Birthdays Sure Add Up!

A portrait of me in yellow straw hat, reading, by Roz Farbush,
some 20 years ago in San Miguel (right), and self-photos of me today,
playfully edited  with colors, angles and moods.      

Birthdays are special, but they sure add up.  Another March 13 rolls around and I'm another year older. I'm still going forward, just at a slower pace maybe. Not that time is standing still.  Au contraire.  Time is moving faster, much faster than ever.  I’m slowing down; time is speeding up.  Does this have something to do with E=MC squared, Einstein’s theory of  relativity, of energy, time and the speed of light?   There's certainly some law at work here, an inevitability.  "Oh, that's just glimpses of mortality," my friend reminds me, bringing me down to earth, which Pisces need from time to time..

 
I look at a portrait of me painted in the 1990s by artist Roz Farbush,  youthful, serious, happy, in my colorful element. It was my first time in the sunny Mexican mountain town of San Miguel de Allende, where I met Roz, and I was enthralled. She was painting on a street corner.  She'd set up a lawn chair, her paints, a canvas. She painted every day. I  walked past  that corner almost every day.  I loved watching the progress of her paintings.

“Buenos dias. Como esta? Otra hermosa dia!"

"Thank you, and good day to you!"

Ah, an American!  "I love your paintings," I said. We struck up a conversation and became friends.  She asked if she could do a portrait.  Sure! It was a delightful experience, watched by a half dozen or so friends I had made in San Miguel.  From a blank canvas to a joyful painting, like life itself.  We saluted Roz with margariitas afterwards.  I’ve lost track of Roz, who was from the Boston area, but I still have her portrait and two other paintings of San Miguel scenes, all bright, breezy, evoking Mexican culture.  I don’t know if Roz is still with us, but I know her paintings are everywhere. 

These are the moments and memories that make up a life.  They add up over the years, too.  I'm lucky.  I don't look like I did in that portrait, more lines and wrinkles, but I feel the same.  And so I play with my own self-photos now and then, which don't look too good unattended but kick up a notch or more with Picassa edit to add colors, shades of light,. shapes, and moods I feel inside.    It's not what I see but how I feel.  I am drifting along with the spirit of times past enriching the times coming.  An inexorable march of time. I look at my youthful self, and marvel at the vitality.  I look at myself now, and wonder about mortality.  We come full circle in more ways than one. Life goes on, and we go with it.

 

Being Pope

Yahoo photos of  the Vatican's Sistine Chapel. Imagine
doing your job in such awesome earthly beauty. 

I don’t have strong feelings one way or the other, and I’m not Catholic by faith like my daughter Elissa, who finds such comfort in its rituals and beliefs,  but I never knew a Pope could just resign.

I thought being Pope was a calling sent from on high, the representation of God on earth, a connection that only death can sunder. The Pope was the shepherd and the rock of the Catholic church, from the time of St. Peter.  He couldn't  just resign.  I thought Pope’s channeled God’s word to his earthly flock. He couldn't just give up.

But being Pope, I guess, is just a job.

With Pope Benedict's resignation, the conclave of some 115 cardinals (up to age 80) from around the world will meet in the breathtakingly beautiful Sistine Chapel, painted by Michelangelo at the height of the Renaissance in Western Europe. What lucky fellows (no women among them, yet).   I felt such awe when I saw it for the first time. Was I closer to God? I'm not sure. I was as close to a Pope as I ever was or would be, and joined thousands in the square for an Easter mass.

Being Pope is not just about giving a Mass; however; it's not an easy job. The Vatican, as beautiful as it is,   is full of intrigue and politics, both in story and history.  Some popes themselves have been more secular than spiritual, their claims to spiritual authority and infallibility notwithstanding.  They have succumbed to life's temptations, have sat in denial of temporal tragedies, even encouraged them or conspired to cover them up. Such human transgressions have tainted the Holy See, from  Medieval  times and the Renaissance, through World Wars, up to the present.  The papacy is not immune to Machiavellian quests for power and the human emotions of jealousy, greed, pride.  .

There's nothing holy about the job, in other words.  As Pope, you have your supporters and your opponents, those you trust and those who betray you, like Pope Benedict’s butler.  A Judas in his midst.  Nor are  ordinary priests down the bureaucratic line immune to human emotions. One priest recently burnt a picture of Benedict during a Mass, apparently in anger about the resignation. During a Mass!
.   

Pope Benedict XVI had had enough of it.   He seemed to be a smart and kind man, but he didn’t have the brilliance or stamina of his predecessor, Pope John Paul II, the travelling Pope who went all over the world and increased the Church’s flock, which today is more diverse than ever before.  John Paul drew crowds in Mexico, East Asia, Africa, wherever he went, like a Rock star, filling football stadiums. John Paul spoke many languages, embodied papal authority, loved one and all, even his enemies. Can't say this about Benedict. He did okay but he wasn't as charismatic as John Paul.

