Can You Hear Me NOW? On Surveillance and Whistleblowing


photo“The thought police would get him just the same. He had committed – would have committed, even if he had never set pen to paper — the essential crime that contained all others in itself. Thoughtcrime, they called it. Thoughtcrime is not a thing that can be concealed forever…. Big Brother is watching you.”

In 1949, following World War II and the rise of Communism, George Orwell wrote his masterwork, 1984.  I read it as a teenager and remember approaching 1984 with some trepidation. But after the tumultuous protests and fears of government in the 70s, the Vietnam War was over and by 1989 Communism had fallen. The idea of governmental bugging devices watching our every move seemed unlikely.

So we come to 2013, almost 30 years after the target date for Orwell’s projected totalitarianism and the breaking NSA news. Sadly, now we know Big Brother doesn’t need to install monitoring devices in our homes.  He can just monitor the ones we carry voluntarily.  Big Brother may not be watching…but Big Brother apparently is listening. Can you hear me now?

I’ve got to admit to mixed feelings.

I went to Ground Zero in the immediate aftermath of 9 11.  I provided aid there. (My memoir post for the 10th anniversary is: https://joanneeddy.com/2011/09/11/in-the-ashes-a-9-11-remembrance-of-my-service-at-ground-zero/) I know what people felt like, what the FBI and military who were there, felt like. I know what I felt like. “Never again” was on everyone’s lips, including mine.

But when we passed the Patriot Act and then expanded the war to Iraq, I grew uneasy and ambivalent. That initial gut reaction of doing “whatever it took” to keep another attack from occurring was balanced by the fear that Al Quaeda could defeat us, our culture, our values, not from without but from within. We would voluntarily give up our freedoms to keep ourselves free…virtually the doublethink concept that concerned Orwell.

So I joined a request for writers to send in written pieces to protest the general direction we were going.  The end of the poem I wrote was a quote from Walt Kelly with my fear that “we have met the enemy, and he is us.”

Given that attitude you may think I would have great sympathy for Edward Snowden, who grew up in Elizabeth City, NC, just a few miles from where I live.  But again I am ambivalent. I can’t quite embrace calling him a hero.

I believe when you take an oath you keep it or you don’t take it. No doubt, Snowden agreed to a confidentiality pledge to gain access to classified documents. He was former CIA, so spying should have been routine. And did he take his complaints or concerns up the chain? Did he fight within that first? Based on his quotes I don’t hear evidence, yet, that he did that or that breaking his word even bothered him. That troubles me.

You see, my mother had CRYPTO clearance. Part of her job for the Air Force was to guard the encrypted launch codes for the SAC bombers which would have dropped atomic bombs on Russia in response to an attack by them.  Her pledge to protect them was something she felt honor-bound to keep. It was a commitment she respected and she taught to me.

At the same time, without Snowden this surveillance would not have been revealed and millions upon millions of our phone records kept in a database somewhere without even our knowing.  That is not a comfortable thought either. But is that the going price for safety? Do we pay for it with freedom and the loss of privacy?

Given the Boston Marathon bombing, and the need to try to uncover plots before they occur, it may be a price worth paying.  I guess I just wish we had been told. We are a democracy, at least at this moment, and that means we the people should have some choice or say in the matter. Shouldn’t we at least give permission for Big Brother to listen? And yet, does the voluntary surrender of that privacy right make the outcome of its loss any less concerning?  Those are questions troubling me, and that is how my mind is working…or not.

So as always I find I am staking out my position in the middle: not touting Snowden for his whistleblowing, if that is what it was, nor blindly defending my government either.  I don’t know where you are, but for me, the grey area seems to be where I often live.  Can you hear me now?

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On Anniversaries and Falling in Love


“Like a river flows, surely to the sea, Darlin’ so it goes, some things are meant to be, So…take my hand, take my whole life too, for I can’t help falling in love with you.”

Elvis Presley sang it years before I met Doug, but as I look back it feels like falling in love with him was inevitable. I wonder about others. Does everyone who stays married a long time look back and think, “this had to happen, this person and I were meant to be?”

I don’t know about anyone else but I cannot imagine what my life would be if I were not married to this man who is my best friend, and one of the people I most admire in life. I am who I am because he has always been there for me, always believed in me, always supported me. And I am still crazy in love with him.

But at the time we met the absolute logic of a match between us might not have appeared so clear. In fact it escaped a number of our friends and family members. It hardly appeared destined given our different backgrounds.

