Lady Madonna

'Read at least one book a week' is the advice that Stephen King gives to writers.  His recommendation has changed the way I allocate my time.  I have been freed from the guilt I used to suffer from using my time “unproductively.”   In fact, I feel like I have been given the keys to a Little Debbie delivery truck and told all the treats are calorie-free.

However, I have become very discriminating in my reading, enjoying mostly memoirs, since that is the genre I am most interested in from a writing point of view.  But I do occasionally sneak in one of the many novels I’ve ordered from Amazon that are stacked on the bookshelves like soldiers at attention calling to me like Circe.  This tantalizing title, Our Lady of the Lost and Found by Diane Schoemperlen, became my most recent choice. 

Imagine having a woman dressed in a blue raincoat and Nikes appear in your living room, identify herself as Mary, Mother of God, and ask if she can stay for a week’s rest.  This is what has happened to the narrator, a single, middle-aged,  non-Catholic woman who is a writer.  Amazingly enough, their week together is quite low-key, however, Mary does tell of some of her miracles, and the narrator tells us of many more.  But that isn’t all.

The meaning of life, the evil in the world, faith, mystery, time, reality and history are just some of the philosophical topics that the author addresses in a very readable and yet thought-provoking manner.  Her reflections and soul-searching lead us to do the same.

What would you do if a woman carrying a suitcase and a purse appeared in your house claiming she was the Virgin Mary?  Think about it.  Then pick up this book and be prepared to be transformed.

Labor day and a birthday

Labor Day, once called “a workingmen’s holiday,” originated out of workers’ protest over the 12-hour working day/7 days a week, low wages, and unsafe and unhealthy working conditions.  Today it’s a celebration of the achievements and contributions American workers, male and female, make to the social and economic strength and vitality of our country.

Labor unions have been targeted by the politicians and public as evil and the source of all things wrong with our current economic conditions.  But, as our country was moving from an agrarian to industrial society, it is through these labor unions that American workers came to have the wherewithal  to purchase the goods that they were making.  Something we need to remember today!  And, it was because of the labor unions that our children are free to attend public schools, to become the educated populace necessary for a democratic and economically progressive society, instead of toiling in mines, factories and mills for pennies a day.

When we remember how and why this holiday came into being, can we as consumers in good conscience continue to buy products based solely on cost?  Can we without embarrassment buy clothing that has been manufactured on the backs of child labor?  Is it moral to buy electronics or sneakers or toys from companies that don’t pay their workers a fair wage and don’t provide safe and healthy working conditions for them?  What would happen if our buying habits changed, and we wouldn’t purchase products from labor-unfriendly companies?  Yes, the price of some products we desire may increase, however, so will competition, which can influence price, employment, and quality.  And, better yet, the global pool of consumers with the means to purchase products and services from a wide variety of sources will grow and add to the economic viability of many countries.

Many think the need for labor unions is long passed, but look at the migrant workers in our country who toil outside labor laws.  They put in 12 to14-hour days/7 days a week of hard physical labor, exposed to pesticides and dangerous equipment.  They are low paid, uninsured, and suffer poorer physical health and have a shorter life expectancy than the general population.  Their children often work by their sides but aren’t reported on the farmers’ books.  The delicious tomato, peach, or mushroom you eat today may have been planted, tended, and harvested by one of these dedicated workers.  You and I spend less of our money on food than any other country in the world.  Now you know why.  When will our migrant workers be included in Labor Day?

Fareed Zakaria’s blog entry, “Hey, America: Take a Vacation!” that he shared on his Sunday television show reminds us that the American worker is working too many hours on too many days every year.  The average European worker gets three times more vacation days than the average worker does here and uses a higher percentage of those days.  The average number of vacation days an American worker receives: 13.  The average percentage of those used per year: 57%.  H-m-m-m, do I see a possible solution to our high unemployment?

But, in fact, all the above is a mere digression from my true subject for this 5th day of September.  This is the 60th birthday of my friend Muffy, and, in celebration, she and her cousin are kayaking the shores of the Upper Peninsula in girlfriend solidarity.  Muffy has known me longer than any other non-relative and knows the true me, the one who imagined my doll was really a baby, and I was the teacher of a classroom of young students my age.  She is an amazing and brilliant woman, well-described by the words of this post dedicated to strong women from Arlene’s Facebook wall:
    I am strong because I know weakness,
    I am compassionate because I have experienced suffering,
    I am alive because I am a fighter,
    I am wise because I’ve been foolish,
    I can laugh because I have known sadness,
    I can love because I’ve known loss.

