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

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

I’m Trying To Write A Book

February 3, 2011 By

 

That's me at Jennifer Louden's writer's retreat in Taos, New Mexico, last summer. It was heavenly! Photo by Kara McGee

As a follow-up to my last post, I found this piece in my locker hooking file and thought I’d share with you some of the OCD silliness and insanity I went through in order to get that book written.  Since I think I may be embarking on writing a memoir, it’s a good reminder of what the work can be like.

5:45 AM How did I get myself into this mess?  Why am I trying to do something so unnatural for me?  If God had meant for me to be a writer, he certainly would have equipped me with so much more than he has.  I find myself not being able to communicate the simplest words to my family.  How can I possibly write a book?

6:00 AM Shut the alarm off.  It’s too late.  I’ve already told everyone I’m going to do it  and once you tell, it’s written in stone.  I’d really like to pretend I didn’t tell and hide here on the side of my mountain and just do something else. Book?  What book?  But I can’t hide from me.

8:30 AM Bill has gone to work, kids to school.  Now what?  Clean up the kitchen, throw the laundry in the machine, water the plants.  There must be something else I need to do.  Call someone.  Talk talk, chatter, chatter.

9:00 AM Okay, I’ll try.  Find a notebook, pens. The laundry needs folding so it won’t get wrinkled sitting in the dryer all day.

10:00 AM The phone … “Yes, I’ll provide paper cups and potato chips for the classroom party next week.” Okay, here I go.  Just one paragraph.  Oh, look at that gorgeous red-tailed hawk.  Get the Binoculars.

10:30 AM The roofer is here to repair a leak.  Okay, a third paragraph.  Doesn’t sound too bad.  At least I know what I mean.  “Yes, I’ll get you a flashlight in a minute” … I’m trying to write.  Why must people do this to me?  Don’t they know I’m busy?  After all, how am I supposed to write this book if I’m always being interrupted.

12:30 PM The roofer is gone.  The leak is a thing of the past.  The mail must be here.  I’ll just walk down to get it.  Nothing important here, just bills and junk mail.   Guess I’ll read the paper.

2:30 PM Only one hour before I have to pick up the kids.  I’ll just try cleaning up this last paragraph a bit.

3:00 PM It looks pretty good so far.  After I’ve made my first million I’ll hire someone to pick up the kids.

4:00 PM Kids home, doing homework.  I’ll just write a bit more.  Get that new idea down on paper while it’s still fresh in my mind.

5:00 PM Bill’s home.  “Look what I’ve done today!  I’ve written the whole first section!” He’s had a bad day.  I don’t want to stop now.  Everyone is hungry.  Bill needs to be at a meeting at 7:30 PM.

8:00 PM Dinner’s done.  Bill is gone.  I’ll go up to the studio and write some more.  The kids are bugging me.    “Please lower the sound on the TV.  No, I didn’t wash your red sweater today.  I’ll get to it tomorrow.  I’ve been busy writing.” They must hate me …

9:00 PM At last.  It feels good to work with words.

9:15 PM Damn, the phone.  “Mom, it’s for you!” Crap!  “No I can’t help out at the Band Booster’s Spagetti dinner on Friday!” I’M WRITING A BOOK!!

Well, I never made a million so couldn’t hire a chauffeur to drive the kids around.  But it was fun!  It was hard!  It was exhausting!  It was rewarding!  It was a great learning experience!  I can’t believe I did it, even now, 19 years later!  And did I say it was fun?

 

Filed Under: Navigating Through Life, stories

Rare Books

January 31, 2011 By

Last week I decided to google myself just for the heck of it. Low and behold, there I was on Amazon, with what they say is a page of my own. Clicking on that, I found that there were 7 copies of a book I had published in 1982, available from various book dealers, starting in price from $17.50 to $158.00.  Since then 1 book has sold and there are only 6 remaining.  In 1982 I sold those 59 page books for $6.95 plus shipping and handling and upped the price on the last two printings to $7.95.  I’ve written a rare book!  I AM a writer!  But this is something I never expected!

While living in Vermont, I raised my own sheep and agora goats so that I always had a good supply of luxurious natural fibers. Back in the early 80’s, shortly after having moved to Virginia, I began teaching the spinning of wool and mohair fibers into one-of-a-kind yarns to be used in knitting or weaving projects.  I also taught natural dying using local plants, like golden rod, pearly everlasting, walnut hulls, twigs and leaves.  These plants can yield lovely muted colors … soft, buttery yellows, gentle greens, occasional oranges and red depending on the plants and mordant used.  Walnut hulls give a lovely brown.

One year while showing my work at a local craft fair, I was approached by a woman who told me that her mother-in-law would be visiting for the summer from Australia. She did a craft called locker hooking, which I had never heard of.  She described to me a process of using fleece, right from the sheep’s back, to make sturdy rugs. It was difficult for me to envision the work from her description but waited with bated breath for Marj Boyes to arrive.

When we finally got together she showed me her beautiful rugs and a coat she had made for her daughter-in-law using the same technique.  She had learned it from John and Patricia Benson, neighbors in Victoria, who learned it from their son, Brian, who had seen it demonstrated in Ireland.