Church in Istanbul where Pope John XXIII
preached for 10 years, while the Vatican's
 ambassador to Turkey and Greece.
From here he saved
Jewish people fleeing the Nazi holocaust,
a little-known story of courage and compassion. .

  

Nor did Benedict have the down-to-earth warmth and humility of John XXIII, my favorite pope, who while in Turkey helped thousands of Jewish people escape to Israel, and throughout his time as Pope gave comfort to the poor and marginalized, taught peace and inclusion, convened the Second Vatican Council to support human dignity and justice..  I was thrilled to attend John XXIII’s church in Istanbul on Christmas Eve 2009 with PCV friends Jud and Jason..  We felt  John XXIII's spirit and were deeply moved.  The people’s Pope, the Pope of peace.

Pope Benedict XVI , in contrast, seemed more introvert than extrovert, more intellectual than accessible apostle.  Of course, he had to deal with 21st-century conditions and issues, in the glare of 21st-century technology and social media, and with painful realities such as wayward priests, pedophilia and sexual abuse.  Talk about betrayal.  These priests betrayed hundreds of young altar boys whose parents couldn't believe that priests would do such things. The anger runs deep.

Benedict himself  admitted  that the job was "difficult" and it sometimes seemed that "the Lord was sleeping."  Mother Teresa felt this way at times while serving the poorest of the poor in India.  "Where is God?"

For Benedict, the job was more than he wanted to handle. I  think Benedict longed simply to be a preacher and teacher of Catholic doctrine to true believers, not the CEO of a complex bureaucracy with multiple secular responsibilities, and scheming underlings. His butler's betrayal might have been the final straw.

A younger, tech-savvy, well-traveled cardinal from Africa or Latin America would be just the ticket for the job in these times.  Not that I think those more traditional Cardinals, serving as the search committee, will select such a pope, not yet.  The pope will look like them, like the majority of them.  Boards tend to clone themselves.  They'll need someone tough, however. They'll need a devoted professional who can work 16 hour days, 24/7, with the endurance of a long-distance runner. They'll need someone politically astute, too, even cunning.

It's just a job, after all. .  .

    

Nothing Nicer than Renewing Old Friendships

I reunited with my dear old friend Teddy Wilson from my Toledo days (1967-1985).  She's still beautiful, smart and spunky after all these years. It was wonderful catching up.  We picked up from where we had left off 28 years ago, as if we had never lived miles apart for so long. We skimmed along the outlines of our changing lives, our children, now grown with children of their own; our jobs, our retirement; our highs and lows, our journeys and travels, internal and external, close to home and far away.  

We could only touch the surface at our first reunion, we had so much to say, so we met again at  Barnes and Noble.  We chatted over tea and then browsed the books, zeroing in on the poetry and music sections. Just like old times. I didn't find any Van Cliburn recordings, but Teddy got a volume of Mary Oliver's poetry.  We shopped for our grandchildren, too.  Our lives intersect in so many ways.  We're going to get together every two weeks we decided.

There's nothing nicer than renewing an old friendship.  It's a waltz down memory lane, a slow waltz.  We danced back to the times when we were young mothers, neighbors on Robinwood Avenue in the Old West End, confidantes.  Teddy, now retired like me, was a public school teacher, taught English, loved literature and poetry, developed currculum for the County, and tended to her beautiful house with its elegant Spanish-tiled entryway and lush garden.  I was a community activist, finishing my dissertation, teaching women’s history, and working on a  pioneering battered women and family violence prevention project. Those were the days of the War on Poverty, against a backdrop of  the peace movement, the Civil Rights movement and a powerful women’s movement.  America was changing, and so were we.   Teddy and I took long walks around our neighborhood and had long talks about our lives and dreams during those turbulent times.

We recalled all of it.  Up to the present. We toasted  the recent reauthorization  of the Violence Against Women Act that Senators Barbara McCulsky and Joe Biden, among others, have long supported.  Teddy stays current on all things political, and she brought me up to date on the sequester, looming budget cuts, the hearings on gun control, the eloquent testimony of a Chief of Police who supported it and stood up to some Senator's harsh questioning.   We had both watched the excellent PBS documentary  "Makers, Women who Make History," and loved it. It hit so close to home, this sweeping social revolution.

Two old progressive Democrats sharing the same perspectives and worldview,  who always enjoyed ranting together, and still do!  It was like talking with my brother Loren, and I reminisced about him and told Teddy how much I miss him. Teddy understood.

We’ve survived “the bloody sharps and flats of life,”  the ups and downs, learned from our achievements and our mistakes, and moved on.  Like Mary Oliver’s poem "Wild Geese," we are flying home again, home to the center of our true selves.  How blessed to reunite with such a good friend, and to learn we are still on the same page, older but wiser.  

