The First Hour

Friends have told me on a number of occasions that the blog posts they have most appreciated are the ones where I am the most honest about my personal experiences and feelings. So here goes one of those. It will be a miracle if I get up the courage to publish it. Much of this you may have heard before in some form, but today I go a bit deeper. And although my current housing situation has stabilized, the topic is still applicable in other ways.

I know that my mother did her best to welcome me, given the 1950's hospital setting and my probably having been taken away seconds after birth to be cleaned up, checked over, and dressed up. Mom wasn't a demonstrative woman. She was also tiny, and had just given birth to a three-week-late, 9 pounds 1 oz baby, so her joy or satisfaction must have been muted by activity, exhaustion and fluorescent lights. But at least I have a vague memory of some slight bonding. What I have a clearer sensing memory of, however, is that first moment meeting my father. He told me once that he had gone out drinking while he waited to hear the news that I was born. (This was way before the days of fathers helping out in the delivery room, but I know for a fact that he would not have done that in any event.) While I am sure he jollied up my mom and the nurses and said all the right things, I am also sure that, when I was placed in his arms, I looked into eyes that simply could not see me. With the exception of a few occasions when his own ego was boosted by his attention to me, and up to his death three years ago (when I "inherited" $725), I have no memory of any genuine, two-way interaction with him, or, frankly, between him and anyone else. The problem, of course, is that until I was about 60, I did not understand that my efforts to engage him were futile. I literally spent much of this lifetime searching for some way to break through the surface and find the human being within, only I don't believe there was one. I was not successful, in any event.

The problem with such a start is that hour one ends up defining one's whole lifetime. You are removed from your mother's loving arms, cleaned up, made perfect, and then handed over for inspection. Rightly or wrongly, I felt that I hadn't passed inspection. So year after year, I replayed the tape. Maybe if I'm a good girl, Daddy will see me. No? Maybe if I do well in school, Daddy will see me. No? Maybe if I develop an unusual talent, Daddy will see me. No? Maybe if I am perfect, Daddy will see me. No? Maybe if I take an interest in his family genealogy, or help the family out during crises, or help him organize his living space, or drive him to his mother's home town. Maybe if I create beautiful art and give it to him. Maybe if I am in crisis, or if I lose my temper, or if he can see that he has hurt me, Daddy will see me. No. Maybe if, a year before his death, I just give up and stop contacting him, Daddy will remember me and call me. No.

This First Hour pattern morphed into a bigger search for where I would be loved and appreciated simply for who I am, and it took on rather mythical proportions. I'm sure some similar eldest daughters play out the search in dating and marriage; for me, it was in having a talent/passion that was impossible to pursue, and the subsequent search for somewhere, anywhere, to feel at home with work or people or landscape. Earlier than most people, I reached a point where I couldn't bear "the job search", the cleaning myself up and presenting myself as beautifully as possible in the hopes of being selected, being "loved", only, more often than not, finding out I was too qualified or not qualified enough. Not right. In recent years, that First Hour has manifested itself in not being able to do a conventional housing search. It's the same issue. Deep in my soul, it hurts too much to have to prove my worth, or to be turned down or asked to leave. It hurts too much not simply to "earn" a viable living space by virtue of being the essentially good human being that I am. (I think our whole economy has more in common with a man like my father than most of us realize. Overall, it only cares what its needs are and how we, as workers, will fill that need. It really doesn't want to look at us, it wants to look at the bottom line. There is something so soulless and painful about the whole thing. The fact that so many people have been functional in it is a miracle.)

It always feels satisfying to trace a lifelong problem back to its source, but how can I reframe that First Hour moving forward? I cannot change my dad's first encounter with me, but moving back maybe a half hour to the very first moment is striking. Some very competent doctors and nurses helped Mom through a hard labor and got me out of the womb safely (thank you, to whoever you were!) My mom must have held me briefly, and warmly, at least for a minute or two, and then a caring nurse took me (was I screaming?!) to wash me off and dress me up. She (most nurses were women in those days) undoubtedly had a lovely, encouraging voice, and told me I was beautiful and how proud my parents were. That's what I would do if I were ever to hold a newborn baby. It was in the context of such warm greetings that my dad's blankness so wounded me. But I need to start focusing on the murmured voices of the women, telling me I was welcome in this world. I need to start focusing on the first moments of that First Hour. It's not too late to change the pattern.

