’t give them my life. I’m not that good.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
In the sweet by and by
My gardening friend, Mimi, and I have been writing each other about how circumstances have kept us from working in our yards this summer and so far into the fall. In her latest email, she wrote, “Recently I’ve been seeing how beautiful it is, and whatever it needs I’ll do next year or the one after that, and how much fun it is to have this palette that I can play with and do whatever I want with.”
She also wrote about how our perception of time changes as we grow older, and that’s what has struck me as most profound today. She wrote, “Isn’t it wonderful to be so old that instead of next year being ages away it's just a short while? I love the fact that I have no impatience regarding the little things I plant and just know that they'll get big sooner or later.”
Instead of next year being ages away, it’s just a short while. And she’s right. I don’t worry about how far away next summer is or how long it will be until I can ride my jet ski again. Time will pass and before I think it possible, I’ll be out on the creek riding again. The more seasons that I have the less I worry about how fast or how slowly they are going. Patience comes with grounding in the present and enjoying or enduring what is.
When I look to the past, however, time seems even shorter. Our memories of long past events grow more vivid as the time lengthens between the event and now, especially if the event was important. Sometimes, however, ordinary memories catch us off guard, though. Colors and smells and feelings come flowing into our now when they really belong in years past. The sprinkling of dust on Susie’s black car brought back the little Ford coupe that my brother owned in high school. We lived out in the country, and it was always covered with dust from the farm and the gravel road. And, I could smell the dust so vividly that I began coughing. The dirt there smelled different than it does here; so I know it was remembered smells and sights from 50 years ago.
Perhaps this perception of time is part of hope. If next year is only a short while away, then my long healing process is almost over. If yesteryear is just a flash away, then fearful times are relieved because life is good. And, knowing that those fearful times are past, I know that my illness and new fears will also pass, and life will be good. In the sweet by and by....
She also wrote about how our perception of time changes as we grow older, and that’s what has struck me as most profound today. She wrote, “Isn’t it wonderful to be so old that instead of next year being ages away it's just a short while? I love the fact that I have no impatience regarding the little things I plant and just know that they'll get big sooner or later.”
Instead of next year being ages away, it’s just a short while. And she’s right. I don’t worry about how far away next summer is or how long it will be until I can ride my jet ski again. Time will pass and before I think it possible, I’ll be out on the creek riding again. The more seasons that I have the less I worry about how fast or how slowly they are going. Patience comes with grounding in the present and enjoying or enduring what is.
When I look to the past, however, time seems even shorter. Our memories of long past events grow more vivid as the time lengthens between the event and now, especially if the event was important. Sometimes, however, ordinary memories catch us off guard, though. Colors and smells and feelings come flowing into our now when they really belong in years past. The sprinkling of dust on Susie’s black car brought back the little Ford coupe that my brother owned in high school. We lived out in the country, and it was always covered with dust from the farm and the gravel road. And, I could smell the dust so vividly that I began coughing. The dirt there smelled different than it does here; so I know it was remembered smells and sights from 50 years ago.
Perhaps this perception of time is part of hope. If next year is only a short while away, then my long healing process is almost over. If yesteryear is just a flash away, then fearful times are relieved because life is good. And, knowing that those fearful times are past, I know that my illness and new fears will also pass, and life will be good. In the sweet by and by....
Thursday, October 05, 2006
An Heretical Monologue with God
Sometimes instead of a dialogue, where I talk and God gives understanding or mercy or something, I have a monologue with God. This is an heretical monologue that is ongoing. I don’t think I’ve finished talking, and God is surely not answering right now.
The sign on the Presbyterian (PCA) Church down the street says, “Does Jesus have the authority and is he willing to forgive your sins? Read Luke.XXX” After several days of reading the sign, I finally got as far as Luke, but I haven’t gotten the citation down yet.
My first impression was, “Well, sure. Jesus is God. God forgives.” Then I began thinking, and sometimes that is like playing without adult supervision, unsafe. Why does God forgive? Why do I need God to forgive me? Don’t I need those I wrong to forgive me? What does God have to do with this anyway? Never mind Jesus, what about God and forgiveness?
I don’t have any trouble with God as creator and sustainer. I don’t have any trouble with Jesus as God, incarnated here in this world to bring us to an awareness of the One God. I don’t have any trouble with gratitude for life, beauty, goodness, etc. I admit that being thankful for suffering is not my style, but that’s another monologue, I suspect.
I do have trouble with the necessity for God to forgive the harm we do to others – or, as my partner puts it – the joy we steal from others. Why is God the principal forgiver? Shouldn’t the people we harm be the principal forgivers? Yeah, yeah, I know. God created the world and I’m harming God’s creation and so I need God’s forgiveness for that harm. Too far removed for me right now. I can’t get past needing forgiveness from those I’ve harmed. And, we all know that forgiveness is not necessarily forthcoming. Sometimes others don’t forgive.
I do ask God to forgive me, but mostly that’s for me; so I won’t feel guilty any more about what I’ve done or not done. Mostly, that works. I repent. I promise not to do it again (even though I know I probably will). And, I feel forgiven. Is that God? Or is that just my need for expiation of guilt? Is that what God is all about? Gratitude for the good things and forgiveness for the bad? Somehow I don’t think I’ve got this right.
So, I guess I’m going to ponder on it some more, read some scripture – maybe even look up that Luke citation from the sign, and continue this monologue with God. Meanwhile, I fall back on my favorite Hebrew word, hesed, which means mercy, steadfast love, loving kindness.
The sign on the Presbyterian (PCA) Church down the street says, “Does Jesus have the authority and is he willing to forgive your sins? Read Luke.XXX” After several days of reading the sign, I finally got as far as Luke, but I haven’t gotten the citation down yet.
My first impression was, “Well, sure. Jesus is God. God forgives.” Then I began thinking, and sometimes that is like playing without adult supervision, unsafe. Why does God forgive? Why do I need God to forgive me? Don’t I need those I wrong to forgive me? What does God have to do with this anyway? Never mind Jesus, what about God and forgiveness?
I don’t have any trouble with God as creator and sustainer. I don’t have any trouble with Jesus as God, incarnated here in this world to bring us to an awareness of the One God. I don’t have any trouble with gratitude for life, beauty, goodness, etc. I admit that being thankful for suffering is not my style, but that’s another monologue, I suspect.
I do have trouble with the necessity for God to forgive the harm we do to others – or, as my partner puts it – the joy we steal from others. Why is God the principal forgiver? Shouldn’t the people we harm be the principal forgivers? Yeah, yeah, I know. God created the world and I’m harming God’s creation and so I need God’s forgiveness for that harm. Too far removed for me right now. I can’t get past needing forgiveness from those I’ve harmed. And, we all know that forgiveness is not necessarily forthcoming. Sometimes others don’t forgive.
I do ask God to forgive me, but mostly that’s for me; so I won’t feel guilty any more about what I’ve done or not done. Mostly, that works. I repent. I promise not to do it again (even though I know I probably will). And, I feel forgiven. Is that God? Or is that just my need for expiation of guilt? Is that what God is all about? Gratitude for the good things and forgiveness for the bad? Somehow I don’t think I’ve got this right.
So, I guess I’m going to ponder on it some more, read some scripture – maybe even look up that Luke citation from the sign, and continue this monologue with God. Meanwhile, I fall back on my favorite Hebrew word, hesed, which means mercy, steadfast love, loving kindness.
