A Place of Love

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I currently have a lot of time to explore new authors and books, music and poetry, recipes and art. In exploring a topic for this blog I came across a TED TALK by Valerie Kaur, link here: Revolutionary Love . Her words brought me hope, some tears, excitement and courage. This, I thought to myself, THIS is what I want to write about this week.

The quote above from Parker Palmer popped up next and voila! I had a solid theme for a blog post.

The fundamental premise is to look around and ask yourself “Who have we not yet tried to love?” What are each person’s individual stories that we need to hear because those the are stories can help us see there is no stranger among anyone we meet.  

One of the greatest gifts I have been offered/given in my life has been the opportunity to travel and even live in places all over the world. Some of the time I traveled with friends, my father, my husband, and most recently my children. But some of the time I traveled alone. Taken out of the comfort zone of what I was familiar with I found myself experiencing some worry and anxiety. Some of this arrived at my door step even before I began the adventure. What would happen if….? How do I…….? Is there…..? Who will……..? Questions based on uncertainty and a little bit of fear and worry. I was entering a realm of the unfamiliar, even the unknown. I would be my own source of comfort, courage and ingenuity. I would be in places and situations where I did not speak the language that might have been required for me to ask for help or direction. Off I went! First I traveled to India and Nepal. My father, an Episcopal minister had been asked to be part of the team traveling with a group of college students. He was able to make arrangements for me to go with him. After that we were off to Belgium for The Second World Conference on Religion and Peace. Before going to Belgium we stopped in Denmark where I stayed with a Danish family for almost a week. I no longer remember what my father was up to! With in this same trip I went to Iceland, Norway, Switzerland, France and Germany with my father.

Years later I traveled with my dear friend AnaLisa to attend a 6 week college session in England, and then I traveled to Corfu, Greece before meeting her again in Athens where we made arrangements to live in Iraklion, Crete. Years later, married, I found myself traveling to Japan with another friend and her young son. Eventually my husband would come and join me and we would remain in Kyoto for another 6 months. In each and every place there were people who reached out with their heart and hand when there was no shared spoken language. Yet there was love, care, respect, help and trust.

It’s true, as Parker Palmer writes, we all have places of fear. Right next door are places of hope, trust and faith. They are just a step away from the place of fear, yet the first step to leaving fear behind sometimes seems like such a huge, wide one and we falter and pause, wondering if we can get across the chasm. if we would but only take a moment to look up instead of towards our feet, chances are we would find another on the other side reaching out to lend a hand. We are guided and supported by probably hundred of people through out our lives. Those who will reach out to us offering the very best of our humanness. If by some chance we still stumble or fall they are still there to pick us up and dust us off.

As I have been on this journey of healing and recovery I have stood at the edge of that chasm. Frozen by the unknown and fear. It has been a mind game of sorts, and a tug of war with my sense of pride as controlled by ego. Voices in my head yell “You shouldn’t need the help and support of others. Take care of yourself for heaven’s sake.” The dreaded “shouldn’t s”. BUT, if as Parker says I am able to instead, begin from a place of promise, a place of hopefulness, I will head in a direction not so scary and uncertain. And maybe, I will not travel alone. Perhaps now that the foundation is more stable perhaps others will follow me towards a more trustworthy, more hopeful, more faithful way of being in the world.

I can remain stuck in the quagmire of self pity, uncertainty, cynical thoughts and feel all the accompanying feelings and emotions which may only add proof that I am in fact stuck here forever. Or I can gather myself up and step just next door to faith, hope and trust. From this place stepping forward is not so intimidating, so impossible looking.

Sitting here, having walked through a door I never even saw (the aneurysm) and finding myself frozen in disbelief and fear, I am humbled. Humbled by what I now understand is a kind of strength, promise and hopefulness. It comes from deep inside of me, upheld by the foundation built from the love of others. There is no weakness or shame in reaching out to others. It may just be that they are in fact the bridge that connects us, me, to a more trustworthy , more hopeful, more faithful way of being in the world. A place where we heal, grow, love, share, offer, receive, nurture, trust and discover and gain the strength to reach out to others in return.

I put a lot of time into thinking about all this because it is my path to healing and regaining pieces of my life. I am not blind to the goings on of our world. There is much pain and suffering. There is divisiveness and mistrust, anger and fear. When I am quiet in my heart I understand some of this mistrust, anger and fear because, for a moment I am able to put myself in the proverbial shoes of the “Other”.

