Have you ever considered burning your journals?
I’m over at the Writer House blog with a new post. Check it out at http://www.writerhouse.org/
On Burning My Journals
November 7, 2013 By
Book Review: Blush, A Mennonite Girl Meets A Glittering World
October 29, 2013 By
While away in London, I read and reviewed Aimee Wise’s, Of Human Clay. Having set the tone with her “spiritual” memoir, I was eager to continue my reading adventure with another: Blush, A Mennonite Girl Meets A Glittering World, by friend, Shirley Hershey Showalter. Having two women I know publish memoirs simultaneously is thrilling. And both authors have helped me to understand my own need for spiritual comfort and have left me wanting to know more about how spirituality and religion becomes part of our lives and how it effects those around us.
Though each of these women has a different story, a different religion, and culture to deal with, the frustrations and tensions apparent in both stories, are similar. Regardless of what church, synagogue, or temple one worships in, our struggle to be faithful to our God, while being human beings with wants and needs that may fall beyond what we are permitted, are universal.
While Aimee’s book brought back twinges of my early anger with the Catholic Church, I was charmed and delighted with Shirley’s memories of growing up in a conservative, Mennonite farm community in Pennsylvania. Her wish “to be big,” not in the sense of being tall, “but big as in important, successful, influential,” went against all that her church and family represented. To be Mennonite was to be plain and simple: in dress, speech and in all behaviors. To be female and wear a prayer covering on one’s head was to stick out like a sore thumb … part of a religious subculture that a good part of the rest of the world doesn’t notice or choose to explore. In large societies like our own, we’re all too quick to point fingers at and make sometimes cruel jokes about those who are different from the rest of us. Whether it’s our skin color, religion, political affiliation, or sexual orientation, there is always something to gossip and make nasty judgements about.
Reading through Shirley’s memories of her first eighteen years of life, I was struck by how “BIG” she was even when she was small. She seems to have had an intuitive side that brought her through difficult moments in a family and church that she went along with and believed in, despite having her own dreams and aspirations for something more. And though following most of the rules, she never became the expected Mennonite wife, wearing a prayer covering, raising a handful of kids, and helping her husband by doing whatever is necessary to run a sometimes not so profitable farm. Shirley seemed to know, if only on an unconscious level, that she would be more, while still respecting and hanging on to the structural ideals of her church and family. She has done more than succeed as a past president of Goshen College and her work with the Fetzer Institute.
From the beginning, Shirley, named by her mother after the famous child star, Shirley Temple, loved to be with her dad, riding along with him on the tractor and helping out in the other innumerable daily farm chores. Later when her brother and sisters came along, she loved being their teacher, showing them the ways of the natural world, the church, their family and even perhaps the glittering world beyond her parent’s farm. She “blushed” her way through awkward moments when she could barely contain her urges to go beyond what was expected of her. Her parents seemed to understand her concerns and differences with the Bishops of the Mennonite community, allowing her to think for herself while guiding her with gentle kindness.
Of the many heart-warming stories in this memoir, one of my my favorites is when her brother, Henry, gets a “new” second-hand bicycle. Envious of her brother’s good fortune and frustrated by her own old and worn out bike, Shirley, tries to paint hers in an effort to make it look better using odd cans of paint stashed in the barn. She never asked permission to do so and makes a huge mess that most parents would have a huge fit about. When Shirley tells her dad, about her misadventure, adding that “I think you must love Henry more than me,” he purchases the proper paints, takes her bike apart, and repaints it to make it look almost like new. Though her mother reminds her about “envy,” her father doesn’t lecture her on what she has done wrong. This special love and Mennonite kindness, prevails throughout the book, making me wish at times that I had grown up as a member of her family.
Filled with interesting tidbits about the history of the Mennonite church, family stories, along with recipes, footnotes and a glossary of terms I had little to no clue about, Shirley’s book took me on a journey through her early life and who and what has influenced her to become the woman she is today. She says it all best in the final pages of her book in, “Why I Am (Still!) a Mennonite.”
In the complicated world we live in, reading Blush, was for me a calming and refreshing visit to a simpler, less thorny way of living.
Book Review: Of Human Clay
October 14, 2013 By
The best of a book is not the thought which it contains, but the thought which it suggests; just as the charm of music dwells not in the tones but in the echoes of our hearts.
~ John Greenleaf Whittier
It was with great excitement that I recently received newly published memoirs written by two of my friends. The first to be delivered to my doorstep was, Of Human Clay, the making and breaking of a nun, by Aimee Wise, a lovely woman I met in 2010 at Jennifer Louden’s writing retreat in Taos, New Mexico.
