I've reached the moment in my memoir when I am writing about my mom's death, eighteen years ago. Of course, it is impossible to believe it has been that long.
These major moments in my life have been hard to get down on paper. And I mean that literally, as I believe I have mentioned, this book is being written longhand, on index cards, because I don't currently own a computer. I can tell when I get to certain hard events, because all I can manage, emotionally, is to write a few cards' worth of narrative at one sitting, not a handful.
This is what I realized a few hours ago: even if I had done nothing else in sixty-three years -- if I had not earned three post-high school degrees, or contributed in various ways to jobs of all sorts, or pioneered as a woman in the field of English church music, or been a scout as a woman alone, trying to survive largely outside the current construct -- even if I had done none of those things, being a presence for my mom in those last three days of her life would have made my entire time on earth worthwhile. I was simply there, keeping my parents' household going, calling the doctor, calling the nurses, calling my brothers, etc. Holding her, talking with her even once she could no longer speak, trying my darndest just to be there. And I say this, even knowing that if the roles had been reversed, Mom might not have been able to be present in the same way for me. It's OK.
I don't believe we "earn" the right to be here on this planet, which is why I struggle so hard with our cutthroat economic model. The moment we have the courage to be born, we have already earned, if you will, our place here. So I don't see this as a scale, where that long weekend in 2019 tips the worthiness balance somehow. For me, it's about looking back at shining moments or experiences that make you proud, and human, and glad to have been alive. Two others, for me, are my experiences singing choral evensong at King's College, Cambridge and Canterbury Cathedral, and my regular contributions to this blog. And, of course, none of these three most worthwhile events paid me actual money. My whole life sometimes seems to be a reproach to our current system; I've finally (almost!) come to terms with that.
I guess I just write this to say to anyone reading this, if you have been a presence to anyone, in any hard situation (as someone was dying, undergoing health issues, making difficult choices...), your value is off the scale. Your time wasn't money, it was love. And eventually, that will be the only currency.
Monday, October 28, 2019
Tuesday, October 15, 2019
Old World/New World
A kind of interesting thought has been weaving through my mind the last two weeks, and the time near "Columbus Day" may be an appropriate moment to throw it out there.
I was definitely brought up with the old paradigm, triumphalist version of American history: that courageous Europeans, fleeing religious and social persecution in their home continent, risked everything to come to the new world and carve out an entire society from scratch. There is still some truth to that superficial telling of the story, but most of us now are conscious of the disturbing shadow stories behind this narrative. That isn't my focus today. Maybe another day.
But as I try to rise above my own strangely intense chronic homesickness for England, I've begun to imagine possible precedents. I'm a fly on the wall of an English couple in the 1600s or early 1700s in their original home, my ancestors. Perhaps they were anti-establishment in some respect, I don't know. Let's say the husband comes home and announces to his wife, "We are leaving for America. There are wide open spaces there, freedom, land to farm or do anything we want. Get packing!" In those days, what choice did the wife have? A woman had no autonomy, no ability to choose differently from her spouse. She would be leaving her social network, likely a nearby family, and everything that she knew. If she refused to go -- well, we can imagine the possibilities in many cases. How many women swallowed their terror, their disagreement, and simply went? And if they survived the perilous two month journey, what was their impression when land was sighted? I am talking about the earliest New England, New York, and Virginia settlers. Whatever town they landed in would have been extremely rustic by European standards, and then beyond that, trees, trees and more trees. And if she survived the first winter (probably at least 30 degrees F colder than she was used to) and the first summer (probably at times nearly 30 degrees F hotter than she was used to), did she ever really get used to her new environment, her landscape, her life of struggle against the elements?
Even if many of the women who came to America early on were dissident Puritans and Quakers, not Church of England, the fact is that in their old homes, they would have been an integral part of a landscape dotted with stone circles, Celtic crosses, churches, abbeys, and cathedrals. Centuries-old pre-Christian and Christian art and architecture would have at least been part of their daily visual experience. Literally uprooting from this land would have been heartbreaking on some level. It must have been. How many years did it take to acclimate? Or did homesickness get passed down to the next generation, and the next, and the next?
Many of us have been brought up to assume that these ties were simply broken, for some of us, up to four hundred years ago. That there shouldn't still be any repercussions. But what if somehow I've heard the echoes of women's tears through the ages, as they were torn from home? Perhaps the ache in my heart isn't only mine, but an inheritance from the women of my past.
I was definitely brought up with the old paradigm, triumphalist version of American history: that courageous Europeans, fleeing religious and social persecution in their home continent, risked everything to come to the new world and carve out an entire society from scratch. There is still some truth to that superficial telling of the story, but most of us now are conscious of the disturbing shadow stories behind this narrative. That isn't my focus today. Maybe another day.