I am in a place where I feel out of control of the situation, at the mercy of things I cannot control, scared and worried, unsure and uncertain of the future, and sad. When I can understand the situations others are in that may cause them the same feelings and reactions, I am able to feel connected to them, as if I am standing next to them rather than against them. It is possible we may look at each other in recognition of this and reach out towards each other, helping one another.

It’s been difficult to see the silver lining of the past six months, but it is there. It is the cloak of hope and love. Both hold a guiding lantern up to the perceived darkness of not knowing and soften the fear, the uncertainty as they guide us to our place in the world were the light shines on trustworthiness, hopefulness and faith. And it is in this place, understanding there are no strangers, we rest in the arms of others, where we may find comfort, pause, healing and growth. We will discover the one we have not yet tried to love is not so different from us. We need only to care enough to listen to their story with an open heart and then reach out to them with compassion and empathy.

So, this Sunday I contemplate my own way of Being in this world. What guides me and sustains me?

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The Treasure Map

Good morning!! As I continue to heal it is ironic that I have ordered a dozen books to read, but still struggle to read because of short term memory failings. As soon as I turn a page in a book I have to go back because I have forgotten what I just read.

Yet, here I am using a quote from a book I am reading because it struck a chord that held long enough for me to remember it!! The book is: “Magic In Plain Sight–When acceptance is the healing” by Patricia Heavren.

“Waiting, hoping, (listening) for the “map” to reveal itself. The human narrative, etched by the soul, never fails to tip its hand by exploring a kind of treasure map, a place where “X” marks the spot where something of value is buried. It isn’t the kind of map used to plot a path from one place to another. It’s more the type found behind smooth glass in kiosks stationed at a mall entrance where “X” has an accompanying message;”

“You are here.”

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I AM here!! Friends we hadn’t seen in years stopped by yesterday and it was wonderful. Joanie had recently had a similar experience with a cerebral hemorrhage. As I answered the questions she had for me, I saw the switch of complete understanding click on behind her eyes. I wasn’t going to have to go into babbling depth about what I was experiencing. She had experienced it herself and understood exactly what I was describing.

As I wander around what does kind of  feel like the mall of my life, big and little compartments of various experiences and memories, I do sometimes get lost. I don’t seem to be able to get back to the place I want to be. It makes me frazzled until I find the “guide” and stand  rigid in front of it almost demanding that it do it’s thing and get me to where I want to be.

I take a small step back as the words next to the “X” scream out at me: “YOU ARE HERE”.

Lights flash and bells whistle in my mind. Of course I am “here”. And suddenly, understanding where I actually am, that frustration and fear fall back. I am here. I am ok. I will be able to get back to the treasure…..where I will be healthy and healed. I understand there are “Maps” that will help guide me: therapy, will power, family, friends and doctors. But, I have to, at least for now, have a shared, agreed upon safe spot where we can meet if we become separated or lost. That place is the place marked by an “X”,”You are here.” I can only go forward from where I am.

Just like that mall guide I stood demandingly in front of, waiting for it to tell me how to get “there”, it instead told me where I was, “HERE”. And that was the map. I had to understand where I was in order to figure out how to get where I wanted to be otherwise I might stay lost, wandering, searching. Knowing where I am (recovery) is the first step in reading the map to get to where I want to be (healed).

I get tripped up sometimes and take a wrong turn here and there, but I’ll get to where I want to be! For now I am here. Looking around I can see in all directions. I know if I stay grounded in being “Here” that I can get to “There”.

So many of you help by lining up along the path waving me forward in the right direction. You are beacons for me, holding me true to the way, making sure that I always remember that to get to the finish line I must know the route. I’ll get there thanks to your guidance!

Sustenance

Here in the Northeast Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow so we have a little more winter ahead before Spring wakes up. If you’ve been following along you know I am recovering from a ruptured brain aneurysm. If you’re new to this blog, I am now in the 6th month of recovery from this. I spent many weeks in the hospital and many months in rehab before being  able to come home.

Memory was significantly affected. While much seems to be returning, there are things that remain fuzzy or cloudy. Things one might think you could never forget, like the death of loved ones.  Alas, those tender moments of deep sorrow needed to be retold and relived.

