Spring Break

February 19, 2011 By

Witch Hazel, blooming now!

It’s still February but it is in the low 70’s in my back yard.  I sit in the warm sun, eyes closed feeling a light breeze play through my hair.  A crow caws, warning its companions of a cat or dog wandering too near. A few cars rumble by in the distance.  In my mind’s eye, I see the Zinnias, Purple Cone Flowers, Lilies, Rosemary, Lemon Verbena, Calendula and more I will plant in the garden at this new home, where I have never gardened before.  I’m anxious to get my hands in the dirt.  Gardening is one of my all time favorite things to do; I consider it a way of praying, of speaking to the earth, of doing what I can to help keep this beautiful blue orb we live on, spinning.

So much is happening around the world.  Revolution is rife in the Middle East and I send loving kindness to those who are in the thick of it, on all sides.  I am still trying to get my head around what the Egyptian people managed to accomplish without doing violence.  I was glued to CNN and MSNBC, and got very little else done for several days while it was happening. It still seems to me, miraculous.  Is this the beginning of the shift that so many have predicted?  I believe it is.  I also believe that it will be a very difficult time to stay grounded, to stay sane, to believe that everything we will see, despite its ugliness, may in fact make our world more beautiful than ever. I want to be a witness to it.

Next month my husband and I will join a group of 50 other people on a trip called CIVIL RIGHTS SOUTH: IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF THE MOVEMENT,  a revolution that happened right under our noses.

We will begin the journey in Atlanta, under the guidance of Julian Bond,  past Chairman of the National Board of the NAACP and President Emeritus of the Southern Poverty Law Center.  We will travel by bus, along many of the roadways that civil rights activists took during the ‘60s to bring attention to the intolerance that prevailed in our country,  ” the land of the free.”   We’ll visit Albany, Tuskegee, Montgomery, Selma and Birmingham.  We will stop at the New Ebenezer Baptist Church, the George Washington Carver Museum,  the Tuskegee Airmen National Historic Site, the Rosa Parks Museum, the Marchers Memorial and Interpretive Center and the National Voting Rights Museum, among others.  We will attend a concert of the original Freedom Singers and visit a gallery of primitive southern art.

Our inspiration??  Several weeks ago we had the privilege of previewing the film, Freedom Riders, which will premier on PBS’ American Experience, in May.  It is the compelling story of the college students, white and black, male and female, who boarded Greyhound and Trailways buses in 1961. They rode through the south, integrating bus stations, restrooms and restaurants on their way to New Orleans.  It is a story of heroes willing to risk death, intent on challenging those who would keep the south lily-white.

However late, we want to bear witness to what was happening while we were sleepily beginning our adult lives way up north in New England, where diversity was a word that we thought little about at the time.  And so we will leave behind our comfortable home, my lovely garden-to-be to try to understand what happened here, in our own country so we may better understand what is happening in the world we live in now.  I will try to keep copious notes while I travel to let you know what I learn.

Please visit Sacred Circle to read grandson Noah’s letter to the President.  He and his sister, Zoe, are part of the future of this country. I’m thrilled to see this young man stand up and speak for what he believes in.  No one talked him into writing his letter.  It was his own idea.

Filed Under: stories, Travels

Living in Sin

February 15, 2011 By

 

The Grown UPs From Left to Right Back Row: My Aunt Polly, My Mother, My Grandmother, My father. The kids: Cousin John, Butch, a neighborhood friend, Zed, Me. Cousin Tom.

Not only was yesterday Valentines Day,  but it was also my parents’ wedding anniversary.  They were married in 1942, in Elkton, Maryland, by a Justice of the Peace on the day before my father left home for his participation in WWII.  They were Catholics but had no idea what a stir their wedding vows would cause the family ten years later.  All was well until 1952, when by youngest brother Reid, was born.  Mom and Dad decided to have him and my brother, Zed, baptised when Reid was about a year old.  The big day was scheduled with relatives coming from New Jersey, and my grandparents who lived nearby.

