Thanksgivers

Monday, I led my last poetry reading session at an assisted living facility. I have been leading the club for 16 months: I have loved it and have loved the elders, but I’m ready for a break. Fortunately, one of the people who works at the facility will now take it on.

Each week I’ve collected poems that I think they might like around a theme of interest to them. This week’s collection I titled, “Giving Thanks” and I included poems that either they introduced me to or I will think about differently because of them. (There are of course more of those poems than we could read in an hour, so I’ve snuck many in the last two weeks, too.)

We read James Wright’s “The Blessing,” a gentle poem about a man’s encounter with horses that will always remind me of Sheila’s gentle nature and love of horses. Next we read the humorist Dorothy Parker’s poem “One Perfect Rose,” a poem that May Lynn introduced me to and fits her literary sense of humor. That poem also reminds me two longer humorous poems from residents: Robert Service’s “The Cremation of Sam McGee,” that will always remind me of Geoff, one of the first members of poetry club, a man with a subtle sense of humor; and Ernest Thayer’s “Casey at the Bat,” that reminds me of Frank, a man with a full-bodied laugh who lived eight years in a Japanese internment camp and was one of the few of his regiment to return from World War II.

Then there was a poem from Zelda, “Leisure” by William Henry Davies: “What is this life if, full of care, / We have not time to stop and stare.” I’ll always hear it in her South African accent. Though I’ve known for years Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening,” I’ve never heard it read so beautifully as by Ada, who at 97 often angers other residents because she doesn’t hear well and doesn’t have much of a social filter. The first time Ada read the poem, the other residents who had often scowled at her burst into applause. To close the session we read Yeats’s “The Lake Isle of Innisfree,” after which I’ll never forget Kaylin exclaiming, “Now that’s a poem!” Finally, I read Charles Reznikoff’s poem of thanks, “Te Deum” and finished with a reading of William Wordsworth’s “I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud,” a favorite poem of all of theirs which they (and you) may call simply, “Daffodils.” I printed that poem so that they could take it back to their rooms with them. I carry it in my heart with me. I remember a discussion about those beautiful images we carry with us when we are melancholy: light on the water, the swishing sound of a river, and the peeling paint on an old barn. I most remember Frank saying that when he thought of something beautiful and joyful he thought of his lovely wife of 63 years, whom we had all known until her recent death.

Though we have usually ended with a song, and I’ll never forget Pearl dancing to “You Ain’t Nothin’ but a Hounddog,” this week we ended with Judith’s expression of gratitude to me and chocolate cupcakes. Judith has meant so much to me since I met her: she doesn’t deal with the cognitive issues that most residents do but experiences pain from arthritis and ongoing heart problems. I love her feisty spirit: her insistence on those who work there respecting all of the residents for their amazing stories and continuing humanity. Judith is a thanksgiver. This time, she said, “You have changed my life.” About six months ago, she told me, “You have reminded me of a part of myself that I had forgotten.” Frank yelled out, “Bless you.” And others contributed similar blessings. Afterwards, many of the residents came up to say a personal thank you. Earnie kissed me on the cheek: a gentle kiss that will remain with me.

I am a thanksgiver, too, and being thanked means a lot to me.

As I left the room and headed for the stairs, Geoff’s daughter, a bit younger than I am, chased me down (not hard to do as I hobbled with my cane), saying she wanted to thank me for how much this club has meant to her 97 year-old father. She's in a family of thanksgivers.  As she talked, I remembered her mother Anneka, who was sick with cancer when I arrived last June. At that point, Anneka slept most of the day, used an oxygen tank and a walker, kept her eyes closed, and was mostly non-verbal. I only ever heard her speak two words. One day after I’d spent some time in their apartment talking with Geoff about poetry, she opened her eyes wide, and said, “Thank you.”

Though I am tired and ready for a rest, my heart is full of gratitude.

Fixing, Helping, Serving and...

Helping, Fixing, Serving, and…

Last week, a young woman who works at the Assisted Living Facility where I lead a poetry group, told me about an article by Rachel Naomi Remen called “Helping, Fixing, or Serving” and I've been thinking a lot about it. The article's premise is that Fixing and Helping are functions of the ego whereas Serving is work of the soul. It's only three pages if you want to read it: https://www.uc.edu/content/dam/uc/honors/docs/communityengagement/HelpingFixingServing.pdf

I worked in schools for 27 years and always thought of my work as service. When I drafted an application to the University of Washington's School of Social Work four and a half years ago, I used the word "serving" to describe my work "serving students and families living in poverty, many of them refugees from other parts of the world." Every time I used the word "serving," my friend Ellen, who gave me feedback and suggestions, inserted a question mark. I changed “serving” to “teaching.”

The article made me feel good about myself. I was in the habit of serving, but something about it has been gnawing at me. As I think about the article now, I think there's more than service. I think this next step may not be so much about working as about being. Maybe the next step in the soul is in being with. 

The thought brings to mind Albert Camus' oft-quoted words: "Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend" (though I'm pretty sure he said it in French.)