Recently I was looking at a site I follow, Gratefulness.org, and came across this question to ask myself in their “Practice Space”: “What memories sustain me?” The word “sustain” jumped at me. What keeps me going?

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I think it caught my attention for two reasons. Firstly because of the targeted loss of some memory, and two, because thankfully I retained/regained many powerful memories. A whole line-up of memories fell into place as if on cue. As I reflected on those memories I came to the train of thought that wondered how this played into the mindfulness concept of being present in the moment and not wandering back to the past or longing for the future. The past is over and the future is unknowable.

Working with this I began to see that while I did not try to linger in or relive the past, I had walked that path once and the experiences and people I met challenged me to grow and to continue along to discover what was up ahead. I value the lessons of those experiences and now, as memories, they do continue to have a profound effect on the person I am now.  I am now most certainly different from the person I was then. To my mind the memories are significant because they reflect events that did in fact mold this person I am now.

These stories that are now memories were significant in me developing into the person I am today and have been incorporated into posts on this blog. You can read of few of them here:

Sounds of Life,   About That Box of Photos Under My Bed ,  Every Single Day,  

There are other posts as well that contain stories about my memories and how they influenced who I grew to be.

To be clear, there are memories I do not share because they are not happy ones and I do not see how my sharing them would be of value. At least right now. There are no deep, dark secrets, but there is profound sorrow, the endless lingering and looping of the “What If?” thoughts and questions and a few embarrassing moments too!

Blogging presents an interesting conundrum: what is okay to share and what is not?

As I sit here now writing this I am focused on healing and recovery. There is some awareness of learning and transformation,  but much of my focus is only on physical and emotional healing.  I have come to understand how some things in my past, now memories, built up and created the person now delegated with this task of lifting “me” back up and dusting off my shoulder before sending me forward.

I have found myself in positions where I have been confused and scared. I have experienced pain and hurt. Because of the aneurysm there I things I do not remember. With my family by my side I made it through all of it and while my body is still weak, some thing in my heart and soul is ready to burst forth with new growth and blossoming. Something almost sacred, that was seemingly born and fertilized from this difficult medical event.  The sign posts along the way towards recovery and healing asked “What memories sustain you?”

There are too many to list but the common thread is that they are all so different. There are memories of being loved and nurtured as well as of being worried or afraid. There are memories I would just as soon forget as well as ones I am sure I could never forget. “Good” or “bad/painful”, each one was part of the construction team that built the person who is writing this. Without each part of the story, each memory, I would not be who “I” am. Yes, “I” would still “be”, but “I” would not be the “I”  am now.

So, as I meander along memory lane in the hopes of reaching my destination of “Healed”, I take comfort in any and all of these memories. Turning each one over and over again like a newly received gift. Each one a part of the mystery puzzle that manifests as Kathryn. Along the way I do not need to linger long on any one memory. Instead I only need pause to take in the view and then, looking forward, take a breath and continue one foot in front of the other.

Memories are a little fickle in general. If I am honest with myself I generally discover that while there may be memories I would just as soon delete from all files, they are also, if I am being honest, a tangential piece of a “good” memory. The place of origin did not begin as something sad or painful, it usually was the result of diverging from the path intended. This is a long, round about way of saying I am trying to make peace with this aneurysm. Each day I work to give my body the time, space and support it needs to heal and to allow the aneurysm to be a short term visitor in my life, not a boarder who needs tending to.

Would you like to share the things that sustain you?

 

 

 

Sounds of Life

The days and nights move along slowly for me. Activity and busy-ness don’t come into play much as I move slowly towards recovery. Patience is now a mantra as I try to allow this slow moving, almost stillness, the space it requires from me.

As I begin to write, one of my cats, Bert, sits in front of the window making little chirpy cat noises as she watches birds at the feeders. Short, high pitched little snippets of sound that indicate she is excited. She interacts with life in her own way, but what she takes time to observe and respond to is what animates her. Otherwise she is asleep!

There is sound all around us. An infinite soundscape, like a smorgasbord of food, but for sounds. Right now I hear the subtle sound of the timer on the fish-tank ticking the minutes down before it comes on again.