The last poetry night at Dragonfly

Some of us at the last Poetry Night at Dragonfly, 20 February 2012, remembering
 Jennifer's contributions, and a photo of my daughter  Elissa  &  Dragonfly  logo on Thanksgiving Day. . 

Dragonfly has closed.  Sylvania has lost a community treasure. Last Wednesday night, more than a dozen  people gathered for the last Poetry Night.  They  read their poems, shared memories, told funny stories.  George played the flute, a medley of Celtic, Native American, and African songs, as well as well-known songs that are part of “the standard repertoire.”

Bittersweet.  An evening of mixed emotions, like all endings that are new beginnings. 

Like Arnie’s “Dem Dry Bones” and  “More than A Wish,” lovely poems for Jennifer, in a unique voice.   Like Jennifer’s reading "the gifts from the Holy Spirit.,” which I think she said was a Bible verse from Isiaah, citing a list of universal virtues that she's learned along the way, like kindness, patience, wonder, understanding.  “....Against such things there is no loss.”

Gordon shared the "archetypal" story of Perceval's search for the holy grail, about humankind's "inner journeys,"  and underscored the meaning of the words from "the holy spirit."   Jim Fahey, with his usual great voice, gusto and dramatic flair, read from his poetry and stories, sounding themes of  joy, longing, and humor (“Toledo, Michigan”!). Others read poems and told stories. 

It felt a bit like “The Last Waltz,"  the last concert of  The Band  in San Francisco in 1976, and that fabulously-produced album.and Martin Scorsese’s documentary.   “After 16 years on the road, it’s time for a change,” Robbie Robertson had said.  .  

Change can be a good thing, but it's not always easy.  I’ve been in Sylvania for 2 years, arriving in April 2011 from Ukraine, after having lived inn Florida for 10 years.  I’ve loved getting to know my new neighborhood, it’s people, architecture, walks and parks, its Main Street businesses.  Dragonfly became a favorite spot for tea and friendship,  and had a good community spirit.  I wish it could have gone on for some 16 years, like The Band.  But “to everything there is a season,”  and Dragonfly had a good run.

To Jennifer

February 20, 2013

Thanks for Dragonfly.

For soothing tea and good food,

A place to share poetry, art and stories,

To enjoy the company of others,

Listen to music and 

the sounds of souls in tune

with the vibes of a special place. 

A labor of love.

We’ll be with you as you travel on.  

Find joy in good memories. 
Take us with you wherever you go.

My sister Andy at Dragonfly when she visited
me from Tallahassee, FL, last June 2012, with the original  Dragonfly sign.
She was sad to hear the news.

"What happened," my sister Andy asked.  The Dragonfly cafe, which Andy loved when she visited me last year, could not make it financially, I told her.  The regulars are sad.  It was a place to meet and greet, enjoy healthy food, music and art, the companionship of good people.  This is what made Dragonfly a part of our community life.  We all believe in the slogan "shop locally," and we tried to keep it going. It was more than a business, it was a gathering place.  It was more than a store or a shop.  It was  a community art center, where anyone could walk in, relax with a cup of tea, feel at home.  We know Jennifer will find that as one door closes another door opens, but we will miss  the "Fly."  

Van Cliburn and the Power of Music

AP photo, Sergey Ponomorev.  We willl always have his music..

One of my favorite pianist, Van Cliburn, just died.   I remember when he won the International Tchaikovsky Piano Competition in Moscow in 1958.  I was in high school.  He was only 23 years old.  Just out of Julliard. What a star!

I was a senior at Harley School in Rochester, NY, taking piano lessons at  the Eastman School of Music. So was my sister Andy, who had real talent.

 Nikita Khrushchev was president of the Soviet Union and it was the height of the “Cold War.”  Khrushchev  was yet to give his speech  to the Communist Party congress in 1960 that denounced the legacy of Stalin, and set off an explosive whirlwind of change.  Tom Smith wrote about the horrendous consequences of that speech in his book “The Secret Speech,” a powerful story about betrayal and transformation that resonates to this day. America was on edge at the time, post-Sputnik, and remained so well into the era of Perestroika that emerged in the late 1980s.  

Van Cliburn became a sort of  poster child for rapproachment between the US and Russia. Time magazine called him "The Texan who conquered Russia."   How thrilling that he could play the Tchaikovsky like a true Russian.  In a way, you could say he was our first Peace Corps Volunteer to the Soviet Union,  before the Peace Corps existed. He grew to love the Russian people, as well as its incredibly rich culture.  And they loved him.  It opened so many doors, raised so many questions about our politics and worldview.  