Just before the event, my parents went to talk to the priest who would perform the ritual.  He wanted to know more about the family.  I had been baptized in a different church shortly after I was born and had received my first communion a year earlier at the same church where the baptism of my brothers was to take place. When they were asked by the priest where they were married everything came to a screeching halt.

They were told by this man of the church that they were not married in the eyes of God and so were living in sin.  He also said that my brothers and I were bastards because my parents were not married and therefore we were illegitimate.

My parents held the family gathering anyway, on the Sunday that the boys were to be baptized but weren’t. There was much talk about the situation, how unfair it was and serious anger was expressed.  Being about 9 years old, I listened as everyone pissed and moaned about the church and how cruel it seemed to this family whose early time together had been interrupted by a long war in which my father narrowly survived and was awarded at least one medal for his heroic service.  I soaked it all in and when I never went to that church again, I understood that we were not permitted to return, because we were no good.

I’ve carried this story with me all of my life, wondering why I never felt worthy of acceptance by most other people.  In October of 1990, I finally came to grips with how I felt about the church and my own encounters with nuns and priests.  Healing the hurt, I wrote the following poems.

Religious Instruction

When I was eight I went to church                                                                                                   where a nun prepared me                                                                                                                   for my First Holy Communion;                                                                                                         learned about the body and blood of Christ,                                                                                   a white wafer to be swallowed whole.

She told me that money collected                                                                                                     on sunday went directly to God.                                                                                                       I dreamed of baskets filled with coins,                                                                                             sprouting wings, ascending to Heaven                                                                                             where he didn’t allow dead babies                                                                                                   that hadn’t been baptized.

The nun choked in her long black habit,                                                                                         white gorget pressed around her puffy face                                                                                     like a rubber band, hiding her hair, ears                                                                                         and the neck where a heavy black cross                                                                                           swung on a silver chain bowing her shoulders.                                                                               She rapped the knuckles of dreamers                                                                                               with a ruler producing red streaks, tears.

One Sunday after reciting the Act of Contrition,                                                                           confessing a multitude of sins and pretending                                                                               to do penance, I walked down the aisle                                                                                           dressed like a bride, in white.

Confession

Sunlight filters                                                                                                                                     parables of glass,                                                                                                                                 stains the alter,                                                                                                                                     the Virgin Mary.                                                                                                                                   Above me Jesus hangs                                                                                                                         on a wooden cross,                                                                                                                               his face serene.                                                                                                                                     He died for my sins.                                                                                                                             Now I must gather them up,                                                                                                               tell the priest hidden in the confessional:                                                                                       the turtles died                                                                                                                                   because I forgot to feed them,                                                                                                           how I hate my father                                                                                                                           when he hits me,                                                                                                                                   all the lies I’ve told.                                                                                                                             I wait my turn                                                                                                                                       to kneel in the dark.                                                                                                                             My stomach aches.                                                                                                                               I have to pee,                                                                                                                                         practice the prayer                                                                                                                               about being sorry.

Penance

Children hang in rows                                                                                                                         on gilded crosses                                                                                                                                 beating their breasts                                                                                                                           for priests who smell                                                                                                                           like whiskey and smother                                                                                                                   the question:                                                                                                                                         What have we done?

Communion

I kneel at the altar                                                                                                                               dressed in white.                                                                                                                                 Angels float above my head.                                                                                                               The priest approaches,                                                                                                                       presses the wafer                                                                                                                                 against my tongue.                                                                                                                               I choke as the body catches,                                                                                                               bleeding in my throat,                                                                                                                         scraping its way to my soul                                                                                                               where shut in the dark                                                                                                                       It will not grow.

Confirmation

They are living in sin.                                                                                                                         My brothers and I are bastards.                                                                                                       The priest said so.

They were married                                                                                                                               by a Justice of the Peace                                                                                                                     the night before my father                                                                                                                 went to war.