Monday, October 02, 2006
Fiction: Train on I-65
At 5:14 pm, Interstate 65 was bumper to bumper at 45 miles per hour. I was startled from my rush hour reverie by the amazingly loud sound of a train whistle. I looked in my rear view mirror and the train was puffing a cloud of steam right behind me. Without much thought, I hit the right turn signal and pulled over on the side of the road. The train and 60 cars (yes, I counted them) passed me by – right there on Interstate 65 as I was coming home from work.
Finally, I closed my mouth, stared at the train track and wondered why I was losing my mind right now. Last week would have been a more appropriate time. Last week, I quit my job right after the personnel manager told me that I was certainly mistaken that the sales manager had grabbed my left breast in the hallway of the Furniture Market. Last week I discovered that my ex husband and his new wife were moving to Mobile to operate a bed and breakfast – a dream I’d had for years. Last week my doctor called and said my pap smear was abnormal and could I come in for another check.
A tapping on my window stopped my review of last week. The Incident Management Assistance Patrol (what a name!) driver was asking if I needed help. Well, yes. But, he couldn’t give me the kind of help I needed. What I needed right now was to get back on Interstate 65 and get home. So, I thanked him, rolled up my window, looked at the ash on my windshield and turned on my left turn signal. Finally someone slowed down long enough for me to get back into the line of traffic, and I drove home on what, moments before, had been a train track with a steam engine and 60 cars on it.
Life went on. Nothing else unusual happened to me. I got a job that paid about the same as I had been making in a company that didn’t seem to have too many dorks. And, I love my work. I’m a public relations person, specializing in diversity issues. I was still making the same commute every day, but, at least, I could choose who squeezed my left breast (and my right one, too). The second pap smear and examination were clear. My ex did indeed move to Mobile, but they were managing someone else’s property without an option to buy – and in the hot summertime, too.
After a couple of months, I chalked up my “vision” to overwork, tiredness and anxiety.
With all the Spanish-speaking families moving into our area, I was working with a bank on how to attract these families to open a checking account when they don’t have a social security card, are afraid of “institutions”, and don’t make much money anyway. As I was driving home on Wednesday of that week, I was deep in thought about places where we could develop trust with the Hispanic people.
A blast of steam whistle, repeated in staccato fashion, blew me out of this century. The train was behind me again. Cursing, I pulled over on the shoulder and almost ran over an 18 wheeler. The driver slid slowly to the ground between his truck and the train and sidled back alongside the trailer. I motioned him to the passenger side of my Rav 4, and he got in.
We didn’t speak at first, but when the train and its noise were past, we both exploded at once. “So I really did see a train?” “What the hell was that?” We tried to both talk at once for a few sentences. Then silence reclaimed us. We stared incredulously at the train track. Then, it clicked with both of us that the industrial park on the other side of the interstate was gone, too. A few scrub trees and lots of grass covered the rolling hillside.
“Where’s the road?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I don’t know where the road goes, but this happened to me once before – about three months ago – same place, same time.”
The IMAP man was tapping on my window again, and he had a puzzled look on his face. “Are y’all okay?” he asked. “I’ve found somebody pulled over on the shoulder right here every day for three or four months. And, they always look stunned.”
“Do they ever tell you why?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “they just say they must be tired, and they’ll be okay.”
“Well, it’s the same for us, I guess.”
After he left, we stared at one another for a few more minutes without saying anything.
Then, “Well, I’ve got a deadline to meet,” he said as he opened the car door. “See ya round.” And he was gone.
My head was clearer than it had been. Now, I knew that I’d really seen a train; I wasn’t just day dreaming nor was I tired. The steam locomotive and its cars had been right there on Interstate 65 at 5:14 pm.
“Must be its regular time,” I thought.
As I drove home, I thought about all the train people I’d known when I was doing the newsletter for the C & G Railroad before they went under. Many of those old-timers were dead, but maybe Roger Coulter….
“Roger, this is Anna Salamon. You remember me; I used to do the C & G newsletter back in 1975. Yeah, that’s me.”
After a few pleasantries, I told him I had some more questions about trains and arranged to visit him in Columbus on Saturday. We agreed to meet at his house; he said he didn’t get out too much any more.
Saturday
Roger’s wife had made the tea I like and had some cookies to refresh me after my four hour drive. We talked about people we’d known and how the world had changed. Then, Roger said, “Anna, you sounded bewildered when you called. What is bothering you?”
“Oh.” And, I told him the story about the “phantom” train on I-65 complete with its 60 cars and the sounds of the engine and the way the track looked and the lack of an industrial park.
“I love a mystery,” he said. “When I studied physics back in the Neanderthal age, they talked about time warps. And, Madeleine L’Engle wrote about tesseracts (wrinkles in time) in the books I read to my kids. Now, I wonder if that’s what you’ve encountered.”
We plotted some facts that we’d need to know, divided them up, and planned to meet again in two or three weeks. I was to discover all I could about when that landscape changed from rural hillside to suburban industry. Roger would get on his computer and find out what he could about train schedules in that area and what companies operated back in the days when steam locomotives were still used. However, neither of us could do much research on time warps, but I was hoping that my college physics professor would help us out or know someone who could.
Tuesday
“Mr. Carson, this is Anna Salamon. I took physics from you in 1964.”
“I’m surprised that you remember me.”
“Oh, the questions I asked. Well, I have some more stupid questions to ask. Yes, I know there are no stupid questions, but these surely do feel stupid.”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes. Thank you.”
Alexander Carson lived in a retirement home about three miles down the road from my apartment; so we met in the library there. I told him about my experiences with the train and about my conversation with Roger.
“Anna, did you take LSD when you were in school?”
“No sir, why?”
“Well, this train could simply be a flashback from some drugs. But, I don’t remember you as being that kind of teenager. Now, there’s been a lot of research lately into what you’re calling time warps. I’ll try to track down some info for you. I’ll call you when I have something.”
Friday
“Jake, I need to leave work early today. I have an appointment at 5:14.”
And, with that announcement, I left the building, drove as slowly as traffic would allow along I-65. I pulled a good ways off the road at about the same place the 18 wheeler had been. It was a risk. I could be rear-ended by whoever ended up in front of that train today, but it was a chance I had to take.
And, I didn’t have long to wait. Traffic got heavier, until, just at 5:14 a black Honda suddenly pulled off the road behind me. As I walked back toward the car, a strong wind twirled me around a couple of times, and then I was in the midst of the steam trail from the train. The wheels were whistling all too close to my feet as I edged over to the Honda. The door was unlocked and I just got in without an invitation.
“Are you part of this hallucination?” she asked.
I could tell from the tone of her voice that this was not the first time she’d seen the train. “No,” I said, “I’ve seen the train twice, once alone, and once with a truck driver.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” She was incomprehensible for a few seconds. “We’re all losing our minds.”
“No, I don’t think so.” And, I told her about Roger and Mr. Carson and what we were doing. “I think the train is in a time warp at this particular place and time every day. And, someone gets caught up in the time warp because traffic is so heavy.”
I took her name and phone number and promised I’d call her as soon as we knew something. Then I drove straight to the library. In the corporate section, a history of the area had before and after pictures of that Westinghouse plant that disappeared every afternoon at 5:14. The area had been a simple rural hillside with cows and scrub trees and grass until 1949. Then Westinghouse had bought the land to build its factory. Other factories and related offices had sprung up in the late 50s and early 60s.
