Our cat Billie posing in the box for me, just for fun. (These are posted in the order in which I took them, as she moved around the box.)
Our cat Billie posing in the box for me, just for fun. (These are posted in the order in which I took them, as she moved around the box.)
Two years ago, when I found any stones in the asparagus bed I was creating, I threw them over to a place next to the garage, until there was a pile of stones there. Then, later, as I found more stones, I added them to the pile. This spring, the violets decided they loved the microclimate it created. So now this pile of stones has become a beautiful violet rock garden.
I woke today feeling so much fear that I was immobilized. If fear is heavy like a stone, if we accumulate all the fears and toss them into a pile, might something beautiful yet emerge? It was a particular kind of fear that arose in me, or it seemed particular to this society. It was triggered by my no longer being able to work. For me, this is not about social distancing and a closed economy, though it helps me to understand the people who are worried about that. For me, it is about chronic illness taking away my energy capacity to work.
Working signifies our ability to take care of ourselves. All our lives we have learned the American “gospel” of individualism–everything is on the individual. In some ways, this individualism freed people to become that which our families could not comprehend. Feminist. Lesbian. Activist. When women were free to work, we were free to make our own decisions about our lives.
But in other ways, it has meant we are flying without a net. If we can no longer work, what happens then? Despite its limitations, I am immensely grateful for the safety net that was created in the cauldron of the great depression–Social Security. In the midst of the heavy burden of individualism, it became a bright light of collective care for all of us. We each contribute and we all can benefit. It enables Margy and I to have our basic necessities in retirement. But this net is now in the hands of robbers and thieves, who would like nothing more to do away with it. And so I feel afraid, my heart heavy with stones.
When I read about how some countries are giving their citizens a monthly income during the pandemic–countries which also, by the way, have free universal health care–when I see what might be done, it makes me feel so sad and so afraid for all of the working people in our country. If people had a guaranteed monthly income, they might not need to clamor for businesses to reopen before this can be done safely. But instead, they are caught between a rock and a hard place–stay home and risk starvation, or go to work and risk death. It is that stark. And the fear becomes a trigger for violence, and the threats of violence. More stones.
I’m not at the stage of seeing any violets yet. I don’t know what beauty might come out of this. I am just throwing stones into a pile.
I did it! When I discovered a crack in one of the plastic fittings on my rain barrel, I wasn’t sure if I’d be able to fix it. But today there was no rain in sight, so I dug through stacks of stuff in the garage to find the box where I’d put leftover pieces from when the rain barrels were installed back in 2017. I should mention that David Whitten from the Resilience Hub was the one who first designed and installed the rain barrels, with help from people at our Permablitz. They finished a few of them, and David came back and taught me how to do the rest of them. So this was community at work. Thank you! You can learn more about the whole process at my post from July 2, 2017.
Today, I was happy to see that I had another fitting–I don’t even know what it is called, but it is the black part (attached to the red barrel) of this spigot set-up. One half of this part is on the inside of the barrel, plus a rubber washer, and it reaches through to the outside, where it is attached, so that there can be a leak-free hole in the bottom of the barrel. The white part is taken out for the winter, during freezing temperatures.
I had to take out the spigot once again, detach the hose that tied the rain barrel to its companion, and unhook the wire that helped to hold the gutter spout in place. Then, I unscrewed the top part to make a bigger opening. I emptied the sludgy water from the bottom of the barrel, and while I was at it, rinsed it out with the hose. Now it was ready for the real repair.
I was able to loosen the fitting with a wrench, and unscrew the whole thing–the part on the inside fell away and I turned over the barrel to dump it out. The hardest part was next–reaching all the way to the bottom of the barrel with my head, shoulders and arm inside, to be able to attach the new fitting–one part on the inside through the hole, and then the other part on the outside. I think at the permablitz this was a job for the kids–they are tiny! This was also why I rinsed out all the sludge.
But it worked! I positioned the new fitting, attached its other part on the outside, and then put it all back together again. It is now ready to go for the next rain we get. (I tested it with water from the hose.)
I think I imagined at first that the rain barrels would just last forever–so when something had to be repaired, it was scary to me. I never learned how to do this kind of maintenance stuff when I was a girl. But as I grew older, I was always so glad to learn the things that might not have been thought of as traditionally “female.” That was part of the empowerment of such experiences like Women’s Music Festivals, and the Women’s Peace Camp in the 1980’s. Women were doing all of the carpentry, plumbing, electrical, and maintenance work in those places, and we learned we could do it. And that was a big deal. So it still feels thrilling to me when I am able to dive in (literally into the barrel, lol) and make something work!
And I so appreciate those people of any gender who teach and share their skills so we all can have more resilience in our lives. Now, back to the garden!