I had never known anything like it and fell in love with this new use for the bags of wool I had hauled with me from Vermont.  I arranged for her to do some teaching and the craft quickly caught on among locals interested in rug hooking and those who were raising sheep.  I made a number of rugs and vests myself and began to call myself a hooker!

closeup of a small wall hanging

Just before Marj went back home to Australia, I told her that she needed to write a book on how to do this type of rug hooking. She said no, but why didn’t I do it?  Oh, my gosh!  Who me?  What do I know about writing a book and with two kids about to enter their teens, would I have the energy or the time to deal with anything else?  But the seed had been sewn and in a few months the idea began to sprout tiny green leaves somewhere in my brain.  I began doing some research trying to find the origin of this work and found a few mentions here and there, but it was sparse and mostly unknown.  I started writing what I knew and came up with a title:  Australian Locker Hooking, A New Approach to a Traditional Craft.

My husband became my editor.  We argued about grammar, spelling, but remained married and best friends.  My writing tools were an old electric typewriter and White Out, since home computers were not yet available. We designed the book together, he doing the photography and some of the drawings.  My children paced in the background feeling as though they’d been abandoned by both of their crazy parents.

We decided to include with the book a locker hook, which is the tool needed to do this craft.  Since they were not available in the USA, I found a manufacturer in England and imported them. We found a printer and we were off to the races. The finished book was in my hands in early 1982.

Because I was a spinner and weaver and subscribed to many weaving and spinning magazines, I knew my market well.  I ordered a printing of 3,000 books which I immediately began selling through inexpensive ads in national craft magazines.  I began writing articles, teaching classes and demonstrating whenever I had the opportunity. We went to Seattle to a conference of the Hand Weavers Guild of America where I began selling the books wholesale to spinning and weaving shops across the country and to a few shops in other countries.

In 1983 I reprinted another 2,000 copies and then again in 1985 and ‘86.  I was getting tired of being a mail order house and wanted to spread my wings into the field of nature photography. I contacted a number of publishers to see if they might like to take the project over, but they all declined saying that the trend wouldn’t last and that it was just too small a project to get involved with. I let the whole thing die a natural death giving several people permission to use some of my material knowing that they would be generous keepers of the craft.  I went on about my life, making photographs, paintings and exhibiting the results.

This is what I’ved learned:

Do your best. Believe in what you do. Release any attachment to outcome.  Stand tall. Count every blessing. Always say thank you. Check yourself out on Google once in a while … you never know what you’ll find!

 

Filed Under: Books, stories, Vermont

Healing Through Story

January 24, 2011 By

The Knox School on Long Island where I spent my junior year in highschool. My parents sent me there to break up my relationship with a boy.

Making story of our family history doesn’t mean we change the realities of our forebears’ lives … we don’t turn a thief into a pillar of virtue …but we learn to carry the story differently so the lineage can heal.

Christina Baldwin                                                                                                                Storycatcher, Making Sense of Our Lives through the Power and Practice of Story

As I sit pouring over photos of family and friends, I struggle with many questions.  Who were these people, really?  What have I missed?  What role did or do they have in the weaving of my own story?  What stories can I tell about them … only the one’s that make me laugh and bring smiles of joy?  Can I tell the other ones that are sad, deeply hurtful? The ones that most every family has hidden in the deep, dark closet filled with spider-webs and ghosts that we call denial?

I recently finished reading Mary Karr’s most recent memoir, Lit.  She is a no holds barred storyteller, brutally honest, but in her honesty becomes a friend that you can trust to always speak her truth.  She lays out her life, a tightly woven carpet, that drew me in and once and for all convinced me that addiction is a disease.  Having had relationships with a number of alcoholics in my life, including my mother and mother-in-law, I have seen for the very first time what it is like to be a prisoner of addiction.  I can finally say I have reached a place of understanding and forgiveness, both for them and for my own behavior towards them.  Did Mary Karr go over the top in telling her story?  Does she give us more information than we need?  I think not, since through her story,  she has the ability to help us relate to the difficulties in our own lives.

I come from a family who kept their secrets tightly guarded.  There was a great deal of shame involved.  In the days when my parents were young adults, no one asked for help.  To need help was a sign of weakness. You had to deal with whatever was difficult for you, alone.  My father, a veteran of WW II, had PTSD, which at that time was not fully recognized as the debilitating disorder it is.  He suffered from sudden mood swings and moments of severe darkness. My mother, a victim of a cruel childhood turned to alcohol to soften the blows of their lives together and the memories of her own family of origin. Their challenges were never spoken of.

Most of us can and do blame others for who we are.  But in the blaming do we not lose perspective of our own story?  I have frequented Alanon meetings in order to find answers.  I have relived childhood trauma with caring therapists who have helped me see that my difficulties have resulted from the challenges of others.  I am thankfully at a point where I no longer blame somebody else for my pain.  I can only feel compassion for the cards that my predecessors were dealt during their lifetimes. Life is not a romp in the park, but a life long trek through darkness and light, fire and ice.

We all have our dark sides.  I have hurt others, including my parents, my brothers, my husband and my children.  I have warts.   I am a member of the human race.  It is through story that I search for answers that will help me to heal not only my own life, but my family’s lineage as well.  It is through the stories of others, that I am finding my path through the forest. I am searching for the crumbs left by those before me to help guide the way through the great mysteries of life.

Filed Under: Life, stories, wonderings
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