 

Natural Disasters

Natural Disasters. I have been thinking about them, and the use of the word "disaster" to describe natural weather events.

Fortunately, northern Minnesota had a very mild and long summer, and we haven't experienced any serious gales of October or November -- yet. But that's just one little patch of the earth's surface. Clearly, people all over the U.S. and the world are experiencing increased climate chaos, leading to loss of life, possessions, property. Although I have chosen to detach from possessions over and over again over the years, I still really resonate with the pain people feel when their home flies away in a tornado, or drops into a rainy chasm, or burns in a wildfire, or falls down a hillside avalanche. It is a disaster to us, humans, when we unexpectedly lose things we love or have spent a long time building. It is painful to lose a home or not have one for whatever reason.

But I have been trying to imagine these huge weather events from the perspective of Mother Earth, or even, the world before humans created such widespread infrastructures. I mean, if no humans were in the picture, would earthquakes be considered "disasters"? Tornados? Wildfires? Tsunamis? They are awesome examples of the power of nature and the power of the divine. They are the earth stretching and re-orienting, refreshing herself. In the modern era, they are earth trying to regain a sense of balance after centuries of, at times, very inappropriate overuse. Before the era of electricity, parking lots, high-rise buildings, cars, suburbs, fast food restaurants, jobs, home and property ownership (virtually every aspect of our modern world) early humans had, well, fewer possessions to lose. And because I don't believe, per se, in "death" (the passionate stream of life goes on and on and we are all part of it, whether on the earth plane or not), I am not quite as worried about loss of life as some people are. Ultimately, there is no loss of life, just a change in form.

I guess I'm personally trying to shift, just a little, away from this idea that nature is hurting us, or causing disasters. A case could be made that the "disaster" has been "humans progressing full steam ahead without considering the health of the earth". But I don't even want to go down that road. I'm trying to get beyond the fear, blame, and anger, to a place of embracing earth's natural processes, allowing her to do what she needs to do, honoring her agency and power. To stand next to Lake Superior in gale force winds with open arms, welcoming the energy. Can we call these events something else? "Natural Adjustments"? "Nature being Nature"? "The Beautiful Force"? 

A Free Woman II

Still mulling over freedom, and I guess it's OK to do that being American (!) We are still one of the freest countries in the world, and I am immensely grateful that this, plus coming of age in the late 20th century, provided me with opportunities to at least try to self-actualize and travel. I made some unusual choices, and wasn't directly forced into a specific ill-fitting mold.

And yet I can't help but find it interesting that our whole system is predicated on huge blocs of free or low-paid labor, not to mention Mother Earth being left completely "unpaid" for all her natural resources. This seems like "freedom" turned on its head. Young people are propelled into higher education with the promise of better jobs, only to leave campus deep in debt and needing to put their "nose to the grindstone" immediately -- at the only moment in their lives when theoretically they might be free to see the world, do volunteer work, or learn an arts or crafts skill. People take, or stay in, jobs not because they like them, but because of health insurance and other benefits. They are bound to their mortgage and credit card debts, their over-the-counter or prescription medications, expectations about "success", appearance, and relationships. Americans can be tied up in knots, just in different ways.

Probably half-a-dozen times in my adult life, I had some kind of meltdown, where I burst into tears and told whoever I was with that I couldn't play this "game". I couldn't think of any kind of job or office setting that appealed to me, and the whole network of other related expectations was simply too much for me. Looking back at it now, I think what was hardest was the notion of giving up my freedom to be what I am, a spiritual contemplative. Money, possessions, relationships, even home meant nothing if I didn't have the space and time to focus on the deeper meaning of everything and try to communicate that meaning through writing, music or art. My Goddess values seemed to be completely off the spectrum, almost like a color you cannot see.

The COVID era has given all of us an opportunity to re-consider what is important, individually and communally, and to re-think what freedom means. People are interpreting it very differently, aren't they? If there was ever a time to remember that notions like "freedom", "liberty" and "the pursuit of happiness" are not rigid universal constructs etched in stone, it is now. What makes me feel "free" may not be what makes you feel "free". Even opening our hearts to appreciate these differences can be a challenge. Potentially even more challenging is considering whether our freedoms enslave others. In the ripple effect going out from my life, is anyone, anywhere being actively harmed or deprived of freedom? And if so, how do I re-vision my goals? How do we as a society re-vision our goals? I have a hunch that going forward, we will no longer have the luxury of ignoring these questions.