It is a glorious read. I had a difficult time putting it down when I finished reading the final pages. I wanted more. It was like a delicious meal that you don’t want to end. The first words that came to mind when I finally let it go were beautiful, stunning, and heartbreaking. It’s a remarkable love story, not only between a man and woman, but also between a woman, her God, and the people she loved and served for seventeen months as a medical missionary in Malawi, one of the poorest nations in Africa.
Aimee’s story begins with her Irish Catholic upbringing and her search for a meaningful life as she enters the convent to become a nun. She spends years preparing herself to become a medical missionary. Later, finding herself in a small, forgotten nation, living among people who have been virtually ignored by a patronizing church, Aimee finds herself facing a patriarchal governing body regulated by Rome and its often hypocritical views of what caring for others is really all about. When she shares her thoughts with a young priest whose feelings are similar to her own, they fall in love, lost in a world of diminishing returns as they each, singularly, try to maintain their balance, vows, and the passion they feel for each other and their work.
Filled with important questions about life, love, and caring for others, Aimee’s story led me back to my own experiences as a child in the Catholic church and my families dismissal when priests in our parish discovered that my parents had been married by a justice of peace in Maryland, on Valentine’s Day in 1942. The next day my father went to war and eventually became a hero in our country’s fight to bring peace to a world at war. Told that they were living in sin and that my brothers and I were bastards, my parents left the church never entering the doors of any religious organization again. Even as a child of eight, I felt the stigma and inaccessibility to those who wanted to teach me what and how to believe in a spiritual deity.
I highly recommend this book to anyone immersed in their own spiritual journey. It touches the essence and hearts of all of us whether we follow a traditional faith or have invented our own way of believing or disbelieving.
I will tell you about my friend, Shirley Hershey Showalter, and her new memoir, Blush, A Mennonite Girl meets A glittering World,” as soon I’ve finished reading it. Stay Tuned.
October Adventure
October 1, 2013 By
October
Gusts hurry clouds
Large as icebergs across unlimited blue
Unclothed limbs thrash beneath shadows
Afraid the sky will burst
The gray squirrel
The one that limps fusses at the cat
Seems thin like the light slipping
Over the edge
I fill the feeders
To overflowing rake the path
Blanketed with summer’s remnants
Moldering through expectant afternoons
JZR
10/3/91
Though temperatures will be rising today to eighty plus, and the humidity will soon make the air heavier, fall is here. At bedtime, I open a window in my room, leave the blanket in place and sleep more soundly than I do in summer. It is hibernation time.
Although I’m a morning person, it is difficult to get out of bed when it is so dark outside. At this time of year I want a rise with the sun and go to sleep when it falls off in the west. But that doesn’t leave enough time during the daylight hours to get enough done. In another month the time will change and I’ll find it easier to get out of bed earlier. But night will encroach sooner than before and the evening chores in the garden will be done in strong afternoon light or wait until the days start lengthening again.
Though I haven’t finished the first draft of my book, it’s time for a change of scene. Next week, I’m off on an adventure. I’m off to London, where a bridge has been falling down for centuries and a new born prince resides not too far away. I’m very excited but at the same time having difficulty getting myself ready to go. Packing has always been a chore for me. I either pack too much or too little and then complain that my bags are either too heavy or I don’t have enough clothing to keep me from looking like an old, wrinkled wanderer.
After I leave the the house, the dogs and cat behind, I’ll become my traveling self, eager for something new and ready for change. I’ll see some sights I haven’t checked out before, visit with old friends, see a few plays and listen to beautiful music at St. Martin’s in the Field. I’ll check out Harrod’s and other stores that catch my interest and wander through the many outdoor markets looking for some small object that doesn’t cost much but would be perfect for one of my works of art.
At this time of year, we usually go to the beach, just five hours away, where the tourists are mostly gone for the season. There I take in the sound of the ocean, walk barefoot in the sand, and simply rest. But this year I decided on something different. I haven’t been to the other side of the pond in a number of years and decided it was time to return. And England is one my favorite places. The years pass too quickly and though there are other places still on my bucket list, returning to special places is particularly comforting. And having Frequent Flyer Miles to get me there certainly helps.
I may or may not show up here during the next couple of weeks, depending on what I’m doing and how I’m feeling. Sometimes a body just needs a break from old routines. Other times life is so exciting I just may have to break my silence and fill you in on what’s happening. In any case, I’ll be back in three weeks. Enjoy this wonderful season and the changes that lie before all of us.
On Being Hit Over The Head With A Two-By-Four
September 3, 2013 By
Chippy and Mildred
Blaming the dogs for my broken leg was never an option.