You see, Doug is descended from John and Samuel Adams through his paternal grandfather, Benjamin Harrison Eddy, (yes, named for a president), a dentist, whose wife, Maude, a member of the D.A.R., counted Jubal Early as a forefather.  (When we got engaged she gave me an Emily Post book on etiquette, when we married a box of calling cards engraved Mrs. G. Douglas Eddy.) His father had a Masters Degree in Economics and was a special agent for the FBI.

So you see, Doug was an All American, a bit of a geek Beaver Cleaver, a blond, Presbyterian WASP who came from an affluent suburb of a large city. At the same time when we met he was considering changing the direction of his life, leaving engineering, quitting the ROTC drill team, not entering the Advanced Corps,  and instead pursuing the ministry. He played folk guitar and he was a rebel to his family expectations, but a rebel with a cause.

I am the granddaughter of immigrants. My mother entered school barely speaking English. At that point I did not know my great grandparents names and had no idea where in Poland they were born. The only thing I knew about my heritage was learning to polka, and listening to romantic stories about my mother’s father. Jozef Kociencki was a nobleman who fought the Russians as a partisan, hid from their dogs in the dirt of an open grave, and was smuggled from the country in a coffin.

Speaking seven languages did not lead to a job in the United States and Jozef became a tailor. My other grandfather was a railroad conductor. My father made it to college. He was a radar engineer who worked on the DEW Line  (Distant Early Warning Radar designed to reveal a nuclear attack by Russia). Through dint of hard work, my mother scraped together money for two years of college.

I was raised Roman Catholic in a small town and endured endless teasing with Polish jokes, so little surprise that total academic success was expected (dumb being almost a swear word). I complied, got a complete scholarship, never missed a class, made the Dean’s List, majored in English and wrote poetry. No rebel, I wanted to be a writer and planned to leave the University of Buffalo to attend the Newhouse School at Syracuse University.

Not much of a natural match, right?

But our courtship was intense and focused, after an odd start. I met him at  a St. Patrick’s Day party. He didn’t register with me, but I did with him. He decided, virtually in that moment, that he was going to marry me.

Perhaps using tactics from his FBI father, Doug wooed me by taking me to the deserted Religious Club and spending three hours questioning me about the meaning of life and what I wanted to do with mine. Then he told me about the ministry and what he wanted to do with his. And there is where the match occurred, the perfect fit:  We both wanted to change the world.  You may laugh at that, or even shake your head when I tell you the first song we decided was “our song” was To Dream the Impossible Dream.  

Someone once said, “Dreams are like stars, you may never touch them, but if you follow them they will lead you to your destiny.”  There in the quiet of the Religious Club I found my destiny, and the two of us have pursued our dream ever since.

Have we changed the world? No. But we have reached for those impossible stars, together, and lived the life we promised each other so long ago.

Happy anniversary, Doug. I love you to the stars and beyond, and at the end of every prayer you are there.

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In Memorium


Flickr - The U.S. Army - Battle of the Bulge

Flickr – The U.S. Army – Battle of the Bulge (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

“These fallen heroes represent the character of a nation that has a long history of patriotism and honor – and a nation who has fought many battles to keep our country free”  Michael Castle

My godfather and favorite uncle, Edmond Kociencki, was a veteran of World War II.  As was common then, he signed up for the Army with several of his friends, and they all served together. Infantrymen and then members of a mounted cavalry unit, Uncle Eddie and his friends, Butch and Emil first fought in France and later were in the Battle of the Bulge. That “Great Generation” did what they set out to do, what they felt they had to do. Many died in that fight to stand up to an oppressor and end the Nazi conquest, and now day by day they leave us. We are the poorer for it.

While Uncle Eddie was away, he had all his military pay sent to his fiancée. She used the money to buy the house they planned, but in her own name. Then, she married someone else! When he returned he “gutted it out” and moved on. My mother, his sister, introduced him to a friend and, like so many veterans, he married and raised a family, a great one.

Working as a police officer and motorcycle cop, he still rode to the rescue of others, now on his own “iron horse.” I remember him dressed in his uniform: gleaming polished boots, jodhpur pants, leather belt and strap, crisp blue shirt, and badge. He seemed impossibly tall, lean, tough, and strong, as he adjusted the angle of his cap just so, and strode from the room. I remember looking up at him thinking he was almost as tall as a giant. Later, I learned he wasn’t that tall, but he remained a giant in my eyes in more ways than I can ever say.