Maybe this explains Trump’s election, an election that baffles those of us on the left who cherish helping and serving (not so much fixing, I don’t think, but maybe I’m wrong.) Maybe those who elected him did so not because they thought he would help, serve, (or fix) them, but because they sought someone who would walk beside them.

Our minister had an informal potluck for church members who wanted to connect after the election. Many in the group had lots of ideas about what to do next. I’m sure there will need to be a lot of doing, but for that moment (and this one), I needed to stop first and just recognize the reality that I have been missing: too many people in our country have not seen themselves mirrored in the federal government: they have not seen people who understand their lives and will walk beside them.

During the discussion, I kept thinking about the mantra of so many conservative Christian teenagers about ten years ago: WWJD? “What would Jesus do?” they asked. I’m asking that now.

I can’t figure the answer, but I do remember that one of the names for Jesus is “Emmanuel,” which in Hebrew means “God with us.”

Maybe God understands that we crave someone walking with us, and maybe that’s something we need to understand about ourselves.

I’ve learned this lesson before. Perhaps I learned it first in a health project in Michoacan, Mexico, in my twenties where other Americans and I dug latrines but the real meaning was in the connections with people from another culture. I learned it again in Guarjila, El Salvador, where Salvadoran friends thanked us for being with them and told the story of an American who was with them for a time in Honduran refugee camps. Because she was always working and never stopped to laugh with them, they knew she would only be there for a short time. And again I learned it in SeaTac, Washington, where I tried to walk with students even as I taught them reading and writing. Indeed, walking with them might have made the teaching possible.

One of my favorite moments at that school did not occur at the school: it occurred on a march down Seattle’s streets as I shouted for immigrant justice. A student who marched ahead of me and who would soon disappear from my world looked surprised to see me, waved his hand for me to join him, and put his arm around me, inviting me to walk with him. Come to think of it, his name was Jesus (pronounced “Hey Seus” in Spanish).

Don’t get me wrong: bigotry and discrimination are not ever okay. But I wonder what I need to be listening to right now.

For now, I’m replaying words from Pablo Neruda’s poem “Keeping Quiet” (originally in Spanish—here are two stanzas translated by Alastair Reed):

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

The last stanza reminds me of a sign in front of an ocotillo in the desert Southwest: “Dead or Alive?” Though the ocotillo looked at the time like dead sticks in the sand, I later saw that with a bit of water those sticks would flourish with a gazillion little green leaves and a bright red flash at the end of each stick. What looked dead was in fact alive.

So perhaps there will be a resurrection, a return to living, if I can learn to be silent and listen: not silent about injustice, but silent in order to listen.

How will I know when to be silent and when to speak, when to act? I just don’t know. As my Irish taxi cab driver said to me years ago: “Aye. There’s a conundrum.”

Solace

Last night, Ann and I watched early, disturbing results from the national elections, and then we took a break to have dinner. It was clear that it would be a long night. Before we ate, we held hands and said our nightly blessing: “Dear God, Remind me that all of life is grace. Let me respond in gratitude.”

Usually, this prayer takes me to my heart’s home, the place where I remember all that is lovely in the world. Last night, however, I remembered this prayer after my first brain tumor diagnosis: the thought that “all of life is grace” felt like an admonition to one who is doubting, and—now as then—a knot formed in my throat.

After dinner, we returned to the television. Results continued to worsen. I could hardly stand it, so Ann agreed to watch an episode of the show “Friday Night Lights” with me. Things weren’t going well for Coach Taylor and his players, either. We returned to the election reporting.

As the election results rolled slowly in, I couldn’t just sit and watch like my partner Ann. As we watched together, we sat close and held hands, but when I couldn’t stand it anymore, I had to get up, go away from the television, and seek words of comfort.

The first time, I went to Facebook, and alternated responding to friends’ posts with a sad face and an angry face. The second time, I went to my friend Becky and her pastor’s “completely unorthodox devotional guide,” What’s a Nice God Like You Doing in a Place Like This? Becky wrote the first devotional about spotting God during a dermatological exam. Her gentle and amusing details, like the doctor examining her fingers in the same way her son Ben did when he was young and bored at church, gave me respite. We went to bed with the likely scenario that Trump would be our next president and woke up to its confirmation.

This morning, after an awful election season and last night’s stunning results, I am still seeking solace. As I woke, I was thinking of two poems: one, Pablo Neruda’s “Keeping Quiet”; the second, Yeats’s “The Lake Isle of Innisfree.”Perhaps they’ll give you solace, too:

Neruda’s poem I always read on September 11 in memory of that awful day in 2001 when planes flew into New York’s twin towers. The call to stillness reminds me of all the pain in a world that is too active and in its activity, too destructive. It calls me back to being and breathing. I don’t think it’s in the public domain yet, so I’ll just provide a bit and you’ll have to find the rest by yourself

And now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still.

. . .

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

. . .

Now I’ll count up to twelve,

and you keep quiet and I will go.