I send her my love on this day, and I hope it will be just as special as she is.

Summer to fall

About two weeks ago we experienced the first taste of fall in the air, and over the weekend I noticed a tree was donning its colorful finery.  Labor Day is but a week away, not the fall solstice, but for most of us, it signals the start of autumn, and in Michigan, the return of children to school.  Yes, summer is on the wane, but not yet passed.

Flowers, blueberries, apples, pears, peaches, peppers, bi-color corn, watermelon, and musk melon are in abundance at the farmers’ market.  The array of colors, shapes, smells, tastes, and textures drenches the senses.  We’re awakened with blue skies full of sun and the promise of warm days that draw us to the lake.

I am reminded to soak up these days, to be present for what each offers, to remember the joy and freedom summer days brought me as a child.  I’m going to give myself permission to be idle, so I can find recognizable shapes in the clouds and listen to the lap of water.  I will let refreshment wash over me and strengthen me for what is to come.

For everything there is a season…
    (Ecclesiastes 3:1)

Have a blessed rest

It happened the first night Amy (Bob's youngest) visited us here in Holland.  She hugged and kissed us goodnight and headed down the hall to bed, but then she stopped.  She turned around and said to me, "You didn't tell me to have 'a blessed rest.'  You always tell me to have 'a blessed rest' before I go to bed." 

My "identical best friend" (a description given to us by her husband) from high school is the one who first said it to me.  I really loved it.  I felt especially covered by God's love.  I began telling it to others who visited, including Amy, hoping that they would feel the peace that it gave me. 

I had no idea that it had become a bedtime ritual between Amy and me, but upon hearing her lament, my heart was warmed.  It was the sign of another family connection between us, step-mother and step-daughter.  I hope the blessing is something she will share with others, and I hope she thinks of me each time in the same loving way I think of Barbara.  Amen.

Thin places

Thin places.  Not on my body, you may be thinking, and you would be right, except for my very narrow feet, too narrow for most shoes.  No, not on my body but haphazardly throughout my life, I experience thin places, times in my life when I have eyes to see God’s hand.  I never knew what to call these moments, coincidences, or miracles (minor or otherwise) until I, along with other Disciples’ women, stepped into the realm of the ordinary being extraordinary at the annual spiritual writing retreat the past two summers.  And it was this newfound awareness that led me to read the memoir Thin Places by Mary E. DeMuth.  Let me share a few paragraphs from the opening chapter with you:

             I, myself, am a thin place.      
            The Celts define a thin place as a place where heaven and the physical world collide, one of
     those serendipitous territories where eternity and the mundane meet. Thin describes the membrane
     between the tow worlds, like a piece of vellum, where we see a holy glimpse of the eternal--
     not in digital clarity, but clear enough to discern what lies beyond.
            Thin places are snatches of holy ground, tucked into the corners of our world, where, if we
     pay very close attention, we might just catch a glimpse of eternity.  Legend has it that thin places
     are places for pilgrims, where ghostlike echoes of those gone before can be felt and heard,
     where the Ancients whisper their wisdom near the ruins of a church or the craggy outcropping of
     a rock.  In this way, a thin place is an ancient doorway to the fairy-tale netherworld--a fanciful
     notion that children embrace and adults find preposterous.
             Maybe it’s my own imagination that hopes for real thin places on this earth.  I’m a storyteller,
     after all, prone to wander in make-believe worlds.  I’d like to believe in portals to eternity--Narnia
     doors beckoning me onward and upward.  Even so, I’m broadening the metaphor a bit.  Thin
     places are snatches of time, moments really, when we sense God intersecting our world in tangible,
     unmistakable ways.  They are aha moments, beautiful realizations, when the Son of God bursts
     through the hazy fog of our monotony and shines on us afresh.
    He has come near to my life.  I will tell you how.

Mary shares her life with her readers.  She tells of traumatic things that happened to her as a child that continue to impact her life today, and she also tells of the lovely things that she has experienced.  In each case, she identifies the part that God played.

When I opened the book, I was intrigued immediately upon reading that first sentence above (actually the second paragraph), “I, myself, am a thin place.”  I’d never thought of myself, my person and being, as a thin place, but I've started thinking about it.  We know from the Word that we are aliens in this land.  We are not of this world, yet, we live here as God’s children.  As Christians, do we wander always at the intersection of the spiritual and physical worlds?  Am I a thin place, and are you?

Am I a writer?

Read and write.  According to Ernest Hemingway and Stephen King, that’s what it takes to be a writer.  I think it’s fair to add that a writer needs to have the gift or calling, the honed skill, and the passion too.  Me, am I a writer?  Do I have what it takes?