I have seemingly endless time now to be aware of the variety offered up by my home soundscape. From kitty chirping to timer ticking, there really is no true silence here. Life around us is all about doing things, being busy and productive. It’s all about noise: music, TV, movies, radio. There is beeping and buzzing from endless sources. Even the refrigerator and furnace speak up from time to time. And Bert and Stewie chime in with their meows, purring and squeaks.

When life creates a lot of noise I find myself becoming jittery and tense. Almost anxious. To be clear, it is usually an anxiousness about nothing in particular. It just a response to noise. Maybe you’re thinking “So what?”

If I pay attention to my body and mind I find that I can get wrapped up and lost in background noise. Some of it is like fingernails on a chalk board. Not all noise grates. There are also softer, melodic sounds. Sometimes they get drowned out by the harsher more abrupt sounds.

With these sounds and noise just about everywhere, I expend a great deal of energy trying to buffer or quiet them. I find I am more aware when there is a pause or lull, and I notice my mind and attention wandering all over they place now that I don’t have to filter the noises as much. My thoughts speak up, usually creating their own stories that may be positive or not. The point is not always to judge them but rather if they are true or not. An unchecked mind can wander aimlessly and walk along, arm in arm with emotions and feelings. Generally this results in thinking that becomes lost and confused. Stories are narrated that are not real.

If you think about all the “noise” in our lives that is generated by re-playing conversations/thoughts/events, self talk, list making, small talk, negotiating, important conversations and all added together with car and traffic sounds, machine noises, other people talking, the radio, electronic buzzing, quiet, let alone actual silence, is hard to come by. Does it matter? I think it does. It does for me.

It is difficult to silence thoughts that come to us as we settle into sleep at night or as we rustle awake in the morning. When our feelings get hurt we become expert story tellers.

As I spend time sitting, reading, drawing, “working” on recovering I become more aware of sounds and thoughts. Sometimes I can figure out how to turn off or ignore some of those sounds. My thoughts are a challenge to turn off. If I have presence of mind to stop moving  I am able to focus on listening to the softer, secret sounds surrounding me. In so doing the other sounds fade and sometimes even silence arises.

The softer, secret sounds may be leaves dancing together in the wind, the sound of a snowflake landing on a carpet of snow, an eagle calling across the valley,

Why does it matter? For me, I am reminded of that snowy winter day when I stood still, my boots no longer squeaking  on the frozen ground. When I stopped moving I saw fluffy snow falling around and on me, it was like being in a snow-globe. Then I heard it. The sound of a weightless snowflake landing on a drift of other snowflakes. Just a soft, soft, pffft sound. I had heard wind and sleet before, but never a snow-flake landing! A feeling of awe and wonder embraced me.

Another time I was reading outside on a summer’s day and heard a buzzing sound. I looked up thinking I would find a bee or mosquito darting around. Nope. No bee or mosquito anywhere. But there was a hummingbird! I was hearing the buzzing of those insanely fast wings working to keep the little body in the air.

Decades ago as I lay on the grass near the Taj Mahal in India, eyes closed, body and mind at rest, I heard chattering near me. Without moving I opened my eyes to see a squirrel sniffing my hand. Tentatively his paw reached out and I wiggled my finger. He scurried away squealing something in squirrel language.

Something happened to me as I experienced these things. First I experienced awe and joy, but I also had found beauty and mystery in the place I inhabited. “Nature” became something important and not abstract. It was dynamic and alive and I sensed how little of it I probably paid attention to. When I did, it presented beauty and mystery and awe.

When I tuned out the sounds of a “busy” life I discovered the whispers of another world and the wonder of this world. A world I share with miracles. A world that sustains awe and beauty, fragility, power and life.

Now, when snow falls I listen for the feather soft landing of a snowflake, and I experience wonder. Now, when I hear a sound I look up to see birds dancing together on a branch, a tiny, newly hatched baby bird providing the song they are dancing to.

When I experience the sound of a snowflake landing or see birds dancing to a chirping lullaby, I am changed.

I am reminded of Wendell Berry’s poem: The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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A feeling of being balanced occurs. I come back into alignment with Nature, with the Earth. I am humbled and renewed. The art of being quiet allows me to hear the sounds of life.