Two weeks later
“Roger, look at this photo of the area. That’s exactly what it looks like when the train is gone. Today there’s a big Westinghouse plant and an access road and the International dealership just beyond. But, this picture was taken in 1949 before the plant was built.”
“Well, Anna. That matches what I’ve found. The Chattnooga Railroad Company operated an afternoon freight from Kingston, Tennessee to Chattanooga for about five years – 1947 to 1952. It was a small company so they used steam locomotives that were fueled with coal. That’s why you had ash on your windshield. No diesel for them.”
So we waited to hear from Mr. Carson. Then, one morning I read the obituaries. Mr. Carson was dead. Our connection to the science of tesseracts and time warps was gone.
It’s been two years now since I first saw the train. Roger and I found pictures of the train in a Chattanooga newspaper. It was decommissioned in 1965 and set up in a park. When I called the Chamber of Commerce to find out about visiting the train, they said it had been dismantled about three months before.
Last week, I stopped at 5:14 just across from the Westinghouse plant. No train appeared, just trash caught in the weeds. As I wandered idly along the side the road – attracting stares from commuters – I picked up pieces of paper as they blew about my feet. Then, I looked down at a 5 x 8 piece of yellowed paper.
The Chattanooga Railroad Company
Bill of Lading
The date was July 22, 1950. I folded it carefully, got in my car and went home. When people ask about that framed railroad souvenir, I just tell them I used to do some newsletter work for railroads. (copyright Margaret Moore)
Finally, I closed my mouth, stared at the train track and wondered why I was losing my mind right now. Last week would have been a more appropriate time. Last week, I quit my job right after the personnel manager told me that I was certainly mistaken that the sales manager had grabbed my left breast in the hallway of the Furniture Market. Last week I discovered that my ex husband and his new wife were moving to Mobile to operate a bed and breakfast – a dream I’d had for years. Last week my doctor called and said my pap smear was abnormal and could I come in for another check.
A tapping on my window stopped my review of last week. The Incident Management Assistance Patrol (what a name!) driver was asking if I needed help. Well, yes. But, he couldn’t give me the kind of help I needed. What I needed right now was to get back on Interstate 65 and get home. So, I thanked him, rolled up my window, looked at the ash on my windshield and turned on my left turn signal. Finally someone slowed down long enough for me to get back into the line of traffic, and I drove home on what, moments before, had been a train track with a steam engine and 60 cars on it.
Life went on. Nothing else unusual happened to me. I got a job that paid about the same as I had been making in a company that didn’t seem to have too many dorks. And, I love my work. I’m a public relations person, specializing in diversity issues. I was still making the same commute every day, but, at least, I could choose who squeezed my left breast (and my right one, too). The second pap smear and examination were clear. My ex did indeed move to Mobile, but they were managing someone else’s property without an option to buy – and in the hot summertime, too.
After a couple of months, I chalked up my “vision” to overwork, tiredness and anxiety.
With all the Spanish-speaking families moving into our area, I was working with a bank on how to attract these families to open a checking account when they don’t have a social security card, are afraid of “institutions”, and don’t make much money anyway. As I was driving home on Wednesday of that week, I was deep in thought about places where we could develop trust with the Hispanic people.
A blast of steam whistle, repeated in staccato fashion, blew me out of this century. The train was behind me again. Cursing, I pulled over on the shoulder and almost ran over an 18 wheeler. The driver slid slowly to the ground between his truck and the train and sidled back alongside the trailer. I motioned him to the passenger side of my Rav 4, and he got in.
We didn’t speak at first, but when the train and its noise were past, we both exploded at once. “So I really did see a train?” “What the hell was that?” We tried to both talk at once for a few sentences. Then silence reclaimed us. We stared incredulously at the train track. Then, it clicked with both of us that the industrial park on the other side of the interstate was gone, too. A few scrub trees and lots of grass covered the rolling hillside.
“Where’s the road?” he asked. “Who are you?”
“I don’t know where the road goes, but this happened to me once before – about three months ago – same place, same time.”
The IMAP man was tapping on my window again, and he had a puzzled look on his face. “Are y’all okay?” he asked. “I’ve found somebody pulled over on the shoulder right here every day for three or four months. And, they always look stunned.”
“Do they ever tell you why?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “they just say they must be tired, and they’ll be okay.”
“Well, it’s the same for us, I guess.”
After he left, we stared at one another for a few more minutes without saying anything.
Then, “Well, I’ve got a deadline to meet,” he said as he opened the car door. “See ya round.” And he was gone.
My head was clearer than it had been. Now, I knew that I’d really seen a train; I wasn’t just day dreaming nor was I tired. The steam locomotive and its cars had been right there on Interstate 65 at 5:14 pm.
“Must be its regular time,” I thought.
As I drove home, I thought about all the train people I’d known when I was doing the newsletter for the C & G Railroad before they went under. Many of those old-timers were dead, but maybe Roger Coulter….
“Roger, this is Anna Salamon. You remember me; I used to do the C & G newsletter back in 1975. Yeah, that’s me.”
After a few pleasantries, I told him I had some more questions about trains and arranged to visit him in Columbus on Saturday. We agreed to meet at his house; he said he didn’t get out too much any more.
Saturday
Roger’s wife had made the tea I like and had some cookies to refresh me after my four hour drive. We talked about people we’d known and how the world had changed. Then, Roger said, “Anna, you sounded bewildered when you called. What is bothering you?”
“Oh.” And, I told him the story about the “phantom” train on I-65 complete with its 60 cars and the sounds of the engine and the way the track looked and the lack of an industrial park.
“I love a mystery,” he said. “When I studied physics back in the Neanderthal age, they talked about time warps. And, Madeleine L’Engle wrote about tesseracts (wrinkles in time) in the books I read to my kids. Now, I wonder if that’s what you’ve encountered.”
We plotted some facts that we’d need to know, divided them up, and planned to meet again in two or three weeks. I was to discover all I could about when that landscape changed from rural hillside to suburban industry. Roger would get on his computer and find out what he could about train schedules in that area and what companies operated back in the days when steam locomotives were still used. However, neither of us could do much research on time warps, but I was hoping that my college physics professor would help us out or know someone who could.
Tuesday
“Mr. Carson, this is Anna Salamon. I took physics from you in 1964.”
“I’m surprised that you remember me.”
“Oh, the questions I asked. Well, I have some more stupid questions to ask. Yes, I know there are no stupid questions, but these surely do feel stupid.”
“I’ll be over in a few minutes. Thank you.”
Alexander Carson lived in a retirement home about three miles down the road from my apartment; so we met in the library there. I told him about my experiences with the train and about my conversation with Roger.
“Anna, did you take LSD when you were in school?”
“No sir, why?”
“Well, this train could simply be a flashback from some drugs. But, I don’t remember you as being that kind of teenager. Now, there’s been a lot of research lately into what you’re calling time warps. I’ll try to track down some info for you. I’ll call you when I have something.”
Friday
“Jake, I need to leave work early today. I have an appointment at 5:14.”
And, with that announcement, I left the building, drove as slowly as traffic would allow along I-65. I pulled a good ways off the road at about the same place the 18 wheeler had been. It was a risk. I could be rear-ended by whoever ended up in front of that train today, but it was a chance I had to take.
And, I didn’t have long to wait. Traffic got heavier, until, just at 5:14 a black Honda suddenly pulled off the road behind me. As I walked back toward the car, a strong wind twirled me around a couple of times, and then I was in the midst of the steam trail from the train. The wheels were whistling all too close to my feet as I edged over to the Honda. The door was unlocked and I just got in without an invitation.
