I don’t know about you, but I see an awful lot of myself in P.L. Travers. The uptight intellectual snob who wrote Mary Poppins fought with Walt Disney over creative rights for twenty years. She needed the money, but she was utterly opposed to her beloved characters frolicking in a musical – lest they be made to seem trite or unimportant, powerless. Sometimes a push is needed to allow truly magical things to happen that would otherwise never come into the world. It allows for healing to take place. I suspect that is true of all art. It gets away from the artist and takes on a life of it’s own.
To this day this is one of the best selling stories of all time, and I know why. It speaks to us all, to overcoming heartbreak and becoming powerful again, to healing. Heroes come in so many unexpected ways, don’t they?!
For my dear Dad and my beautiful sister Shelly, who both played piano and sang the soundtrack of my childhood.
When I was a little girl, my Great Aunt Lily Pierce Heiler used to come over from England every summer to visit. She drank tea, and so, I wanted to drink tea. All I remember is that it was sweet and warm and yummy…and to this day I drink my tea strong with lots of milk and sugar. Mimi was my maternal grandmother who taught me to quickly sip up the bubbles from the top of the cup before they disappeared. She said they brought you money. And this morning I poured my coffee and sipped up the bubbles…
When Maya Angelou was asked in an interview if she were a Christian, she said, “I’m practicing…” I like that attitude. I’m practicing…I’ll never entirely get it. There is an internet pastor who claims that some of the most powerful women – including Dr. Angelou – are (or were) actually practicing witches, to which I reply, “we can only hope.” I don’t see these things as dichotomous any more than I see God separate from science. Science has begun to prove God now – we’re catching up with Heaven’s time.
“Magic is science not yet proven.” – A. Einstien
It seems to me that the core, or underlying, evil in the world is not the bigotry of racism or poverty, but the self righteousness that causes it. And witches, self-proclaimed as “practicing”, or perhaps completely unaware of their actions, as Mimi, see the discrepancies. They are the seers. Where would we be if evil weren’t recognized and called out? If no one stood and faced the dragon and proclaimed, “You shall not pass!,” or asserted “Get thee behind me.”
Jesus left us a treasure map to the Kingdom. He asked us to approach life as little children…aware of our own innocence and the innocence of our human brother’s and sister’s. That’s what good witches do. With no intent of personal gain, they see all sides and stand up for the innocent in us all. They protect our sacred curiosity.
No one is born evil; evil is made. I think Scott Peck described it best in People Of The Lie. He illustrated how a poor decision veers you off course, and as time plays out and other decisions are based on that one, you stray further and further away from who you once were, from your healthy possibilities. It seems unlikely we can experience awareness of innocence and be self-righteous at the same time.
Brene Brown advises we practice vulnerability, and I think she is on to something. Vulnerability and curiosity, the willingness to be unknowing. My grandmother Mimi was from Little Rock, Arkansas. She was raised by her older sister, Nellie, after their mother died. She thought singing and dancing could cure just about any ill…and she lived twenty-eight years beyond a terminal diagnosis. She had a funny way of speaking. She was never afraid to admit that she didn’t know something when asked a question. She would answer “I am not knowing.”
I like that attitude, too…I am not knowing.
I do think our tightly clutched beliefs can be the demise of our health, our strength, our joy. They lead us to that one poor decision that veers us off course and we find ourselves deep in the woods before we realize darkness is upon us. In sacred curiosity I must always question my beliefs in order to continue to turn toward the light. It’s a good practice.
“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.” -Mark Twain
Mahatma Gandhi wisely said, “I like your Christianity. I do not like your Christians.”
My fundamentalist born again sisters used to wear bracelets with W.W.J.D. engraved on them…they brought a smile to my face and made me happy. They always made me think “What Would JONI Do?” And as long as I was thinking of Joni, I could hardly go wrong. I read recently that when Joni Mitchell met Chogyam Trungpa Rinpoche she offered him a line of her cocaine. He sat up, appearing indignant and began breathing like a dragon, nostrils flaring…she was sure she had offended him. He continued to breath this way for a long time. Slowly she began to feel differently, and soon entered into an altered state where she remained until she had another thought…as herself, another “I” thought – that snapped her out of it. Three days had passed. She was cured of her addictions.