This time of healing and renewal is challenging for me. I become restless and frustrated, wishing for a faster return to strength and health. As I watch sparrows dancing together at the feeders I am coming to understand I can choose for this slower pace, this occasional stillness, to be a blessing, if I would only close my eyes to just listen and then, when it is time to open my eyes and see what I may not have noticed and feel the power of awe and wonder as healing powers. So many gifts and lessons from Nature.

 

 

 

Your Life, Your Journey

” Do Shaol, Do Thuras”

The Irish phrase “Do Shaol, Do Thuras” means “Your Life, Your Journey.”

Many years ago I was handed a box by my step mother. My father had recently passed and she was transferring this box of family photos, history and information on to me. I was to become the keeper of this information. Inside there was the history of our coat of arms, copies of patents, invitations to award dinners and events, wedding invitations, old telegrams, newspaper clippings, strange piles of marketing flyers…..some things I knew what they were. Other things, I had not a clue. Pictures of people were mysteries….no names, no places listed, no dates. No connection to be made. Just faces looking back at me.

I realized I could either throw the box and it’s contents out, or get the information organized and keep it safe. I made a decision to protect the information and unwittingly dove head first into the world of genealogy.

This past Christmas my daughter began talking about a family trip to Ireland. We had been talking about doing a “big” trip somewhere. My now decades old foray into genealogy saw Ireland as a solid contender as a destination. Northern Ireland in particular was at the top of the list. And a sleepy town in County Down called Portaferry became one of the highlight destinations.

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Portaferry, Co. Down, Northern Ireland. June 2017. Photo by me.

The venture into genealogy has been a true journey for me. Past history has become living history. I have felt at times as if my ancestors were walking by my side on this journey.  Each story uncovered about these family members put them in a spotlight for me. As I have gained perspective on their lives, my life has gained some perspective too.

Your life. Your Journey. My Life. My Journey.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way.
Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me.
Be still, they say. Watch and listen.
You are the result of the love of thousands.”
~Linda Hogan

Genealogy is sometimes fickle. Information exists sometimes, but not always. Oral history is sometimes proven, but not always. People with the good-intentioned desire to make connections sometimes make them up, ignoring dates, places and more. Brick walls are at every corner. Angels appear out of nowhere with a missing piece of the puzzle. Genealogy really is not a single person’s journey, but a collective effort at finding and piecing the puzzle pieces together. DNA testing helps but only if there is a living male descendant.

Exploring the past, I have been able to get as far back as the mid to late 1700’s in Portaferry. This was the first place I could connect my maternal 4x great-grandfather, James Vance, to.

There is no DNA proof. There are no birth or census records yet found in Ireland that connect him to Portaferry. The church he most likely was affiliated with there was destroyed in a massive storm, along with any records. There are Revolutionary War records where he indicated he “was from” Portaferry, Ireland. There are American records that record Portaferry as his “home”. There is only one place in the world called Portaferry.

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Scots-Irish history supports the reason for his family’s journey from Scotland to Ireland in the 1600’s, and then eventually to Pennsylvania in the mid 1770’s. Oral history from family supports this also.

So Portaferry became a family destination. (And I am ever so grateful my family agreed to this)

We are bound to our ancestors and to those who made us,
whether we want to be or not.
What matters is what we make of what we are.”
– Kate Elliott

Upon arrival in America both sides of my family eventually settled in parts of Pennsylvania. My son lives there now and when we go to visit I find myself looking out the car window, watching the scenery fly past. Questions loop around as thoughts: What thoughts did they have leaving Ireland? Did they know where they were going…have relatives here already? How many family members did they say good-bye to? What few things did they bring with them? What was it like for them to see the Monongahela River and the rolling hills of PA? Did it look like home?

Those questions arose again as I walked on the ground and streets where this Scots-Irish ancestor of mine most likely walked, Portaferry. In talking to a town historian there he said, “Portaferry wouldn’t have looked too much different land wise…it’s the same now as then. What you see now is what he saw then.”

 

 

There was great power in that summation for me. A connection to the past. My eyes saw what he saw. The water. The hill. The windmill. The castle. The tower across the water. The forceful tide flowing in and out through the Narrows everyday. The Irish Sea in the distance. All that was the same, then, as now.

I was looking at what he saw everyday.
I saw what he saw.
I was standing where he stood.
I was walking where he walked.
It almost felt like we could walk together and reminisce.
Share a memory.