“Are you part of this hallucination?” she asked.
I could tell from the tone of her voice that this was not the first time she’d seen the train. “No,” I said, “I’ve seen the train twice, once alone, and once with a truck driver.”
“Oh, my God! Oh, my God!” She was incomprehensible for a few seconds. “We’re all losing our minds.”
“No, I don’t think so.” And, I told her about Roger and Mr. Carson and what we were doing. “I think the train is in a time warp at this particular place and time every day. And, someone gets caught up in the time warp because traffic is so heavy.”
I took her name and phone number and promised I’d call her as soon as we knew something. Then I drove straight to the library. In the corporate section, a history of the area had before and after pictures of that Westinghouse plant that disappeared every afternoon at 5:14. The area had been a simple rural hillside with cows and scrub trees and grass until 1949. Then Westinghouse had bought the land to build its factory. Other factories and related offices had sprung up in the late 50s and early 60s.
Two weeks later
“Roger, look at this photo of the area. That’s exactly what it looks like when the train is gone. Today there’s a big Westinghouse plant and an access road and the International dealership just beyond. But, this picture was taken in 1949 before the plant was built.”
“Well, Anna. That matches what I’ve found. The Chattnooga Railroad Company operated an afternoon freight from Kingston, Tennessee to Chattanooga for about five years – 1947 to 1952. It was a small company so they used steam locomotives that were fueled with coal. That’s why you had ash on your windshield. No diesel for them.”
So we waited to hear from Mr. Carson. Then, one morning I read the obituaries. Mr. Carson was dead. Our connection to the science of tesseracts and time warps was gone.
It’s been two years now since I first saw the train. Roger and I found pictures of the train in a Chattanooga newspaper. It was decommissioned in 1965 and set up in a park. When I called the Chamber of Commerce to find out about visiting the train, they said it had been dismantled about three months before.
Last week, I stopped at 5:14 just across from the Westinghouse plant. No train appeared, just trash caught in the weeds. As I wandered idly along the side the road – attracting stares from commuters – I picked up pieces of paper as they blew about my feet. Then, I looked down at a 5 x 8 piece of yellowed paper.
The Chattanooga Railroad Company
Bill of Lading
The date was July 22, 1950. I folded it carefully, got in my car and went home. When people ask about that framed railroad souvenir, I just tell them I used to do some newsletter work for railroads. (copyright Margaret Moore)
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Get a life
Connections are important, especially when you move. Moving from college to a new town is hard; often you don’t have connections. Work and building a career provide you with connections; of course, you have to work at this, but the locale is ready-made. Finding social connections is a bit more difficult. I remember going to bars and shopping and going to parks on Saturdays. Most of my contacts came from people I knew at work or in the same career field.
Families with children have built-in connections with other parents, teachers, and, if you are church-goers, people at church.
Retirement moves are the most difficult, especially when you move to an area where you don’t have built-in connections. Work-related friends are left behind. Civic organizations can provide some new relationships – if you’re involved in civic groups. Moving into a retirement neighborhood or one with a “club” can provide acquaintances who may become friends. But, church is frequently the usual place to find new friends. Volunteer service work is a good place, too.
A year ago we moved into a home that had everything we thought we needed to enjoy life. A woodworking shop, a boat dock, a garage, a separate room for my crafts, lots of windows and views of the water. The house needed some work, and that took quite a long time to complete – building a new house might have taken less time. Now that work is finished. We are free to enjoy our new retired life.
Only, I don’t have a retired life yet. I moved, unpacked and parked. I can look at the water all day long if I wish. I can shop, eat out, and come home to feast my soul on the beauty of the place. I still do my crafts/arts. I still keep up with friends by email. I’ve gotten hooked on blogs – reading and writing. But, I don’t really have a life, at least not a life by the standards of before.
I was very active in the church and in the community. I did some consulting work; I met lots of interesting people. I kept up with local political and civic affairs. I had an identity that was based on many of my likes and dislikes, and I had connections throughout the county and even the country.
But, here, I just parked. And, it was good. My Mom always told me, “You can be anything you want to be.” Of course, she always added, “But do learn to type so you can make a living.” Once again, I can create a new identity if I wish. I can be almost anything I want to be. The only problem is that I don’t know who or what I want to be.
Life would be so much easier if people were calling and asking me to do things. Then I could make choices based on what was offered. But, the phone’s not ringing for me. No one knows my skills or talents or interests here, and some days I’m not so sure of them either. What I do know is getting involved with the same things that made up my life before we moved here would be the easiest way to make connections. That was a great life, but I think I may want something different. Only, I don’t know what I do want. The world is out there for my choosing, and the choices are too many.
The downtown Episcopal Church is very large with three clergy and more programs than I can track. The suburban (if you can call it that) church is very small and needs lots of help in growing. No local church fits the same mold as the one I left where I had been happy for many years. And, I don’t change as easily as when I was younger and moved around more often. I didn’t have so many expectations then either. And, no one’s knocking on my door asking me to do something at church. I volunteered for a job once last year, but the project got rained out. Maybe that’s when I quit going to church. I felt rained out. So, I do morning, evening prayer or compline here. And, it is good.
But, I miss the connections. I miss the discussions of church politics. I miss the sermons, the hymns, the music, the pomp of the service, the murmuring silence of communion. I miss being a part of something bigger than me.
Someday soon, I have to “get a life”.
Families with children have built-in connections with other parents, teachers, and, if you are church-goers, people at church.
Retirement moves are the most difficult, especially when you move to an area where you don’t have built-in connections. Work-related friends are left behind. Civic organizations can provide some new relationships – if you’re involved in civic groups. Moving into a retirement neighborhood or one with a “club” can provide acquaintances who may become friends. But, church is frequently the usual place to find new friends. Volunteer service work is a good place, too.
A year ago we moved into a home that had everything we thought we needed to enjoy life. A woodworking shop, a boat dock, a garage, a separate room for my crafts, lots of windows and views of the water. The house needed some work, and that took quite a long time to complete – building a new house might have taken less time. Now that work is finished. We are free to enjoy our new retired life.
Only, I don’t have a retired life yet. I moved, unpacked and parked. I can look at the water all day long if I wish. I can shop, eat out, and come home to feast my soul on the beauty of the place. I still do my crafts/arts. I still keep up with friends by email. I’ve gotten hooked on blogs – reading and writing. But, I don’t really have a life, at least not a life by the standards of before.
I was very active in the church and in the community. I did some consulting work; I met lots of interesting people. I kept up with local political and civic affairs. I had an identity that was based on many of my likes and dislikes, and I had connections throughout the county and even the country.
But, here, I just parked. And, it was good. My Mom always told me, “You can be anything you want to be.” Of course, she always added, “But do learn to type so you can make a living.” Once again, I can create a new identity if I wish. I can be almost anything I want to be. The only problem is that I don’t know who or what I want to be.
Life would be so much easier if people were calling and asking me to do things. Then I could make choices based on what was offered. But, the phone’s not ringing for me. No one knows my skills or talents or interests here, and some days I’m not so sure of them either. What I do know is getting involved with the same things that made up my life before we moved here would be the easiest way to make connections. That was a great life, but I think I may want something different. Only, I don’t know what I do want. The world is out there for my choosing, and the choices are too many.