But as I try to rise above my own strangely intense chronic homesickness for England, I've begun to imagine possible precedents. I'm a fly on the wall of an English couple in the 1600s or early 1700s in their original home, my ancestors. Perhaps they were anti-establishment in some respect, I don't know. Let's say the husband comes home and announces to his wife, "We are leaving for America. There are wide open spaces there, freedom, land to farm or do anything we want. Get packing!" In those days, what choice did the wife have? A woman had no autonomy, no ability to choose differently from her spouse. She would be leaving her social network, likely a nearby family, and everything that she knew. If she refused to go -- well, we can imagine the possibilities in many cases. How many women swallowed their terror, their disagreement, and simply went? And if they survived the perilous two month journey, what was their impression when land was sighted? I am talking about the earliest New England, New York, and Virginia settlers. Whatever town they landed in would have been extremely rustic by European standards, and then beyond that, trees, trees and more trees. And if she survived the first winter (probably at least 30 degrees F colder than she was used to) and the first summer (probably at times nearly 30 degrees F hotter than she was used to), did she ever really get used to her new environment, her landscape, her life of struggle against the elements?
Even if many of the women who came to America early on were dissident Puritans and Quakers, not Church of England, the fact is that in their old homes, they would have been an integral part of a landscape dotted with stone circles, Celtic crosses, churches, abbeys, and cathedrals. Centuries-old pre-Christian and Christian art and architecture would have at least been part of their daily visual experience. Literally uprooting from this land would have been heartbreaking on some level. It must have been. How many years did it take to acclimate? Or did homesickness get passed down to the next generation, and the next, and the next?
Many of us have been brought up to assume that these ties were simply broken, for some of us, up to four hundred years ago. That there shouldn't still be any repercussions. But what if somehow I've heard the echoes of women's tears through the ages, as they were torn from home? Perhaps the ache in my heart isn't only mine, but an inheritance from the women of my past.
Friday, October 4, 2019
Beyond Wondering and Wandering
It has started, the dark time of year that I don't think in the past I acknowledged finding hard, but I do now. And this week's earlier and earlier darkness seemed to coincide with several "dark nights of the soul."
I have had a rental right near Lake Superior all summer that was in ways simply idyllic, and perfect for working on my book. I can hear the waves on the big lake, and see sunsets and rowers and ore ships on the bay. I am surrounded by the water I love so much, hear lapping even when the window is closed. Unfortunately, this situation is not likely to last beyond November 1, so this wandering mystic will have to wander on, again, as the weather here is beginning to get brutal. I've been writing like crazy, hoping to finish at least the hand-written part of the book this month, although I find I have to pace myself. It's emotional, challenging writing.
And then all of a sudden last week, I was limping heavily on a very painful left leg, without even having fallen. A trip to Urgent Care told me that it was something called I T band syndrome, and rest, some pain relief and physical therapy will help. But once again, I lurched from feeling young-ish to ancient; reminded of what a total miracle walking is. Astonished that I've usually done it beautifully, ever more conscious of the fragility of that miracle.
I don't know, I just had a few days when I wanted my mom, even though she was never the nurturing type. If not my mom, then the Great Mother, a warm hugging presence in the sky who would go, "There, there, Liz. It's all going to be OK. Here's a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie." Only She wasn't there either. I suddenly realized that She is in me, also exiled, wandering, trying to find safe shelter, trying to be heard in a world that appears to have lost its collective mind.
What has at least partially brought me out of this dark night was validating that I have known since I was about six who I am and where my home is. I am a mystic, and my home is in the choir stalls of English cathedrals. Period. When I root myself in this, I stop freaking out. I'm beyond wondering at the illogic of this, and needing to understand. It simply is, whether I am singing or not. I am also done trying to figure out how to get home. It will happen because it is now time to stop wandering. I am beyond wondering and beyond wandering. My legs and my soul are ready to be rooted. They are ready to sink into more permanent soil, finally a more unified person.
I have had a rental right near Lake Superior all summer that was in ways simply idyllic, and perfect for working on my book. I can hear the waves on the big lake, and see sunsets and rowers and ore ships on the bay. I am surrounded by the water I love so much, hear lapping even when the window is closed. Unfortunately, this situation is not likely to last beyond November 1, so this wandering mystic will have to wander on, again, as the weather here is beginning to get brutal. I've been writing like crazy, hoping to finish at least the hand-written part of the book this month, although I find I have to pace myself. It's emotional, challenging writing.
And then all of a sudden last week, I was limping heavily on a very painful left leg, without even having fallen. A trip to Urgent Care told me that it was something called I T band syndrome, and rest, some pain relief and physical therapy will help. But once again, I lurched from feeling young-ish to ancient; reminded of what a total miracle walking is. Astonished that I've usually done it beautifully, ever more conscious of the fragility of that miracle.
I don't know, I just had a few days when I wanted my mom, even though she was never the nurturing type. If not my mom, then the Great Mother, a warm hugging presence in the sky who would go, "There, there, Liz. It's all going to be OK. Here's a fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie." Only She wasn't there either. I suddenly realized that She is in me, also exiled, wandering, trying to find safe shelter, trying to be heard in a world that appears to have lost its collective mind.
What has at least partially brought me out of this dark night was validating that I have known since I was about six who I am and where my home is. I am a mystic, and my home is in the choir stalls of English cathedrals. Period. When I root myself in this, I stop freaking out. I'm beyond wondering at the illogic of this, and needing to understand. It simply is, whether I am singing or not. I am also done trying to figure out how to get home. It will happen because it is now time to stop wandering. I am beyond wondering and beyond wandering. My legs and my soul are ready to be rooted. They are ready to sink into more permanent soil, finally a more unified person.
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