Political and religious persecution were no doubt the motivating forces in James Vance leaving Ireland. He was part of the last of the five large waves of Scots-Irish to leave Northern Ireland for America in the 1700’s. Up to a quarter of a million Scots-Irish were estimated to have emigrated across the Atlantic from the north of Ireland through the 18th century (with an even greater amount following in the 19th century). Shortly after he landed in Philadelphia he enlisted in the fight against the British in the Revolutionary War. His grave in Greensboro PA has the Rev War marker next to it. He served under Captain Reading and Col. Chambers and fought in the battles of Germantown and Monmouth. He was with Washington and Lafayette in Valley Forge.

 

 

After the war James joined with a group of German immigrants in a business endeavor with Albert Gallatin (who later became Secretary of the Treasury under Jefferson and Madison) establishing the first “Glassworks” in New Geneva PA. The name Albert and Gallatin, as well as the German given and surnames of the glassblowers (seen on the marker below), became intermingled with the Vance family as friendships developed and marriages took place. Thinking back to when we visited Gallatin’s home, Friendship Hill near Port Marion PA, I realize I had many of the same thoughts and emotions I experienced in Northern Ireland. At Friendship Hill I saw the same things James would have seen. I walked the same path James would have walked on. I stood in a room James would have stood in, looking at he same furniture he sat on. I could imagine him greeting his friend Gallatin. Family history tells of Lafayette and James embracing warmly in Gallatin’s living room.

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Statue of Gallatin, his home, James grave and marker from the Glassworks where James worked.

Eventually James married and settled down to raise a family. Two of James’ sons became well known potters in a flourishing pottery trade in New Geneva PA. When his sons moved to Cincinnati they continued with their pottery work. Their sons, James’ grandsons, lived there and designed and built steam powered paddle boats in Cincy that ran up and down the Ohio River. Their children, James’ great grandchildren, grew up to build buildings that are still standing in Columbus Ohio.

These individuals left a mark on history.

Several years ago my family visited what was my great-grandfather Vance’s farm in Columbus Ohio. Now part of Highbanks Park, only the land remains. The buildings of the farm, then state of the art, and the house, with greenhouses and a swimming pool, are gone. Still, we walked the trails. We walked on land my mom walked and played on. The same land her father walked on. And the same land her grandfather walked on. We saw what they saw. My children stood on the banks of the Olentangy River. The same river their grandmother, great-grandparents and great great grandparents stood by.

 

 

Genealogy isn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I never would have imagined I would spend decades searching for little clues of history that would weave together a rich tapestry of stories and adventures. I never would have imagined the information would lead me to a small, sleepy town near the Irish Sea in Northern Ireland.

“Do Shaol, Do Thuras”. “Your Life, Your Journey.”

It was James Vance’s life. It was his journey. And it is my life. But my journey includes his journey.

Do Shaol, Do Thuras”

Each one of us are the result of the love of thousands.

What matters is what we make of who we are.”

All this is infused into the making who we are. Whether we know all the history or not, we are the result of the love, the joys, the struggles and sacrifices of our ancestors. Of course it is our life and our journey. It also is our life given to us through the life and journey of others.

What matters is what we make of who are—-drawing on and respecting all the snippets, remnants, blood and DNA of those who came before us. Add to that all the combined experiences we’ve had, with all that is at this moment. Standing here. Now. It has made us who we are.

All of this grounds me somehow. What written history I can find about my ancestors on both sides of my family is that they gave to others. They lifted others up. They adopted orphans. They worked hard. They were teachers and ministers. They bailed people out of Depression era debt. They literally raised churches. They built boats that aided commerce and travel. They built stores that served people and communities. They tanned hides and sewed shoes. Some built furniture while others were self taught itinerant doctors who knew the how to combine medicinal plants into elixirs and ointments with healing properties. They built carriages and forged horse shoes. They grew flax and wove linen cloth. They were council members in the towns they lived in. They supported Women’s Suffrage. They carried bodies off of battlefields. They fought in wars and they resisted wars and fought for peace. They were regular people.

Of course there are a few characters too! We all have a couple. We have pirates, disposed ministers and a witch!

I am a richer person for knowing my family’s history. I feel a kind of connection to some of my ancestors.

It’s all a journey. A personal journey most certainly. But also a journey that began before we were born. A journey of others that led to us being born.