Eddie and all his friends who came back from the War to end war, joined the VFW. It was a cornerstone and touch point for them all.  Yet, while he told a story or a joke better than anyone else I have ever known, and loved to “swap stories,” I don’t remember him telling a single battle story.

Maybe he and his buddies did at the VFW, but I doubt it…unless it was a funny one. While it was at the core of who they were, the kernel of honor, integrity, and their service formed the foundation of their lives, it was a connection that was just there in their friendship and camaraderie. They were stoic about it, about what they saw, and who they lost.

But you could see it sometimes in their eyes. A look would pass between them when the flag went by, or when, even as they aged, they snapped to attention at a military funeral. It said more than any words of the unbreakable bond forged by their experience. They always went together to pay respect to any ‘brother’ whose kinship was created by this joint service.

No one can ever fill the boots Uncle Eddie left behind. For most of my childhood he seemed larger than life. In my adulthood, he and Aunt Irene showed me what family and friendship really meant.  I will forever miss them, not only for the people they were, but also for all they taught me.

So today I want to recognize our remaining World War II veterans, and all who serve the cause of freedom, who stand between us and those who would do us harm. I thank them all for their service to our country.

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Lightening the Feather – On Rescue and Rescue Dogs


Rescue sign“It’s just that no one wants to be the one being rescued, we all want to do the rescuing.” ― Steven Brust, Iorich 

Are we ever really ready to grieve yet set the grief apart to love again?

I have never lost a dog and quickly gotten another, because the pain of my loss wouldn’t let me. How could you lose a dog as remarkable as Raen, and let another dog into your heart? And those of you who follow this know, it was only weeks ago we lost her to leukemia.

But there was this puppy, advertised in the paper by our local shelter. A one-year old shepherd who was neglected, left outside, heart-worm positive. People began to call me.  She needed a “pack” who could care while she goes through the pretty brutal treatment, people who would invest in her and love her through it, walk her, speak gentle words, play quietly, since in the next months she cannot run or get excited.  She needed to learn to play, to  be house-trained, to trust….to be rescued.

My granddaughter was visiting, so I asked her if she’d like to go see the puppy. I cried all the way home, grieving and considering. I knew I could take care of her. I knew I would come to love her, but the treatment is serious, it poses the risk of death. Should I face that possible loss? Especially since my heart is already broken.  My granddaughter, Catherine,  treated me gently. “It’ll be ok, Nana,” she said, “You can do it.”

English: Great Sphinx of Giza and the pyramid ...

English: Great Sphinx of Giza and the pyramid of Khafre http://www.historicaltravelguide.com/the-great-sphinx-of-giza.html العربية: ابو الهول و الاهرامات في الجيزة (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

When our son was a little boy he went to a Saturday class at the History Museum on Egyptology. One of the tenets that most impressed him was the Egyptian belief about the final judgement. Upon death the heart of the deceased was one of the few organs left in the body during mummification. When the soul of the departed faced Anubis, their heart was weighed against a feather.  If it was weighed down by evil, instead of lightened by love,  the soul would be eradicated for eternity. That concept has stuck with me.

Sometimes, I have thought of a different measure of our life’s worth.  I have wondered if we might be judged by the scars we received physically or spiritually from our care of another, versus those we have inflicted. But maybe that is also about love.

While struggling with our decision I did what I always do, find data. The more I learned the scarier her illness got. The drug used to kill the heartworms can kill the dog, and  worse, as they die, they can break up and cause thrombosis. And to add another threat the shelter wouldn’t release “Princess” (her shelter name) to adoption unless she was spayed, and having surgery and anesthesia could kill her. Two vets told me this posed a risk. But the only way she could be released without the surgery was to go to a rescue organization. So if we adopted, the risk to her only went up!

As the obstacles seemed to mount, I became determined to at least have her rescued. Friends and family rallied. We found an organization willing to sponsor her, but with no available homes. They said they could sponsor her with me as her “rescue foster mom.” The decision was made.

Papers were faxed to the shelter and then in what seemed minutes the call came:  Go pick up Nessa (our name for her.) It felt like fate had swept us up to take her into our lives.