That’s the time when my mom began collecting his records, beginning with the Tchaikovsky First Piano Concerto record, which I think sold millions and made Van Cliburn a cultural hero.  Some of my friends remember that album, and the ticker tape parade in New York.

I remember that our house was always filled with the sounds of classical music, including my mom practicing  arias from the Opera repertoire. I called her "My Madama Butterfly." .We had many of  Van Cliburn’s recordings. Van Cliburn playing the Rachmaninoff 3^rd Piano Concerto, incredibly complex and beautiful. Van Cliburn playing Grieg, Prokofiev, Schumann and Beethovan.  All my favorites.

“Classical music was so important to our generation growing up, wasn't it?" my friend Alice, remembering Van Cliburn, posted on facebook. 

Yes, and it made our lives richer, deeper, and I think more open to universal understanding. It wasn't politics that mattered; it wasn't war that brought peace.  It was art and the humanities.  The universal language of culture.  Van Cliburn was among those who taught us that.  . . 

When I need to rest and think

When I need to rest and think, I pick up Mary Oliver’s poems.  I love her anthropomorphic visions of nature, how she puts human feelings into the sights and sounds of birds, grasses, trees and the tiny details of wildlife.  So observant. How she weaves nature into reflections on life and death, on our journeys over hills and dales, mountain paths and valleys. 

Her poetry is magic: Walt Whitman, Emerson and Thoreau rolled into one for the 21^st century.  There’s some Adrienne Rich, some Robert Frost, some Maya Angelou.  “I know why the caged bird sings.”   But it’s Mary Oliver’s distinctive voice, cadence and perspective that moves me.

In some ways, Oliver’s poetry is like the archetypal story of Perceval’s quest for the Holy Grail, really about our journeys to find ourselves, a story that friend Gordon shared recently at the last Poetry Evening at Dragonfly cafe, which is on my mind.  Dragonfly is closing because it couldn’t make it financially. Our community is losing a treasure.  I think this takes me to Mary Oliver.  So does missing my brother Loren.  Loss.  “The bloody sharps and flats of life."   

"Wild Geese," from Owls and Other Fantasies(2003)

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

"Grass" from White Pine (1994)

Those who are disappointed, betrayed, scarified! Those who would still put their hands upon me! Those who belong to the past!

How many of us have weighted the years of groaning and weeping? How many years have I done it, how many nights spent panting, hating, grieving, oh, merciless, pitiless remembrances!

I walk over the green hillsides. I lie down on the harsh, sun flavored blades and bundles of grass; the grass cares nothing about me, it doesn't want anything from me, it rises to its own purpose, and sweetly, following the single holy dictum: to be itself, to let the sky be the sky, to let a young girl be a young girl freely--to let a middle-aged woman be, comfortably, a middle-aged woman.

Those bloody sharps and flats--those endless calamities of the personal past. Bah! I disown them from the rest of my life, in which I mean to rest.

Big Banks = Big Criminals?

Campaigning for the Senate in Massachuetts,
against Republican Scott Brown..
Photo by DarrenMcCollester/Getty Images

Newly-elected Senator Elizabeth Warren’s first public hearing on the prestigious Senate Banking Committee must have sent great positive vibes to the late Senator Ted Kennedy, and also to Barney Frank. I'd be smiling, too. 

She is filling big shoes, and doing it well. She showed the same concerns for the little guys as her predecessors. And she is not afraid to take on big bullies like huge banks.

It was federal government regulators on the hot seat this time, however.  Why, Warren wondered, have none of the Wall Street financial institutions been prosecuted for their transgressions or brought to trial? Not a one since the financial crisis.  

Warren is on it, in a way that former Secretary of the Treasurer Tim Gaithner never was. It’s why so many of us questioned his effectiveness. Sure some of these big guys have been fined--they needed some token slap on the wrist--but they haven’t been brought to trial.  

"How come? Obvious question. 

Sen. Warren said that she was worried that banks are simply paying fines from the profits they earned breaking regulatory rules.  Such a simple but powerful expression of concern.  

She also wondered whether “too big to fail” might mean “too big for trial.”     

Wall Street bankers, who poured lots of money into supporting Warren's opponent Scott Brown, viewed such questions and musings as "aggressive," but to me they seemed honest and plain spoken.  

The giant Wall Street institutions, Citibank, Wells Fargo and Bank of America among them, have gouged millions from customers. They've engaged in questionable profit-making ventures here and abroad (in Greece and Italy, for instance). They have scoffed at federal regulations, paid billions to executives after being bailed out with public money, and basically have gotten away with...well, lots of stuff.  Why haven't they been tried for breaking the laws?   

Warren is asking good questions.  Americans deserve some good answers.

For more information about these financial behemoths and their quest for power and profits see the insightful, and frightening, PBS Frontline investigative story "Money, Power and Wall Street" (pbs.org/frontline).