I wake in the night with pain in my heart for all that is happening in our country, and I feel utterly powerless. How can we respond to a reign of terror? How can we respond to cruelty after cruelty promulgated by people in power? Money grabs, land grabs, malevolent neglect, direct abuse, more power grabs. I have been an activist most of my life, and I believed and hoped that activism might help to change the world for the better. In some ways, it really has. But the dream–of a whole society that was rooted in cooperation and mutuality, in care for all of its people–that dream feels lost in a nightmare of empire re-emerging like some multi-headed dragon from the flames of disaster.
In my feelings of powerless, an old friend comes to me. Jesus sits with me in the dark night. He comforts me, strangely, by reminding me that in many ways I am powerless. I can’t control what “my government” is doing right now. The idea that it is “my government” is an illusion, democracy has become an illusion, a thin veneer over oligarchy, over fascism. But Jesus too was powerless: he and his friends had no political power. He lived his whole life in the shadow of the Roman empire, and that empire killed him. Yet he was able to respond, to act, to live a life.
How? He prayed, he taught, he healed the sick, he listened, he walked among the ordinary people, in the lowly places. He recalled the words of the prophet Isaiah:
“The Spirit of the Holy is upon me,
that one has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
That one has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
to proclaim the time of blessing from the Holy.”
He didn’t concern himself very often with the emperor or king or governor–he was clear that those powers were evil. Rather, he went directly to the poor, the oppressed, the sick, those were the ones who caught the eye of the divine blessing. And later, when he painted a picture of the end of the world, this was the measure by which all people were judged:
“I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. … Whatsoever you do for the least of these, my relatives, you do for me.”
There is a certain clarity in all of this. A letting go of all that I cannot control. A shift in focus to what is possible, what really matters. An appreciation for the heroes who are risking their lives to look after the sick, those who are bringing food for the hungry. A remembrance of the One who is with us in the midst of our powerlessness. Thank you.
Prompted by sheltering at home during the COVID 19 plague, the question came up: maybe it’s time for Margy and I to update our wills and other legal documents which we last visited in 2012. The basic purpose for us in these documents is to protect each other and make sure that we have the power to make decisions for each other, and inherit from each other. As a lesbian couple who are not married, this is what protects our “next of kin” status.
But each of these documents also has a secondary feature. What if one of us is not available or able, or dies first–what then, who is next? That has always been a more challenging part of the process. In this age of plague, it is not outside the realm of possibility that both of us could succumb. Who could we ask to take on the role of health care agent, or financial agent, if we were both incapacitated?
We don’t have children, and our family members are far away, and not always supportive of our identities. We have several good friends, but not a “best” friend, and many live far away. Can we ask any of our local friends to take on these roles? Are they close enough, or not too busy, or would they be overwhelmed by such a request? Who would bury us if we both died? Who are our people?
Similar dilemmas confront us with our wills, and who would inherit if we both were to die. I find that I have new concerns now that didn’t show up in the last will. What would happen to our land and garden that we’ve been so carefully tending? How could we ensure that the land would find new caretakers who would love it as we have? And who would have to sort through all the stuff that fills our little house? My natural temperament is to live simply, to possess little, and treasure those few possessions. But somehow over all these years, I’ve accumulated a lifetime’s worth of stuff. (How did that happen?)
In the past few months, my mother has been preparing to leave her own house, and move into the home of my sister. She officially moved yesterday. All of her nine children and multiple grandchildren were invited to consider things we might like to take from her lifetime’s worth of stuff. But, aside from a few mementos, most of it has nowhere to go. So even more likely, my own stuff will have nowhere to go. It occurs to me that if I want to share mementos with people, maybe I should just send them as gifts now.
When I first did a will, I noticed that I most cared about my writing–I wanted there to be a way for thoughts and words to survive, for journals, sermons, essays, to live on in some way, to be a legacy. That is still true, though now that I have actually published a book, I feel less anxious about it. It feels like something of me will endure, this book child. But I also have five archive boxes full of journals that I have saved, countless sermons, another unpublished book, and even these blog posts. Sometimes I imagine them in an archive somewhere, discovered by some future historian who will be intrigued by my story. Might I be a spiritual ancestor to someone?
What fuels my need to save the writings? What compels me to write in the first place?
I wonder, does anyone see the whole story, does anyone see each of our stories, whether written or unwritten? Are our lives inscribed in a Book of Life somewhere? When I was a child, we learned that God could see everything we did. It was somewhat scary then. But now I find the idea a comfort–I want my life to have a witness. I hope my life will be inscribed in a Book of Life.