NessaAm I still weighed down by grief? Yes. But Doug and I have always described love as an ocean which ties us together, with ebbs and flows, with tides high and low. The pain still comes and washes over me from losing Raen. But the ocean of my love for her will always be there. So the feather is being lightened by a new seed of hope. Even if that means scars lie ahead as Nessa goes through treatment, we will all face them together, and as we rescue her, she is rescuing us.  Yes, I guess, it really is about love.

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Home is Where Your Mom Is


Happy..Happy.. Mother's Day :-)..

Happy..Happy.. Mother’s Day :-).. (Photo credit: Thai Jasmine (Smile..smile…Smile..))

One of my most special treasures was given to me by my daughter when I moved from the house she grew up in to North Carolina.  It simply says, “Home is where your Mom is.”

I was going to try to say something profound today on the amazing experience of being a mother and my extra joy in being a Nana. As I always do I went looking for other’s wisdom and a quote or two to get me started. And I found this long story by Erma Bombeck, whom I always admired for her wit and wisdom. My husband often says when someone can say something better than you can you should sit down and give them the floor. So that is what I am going to do today. You may have read this before but “When God created mothers” is worth reading again.

“When the Good Lord was creating mothers, He was into His sixth day of “overtime” when the angel appeared and said. “You’re doing a lot of fiddling around on this one.”

And God said, “Have you read the specs on this order?” She has to be completely washable, but not plastic. Have 180 moveable parts…all replaceable. Run on black coffee and leftovers. Have a lap that disappears when she stands up. A kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair. And six pairs of hands.”

The angel shook her head slowly and said. “Six pairs of hands…. no way.”

It’s not the hands that are causing me problems,” God remarked, “it’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have.”

That’s on the standard model?” asked the angel. God nodded.

One pair that sees through closed doors when she asks, ‘What are you kids doing in there?’ when she already knows. Another here in the back of her head that sees what she shouldn’t but what she has to know, and of course the ones here in front that can look at a child when he goofs up and say. ‘I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.”

God,” said the angel touching his sleeve gently, “Get some rest tomorrow….”

I can’t,” said God, “I’m so close to creating something so close to myself. Already I have one who heals herself when she is sick…can feed a family of six on one pound of hamburger…and can get a nine year old to stand under a shower.”

The angel circled the model of a mother very slowly. “It’s too soft,” she sighed.

But tough!” said God excitedly. “You can imagine what this mother can do or endure.”

Can it think?”

Not only can it think, but it can reason and compromise,” said the Creator.

Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek.

There’s a leak,” she pronounced. “I told You that You were trying to put too much into this model.”

It’s not a leak,” said the Lord, “It’s a tear.”

What’s it for?”

It’s for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness, and pride.”

You are a genius, ” said the angel.

Somberly, God said, “I didn’t put it there.”
― Erma BombeckWhen God Created Mothers

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Pain Divided – On Empathy


empathy

empathy (Photo credit: glsims99)

 

“I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.” Walt Whitman from The Song of Myself 

“I call him religious who understands the suffering of others.” Mahatma Gandhi

Ah, empathy. Some say it is one of the distinguishing qualities of humankind. I might argue that dolphins have demonstrated it and all the dogs I have ever loved have had it. But certainly the lack of it in humans is equated with mental illness, with socio-pathology.  So it is odd, isn’t it, that empathy itself is so misunderstood?

faces copyI find that to some empathy is seen as a weakness. The ability to “understand others’ feelings,” the dictionary definition is equated with taking on those feelings, being subjected to experiencing the pain of others to the degree that you suffer the same pain, or as Whitman would have it, you “become the wounded person.”

Pain copyThis is seen in fictional characters, like Counselor Deanna Troi in Star Trek, who can go to the extreme of taking on so much of someone else’s pain that they are injured by it.  This may be empathy squared perhaps, but in real life it is likely to be pain multiplied.

When this happens caregivers or counselors, friends or family, burn out or suffer from what is sometimes called compassion fatigue.

So is that the price one has to pay? Does empathy require gut retching, debilitating absorption of other’s pain? A kind of psychic mind-meld? As someone who has been a therapist, I don’t believe so.  I think it is a fear by many, however.  I think one of the reasons we sometimes avoid the grieving or feel uncomfortable talking about loss or divorce or life disappointments is because we think that experiencing the pain felt is an expectation, or that it will be the result.

friends copySo then what is empathy?  I think of it as beginning with a spiritual resonance.