Of all of the above requirements, I can say that I am widely read.  I have devoured books as quickly as potato chips from the time I was able to read on my own.  Daily I eagerly awaited the mail hoping for a delivery from one of the book clubs my parents had let me join.  When a new book arrived I quickly unleashed it from its packing and sat down in Daddy’s roomy black chair to begin a new adventure.  Immediately I entered into the story whether it be a biography, classic, or the recounting of a famous event.  As 5:00 p.m. neared my mother would tell me to set the table for dinner and I would call out that I’d get to it after I finished the chapter.  Then the end of that chapter would leave me hanging, and I would start the next one and so on until my mother’s voice became harried or angry, her patience tried.  Most of these books were recently rediscovered when I cleaned out the attic at my parents’ house upon their passing.  They reside on my bookshelves, reminding me of the happiest of childhood times.

I also enjoyed other sources of reading material from “Highlights” to Scholastic books.  And then there were visits to the city’s public library, The Burnham Anthenaeum, a big solid-looking building on Church Street, just across from the park.  My eyes never strayed to the side of the street with the swings and climbing apparatus, no, my focus was entirely on my favorite destination.  Once inside, I would stand in awe, admiring the pillars, marble, and huge staircase, and then I’d breathe in the familiar scent of the wooden bookcases and moldings.  There, to the left and on the bottom shelf, was the Laura Ingalls Wilder series of “Little House” books.   I read them all.  I plowed through other series too, the Bobbsey Twins, okay but not a favorite, and Nancy Drew.  Our sixth grade classroom library was composed solely of the Hardy Boys books, so I even read those.

During my high school years I was exposed to wonderful literature from around the world, and once I finished college and had time to read what I wished, I revisited many of those authors from Tolstoy and Dostoevsky to Vonnegut.  During the summers of my teaching years, I  often read two books a day, all “beach reading” from the local library.

My focus is different now having reached that point in my life where I realize that there is so little time and so many books.  Consequently, my reading has become increasingly selective.  Currently I am making my way through memoirs and literature suggested by writers as well as “how to” books on writing.  I don’t know if I am preparing myself to write or merely testing myself.  Do I have a gift for writing?

I don’t know.  Much of my writing has been formal and work related--grants, long reports, instruction manuals, and articles for journals.  More recently I wrote editorial columns for a small local newspaper and had some memoir pieces published as a result of the spiritual writing retreats I’ve attended.  Now I have this blog that is supposed to provide me with an opportunity to write and the discipline to make timely entries.  I have failed on the second.  But it is the encouragement of others I have received for many years that spurs me on, and I find myself at 60 with this new purpose.  Skills can be learned, but now is the time to discern my gift and my passion.  Not for the faint-hearted.

Zoe's tale of horror

Zoe thinks she is being stalked.  She keeps a protective eye on her dinner and water dishes.  The iRobot roomba has threatened her territory.

I came home from an afternoon of shopping and found Bob sitting at his computer with an alert Zoe, ears up, on his lap.  “How was your day?” I asked. 

“I’m just exhausted.” Bob replied, “Don’t your hear the noise?”

Then it came to me.  He had purchased a new toy.  Sure enough, the roomba was swirling under the chairs and beds, doing the hula down the hallway, and heading back to its dock to be recharged.  I think I heard Zoe breathe the inevitable sigh of relief when the quiet returned.  Bob calls the robot “Mr. Roomba,” but Zoe is convinced it’s actually possessed and has dubbed it “Chucky.”

Since Bob retired, we’ve split the housework.  He’s in charge of floors, while I dust and clean the bathrooms.  With the faux wooden floors we have throughout the condo and the light coming in through the three sets of sliding glass doors, dust bunnies seem to be reproducing at an exaggerated rate.  Bob turned toward technology to replace his time behind the electric broom.  I’d be more satisfied with its performance if it did a better job on corners and mopped.  Probably the next generation will be so programmed.  (Now was I talking about roombas or men?)

Zoe has adapted pretty well to the robot now and usually escapes to our bed for a rest when she recognizes it has awakened.  However, since we moved a chaise lounge to the end of the bed, she has found another favorite place to nap.  It has long been my dream to have a fainting couch to snuggle in during the hours I spend reading, and this is a delightful luxury.  Luckily, Zoe shares it with me.  Bob, in jest, calls it the most expensive dog bed ever, and when I put our pole lamp with its three lights by it, he named it Zoe’s personal tanning couch.  She is unaware of all this though as she lays her head on the pillow and dreams of chasing the black squirrels.