I have had a similar experience, seemingly brought on by illness. There was no other person present at the time, at least not visibly. I felt a strong presence, and I believed it to be the Christ. Not the man, Jesus, but the Christ – the state of enlightenment. Christ wasn’t the man’s last name – he was Jesus THE Christ – meaning the christened, the enlightened. Personally I think if the man DID manifest himself back into A body and walk the planet, he would be appalled at the behavior of most who call themselves “Christians”. And I also believe that in his disembodied state, moving freely through the cosmos (and us), he IS just dumbfounded by human behavior…but I digress…
I have since tried to research that experience in order to connect with others who have had it; it is often called a “conversion” experience. It is said to have happened to John Newton that night the storm threatened to sink his ship, his last voyage to deliver slaves for auction, and inspired him to write the hymn Amazing Grace. I can believe it. You could not have that experience and not be completely changed. I sure was. I felt every cell of my body being remade. It isn’t something words – at least not any words I know – could ever describe.
I have spent the majority of the last sixty years trying to change people, my family mostly. I came by the arrogance of codependency naturally. How I managed to escape the alcohol and drug addictions of my family I don’t know. But I had a therapist who finally got through to me and convinced me that codependency is an addiction also. And possibly harder to cure.
Jesus the Christ was an alchemist, able to rearrange the molecular combination of the elements. The alchemists of the western world are the artists. They can change our states. They can cure us. I thank God for them every day I am alive…
“When I was young and free and my imagination had no limits, I dreamed of changing the world. As I grew older and wiser, I discovered the world would not change. So I shortened my sights and decided to change only my own country. But it, too, seemed immovable.
As I grew into my twilight years, in one last desperate attempt, I settled for changing only my family. But alas, they would have none of it. And now, as I lay on my deathbed, I suddenly realize…if I had only changed myself first, then by example I would have changed my family.
From their inspiration and encouragement I would have been able to better my country, and who knows, I may have even changed the world.” – on the tomb of an Anglican Bishop in Westminster Abbey
“Any arbitrary turning along the way, and I would be elsewhere, I would be different…” -Francis Mayes, Under the Tuscan Sun
The winter solstice lulls us into the dark imaginings of what might have been, and awakens us to think of what could be. I still cry in the shower. I miss my Mom; I miss my Dad. They meant the world to me. I miss my dog, Oliver. I miss my four siblings, although THEY are still alive. We don’t talk. I miss who we were as a family, as children…before we were Democrats or Republicans, vegans or carnivores, liberal or conservative, straight or gay, high or drunk or strung out on chemo; before we were right or wrong. When we were innocent and blameless and healthy and free…jumping into the pool from the garage roof and defending each other in schoolyard fights and singing and dancing and playing endless games of Euchre…shivering as we took our obligatory (certainly unnecessary!) baths in Georgian Bay off the stern of the boat…watching the cat give birth in the closet, gathering wild blueberries and making birthday wishes…
We stood up in each others weddings, showed up with food after the cancer diagnosis’, moved each other and moved each other again. And again.
We had a lot. A lot of fun, laughter, prosperity, health, beauty, adventure. We expected a lot. We took a lot for granted. Here, now some fifty years later, we can’t find common ground enough to hold a conversation. We’re all lucky to be alive, and we know it.
In my wildest imagination I never would have pictured my life to be as it is today. I probably would never have chosen it this way…but as the dog and I walked along the Grand River today I realized that -although it doesn’t look like I imagined- it is in many ways what I asked for. Hariat and I go for long walks and get more fresh air and exercise than I have gotten in years. We eat well. I write most every day. In many ways it is as I always imagined I would spend my older years…it’s a good place to be. It’s a good start.
I have had the great privilege of seeing most of these performers live – some several times in their many incarnations. Prince only once, and if you ever have the chance, do yourself that favor…Here they play what I consider to be one of the most brilliantly written songs of all time…were we just not listening?!