A Free Woman

I'm touching base on this topic, even though I wrote about it once before (in July of 2016) and even though, at this point, I am nearly reader-free! I am not sure my blog is what the world needs right now, but I plow ahead because I need to write. It is like breathing. And because somehow I trust that there are some little crumbs of truth scattered through "The Liz Path" over the years that perhaps some future readers will benefit from.

I am slowly making my way through two extraordinary books. The first (The First Free Women) is a small book of poems edited and "reimagined" by Matty Weingast; the writings are by some of the world's first Buddhist nuns. I can only read, at most, one of these short poems a day. They are poignant, universal, timely, and muse upon freedom in many forms -- freedom from (husbands and families, belongings, food) and freedom in (a spiritual path, wisdom, the daily minutiae of life). To say that the "nun" in me resonates with each and every page is an understatement.

Then, at a used book store I found a 1980 book, The Moon and the Virgin: Reflections on the Archetypal Feminine, by Nor Hall. The first chapter alone speaks to me in a similar way, even though modern and almost academic in tone. Hall helps readers get beyond the superficial definition of "virgin", and really see the word as referencing a woman's freedom to keep her own counsel, be true to her own nature, to be unfettered. 

I sometimes don't fully appreciate how free I have been. This journey has at times been so terrifying and so humbling/humiliating that I couldn't see it clearly. Yet through the lens of these books, I can see the truth, which is that I have been unusually free. I've been either rejected or relatively unchained by most of the male constructs in our world. I don't own a house, which means I'm essentially homeless but I don't owe money to the bank. I've never had a husband or life partner, which has been extremely lonely, but it also means I was always free to make my own decisions without compromise. I was not able to pursue the life path I would have preferred, but this meant that I had perhaps hundreds of very unexpected learning experiences and delightful adventures. Being a free woman comes at a high cost, but would I go back now and change any of it? No. 

As it should be

This is one of those days when somehow, inexplicably, I feel a calm sense of life being "as it should be". 

The living situation that two weeks ago seemed to be teetering, has stabilized into something that should last a year or more. 

And learning that St. John's College, Cambridge is opening its choir program to girls and women seems to have completely released something in me, a lingering sense of responsibility to work toward equality in that field. The minute I hit "publish" on my last blog post, I felt the weight of a VW bus fall from my shoulders. I'm 65, and my life's work on and off this whole lifetime is now well and truly out of my hands, off my back. I had been "this close" for a few years, but now that phase of my journey is really complete. I can listen, sing along, travel (at some point) to England, follow developments, but I've "done" everything I could and can now "retire".

Yesterday, my early morning card reading was so apt...four of vessels/cups...often interpreted as boredom, disinterest, or inability to choose. The image was apt. Four full cups within reach, but not tempting enough to engage me enough to reach out. Then, a friend forwarded a link to some lectures offered by Harvard Divinity School. I listened to one of them, and was completely drawn in. My brain thrilled at the intellectual stimulus, the forward thinking, and the brilliant use of words. I felt nourished, in my element. At home.

This morning? The Hanged Man, a beatific figure seemingly at peace with being literally upside down in relation to the world. It's about acceptance, realizing that your journey could only have been topsy-turvy. Everything about the divine feminine is opposite (but in an ideal world, complementary to) the spiritual paradigms in place, and it's OK. That is as it should be. I could never have conformed to the modern American norm, and it's OK. What a lovely way to start the day, and the next leg of the journey. 

 

Saturday Sparkle

In ways, this is just your average clear, crisp autumn morning in the upper Midwest. I am close enough to Lake Superior to be able to see the early morning sparkles of sunlight on the water through the trees. It reminds me of how, fifty summers ago, I loved the same morning sparkles on Lake Champlain, barely visible from our family's "camp"/cabin. We would sit along the porch railing, eating breakfast before heading to the tennis court or beach. I am thankful for this early imprint of beauty and magic. (And, ahem, privilege.)

There's some extra sparkle to this day, having learned the stunning news from England that St. John's College, Cambridge's Choir program is poised to start including girls and women. Even as other cathedrals and choral foundations had begun to be more inclusive, it had seemed like the three or four most prominent men and boys' choirs were likely to stay that way. So it is thrilling to live to witness this change, and to understand that I had a role, however small, in the early shaking of the foundations of a longstanding tradition.