Guitars are tuned by adjusting the strings so that the vibrations become attuned to the desired pitch. When tuned the vibrations of one string are sympathetically picked up by another which then resonate with the sound.  Empathy, fine tuned, creates a connection between people and then using that connection conveys understanding and support, a shared humanity whose larger message is that the pain will recede and be overcome. It requires that pain be understood but not absorbed. It focuses on helping the hurting person, not the helper.  It is pain divided by the support provided to the one bearing it.

recycle ATTEND copyTrue empathy needs not wound the healer. It does not necessitate sitting down and howling with pain yourself, but listening to and believing in the one suffering.

Of course that means you must have triumphed over pain, yourself, and know that it is possible.  Empathy is a survivor’s skill. And spiritual health is a necessity to effective help. For me, empathy is a spiritual exercise of faith in something bigger than us; for me it is belief in a God who will share the pain we feel and provide the resources we need.

 

accepting hands copyYesterday my husband and I presented a workshop on Domestic Violence. Doug made a plea to the audience, which was composed of pastors, to find ways to support the abusers while still holding them responsible for their acts.  Both elements are necessary if anything or anyone is going to change.

friends carry copyAre there sociopaths in the world? Certainly. But many of the wounds in our society are inflicted by people who are themselves in pain. Do we let them off of the consequence of their actions….No.  But should we examine our world to see where we as people, as a society, create wounds that lead to wrongs, crimes, evil…I say a resounding yes.

We can compound pain by anger and outrage, or we can try to heal it by empathy and understanding. I believe anger fuels anger. It becomes a pain multiplied. I urge you to empathy and a pain divided. Our world is desperately in need of change.  And it starts with us “being the change we wish to see in the world,” as Gandhi taught.

Ah, empathy.

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On Mourning and Healing Love – A Tribute to Raen


My favorite Raen Picture

“Dogs are our link to paradise. They don’t know evil or jealousy or discontent. To sit with a dog on a hillside on a glorious afternoon is to be back in Eden, where doing nothing… was peace.” Milan Kundera

Today is a day of grieving for me. Yesterday, almost five months after her diagnosis of leukemia, our exquisite Raen left us. I don’t think you need to be a dog person, like me, to understand this post. Loss is loss, and mourning is universal.

To understand the depth of this for me, though, you probably have to understand the meaning of Raen’s name and her history.

When our children left home (and our daughter took her dogs with her) we truly had an empty nest. Our house echoed with the quiet. And that gave us freedom and a second honeymoon of sorts, which Doug especially appreciated. And while I did as well, at heart I am a caregiver.

Then my friend, Carolyn, told me of a dog who needed ‘rescue.’  Her husband, Bob, had loved Raen as a floppy eared, puff ball, an unusual, exotic, long-haired shepherd. But they already had two dogs. Before he could convince Carolyn to add a third, a family took ‘Layda,’ her puppy name, one of an “L” litter of dogs born in Germany, and imported to the US by their breeder. The family paid top dollar for the privilege of owning a pup with a passport, daughter of the number two German Shepherd in a country that takes breeding dogs with their country’s name seriously.

Nine months later, probably because Steinquelle has a policy of giving a full refund to anyone who returns a dog at any time, they brought back an almost full-sized but only 40 pound ripple-ribbed dog, who didn’t bark, or know what a toy was or how to play, and who wasn’t sure she cared to live. But, at the same time, she still had a spark of the naturally joyful, loving dog she was at heart, when Carolyn took me to see her.

When I entered her large kennel she came when I called, sat down on my feet, her huge paws sprawling, big tongue lolling, and looked up at me with knowing eyes. Love and pain, joy and uncertainty, captured in that moment like a photograph indelibly etched in my memory, perhaps because she needed me….or maybe due to my recognition of a kindred soul.

After I convinced my husband to at least see her, that she could be my Christmas present, we drove down on a glorious, golden, sun-filled end of fall day and Doug met her and fell instantly in love. His love for her was as uncomplicated as hers would be for him. Just love, pure love, an instant bond.

Since she was to be “my” present I got to name her. For those of you who have been following this blog you won’t be surprised to know I picked a name from my favorite book, plucked from the Appendices of The Lord of the Rings.  I called her for Aragorn‘s mother, Gilraen, who said of him, “I gave hope to Mankind.” I saw ‘Raen’ as our hope, our new lease on life now that our children had grown up.

For his part, Doug would just laugh and tell people, “Jo named her ‘rain,’ because she wouldn’t let me call her ‘snow.’ ” This was a funnier joke and always produced a laugh when we were living in Syracuse, upstate New York‘s snowiest big city.