I’ve been fortunate to get to know James Vance as intimately as I have. To have stood where he stood. To have walked where he walked. To have seen the same views he saw. To have been in rooms where he sat.

“Walking. I am listening to a deeper way.
Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me.
Be still, they say. Watch and listen.
You are the result of the love of thousands.”

Be still. Watch and Listen.

**Check out what I’ve been reading This Week

 

 

 

 

Mom

At my mother’s memorial service my brother spoke from the heart about our mom: “She was a complicated person.” That she was. She had strengths. And she had flaws. She had triumphs and her share of mistakes and regrets. My relationship with my mom was shaky sometimes. We had some ups and some downs.  As she was, as I was, I loved her. I know she gave me the foundation to be a good mother and good person.

When I was little she bought me a cotton candy machine. She made me fairy wings out of aluminum foil. To go with the green fairy shoes she sewed for me. Complete with bells. On the pointy, curled up toes. She read to me from thick chapter books every night. I sipped a cup of hot chocolate as her words ignited my imagination. My eyes would begin to droop. And, then, I would drift into sleep with dreams.

We were mother and daughter. Sometimes she yelled at me and sometimes I yelled at her. There were times when I felt like she didn’t understand me. There were times when I just couldn’t see her point of view or understand her. There were times when she comforted me when I was sick or when I stumbled through various teenage dramas. She forgot things that were important to me and reminded me of things I didn’t remember. She gave my husband and I a kitten when we were married. She made slip covers and curtains. She sat on the floor and sanded wooden pegs covering the nails. It was a jumble of good times and, well, not so good times.

Sometimes she was the perfect mom and I was the perfect child. Sometimes we both let each other down.

She was, my mom.

mom and jo2

My mom, right, and her mom.

I didn’t get to have my mom by my side as I raised my children. I couldn’t ask her questions or seek advice from her. I couldn’t call her when my kids were sick to ask her to come help. I couldn’t call her at all.

Today is Mother’s Day.

A couple of years ago I got a FB message from someone asking me if I was Marjorie’s daughter. His name was Dave. He was a little older than me and went on to tell me how he remembered playing Barbies with me! And then he told how my mother had helped him and his mom when he was little. My mom paid for summer camp for him and gave his mom a job taking care of me. He remembered learning how to swim from my siblings. And feeling as if he was part of the family. He said he has never forgotten her kindness.

I still remember his mom vividly. Josephine. I loved her. I’ve never forgotten her kindness and patience. I still drive by her house and imagine her walking out of the door.

Our moms and other people’s moms. Mothers. “Moms” who aren’t actual moms, but nurturing women. Women who are role models and mentors. Adoptive moms, and foster moms. Moms who have miscarried or had stillbirths. Moms who have had abortions. Gay moms, queer moms. Single moms. Widowed moms. Teen moms. Incarcerated moms. Moms who are aunts and god parents. Moms who are perfect and moms who are imperfect.

Moms.

mom and me mother's day

My mom and me

Many of us don’t know the history behind Mother’s Day, we only know the Hallmark version. The idea of Mother’s Day in the US began in 1872 when Julia Ward Howe suggested it be a day to honor and work for peace. Read her famous “proclamation” here:

 Original Mother’s Day Proclamation

Mothers uniting in love to make a positive change in the world.

Here in the US, and around the world, mothers struggle. They struggle to provide for their children. They watch their children die of starvation, disease, war. They dream of having shoes for their child, or clean water, or a meal, or for them to have a chance to go to school. Mothers everywhere dream of seeing their children healthy and thriving, having a job, being safe. Knowing it is only a dream, they hope and pray that their child will have what they cannot give them.

Last year on Mother’s Day I challenged people to donate to causes that support mothers. I put it out there again this year. You can make a donation to Planned Parenthood, to your local woman’s shelter, to programs that educate about domestic violence. Or you can check out the links below and donate or just educate yourself. Lots of topics.

This year I donated to Brooklyn Bail Fund.

If you choose to donate, and care to share, I would love to know who you are helping.