The downtown Episcopal Church is very large with three clergy and more programs than I can track. The suburban (if you can call it that) church is very small and needs lots of help in growing. No local church fits the same mold as the one I left where I had been happy for many years. And, I don’t change as easily as when I was younger and moved around more often. I didn’t have so many expectations then either. And, no one’s knocking on my door asking me to do something at church. I volunteered for a job once last year, but the project got rained out. Maybe that’s when I quit going to church. I felt rained out. So, I do morning, evening prayer or compline here. And, it is good.
But, I miss the connections. I miss the discussions of church politics. I miss the sermons, the hymns, the music, the pomp of the service, the murmuring silence of communion. I miss being a part of something bigger than me.
Someday soon, I have to “get a life”.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Twisted fibers
Today I’ve been twisting fuzzy pieces of colored string together to make a fiber necklace. I twist and twist and, when I put them down, they untwist even though I’ve tied the ends. They simply unroll. So I talked with Lisa about spinning. She said that you have to spin the fiber one way but twist it a different way when you put several strands together. It’s not as easy as it might sound.
I figured out which way the individual strings were twisted and I put them all the same way. Then I twisted the strings together in the opposite direction. I did this for two sets. But, when I tried to put them together, somehow, I got one strand turned around and as I tried to entwine them, one would unravel while the other one got tighter. Now, mind you, I didn’t discover this until I had already taped and wired the ends together and tried to put on some decorative bits. Then I realized that the pieces simply didn’t cohere.
Twisting fibers together is like twisting life’s events to make a good day. We put a different spin on different things to make the day come out the way we want it to be. Sometimes the fibers come unraveled at the end of the day, and everything we’ve done seems for nothing. Sometimes the pieces just fit right.
As we learn more and more about how to fit the parts of our lives together, we find that the fibers stay put better. First you twist one strand to the right, and then you twist the other strand to the left – the balance holds it together. What a concept!! Now if I could just figure out which direction the strands are going, I’d be in good shape. Something in the friction, maybe, keeps them together.
Again, it’s the balance, the fitting together of parts so that they don’t slide apart. It’s what we do with our days and our lives. We try to find the pattern and make the various parts of the pattern fit together and stay together. Some unravel and come apart, and some don’t. We have good days and bad days. (Brilliant observance, huh?) But, it’s the friction or lack of friction that holds the pieces together or makes them slide apart. We have to reflect on the day and the days and fit the pieces together so that they make a whole. Sometimes we need more pieces than other times. Sometimes, it’s hard to see the pattern.
I wonder how this corresponds to chaos theory or wave/particle theory. Scientists, therapists, and all sorts of people are tying their ideas to some form of one or both of these theories. Mental health practitioners talk about neurons in the brain firing in seemingly unrelated patterns – chaos, but when enough of them fire at once some sort of pattern emerges. These patterns often conform to things in nature like ferns, leaves, and morph into waves. Then, they talk about the waves of thoughts and the waves of neuron firings that form complex thought and how any one single neuron firing can change the way a thought pattern goes.
I guess as we grow older these wave patterns are more likely to be disturbed as we lose some of our neuron power. And, mental illnesses can make the chaos theory fit better than the wave theory. Training different neurons to take over previous thought patterns or develop new ones is a key to making changes in one’s life, one’s thinking and one’s happiness. I wonder if the transition from this life to whatever comes next is a realignment of our neurons into a different pattern.
My writing is sort of like chaos theory. I start with just putting words on paper – whatever is in my mind at the time. Gradually, as I write, some pattern, some logic, some reasoning becomes evident, and a theme is possible. That’s when the editing begins. Hummm. Perhaps that’s what I forget in trying to twist the pieces of the day into some sane pattern. I forget the editing; I forget to look at things from a different angle. I forget to snip and paste and reformat things to make them fit better – to make better sense of what’s happened. That’s not changing the past but changing how one interprets the past in light of the bigger picture.
An artist can see both details and overall picture, and we need to do that when we reflect on our days or weeks or lives. We need to put the details into perspective with the larger framework of our lives. Therapy, 12-step work, and meditation all help do this.
I figured out which way the individual strings were twisted and I put them all the same way. Then I twisted the strings together in the opposite direction. I did this for two sets. But, when I tried to put them together, somehow, I got one strand turned around and as I tried to entwine them, one would unravel while the other one got tighter. Now, mind you, I didn’t discover this until I had already taped and wired the ends together and tried to put on some decorative bits. Then I realized that the pieces simply didn’t cohere.
Twisting fibers together is like twisting life’s events to make a good day. We put a different spin on different things to make the day come out the way we want it to be. Sometimes the fibers come unraveled at the end of the day, and everything we’ve done seems for nothing. Sometimes the pieces just fit right.
As we learn more and more about how to fit the parts of our lives together, we find that the fibers stay put better. First you twist one strand to the right, and then you twist the other strand to the left – the balance holds it together. What a concept!! Now if I could just figure out which direction the strands are going, I’d be in good shape. Something in the friction, maybe, keeps them together.
Again, it’s the balance, the fitting together of parts so that they don’t slide apart. It’s what we do with our days and our lives. We try to find the pattern and make the various parts of the pattern fit together and stay together. Some unravel and come apart, and some don’t. We have good days and bad days. (Brilliant observance, huh?) But, it’s the friction or lack of friction that holds the pieces together or makes them slide apart. We have to reflect on the day and the days and fit the pieces together so that they make a whole. Sometimes we need more pieces than other times. Sometimes, it’s hard to see the pattern.
I wonder how this corresponds to chaos theory or wave/particle theory. Scientists, therapists, and all sorts of people are tying their ideas to some form of one or both of these theories. Mental health practitioners talk about neurons in the brain firing in seemingly unrelated patterns – chaos, but when enough of them fire at once some sort of pattern emerges. These patterns often conform to things in nature like ferns, leaves, and morph into waves. Then, they talk about the waves of thoughts and the waves of neuron firings that form complex thought and how any one single neuron firing can change the way a thought pattern goes.
I guess as we grow older these wave patterns are more likely to be disturbed as we lose some of our neuron power. And, mental illnesses can make the chaos theory fit better than the wave theory. Training different neurons to take over previous thought patterns or develop new ones is a key to making changes in one’s life, one’s thinking and one’s happiness. I wonder if the transition from this life to whatever comes next is a realignment of our neurons into a different pattern.
My writing is sort of like chaos theory. I start with just putting words on paper – whatever is in my mind at the time. Gradually, as I write, some pattern, some logic, some reasoning becomes evident, and a theme is possible. That’s when the editing begins. Hummm. Perhaps that’s what I forget in trying to twist the pieces of the day into some sane pattern. I forget the editing; I forget to look at things from a different angle. I forget to snip and paste and reformat things to make them fit better – to make better sense of what’s happened. That’s not changing the past but changing how one interprets the past in light of the bigger picture.
An artist can see both details and overall picture, and we need to do that when we reflect on our days or weeks or lives. We need to put the details into perspective with the larger framework of our lives. Therapy, 12-step work, and meditation all help do this.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Stupid People
Perhaps I should stop reading blogs for a while. I continue to be amazed at the stupidity of people in positions of power. Our US politicians who utter notorious things while the microphones are still on or make statements that cause us to questions their ability to reason are just the tip of the iceberg.