They are not married                                                                                                                           in the eyes of God.                                                                                                                               My brothers and I do note exist                                                                                                       in the eyes of God.                                                                                                                               The priest said so.

Filed Under: Poetry, stories

Happy Valentines Day!

February 14, 2011 By

 

copyright 1996, Joan Z. Rough

May You Love and Be Loved On This Special Day and Always!

Filed Under: Uncategorized

Leaving A Mark

February 11, 2011 By

If you look at the photo of this very old Beech tree, you’ll see that there are messages carved into its bark.  We seem to need to leave a mark, proving that we were here, alive in this world.  “These are my initials and this is who I loved at that moment in time.” In a way these marks are stories.  Imagine young lovers returning to this tree 20 years later as husband and wife.  The tree shows them where their story began and draws out the memories of an earlier time.  I’m not saying that carving one’s initials into a tree is a good thing to do.  Because the tree’s skin has been cut, it becomes vulnerable to all matter of diseases and ailments, just like an open cut on  a human body can lead to a number of serious infections.  I’d rather see people leave their mark in written stories to share with friends, family and the rest of the world.

That said, I’d like to share posts from blogs that speak to me and give me comfort. I keep returning to them, inspired by the words and the vulnerability the writers have allowed themselves.  When we write and publish words for public consumption, we place ourselves on a world stage with nothing to hide our most private parts.  But it’s not about T and A.  It is about the story we’ve kept hidden, then suddenly release like a flock of doves, to share with those who choose to stop and read for just a moment.   We might feel that what we have to say isn’t anything others will be interested in.  But we also know that once the words have been read, someone who reads them might feel they are not alone.  It is about letting ourselves stand tall and to speak of who we are, sharing experiences in this one wildly beautiful, terribly painful life.

If you choose, do check these out:

My dear friend Susan Preston, of Visual-Voice, takes amazing photographs that always seem to mirror the big questions she continues to ask of herself, as she moves through her days in New Mexico.

At The Direction of Intention, David Robinson, artist, thespian and life coach, shares this story of compassion and right action.

Shirley Hershey Showalter, of 100 Memoirs, writes of a major life change and the acceptance she brings to it.

And last but not least, on my husband’s blog, View in the Dark, Bill talks about his father and his own aging process.

It seems to me that these folks are leaving their marks so that others might read them and find company on their own journeys.  I hope you enjoy them as much as I have.

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories, Uncategorized

Not-Knowing

February 7, 2011 By

We just never know what a new day will bring … happiness, sadness, fear, understanding.  Things can change in a split second.  Perhaps the sun will shine on us, perhaps it will rain.  One minute you’re the Grand Prize winner, the next you’re a loser.  Standing tall one moment, you are flat on your back in the next, trying to remember what hit you. This is the human condition.

I’ve found these words helpful:

The state of not-knowing is a riveting place to be. And we don’t have to climb rocks to experience it. We encounter not-knowing when, for instance, we meet someone new, or when life offers up a surprise. These experiences remind us that change and unpredictability are the pulse of our very existence. No one really knows what will happen from one moment to the next: Who will we be, what will we face, and how will we respond to what we encounter? We don’t know, but there’s a good chance we will encounter some rough, unwanted experiences, some surprises beyond our imaginings, and some expected things, too. And we can decide to stay present for all of it.

– Elizabeth Mattis-Namgyel, “Open Stillness”

In the end, it’s the staying present with it all that is the secret.  I’ve found that hiding in my cave is the worst thing I can do.  It gets boring and hugely confining.  I miss too much when I’m in the deep, dark crevices of numbness.

A weaver friend once told me she had to listen to the radio or watch tv soaps as she worked.  When I asked her why, she told me that she didn’t want to know what the voices in her head were saying.  I found that sad.  To live in fear is to die not knowing yourself. Without experiencing the difficult parts of our lives, we’ll never know the joyous ones, and who we truly are.

Filed Under: Life, Navigating Through Life, Wise Words
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