We’ve begun the time of social distancing in the age of COVID 19. Someone else called it physical distancing, since we need to keep reaching out to each other in other social ways. Margy and I are both over sixty and have various health issues. So we are among those with elevated risk. But going outside is very much permitted and helpful during this time. We went to Kettle Cove on Saturday–beautiful ocean, sunshine, stones on the beach. It was very windy and the brisk cool air felt bracing to our souls.
I often like to look for sea glass when I walk on the beach, but this time I only took photos–photos of water, photos of Margy, photos of stones. So I was surprised, when I was looking at the photos later, to notice what looked like two pieces of sea glass–and they were the rare red and orange ones! (I have never found them on the beach before.) Can you see them in this photo? I just want to reach in and pick them up. It is both exciting and a bit frustrating to see them right there.
But perhaps they are an apt metaphor for times like this–we can see (and hear), but not touch, all those we love and like, all those with whom we are bound together in community. We still have the virtual connections of phone and internet. In the past few days, I’ve reached out to distant and local friends by phone and text and Facebook and email, and others have reached out to me: checking in on each other, reaffirming our bonds, our love. That is something else we can do in this age of COVID 19.
We are so interconnected, all of us, in such a myriad of interdependency. The last time I was out and about was to grocery shop on Thursday at the Portland Food Coop and Hannaford, trying to use hand sanitizer as much as possible of course. Thursday was the day Maine reported its first tested case of COVID 19. (And of course, without testing available, there were likely many other cases unknown.) But then we had an emergency–our hot water tank was suddenly spewing water out into the basement. So thankfully, a plumber came out Thursday night to help shut everything down, then came on Saturday to install a new hot water heater. He and a helper. It reminds me that plumbing emergencies don’t take a break during pandemics.
So there will continue to be interactions that are vital for life. As we seek to limit such interactions, we notice them all the more. I feel such gratitude for plumbers and electricians, for people working in grocery stores, for those delivering packages and mail, those keeping gas stations open so we can drive to the beach, those keeping phone and internet systems functioning. And my prayers each day go to all the workers who have to keep on working, to put food on the table and pay the rent. And my prayers go to those caring for elders in nursing homes, those working in hospitals, those bringing food and shelter to people without homes, and all the other front-line soldiers of compassion. My prayers to all the front-line soldiers of compassion.
I learned another new word in Passamaquoddy: Mocahantuwok, which means wicked devils. I am not sure if the word is used in a friendly teasing way, or in a serious condemning way. But in a serious way, I have been thinking about using it for certain people in Washington DC who are bent on undermining the processes and hopes of democracy in this country. You can guess who I mean.
It is not the worst time in our country’s history. That might have to be the initial conquest of these lands, and the direct genocide of millions of Indigenous people. (That oppression still continues of course, but perhaps in more indirect ways.) Another contender for the worst time would be the 250 years of enslavement of captured African peoples. (That oppression also continues, also in more indirect ways.) I don’t believe there was a golden age of American democracy, that we are now on the verge of losing.
But I do believe there was a dream of America that had something to do with democracy, cooperation, and reciprocity. I think about the poem of Black American, Langston Hughes, written in 1938.
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed–
Let it be that great strong land of love
Where never kings connive nor tyrants scheme
That any man be crushed by one above.
(It never was America to me.)
O, let my land be a land where Liberty
Is crowned with no false patriotic wreath,
But opportunity is real, and life is free,
Equality is in the air we breathe.
(There’s never been equality for me,
Nor freedom in this “homeland of the free.”)
…Let America Be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let America be the dream the dreamers dreamed! This dream was not only dreamed in America either. In learning more about my ancestors in Europe, I was struck by the ongoing struggles between the forces of domination, empire, and greed and the forces of reciprocity, cooperation, and shared power. For example, my East Frisian ancestors valued their freedom and resisted domination, resisted being forced into feudalism. Friesland actually means Free Land.
But those relational values were even more striking among my early Innu ancestors on this continent. I remember reading parts of the record that the Jesuits wrote about the Innu during early conquest times. How horrified the Jesuits were that the Innu people would only follow the lead of their leaders if they agreed with them. (Democracy!) How horrified they were that a man might agree to a contract, but if he went home and his wife disagreed, he thought he should be able to get out of that contract. (Power was meant to be shared!)
Those are the same values we are now struggling over, in Washington, and all over this country, once again and still. Will we create a society in which all people are included, in which power is reciprocal and we cooperate for the good of all? Or will some mocahantuwok create a society in which they dominate over others, accumulate as much as they can, and destroy the rest of the people and the world?
It is no easy struggle. I don’t know how we achieve our goal. But I know I choose to live by the values of reciprocity, cooperation, and democracy in every way possible, and I choose to align myself with others who share those values. Perhaps each time we do that, in all areas of our lives, we contribute some spark of energy that makes the dream more possible.