People in Nottingham, England, are fussing about which way the graves face in the public cemetery. A bishop in Africa claims to “control” 70% of the world’s Anglicans. The Pope disses Islam’s founder by quoting an obscure secular text. And, GWB just keeps puttering along, leaving gaseous waste behind. People are clear-cutting older forests in order to keep their land from being protected environment for woodpeckers...ruining views for which people have paid hundreds of thousands of dollars and causing untold environmental damage from rainwater run-off.
Someone once told me that the percentage of crazy people in the world had not increased; only the total number of people had increased. So, we see more crazies than before. But, that doesn’t mean that we should elect them to office or give them space in our newspapers. Of course, given freedom of speech, which I uphold dearly, they do have a right to speak or write their opinions. And, they can exercise their property rights. And, they can be called stupid. All without repercussion from the law.
I don’t tolerate stupidity very well. In the face of increasing stupidity, I leave my pacifist leanings behind to rely on my family’s favorite epithet: “I could just slap them cross-eyed.” Whatever was God thinking when he withheld reason from some of the population? And, who do they think made them God?
And, now our voting machines are computerized for the sake of quick counting and supposed accuracy. Only, these machines can be infected with a virus program that steals votes from one candidate and gives them to another – in a random enough way to prevent detection. Then, the virus erases itself and no one knows the difference. Never mind chads and stuffed ballot boxes and dead people voting. All we have to do is shift votes that are cast by valid voters.
I’m thinking of standing on a street corner with my sign, but I don’t know what it would say. I’d have to change it every hour to get through my list of gripes about stupid people, those nearby and those far away. However, researchers say that stress shortens one’s life, and I like living even with the kooks around. And, perhaps they would say that I am one.
I’ll keep voting, writing letters, making my opinions known and talking to those in power and hope that I am speaking truth to power – not stupidity to stupidity.
People in Nottingham, England, are fussing about which way the graves face in the public cemetery. A bishop in Africa claims to “control” 70% of the world’s Anglicans. The Pope disses Islam’s founder by quoting an obscure secular text. And, GWB just keeps puttering along, leaving gaseous waste behind. People are clear-cutting older forests in order to keep their land from being protected environment for woodpeckers...ruining views for which people have paid hundreds of thousands of dollars and causing untold environmental damage from rainwater run-off.
Someone once told me that the percentage of crazy people in the world had not increased; only the total number of people had increased. So, we see more crazies than before. But, that doesn’t mean that we should elect them to office or give them space in our newspapers. Of course, given freedom of speech, which I uphold dearly, they do have a right to speak or write their opinions. And, they can exercise their property rights. And, they can be called stupid. All without repercussion from the law.
I don’t tolerate stupidity very well. In the face of increasing stupidity, I leave my pacifist leanings behind to rely on my family’s favorite epithet: “I could just slap them cross-eyed.” Whatever was God thinking when he withheld reason from some of the population? And, who do they think made them God?
And, now our voting machines are computerized for the sake of quick counting and supposed accuracy. Only, these machines can be infected with a virus program that steals votes from one candidate and gives them to another – in a random enough way to prevent detection. Then, the virus erases itself and no one knows the difference. Never mind chads and stuffed ballot boxes and dead people voting. All we have to do is shift votes that are cast by valid voters.
I’m thinking of standing on a street corner with my sign, but I don’t know what it would say. I’d have to change it every hour to get through my list of gripes about stupid people, those nearby and those far away. However, researchers say that stress shortens one’s life, and I like living even with the kooks around. And, perhaps they would say that I am one.
I’ll keep voting, writing letters, making my opinions known and talking to those in power and hope that I am speaking truth to power – not stupidity to stupidity.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
how many years?
Life/God has a sense of humor. As we grow older and our connections with our pasts grow dimmer, we reach out to renew these bonds whenever we can. Our sense of identity seems to be tied up in other people – at least our memories are tied to other people.
I remember my first semester of college which began in January 1963. I moved from a permissive home environment to a very restricted dormitory experience with a roommate who had transferred from a girls’ school in New Orleans. She had red hair and went to sleep every night listening to a classical piece. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it; I thought it would be etched into my memory because classical music was not something I’d experience much before that. We were very different, and I avoided my dorm room.
I took chemistry, English, and I’m not sure what else. We walked to classes, of course; the campus was small. The dean of students drove her 1938 Chrysler around the campus and gave us rides when it was raining. And, it was always raining.
I don’t even remember how I met her, my friend – tall, blonde, cowboy boots and a reversible blue plaid Pendleton cape with a hood. She walked with purpose, and I think I wanted some of that purpose because I was just a bit intimidated by my dorm mates who seemed very sophisticated. And, she lived in a dorm of snobs – the elite of the social clubs lived there almost as if it were a sorority house. Although she'd been a debutante, she wasn't.
We seemed inseparable. Walks downtown in the afternoons when we could leave campus. Sitting in the Goose, trying to play ping-pong upstairs. The cape became a symbol of our friendship. The only way you could tell who was under the cape was the height. I was short.
Rain, being lost, wondering what life was about, not meeting the expectations of our families. The renegades. We rode bicycles out to Propst Park and learned how to spin a top at the local donut shop.
Somewhere along there, I began to meet and date the boys from the Air Force base just 10 miles from town. The school didn’t like this much. They wanted us to date boys from Mississippi State University – the agricultural school that was 23 miles away. Buncha hicks and snobs, if you ask me. One date was all I could stand, and I don’t even remember his name.
Once I met this tall, lanky fellow who laughed a lot, and I told her she had to meet him. I think that’s about the time I began drinking more heavily; so I don’t remember much from then until the Dean of Students came looking for me when she was missing. And, I knew, they had eloped! Horror of horrors! This just wasn’t done. Bad news at the girls’ school.
Now it’s 42 years later. Tonight we reconnected by phone. What joy! She teased me as she always had, and I just poked the fun back at her. She and her husband have apparently had a good life; they still laughed a lot tonight, big laughs, full of love and transporting me over the years. They have children and grandchildren. I’ve had a good life, too, as filled with joys and sorrows as theirs. I suspect it would be easier to tell us apart now; if only we had that cape, we could pretend once again.
I remember my first semester of college which began in January 1963. I moved from a permissive home environment to a very restricted dormitory experience with a roommate who had transferred from a girls’ school in New Orleans. She had red hair and went to sleep every night listening to a classical piece. I can’t believe I’ve forgotten it; I thought it would be etched into my memory because classical music was not something I’d experience much before that. We were very different, and I avoided my dorm room.
I took chemistry, English, and I’m not sure what else. We walked to classes, of course; the campus was small. The dean of students drove her 1938 Chrysler around the campus and gave us rides when it was raining. And, it was always raining.
I don’t even remember how I met her, my friend – tall, blonde, cowboy boots and a reversible blue plaid Pendleton cape with a hood. She walked with purpose, and I think I wanted some of that purpose because I was just a bit intimidated by my dorm mates who seemed very sophisticated. And, she lived in a dorm of snobs – the elite of the social clubs lived there almost as if it were a sorority house. Although she'd been a debutante, she wasn't.
We seemed inseparable. Walks downtown in the afternoons when we could leave campus. Sitting in the Goose, trying to play ping-pong upstairs. The cape became a symbol of our friendship. The only way you could tell who was under the cape was the height. I was short.
Rain, being lost, wondering what life was about, not meeting the expectations of our families. The renegades. We rode bicycles out to Propst Park and learned how to spin a top at the local donut shop.