My dad passed away the morning after Father’s Day. I’ve been too sad to write until yesterday. We had spent much of my adult life estranged and had become close again just the last several years of his life as his health failed. We reconnected only after my Mom’s death. They had been divorced many years by then, but had remained good friends. After her death he fell apart. We all did.
Just this morning I am cleaning out closets and came across a small old box labeled “Mom’s Photos”…but they weren’t Mom’s – they were Dad’s. My guess is they had not been opened since my mother moved out of our big family home thirty-some years ago now. The box contained photographs from as early as the nineteen thirties…my dad as a baby held by his mom. Dad as a toddler in knickers and argyle socks, and as an Army Corporal during the Korean War. Precious treasure.
I never knew these photos existed. I had never seen a photograph of my father as a young man. I assumed there weren’t any. Trying to figure out who all of these other people were was perplexing. When I turned a photo over I discovered he had gone through this box in 1978 – the year my son was born – and labeled everything. Consciously or not, he meant this for Steven.
And consciously or not, he knew somehow the box would survive in my mother’s care. She was The Archiver.
The past two months since his passing have sparked many memories, of course…some expected, some surprising. The most surprising are all the many times he stepped up to the plate and came to my rescue. Sadly, I have only seen those in hindsight. I am a time-traveler of a certain sort…likely aware of stranger’s stories more often than my own.
He and my mom were married at the age of nineteen, having been life-long friends and high school sweethearts. I was born when they were twenty, and by then he was stationed in Texas waiting orders to ship overseas. His brother was in Korea serving on the front lines, and I think they tried not to send two sons from the same family. (That was back when the country still had it’s soul intact.) As it happened, they were my grandmother’s only two children. Thankfully the war ended, and he and my Uncle Bill came home safely, reluctant heroes.
Throughout my childhood my mother drove all of us nuts with her constant picture taking. To this day we have canisters of old home movies. Since cleaning out my mother’s house ten years ago I have stored the many boxes of old photographs, always meaning to go through them. Sort them into separate boxes for each of my siblings and myself, and for our children – the grandchildren she worshipped and adored.
When my great Aunt Edith passed away she left a file cabinet hidden in the back of her bedroom closet with a note: “Give this to Susan.” I thought, “Why me?!” It lives in the back of MY bedroom closet now. It is packed full of photos and momentos…daggerotpypes and marriage certificates brought over from Ireland during the famine.
What will I do with all of this? Surely, I had to keep it. I moved recently, downsizing dramatically. Culling a lifetime of accumulated collections, I decided my criteria for throwing things away: would I risk my life to save this in a fire or tsunami?! Lightening my load became easier the more I did it. It feels so freeing. I have often envied those who could live in a gypsy wagon.
But alas, I have moved into a 1,000 square foot cottage and it is just right for me…and I sure am glad I didn’t throw that little box away.
Thank You, Rose, for your encouraging words. Bless you.
As people get to know me they often say I must write a book about my life…and I reply “I wouldn’t know where to start.” How do you write of the remarkable and ordinary?
As I meditated on this I heard “begin with the soundtrack.” I have always been a shadow musician and artist…and have written stories since Carol Ruth Owens and I made books of scrap paper in our front yards on Sandra Lane and filled them with adventurous mysteries like our heroines, Trixie Belden and Nancy Drew…but with horses, of course…we were obsessed. We volunteered at Dick Trotman’s (yes, his real name…) stable so we could ride. I rode a gentle giant warmblood named Duchess. Even then in grade school I was tall and ugly skinny and the only bony child she would tolerate.
A junior high teacher told my Mother I was a talented writer…if only she could get me to finish something. I was not interested in writing. A sixth grade art teacher had entered me in the Detroit News Scholastic Art Awards unbeknownst to me, and I had won – with a watercolor homage to Rembrant’s Young Girl At an Open Half Door…all my waking hours I wanted only to paint. Little did I know I would win again, with an abstract oil my senior year of high school. I haven’t painted since.
Beginning college brought “two-fers” – creative writing instructors would have me complete two semesters worth of assignments in one. But I haven’t written since.
Let’s just say I lost my mojo. Has anyone out there seen it?