So she came home with us. At first she would run into the living room and give us licks and then retreat to the hall, backed into a corner where she could see us but no one could sneak up on her. While I hand-fed her to get her to eat and watched her magnificent tail drag in the dirt of our yard, I tried to nurture that spark of joy that remained. Gradually, sadly, while we grew together as I trained her and took her everywhere with me, I also grew convinced that it was the woman of the family who had mistreated her.

So Raen finished growing up walking the Erie Canal with me, playing with Carolyn and Bob’s dogs, and later running her yard with our grandchildren, her pack, whom she adored, caring for her stuffed ‘babies’ with a tenderness I loved watching.

Learning both commands and hand signals, she probably was one of the brightest dogs I have raised, sweetness personified. Her long hair spiked and puffy as a puppy that I “Infusiumed” into submission, grew into a full display of silky sleek fur, ruffled legs and ears, that was so stunning strangers would pull over cars and stop us on walks to talk about her beauty.

Raen standing on her hillAnd she grew not only in size (over 80 lbs) but in confidence. Her full magnificent tail was my barometer of her return to wholeness. Before we left Syracuse it no longer dragged, she raised it parallel to her back. Here in North Carolina it rose straight up, a happy flag, as she became Queen of her yard, Empress of Raen’s Hill, her kingdom at her feet.

That is not to say that, as a rescue, odd memories never plagued her. The crinkle of a water bottle, too quick a movement of my briefcase, no longer terrified but remained. They would return to her eyes in a brief flash, a startle response. But her joy overrode them. And like some of the abused women I worked with, like me, Raen triumphed. And loved.

So this is my ode to her spirit and to the spirits of all of us who overcome the wounds that life imparts. And this is my recognition that in helping her overcome hers, I have myself been healed by her love. In tribute to her I hope that same healing love for you, and I keep the smallest wish that in reading her story, or another of my ‘inklings,’ you find comfort and joy.

Farewell, my sweet girl, I will carry you in my heart forever. I promise to remember: Love heals and love never ends…but more of that later.

Note for those of you subscribed by email to these posts, I have several pictures of Raen on the blogsite itself:  www.joanneeddy.com

Raen and meClose up of Raen

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Spring Cleaning – Washing Our Souls Anew


Grass

Grass (Photo credit: DBduo Photography)

“She is the rain and snows that arise from the waters and replenishes them again…as young and as ancient as spring, like the song of glad water flowing into the night from the bright morning in the hills.” Describing Goldberry. From The Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring.

I am writing this after a night of thunder and rain, after a day I spent finishing a new garden bed. The renewed earth smells loamy and rich in my backyard, the air still misty, textured and heavy, holding hope, smelling of promise.

I am also writing this after a week of terror and tension, the day after the second Boston Marathon bombing suspect has been captured.

Such strange juxtapositions. Death and destruction, life and spring. The inhumanity of mankind opposed by courage and resiliency, and the acts of compassion by people.  I find myself asking questions to try to reconcile humankind’s inconsistency.

And whenever we are pulled apart by polarities this extreme it takes a toll on our spirit. Like my garden in winter, we can feel choked by death even when release is coming in the renewal of the spring rain.

Walt Whitman in Leaves of Grass captures it this way:

“O me! O life!… of the questions of these recurring;
Of the endless trains of the faithless—of cities fill’d with the foolish;
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light—of the objects mean—of the struggle ever renew’d;
Of the poor results of all—of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me;
Of the empty and useless years of the rest—with the rest me intertwined;
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists, and identity;
That the powerful play goes on, and you will contribute a verse.”

We are all called to respond to our world, in big ways if we can, and in small, to find the means to defy despair and affirm hope.  At one point for me that was in creating programs for homeless women, delinquent teens, abused women, and struggling parents. Now, I seek to lay a gentle path across the world, to write, to read, to rejoice in simple things.

This is one of my verses. My garden is another. My family is my song.

Can you feel the music inside? You have beauty within and verses to share, and on the power of our shared melody we can all be renewed. Celebrate yourself, sing, and refresh your spirit. May we raise our voices together.

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On God, Nature, and Choosing Beauty


Beauty in Contrast

Beauty in Contrast (Photo credit: deep shot)

The earth has music for those who listen.”  George Santayana

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

rain copyMeanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.