Somewhere along there, I began to meet and date the boys from the Air Force base just 10 miles from town. The school didn’t like this much. They wanted us to date boys from Mississippi State University – the agricultural school that was 23 miles away. Buncha hicks and snobs, if you ask me. One date was all I could stand, and I don’t even remember his name.
Once I met this tall, lanky fellow who laughed a lot, and I told her she had to meet him. I think that’s about the time I began drinking more heavily; so I don’t remember much from then until the Dean of Students came looking for me when she was missing. And, I knew, they had eloped! Horror of horrors! This just wasn’t done. Bad news at the girls’ school.
Now it’s 42 years later. Tonight we reconnected by phone. What joy! She teased me as she always had, and I just poked the fun back at her. She and her husband have apparently had a good life; they still laughed a lot tonight, big laughs, full of love and transporting me over the years. They have children and grandchildren. I’ve had a good life, too, as filled with joys and sorrows as theirs. I suspect it would be easier to tell us apart now; if only we had that cape, we could pretend once again.
Saturday, September 23, 2006
Sickness sparks creativity
Okay, it’s been sick days since I found out how sick I was and three weeks that I’ve known something was a bit wrong, several months of knowing something wasn’t quite right. So, I’m taking all this stuff for respiratory infection, ear infection, sinus infection, that whole breathing apparatus. With the antibiotics, steriods, inhalers, sprays, and pills, I am still drawing air into and pushing it out of my lungs, but that hurts sometimes. I just want you to know that I don’t feel good and I’m tired of not feeling good, and I want to get out and do things. Even going to the grocery store would be good. A ride in the boat would be great and on the jet ski would be magnificent. There it sits, all ready for me. Where am I? Inside the house looking at the gorgeous water and the means to travel upon it without the energy to even get down to it – all 35 feet away.
However, I’ve been painting today with acrylics on paper. What began as a quilt/bedspread design has morphed into a combination of design and memory painting. Lisa took a picture of a moose at twilight and the overexposed and moving shot turned out beautifully colored shades of green, aqua, blue and a touch of brown where the moose was – but he was insignificant. I turned the picture sideways and began putting on a multi-colored medium pale wash in turquoise and blue shades.
Looked good. So, I thought I’d add pieces that could be quilted or appliquéd, wavy strips of cobalt and cerulean and teal and dark green. Well, I was doing fine until some of my darker colors began to look like the humpback whales we saw two weeks ago. So I added a little white frothy stuff around them – two blobs of dark that began to look more like something in water instead of moose in trees.
Continuing to shift from quilt pattern with sharp lines to painting with softer color changes, I created a picture that is nothing like my concept when I began. It even has darker rocks that remind me of the shoreline along the fjords, and some fireweed and a pretty yellow triangle tree...all very subtly done, you understand.
But, it’s not a quilt pattern, and it’s too stark to be a really pleasant painting. So, I don’t know exactly what I’ve created. I do know that making such a quilt (and I dreamed it for the king size bed) would be a undertaking that would terminated by my moved to a nursing home or a cemetery. Of course, it would be gorgeous, and I’d love to try it, but what about my other dream projects.
Seems like the trip has sparked creative dreams. First the quilt came. Then, I dreamed a fiber necklace using the dyed porcupine quills, and I’ve almost figured out how to make what I saw in my dream. Next came the little purses with quills and beading and some crystals just to make them snappy. And, today’s nap-time dream was a mandala that depicted my strengths and major life events – sort of like the totem pole I dreamed on the ship after we’d been in Sitka.
Some of these things I dream, I have no idea how to create. With some of them, I know the techniques, but I’m not good at them. With others, the patterns and makings are just too complicated and take to long to hold my interest. And, some of them may come to fruition. I think I may go around taking more blurry pictures just to see what ideas they spark in my dreams.
However, I’ve been painting today with acrylics on paper. What began as a quilt/bedspread design has morphed into a combination of design and memory painting. Lisa took a picture of a moose at twilight and the overexposed and moving shot turned out beautifully colored shades of green, aqua, blue and a touch of brown where the moose was – but he was insignificant. I turned the picture sideways and began putting on a multi-colored medium pale wash in turquoise and blue shades.Looked good. So, I thought I’d add pieces that could be quilted or appliquéd, wavy strips of cobalt and cerulean and teal and dark green. Well, I was doing fine until some of my darker colors began to look like the humpback whales we saw two weeks ago. So I added a little white frothy stuff around them – two blobs of dark that began to look more like something in water instead of moose in trees.
Continuing to shift from quilt pattern with sharp lines to painting with softer color changes, I created a picture that is nothing like my concept when I began. It even has darker rocks that remind me of the shoreline along the fjords, and some fireweed and a pretty yellow triangle tree...all very subtly done, you understand.
But, it’s not a quilt pattern, and it’s too stark to be a really pleasant painting. So, I don’t know exactly what I’ve created. I do know that making such a quilt (and I dreamed it for the king size bed) would be a undertaking that would terminated by my moved to a nursing home or a cemetery. Of course, it would be gorgeous, and I’d love to try it, but what about my other dream projects.Seems like the trip has sparked creative dreams. First the quilt came. Then, I dreamed a fiber necklace using the dyed porcupine quills, and I’ve almost figured out how to make what I saw in my dream. Next came the little purses with quills and beading and some crystals just to make them snappy. And, today’s nap-time dream was a mandala that depicted my strengths and major life events – sort of like the totem pole I dreamed on the ship after we’d been in Sitka.
Some of these things I dream, I have no idea how to create. With some of them, I know the techniques, but I’m not good at them. With others, the patterns and makings are just too complicated and take to long to hold my interest. And, some of them may come to fruition. I think I may go around taking more blurry pictures just to see what ideas they spark in my dreams.
Saturday, September 16, 2006
Can't we?
We seem to have more heroes now than in the last few years – not just heroes in our own communities, but heroes in foreign countries, heroes in our nation. A novelist, who is also a dentist, in Egypt has developed a large following, and he is promoting peace and understanding. A Native Alaskan woman closes her shop during the busy tourist season to take someone to the doctor. The local churches collect enough food to feed the hungry from a food pantry and soup kitchen.
These sentences have a comforting feeling of continuance. Whatever the state of the world, medical care, good writing, and food will continue. But, I wonder if this sense of heroes and continuing life would be the same if the house next door to us had been bombed in a recent foray by people who thought they were different from us. What would my perception be if the KKK had burned a cross in my front yard or torched my church (which they probably wouldn’t do because most of them are members there)?
How secure would I feel about having so many windows to let in the sunshine if tanks rumbled along my road? The possessions I have would be immaterial in comparison with life. I would be concentrating on getting enough food to feed us, on purifying the water so we could drink, on locking doors and being afraid of visitors.
Being thankful for our safety and well-being is always in order, but sometimes we need to be reminded that others do not have the comfortable lives that we do. And, we can work towards their well-being one person at a time, one good deed at time, one letter written to those in power, one donation to feed the hungry. One by one, we can win. Or at least, I think we can. Can’t we?
These sentences have a comforting feeling of continuance. Whatever the state of the world, medical care, good writing, and food will continue. But, I wonder if this sense of heroes and continuing life would be the same if the house next door to us had been bombed in a recent foray by people who thought they were different from us. What would my perception be if the KKK had burned a cross in my front yard or torched my church (which they probably wouldn’t do because most of them are members there)?
How secure would I feel about having so many windows to let in the sunshine if tanks rumbled along my road? The possessions I have would be immaterial in comparison with life. I would be concentrating on getting enough food to feed us, on purifying the water so we could drink, on locking doors and being afraid of visitors.