10 Non-profit organizations that help mothers

Young Mothers Program

5 organizations that empower women

Behind every great woman is another one Heifer International, Empowering women

Non Profit organization that help girls

National Organization on Fetal Alcohol Syndrome  Helping expectant mothers

Help send a child to school

Educate yourself on domestic violence

Rape of a girl or woman is never ok Women do not ask for it, deserve it. It is not ok for women to be shamed or shunned becasue they were raped. It is not ok to punish a woman for being raped.

women are equal to men yet the world often disagrees

**Don’t forget to check out This Week

and, Little works in progress

Who Is Listening?

Many years ago, at the Farmer’s Market in Ithaca, my husband and I were slowly wandering from booth to booth soaking in the colors and bounty from local farms. My dearest friend, Connie, was with us as we paused in front of the booth of a local artist, Jim Hardesty. Before us were dozens of Chinese brush paintings….sinuous strokes of ink and pigment transformed into birds and flowers. And, Kwan Yin.

kwanyin2mh

I felt like she was calling my name. Calling me to invite her into my life.

Kwan Yin, Quan Yin, Kuanyin, Guanyin, Padma-pâni. Her name means

One Who Sees and Hears the Cry from the Human World.

Many of us have felt compassion towards someone else. We feel the pain and suffering of others, especially of those we love deeply. We long, almost ache, to find a way to ease their suffering.

Life is a series of waves coming ashore. There are waves of love, kindness, forgiveness and generosity. And right behind those waves are the waves of violence, division, indifference and cruelty. Lapping the shore. Pushing and pulling on our heart and our fears. Some days we may feel as if we are drowning in our own suffering or in the pain of someone we love. Barely, we keep our head above the waters churning and foaming. Some days we soften, relax, let go and float softly, cradled in a lullaby of the calm waters.

When we turn away from, run from, harden ourselves against that which is painful, we are turning away from that which is a part of life. We can become protective. We may begin to live in fear.

We can, instead, choose to look at that pain and fear and open our heart to compassion. Like a beautiful garden, tended with love from the heart, compassion grows from generosity, wisdom, loving kindness, empathy, equanimity and courage. The fruits and flowers from this garden have the power to heal suffering.

Compassion is a way, a path, of maneuvering through a world and life that brings each one of us beauty and love and well as pain and suffering.

Compassion is not reserved only for those we love and respect. It is also for those who may threaten or frighten us. This is a world full of billions of people we will never know, yet our compassion in thought, and deed must include these people too. There are human beings in the world facing intolerable suffering. Of such magnitude that I will venture to say no one reading this can even imagine the degree of suffering.

Somewhere in all this we have to think about and come to terms with the fact that our ability to heal through compassion walks side by side with our capacity to cause the suffering. And we choose…..we choose and then learn to heal or we increase the divides between us.

Enter Kwan Yin. She is sometimes holding a willow branch, flexible, able to bend and not break, even in the strongest of winds or fiercest of deluge. Other times she has a thousand arms and one, all seeing eye. She is in constant awareness and her response is all embracing. Sometimes she is a warrior brandishing weapons to root out suffering. Mine holds quince blossoms from time immemorial. Kwan Yin hears the cries of our suffering. The suffering of the people of the world. And she reaches out with compassion to heal that suffering.

I know I feel overwhelmed sometimes by the magnitude and breadth of the suffering of people around the world. I don’t, and I don’t believe I can, have the answers. But, I can choose to hear the cries, to listen to the stories, to care. To not run or hid from the suffering of others. In so doing I begin to see “the rest of the story.” The loneliness and fear in and of others, the blame and anger, the mistrust, the intolerance and ignorance. Awareness teaches us how to be helpful through compassion, kindness, strength. It gives rise to understanding and and a desire to bring about the end of suffering.

We don’t have the power to change the hearts of others. We do, however, have the power and responsibility for our own state of mind, the values we carry within our heart. We make the choice to stand hand in hand with those who work endlessly to alleviate the pain of war, disease, hunger, oppression. Or, we walk hand in hand with those who spread fear, mistrust, violence, persecution, revenge.

In order to hear the cries of the world and to find the courage and strength to uplift through compassion we first have to allow our own hearts to be open. We have to look within. We have to close our eyes and listen. To the noise of the world, the cries of those in pain and who are suffering. When we have heard, we open our eyes to see, then we choose what we will do. We take action.

Who is listening?

“later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?

it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.”

~Warsan Shire

Who is listening?

Check out this week’s readings:  This Week