I used to listen to records of St. John's College back in the mid-sixties, when its choir was under the direction of George Guest. These recordings, along with those of King's College, Cambridge, Westminster Abbey, and Christ Church, Oxford, were my own personal choir school. I literally learned how to sing as much from singing along to recordings of these choirs as I did singing in church or school choirs. There were summer mornings at Midwood when the rest of my family had all scattered to play tennis, hike or sail, and I would put a record on the record player and sing -- at the top of my lungs -- along with the Howells "Collegium Regale". "At the top of one's lungs" in the middle of the trees in Adirondacks is decidedly not the way this music was intended to be sung, but perhaps in breaking that sound barrier, I helped to start breaking down other sound barriers too. Perhaps my passion registered somehow in universal consciousness. 

So, thank you, St. John's College, and all the institutions that have embraced female voices. We were never less passionate or less competent. All we ever wanted to do was sing the music we love.

I Can See

Back on July 31, 2018, I wrote a post called "The Eyes Have It," where I talked about my serious nearsightedness, and how my eyes in recent years have started to improve. Yes, I wear bifocals, but my actual level of nearsightedness is diminishing. I went to the eye doctor again yesterday, and the improvement is quite marked. The glasses that I got three years ago are really, really wrong for me now, and I cannot wait for the new ones to come in.

As I just said to a friend, to be 65 and have any aspect of your physical body improve is just simply miraculous. The powers-that-be in this world may be hoping that we older women will just disappear off into the sunset, but fortunately I can at least see more and more clearly. And understand what I am seeing. And trust my own instincts.

Of course, that still leaves me often "seeing things" differently. The news item that currently seems to me to be the most metaphorically important is the container ship crisis, both at U.S. ports and overseas. Most of the news reports I have heard or read about this development seem to place it in the context of how people had better buy their Christmas gifts early because many items will not be available. Various entities are getting into place to resolve this problem, to make the supply chain "flow" which will make our life easier so that we can buy more things. What stuns me is that as a culture, we haven't started to question the core wisdom, economy and ecology of this crazy consumerist model. It stuns me that we don't see these bird's eye views of anchored container ships, and say, "there is something so wrong with this picture". Could the "problem" be that we are consuming (and then discarding) so much stuff, rather than that the shipments are stuck in port?

My eyeglasses were a big purchase, and strictly speaking, in buying them, I "bought into" consumerism. Actually, I had even considered just living with my old glasses for a few more years. But these glasses are simply wrong for my current eyesight, to the point where I can barely function with them. So I am grateful when our system makes available the things we absolutely need, like glasses, clothing and food. My hunch is that the container ships are mostly filled with things that are, by my simple standards, nonessential. And of course, we all have a different definition of "nonessential"... My question for the day might be, what does the Goddess think is essential for human life on earth? Is it found in these container ships?

 

Grandma

It never ceases to amaze me how responsive my oracle cards are to my thoughts and feelings immediately prior to making a blind pick. This morning, I was trying (as ever!) to keep my thoughts empty and meditative, but for some reason they were drifting to my maternal grandmother, Agnes, who lived in Schenectady when I was growing up. I'll tell you about the cards in a second.

But the gist of what I was thinking about was, not only is my life absolutely about the photo negative opposite to hers by the time I was conscious of her presence (probably when I was two or so, and she was 67). But secondly, life in general is so radically different. I was literally feeling nostalgic. Can't we just go back, for a few days, months, years? Back to an "easier time"?

Grandma lived in a large Victorian brownstone on lower Union Street. The front doors of the building must have been about nine feet tall, and the musty Victorian smell hit you as you walked through the entryway and then climbed up the long staircase. Her rented apartment was on the second floor, and the front two rooms were spacious and light. As I think I might have mentioned in an earlier blog, she was a painter (self-taught by copying the Masters), and several "Reniors", "Degas" and "Turners" adorned the walls. In the dining room, she displayed her collection of Vaseline glass, and art books were scattered throughout the apartment. Her oils, pastels, needlework, knitting, tole painting, rug hooking, and other supplies were in her bedroom closet and dresser, I think, because if she wasn't working on a project, her house was remarkably free of clutter. Her bathroom towels had pink roses on a ground of white, and the smell of her rose-scented soap is still with me. My grandfather had died by about 1951, and on the desk there was an early photograph of him in his World War I uniform. But apart from this, this was her apartment. I've never thought about it before, but she had an unusually solid sense of who she was, and that was reflected throughout her space, which she lived in until a year before she died in the early 1980s.