The last forty-five years or so have been about survival mostly. Learning how not to BE my emotions…how to navigate and balance the depression of addiction and medication and it’s insidious clusterfuck of side effects…the sins of my fathers…it’ll suck the mojo right out of a person.
Both my parents were “hobby” musicians, as were their parents. My mother’s father was a direct descendant of Franklin Pierce. He purportedly had some African American blood in his genes as well, and carried many of the physical attributes. But he passed for white, and made his quick and short lived fortune as a contractor building railroads, first for the booming automobile industry in Detroit, then across the continent, and eventually as far away as Japan. I ADORED him…especially on the weekends.
Amos Pierce lost his Golden Gloves to a young boxer named Joe Louis, and he and Joe became fast friends. In their twenties and suddenly well off, they hung around with their mutual friend, Chubby Checker…and many other young Detroit musicians, some who would soon have contracts with a new label called Motown…but first, they needed a big empty space to practice and relax in. So Amos built a rambling old Tudor mansion near downtown and finished the basement like a ballroom with a bar, a stage, and a big dance floor. Some of my earliest memories were negotiating the wide stairway, sister Sherry hanging on, carrying a heavy bag of cornmeal down to sprinkle all over the fancy new invention called linoleum so that the dance floor was slippery slidey…I’ve wondered if the Twist were born here. But mainly, I was just mesmerized by my six – foot – four grandfather with the head of curly black hair shaking to the beat. Late at night, perhaps early in the morning, I would flat out refuse to take off my new patent leather shoes. I remember those arguments; my grandmother coming to my rescue by making a pallet of blankets on the floor where I would eventually fall asleep. Somehow my sweet little self knew I didn’t want to miss a minute of this…
Yesterday was a great day. Circumstances have been pretty hard here lately…my father has become quite ill and is fighting for his life. I have had to cut off most communication with my abusive siblings throughout this process, while still maintaining contact with my Dad. A lot of letting go is going on…
My dog and I slipped on the ice about a month ago and are still dealing with our injuries. It remains to be seen whether or not he will walk again, and whether or not I can keep him alive much longer. A second offer on the purchase of my home appears to be falling apart now. It’s looking like we can’t give this thing away. My finances are a disaster. A month’s worth of income runs out after a week…
Wow, I need some relief. It came yesterday in invisible form. I fell into bed late morning utterly spent – mentally, emotionally, physically…and the healing began. Spontaneous healing is not strange to me, it has occurred all my life. “Psychic surgery” is not a new or strange concept; I have experienced it. This was similar to previous “sessions”, but with a bit of a twist. I could HEAR them as well as feel them. Invisible beings were working to restore my well being.
It sounds crazy – no one knows that more than I – because being thought of as crazy has been one of the biggest fears of my life. It just is what it is. I just report what I experience. Imagination? WHO CARES?! Einstein said “Imagination is the language of the divine.” At this point in time I’m in no position to question any blessing I receive…
While I don’t wish to share all of the things that went on over the course of nearly an hour, I suddenly felt a pinching sensation in my back where I had hit my scapula on the pavement when I had fallen. It was far more acute than the pain which had become a general ache in that area, and when I focused my attention there, it felt like I was being STITCHED…I said “I feel like I’m falling apart at the seams,” and I heard, “No, you are falling apart at the SEEMS.”
What the heck does THAT mean?! And then the images…Dad, the dog, myself splayed out on the pavement, the house, it all began to dissolve…and then come back together in a new way…Vibrant. Healthy. Happy. Alive.
Now, I am more blessed than many with inexhaustibly supportive friends. Smart friends. I am a student of A Course in Miracles. And I belong to a community committed to the path of joy through meditation, Bright Path Ishayas. I have received guidance from all over the country. I know I am loved. Now I know I am loved by many beings, and deeply. We all are. I don’t know why we matter, but we matter. Greatly.
The Course teaches “Salvation is my only function here.” Salvation means joy. This world is NOT what it seems, or how it appears to the human eye…Thank God. Couldn’t we please learn to be a little more compassionate with ourselves…and let ourselves fall apart at the seems.
For Nadine and her infinite patience…and all of you. You are my light.
A Painterly Home 