Every now and then when I’m moving through life at too fast a clip and I think I have all of my problems licked, the Universe sends me a BIG, HARD message. I liken it to being hit over the head with a two-by-four.
It happens when I haven’t been paying attention to the many small hints I’m sent on a fairly regular basis. When I listen and act on what my “gut” is telling me I do okay. And for the most part, I pay attention and take the advice I’m sent seriously. When my head is drooping and I can’t keep my eyes on the screen, I know it’s time to turn the computer off and go for a walk … or take a nap … or pull a few weeds in the garden. When “something” tells me I need to go in a different direction than the one I insist on, I need to listen. If I take too long catching on to what is being suggested, the two-by-four comes out. And it’s usually in the form of a health problem.
The first time it happened was a long time ago in the late 70’s, on a January first. I had been pissing and moaning about how I hated New Years and what a boring day it was. I was glad the the old year was gone, but I was hoping for a year filled with all kinds of excitement. I hated looking back at what looked to me like an uninteresting life. I was hoping the big calendar shift would bring some exciting new thing to get me up and moving toward something big and bright that would peak my interest and the passion that I’d been missing for a while.
At the time, life was a mishmash of being a mother, a wife, a daughter and whatever else came my way. What ever it was didn’t matter, as long as I was busy and time passed quickly. I was stuck, overextended, and not appreciating the small things in life that one day turn out to be big deals.
Just moments after bemoaning the dullness of the cold and sunless day, I heard my two dogs, Mildred and Chippy, having a knock-down-drag-out fight out in the field in front of my house. I envisioned major injuries and blood loss. Without thinking, I ran like hell down the driveway to break them up, forgetting that there was a cattle guard between me and the dogs. By the time I realized what was ahead of me it was too late to stop. One leg landed between concrete piers and I heard a snap. There was no pain at first, but I knew I was in trouble. Both bones in my lower right leg were broken and I was in a cast of one kind or another for four months. If I thought life was boring before the event, it was really bad afterwards.
I got the excitement I wished for, but it was the wrong kind. Within the dark clouds over my head was that often spoken of and highly celebrated silver lining in the form of time. Time not only to heal a damaged leg, but also time to think about where I’d been and where I was going. I changed a whole lot things and became a better person.
The second time it happened was three and a half years ago when I was diagnosed with endometrial cancer. I had recently lost both my mother and brother to cancer. I was scared out of my mind. I’d been hoarding all sorts of raw, hateful feelings toward both my mother and my brother. I felt broken and unhappy, wondering what would happen next. Surgery removed all of the cancer and brought the promising prognosis that in all likelihood it would not return.
Again, my gift was time. Over the days, I figured out that I needed a major make-over. Not a new hair style, makeup and wardrobe kind of makeover, but a new way of looking at life and recognizing the lessons that keep coming my way. Since then I’ve worked hard learning about love, forgiveness, and my own ugly warts. And since I started writing about my my healing journey with my mother, I’m feeling like a new person.
That is until three and half weeks ago when the unimaginable pain of a pinched nerve set me back from the self-imposed deadline of having the first draft done by October first. For a full week all I could do was stay in bed. I felt as though I couldn’t hold my head up, and the excruciating pain radiated from my neck down into my left arm and into the palm of my hand. Working at the computer was impossible. During the second week the pain lessened but I was told that sitting all day in front of the computer screen, writing my book was the most likely cause of the problem.
In my rush to get that first draft done, I’d forgotten to take care of myself in other ways. I’d decided not to travel over the summer, became a recluse, and kept on writing. I wasn’t exercising enough and even my usually healthy diet took a hit. That’s all well and good for some I suppose, but for me those were the wrong decisions. I was lonely and wanted to get out of here.
I need more socializing than I thought I did and the continual revisiting of dark days in the past wore me down. Something was going to give, one way or another. It seems more than a coincidence that this problem in my left shoulder and arm happened as I was writing chapters about my mother’s last few months of life, when she broke both her left shoulder and her left femur. I considered them among the worst days of my life. Is it so surprising that I was having these symptoms as I relived them?
So again, I’m being taught something and am surrendering to the lessons. I continue to write a little bit every day, but it can only be for an hour or so. Within that hour I’m supposed to get up and move about every thirty minutes. I’m seeing a physical therapist, doing lots of stretching, and there is an MRI in the works. But my pain in the neck, shoulder, and arm has given me plenty of time to read and get caught up on filing, and rethinking how this person needs to go about her work.
I am being given the gift of time once again. Time to work more slowly and deliberately, in order to get out the best story I can tell. Before my pinched nerver, I was rushing through the darkness so that I could get out from under the clouds. Now I’m taking both the light and darkness together, slowing down and paying attention to where I am. It feels so much better.