I think Grandma was one of the only people, to this day, who always welcomed me literally with open arms. Starting around the time I was eight, I would often walk from church choir rehearsal to her house to wait for one of my parents to pick me up, and sometimes she would make me early dinner. That hug...it wasn't a bear hug, but it was genuine and loving. She was about 5'6, of medium build, with short wavy grey hair (treated with bluing) and she never, ever wore pants/slacks/trousers. Usually she wore a blue or blue flowered dress or skirt and blouse (she called it a "shirtwaist"!) Sure, she had a TV, but it was a small portable black and white on a stand that she kept rolled out of the way. Once in a blue moon we would watch the local news, but usually, as I was her only granddaughter and the only grandchild who shared her interests, we'd sketch, or look through art books, or just talk. If we ate dinner, it was at the dining room table with real silver and china.

Even for the time, she (and her space) had a slightly antiquated aura. Her trash went to the basement in a brown paper bag tied up with twine. Her only concession to "junk food" was goldfish crackers. Any cookies or meals were homemade, no fast food. I appreciated then -- and now -- the fact that she literally was a being of the 19th century, as all my grandparents were. She had a car (a light blue Chevrolet with metal trim), and did drive, but even that seemed wrong somehow. There was a photo in her apartment of Grandma and her sister Anna, two little Bronx-born girls, in a small pony cart in New York City's Central Park probably circa about 1900. Even as a 1960's youngster, I related more to that era than my own, and still do.

So what cards did I pick this morning? Seven of Bows (Wildwood cards) -- Clearance, and Six of Cups (Rider) -- Nostalgia. It didn't feel like a critique (as in, "what are you doing, starting the day off woolgathering?"). But it did seem more like a reality check. Grandma's life and journey are not mine, and this is a very different era. She came to earth to achieve different things than I did. Remembering, appreciating, and gratitude, are appropriate. Actively wishing that I could return to that time or have the relatively easy post-65 life that she had is not, just simply because it cannot be. 

I feel her with me today, and I can hear her saying, "Eat your beanies!" (I didn't like canned green or lima beans.) Thank you for being so genuinely you, Grandma. You were an excellent role model, and to this day, one of the most solid, stable, and loving presences in my life. 

What an Example

The other day, I only half jokingly said to a friend that perhaps I have done more in the last few years to put people off the Goddess than to inspire them. I mean really. Chronic homelessness, no career, difficulty achieving goals, loneliness...not exactly an appealing picture. Perhaps I should go back to hiding my divine feminine orientation so that no one will see me as such a good example of how non-functional it can be. And at least part of this outcome has to do with apparently being "post-duality", not the same thing as being oriented to the divine feminine, but arguably linked. 

I keep coming back to the fact that our current society is calibrated to support only certain kinds of success, certain kinds of progress, certain kinds of recognition. Every time in my life that I have hit a wall and thought I couldn't go any further, a friend or relative has well-meaningly pointed out that the system in place is all we have, and we have no choice but to follow it. I always hated this lecture. I know that in other dimensions and other lifetimes, I have experienced love-based paradigms, and that, yes, these are an option for humans on planet Earth. But apparently few people realize it, and there aren't yet any solid systems in place to support "all love, all the time". So, the fact that I have survived decades of chronic fear and conflict is its own kind of success. Anyone who survives life as we know it for any period of time is successful in my book.

On this strangely warm and humid October Saturday, may I be fearless and unconcerned with opinion, discomfort, and uncertainty. In our time, humanity itself is hitting a wall. I've longed for the day when someone would say, "Liz, tell us what's going on here. Is there another way? If so, what is it?", and that day seems to be getting closer. There are many of us out here, examples of a different way of being, speaking, and believing, and our lives are, however imperfectly, a blueprint. The picture may seem shimmering and insubstantial, but with every day and every new moment of focus, it gains substance. For my part, I need to move beyond self-deprecating comments of any kind (lighthearted or not) and honor my own efforts and example. It has taken a certain inner strength, that's for sure. Be strong too, dear readers.