Being thankful for our safety and well-being is always in order, but sometimes we need to be reminded that others do not have the comfortable lives that we do. And, we can work towards their well-being one person at a time, one good deed at time, one letter written to those in power, one donation to feed the hungry. One by one, we can win. Or at least, I think we can. Can’t we?
Friday, September 15, 2006
Understanding through Discussion
D and I have been friends for more than 30 years. She is opinionated, passionate, vocal, involved, and analytical. I am opinionated (but on the other hand), painfully passionate, sometimes vocal, occasionally involved, and intuitive. Needless to say, our friendship has been interesting – sometimes up, sometimes paused, but always faithful. We’ve been geographically apart except for occasional visits and telephone conversations for many years, but the anxiety that rises from our discussions is strong. She makes me think. I’m not sure what I do for her, but she’s said these discussions are difficult.
Still, we discuss. Still, we present our ideas in our words and our experiences. Still, we misunderstand. Still, we ask for clarification. Still we wrestle with issues that concern our lives, the nation, the world.
We are both liberals, both gay, both Episcopalians, and so on. We love good books although we differ in what we call a good book. We generally agree on the most important aspects of life – love (essential), faithfulness (expected), peace (one person at a time, one country at a time, one life at a time), hope (necessary for life), food (love it), health (struggling), exercise (not), and a host of other things. She is like the sister I never had, and I deeply honor, love and respect her.
However, our not being able to explain our thoughts/feelings in words that really make sense to the other is sometimes frustrating, but always rewarding. I don’t understand how we can agree on so many things and still need so much clarification about what we write to one another. Sometimes I have to read her sentences several times before I even grasp what she’s talking about. And, I wonder, did I really say that – but she quotes from my emails – yes, I really said that. Well, what did I mean when I said that? Was it a reflective comment based on much thought or was it an idle simile that seemed appropriate at the time?
If D and I can agree on basics and more than basics but still have difficulty making our views known to one another, how much more difficult it must be for those on opposing sides of any issue to explain themselves to the others. Perhaps they don’t even agree on the words their side is using even if they agree on the principles.
What I do know is that such discussions are essential, and they must be honest, open and frank. The people involved must respect one another and trust each other to some degree. In diversity seminars, we focus on similarities in order to get people to work together and live together in peace. Sometimes, we should focus on the differences that cannot be resolved in hopes that understanding and tolerance will occur.
Let us not kill one another over the meaning of the Love of God.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
All Children of God
The bishops – liberal and conservative – met this week. They reached the same conclusion that we lay people reached earlier: unity is less important than principles. Although their statement reflected concern for each other; they found no way out of the conflict within the bounds of the Episcopal Church.
Dialogue is great; each side understands how much the others values mean and what they mean. Dialogue does not mean agreement nor resolution. Neither does time, which they recommend. Time does not heal all wounds. Time does not constrain people to agree. Although time does give us a pause to reflect.
George Dance, in writing about the 9/11 disaster, quoted psychologist Rollo May, in his book The Courage to Create: "Human freedom involves our capacity to pause between stimulus and response and, in that pause, to choose the one response toward which we wish to throw our weight." Dance continued, “It is lamentable that we did not allow that pause to move us toward a new response. We experienced terror, but we also experienced an outpouring of good will from the entire world. The pause gave us a chance to choose which stimulus would determine our one response. We could choose to respond to the good will, or to the terror. Even in our response to terror, we could choose to reverence the good will extended to us, or to indulge our fearful impulse.”
I fear that both sides of this difference in the Episcopal Church have reacted with our “fearful response”, but both have continued to do the work of God in the world. That work of feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, comforting the sick and dying – that work – the work of loving our neighbors. Or at least, loving most of them. I doubt that any church has withdrawn its funds from AIDS care, but they have said that homosexuals are second class Christians – sinners who must change their way of life. Our fears will trump our good will eventually because the liberal and conservative bellows are both working to fan those flames of fear.
I’m for including everyone in God’s promises; I even believe that everyone will eventually be included in “heaven”, whatever that is. It’s not my problem to decide who will and who will not be included. My problem is how to love those who are not so loveable and to comfort those who are sick in body, mind or soul. In Psalm 130, the poet writes, “if you, O Lord, were to count sins, who could stand?” The face of God is face of each person on earth. Each has goodness and each has sin.
I do choose with whom I associate, but I pray each day for forgiveness for judging those that I leave out of my circle. It is easier to practice my beliefs and my ministry when I am surrounded by those like me. Oh yeah, I need challenging sometimes; I need the times of trial; and I pray that God will deliver me from evil.
When the church has divided itself into sections that agree with one another, when all the dialogue is said about this topic, when we settle into a new prayer book and hymnal, we will all be children of God just like we are now. We will have sinned; we will have done good. We will have favored some and alienated others. We will be humans seeking to become more like the God we know.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Images as comfort
The images of blue ice, waterfalls, black mountainsides, bear chasing bear, whale flukes, faraway peaks covered in snow, friendly people, tall green trees, a pack of wolves lounging beside the fjord – they all run together, and I no longer remember where each scene was placed in that distant land of Alaska. Twelve wonderful days of sights unlike any except my few glimpses of the Rockies have made me blurringly tired.
The Episcopal Church is still sparring within itself and with others in the Anglican Communion. The war in Iraq seems no nearer resolution than before. Disasters are happening all over the globe. Individuals are still dying from diseases that may one day have cures.
But, for twelve days, I was blissfully unaware of any of this. I found moments of solitude in the midst of awesome beauty and gave thanks for the respite. For twelve days I focused on the good, the beauty, the wonder of a different world than the Southern USA. I ignored the racism and elitism and – what’s the word for economic bias?- and other such human heresies.
The sense of renewal is great. Once I recover from the exhaustion of so much greatness in such few days, I know that I will feel energized and ready to step forth into the world. For now, I am letting the images, the feelings and the hopes swirl inside me mixing into a giant cup of cocoa that will help me to bring warmth and love and hope to a hurting world.
One day in a bead shop in Fairbanks, I met Ann, a Native Alaskan woman, as well as her sister, her mother and her grandmother. We chatted about porcupine needles and how to use them in beading; I helped pick beads up from the floor where they spilled, we compared different stringing materials. Then Ann looked at the clock and said she had to go pick someone up. Before she left, she came to me and hugged me. Suddenly, I felt as if I had been anointed with precious oil and been blessed by God. For a few silent seconds, we were one. Then she was gone and I was paying for my quills and beads. Later that day at the gift shop near the pipeline, I told this story to the woman working there without mentioning a name. She said, “Oh yes, Ann is our “official” unofficial social service. She helps everyone; she is a healer.” I still get chills and warmth when I think of that hug and blessing.
Some days later in Skagway, I met a man who had been reared on a farm in Ketchikan and had raised his family in the Yukon. That day, he had brought his entire family, including grown grandchildren, to Skagway to shop and enjoy the sunshine. He was trying to get the Yukon old timers to write down or record their memories of what it was like. He said, “The world is changing, and they need to put down what they know.” He was building a website to highlight that history of the Yukon. I petted his Shitzu and we hugged on that street corner.
Meeting God in nature and in people is important in our lives. Making memories to carry us through the hard times is important. At night when my legs hurt, I replay the bead store story and the Yukon story – forgetting the pain for a few minutes and letting the connection with two people so far away help me make it through the night.
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