 

 

canada-geese copy 2Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”  Mary Oliver

Sorry to have missed a post or two. Holidays and family emergencies intervened. And it all reminds me of the need to be grounded. Centered, instead of lost in busyness.

Garden best view of fencelineMore than anything else for me that requires taking a breath or two outside, under the sun or beneath the stars. To see eternity I must, start with “heaven in a wildflower,” as William Blake once said.

My garden is where I escape the ugliness in the world and for a moment breathe the fragrance of beauty.  There is something in my soul that cannot bloom without sun and dirt, and wind and rain.

Oh, I am a crusader after justice, a wrong righter, a Quixote. I find my call in service and stand ready to help others to war against the agents of despair. But if my soul is not healthy I have no weapons with which to fight. I am no good for anyone, not even myself.

yard and gardensSo this post, though very brief, is a reminder to myself of that need, which I also share with you.  If only for this minute, stop reading here and take a breath.  Sink into peace. Loosen the muscles you have clenched to take on your next battle in life and put on the armor of nature, the strength of beauty. Shield your spirit by grounding yourself in the infinite.  God, for me, or however you name that greater than ourselves, is there and we need the connection, or reconnection, to feel whole.

So for today I choose beauty. I choose nature as a way to rejoin “the family of things.” I will seek the infinite. And I know I’ll find you there.

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Friends and Fellow Sojourners


My friend

My friend (Photo credit: Scarleth White)

“When we honestly ask ourselves which persons in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand.”
Henri Nouwen, The Road to Daybreak: A Spiritual Journey 

Have you ever considered out of the many people you have called friend, even those about whom you genuinely care, how few are the deep and true friends who will go through a crisis with you, stand by you through thick and thin? It is in testing times that we discover the difference between “deep” friends and those more casual friends, those fellow sojourners who have shared our life path for a season.

Now, that is not to say that we don’t need companionship and the chance to share activities and interests. We do. We lighten each other’s load simply by walking together. And some of those connections can be very intense for a time.

I even believe that those whose relationship with us wanes, those who drift into and then out of our lives, have an important place, some gift to leave with us. All types of friends matter to the quality of our lives, and we should treasure each of them.

But in the testing times, some of those fellow sojourners step forward and create a deeper bond, one that is usually unbreakable. Those people are fewer and farther between. These deeper friends are rare. They are the pearl of inestimable price.

In my life, I have often been surprised at who steps up and who steps back in times of trial. I can think of people I went to school with or worked with, those I’ve routinely done things with, even spent days with, gone to church with, enjoyed life with, sharing laughs or hours of fun, who did not have the connection with me that I thought we had.  I misperceived our relationship. Sometimes that was demonstrated when they or their family hit a life crisis, or when I or one of my family members did.  And they were gone.

I don’t know about you, but for me, this has sometimes made me scratch my head in surprise, and at other times, the times of greater surprise, has brought me pain.

“I think if I’ve learned anything about friendship,” Jon Katz says, “it’s to hang in, stay connected, fight for them, and let them fight for you. Don’t walk away, don’t be distracted, don’t be too busy or tired, don’t take them for granted. Friends are part of the glue that holds life and faith together. Powerful stuff.”  And powerful stuff can be scary stuff. It can take commitment and energy that someone may not be prepared for, or that they are unable to give at the time.

But when it does happen, when the glue sticks, when we or they stand up to the challenge, it makes a profound impact, and it can make all the difference.

Dean Koontz, in Fear Nothing, said it this way,  “Friends are all we have to get us through this life–and they are the only things from this world that we could hope to see in the next.” To that I say a resounding, YES! Perhaps the best way to describe this level of friendship is ‘soul friends’, those whose connection is deep enough it reaches our spirit.

German Shepherd -- 2011

German Shepherd — 2011 (Photo credit: Ron Cogswell)

 I am a dog person, more specifically, a German Shepherd person. For years I had a poster on the door to our basement that showed a koala bear clinging to the back of a German Shepherd who looked exactly like Heidi, our dog at the time.  The caption read, “Hold on to a True Friend with Both Hands.”  I try to live by that.  (And meaning no less value to my non-furry friends, I think Heidi probably will be the first ‘person’ I see in heaven!)

Those of you reading this are all fellow sojourners with me. I value that deeply. Some of you are deeper friends, a part of my life’s richest treasure.  Thanks to all of you for the gifts you have given me and for the meaning you have added to my life.

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