The second poem, Yeats’s “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” my elders and I read together in our poetry club yesterday. Elders commented on the longing in this poem, the seeking for a home that resonates with the deep heart’s core.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:

Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;

And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping

     slow,

Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket

     sings;

There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,

And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day

I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;

While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

I hope to feel at home again in my country, and I wonder if Trump won because too many people were not feeling at home in their country. How will this become home for us all when it seems to me right now that for some being at home means making sure that others aren’t there—or at least aren’t visible in all their humanity? I’m guessing I will be reading a lot of poetry over the next four years.

Commencement

I should graduate with my MSW from the University of Washington's School of Social Work this December. I have three more Mondays at my practicum, five more classes, and three more assignments. I'm planning for my departure at my practicum and at the School of Social Work like my Grandmother Edwards planned her memorial service.   I've had fun, but I'm ready. It's been four years and a quarter, and it's time to go. (My partner Ann is ready, too.) 

I went to my own high school and college commencement ceremonies, and worked in high schools for 27 years, so I attended a lot or commencement ceremonies.  Adding a few friends' commencements, I've probably heard, "Commencement is not an end but a beginning" at least 30 times in speeches. 

In reading the book Companioning vs. Treating: Beyond The Medical Model of Bereavement Caregiving by Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D., recently, I read that, similarly, "Mourning is not an end, but a beginning."

Both statements are in some ways true, but for now, I'd just like to be okay with ending. People keep asking me what I'll do when I finish my MSW. I tell them first I'll take a nap. Then I'll probably work on my writing. Then see how I might apply what I've learned in the world while Ann and I  raise a puppy. 

Really, though, I just want to be still with this ending. To take a deep breath and say to myself, "Well done." Must I constantly be looking forward?

I have been a planner all my life--and still am--so this is not a rhetorical question, but my brain tumors have helped me to see the possibility of death, perhaps the big end, and the joy of focusing on the moment, the present. 

The question takes me to the close of Walt Whitman's section 5 in his poem "Song of Myself."

"All goes onward and outward…and nothing collapses.
And to die is different from what anyone supposed--and luckier."

It's not that I'm seeking to die. That time will come. But for now I want to live in this moment, not to worry so much about what's to come. 

As my friend Scarlett O'Hara said, "Tomorrow is another day."

And I say, today is today. I want to be here a while. 

Lovely

“I taught special ed students in a junior high school in the Bronx. I was a little crazy, but I loved those kids. One day, a kid came in, angry, and slammed keys down in front of me. ‘What are you crazy Mrs. Pembroke? You left your keys in your car! You can’t do that in this neighborhood!’ He was really angry. I said to him, ‘How’d she drive?’ and he said, ‘Like a charm.” 

May Lynn’s laugh broke into her face, her blue eyes bright behind orange and red reading glasses, her well-worn laugh wrinkles deepening, a delighted mouth wide open, long teeth and all. “I haven’t thought of that story in a long time,” she told me. “I loved those kids, and they knew it.”

Actually, May Lynn told me that story last week. And each week before. No matter. I love hearing it and sharing in her joy each time.

May Lynn is 87 years old, almost 88. She was born on Oct 29, 1929, the day the stock market crashed, and she’ll be quick to tell you, “It wasn’t my fault. I may have been the result, but I was not the cause.”

On my favorite days at this assisted living facility, I get to spend time writing with May Lynn. Last week, she wore a purple and blue scarf over her pink shirt. She wore a blue wool sweater to scare away the cold, as elders often do. Before she started writing, she read over what she’d written before. Her writing delighted her.

As she read back over her own writing from our previous sessions together, she sometimes laughed and then read aloud. Once she stopped to sing a song about Anne Boleyn, King Henry’s beheaded wife.  May Lynn’s big green eyes shone jauntily as she sang. She sang the whole song, acting out the lines about how hard it is for Anne Boleyn to blow her nose, because she’s carrying her head in the crook of her arm. May Lynn crooks her arm and widens her eyes as she sings:

Along the draughty corridors,

For miles and miles she goes.

She often catches cold, poor thing,

It's cold there when it blows.

And it's awfully awkward for the Queen,

To have to blow her nose,

With her head tucked underneath her arm.

“I don’t know why I remember that song,” she said, “but I think it’s funny.” Then May Lynn rummaged under the seat on her walker, found a kleenex, and blew her nose.

May Lynn is funny, amusing in an intellectual way, and she believes God has a sense of humor, too. “Look at me!” she said by way of explanation. And then, as if I needed more evidence, she said, “Look at you!”

She and I have had our losses, but we love to laugh. We believe in a God with a sense of humor and delight. And we tend to walk on the sunny side of the street, she using her walker and me with my cane.

Though she walks on the sunny side of the street, she’s not all giggles. Often she’s philosophical about life, her life, the nature of God, and the importance of forgiveness.

She continued reading. “Oh, I must change this date,” she said about the date on writing from earlier this month.

“No,” I told her. “That’s right. That was the date the last time we wrote together. That’s different than today.”

She looked at me hard. She hunched over her writing. Her eyes were wide and un-blinking; then they narrowed. I could tell she was trying to decide whether or not to believe me. Finally, she nodded, left the date as it was, and continued reading.

Sometimes she looked up and was able to continue because she knew much of what was written. “Forgiveness” is her mantra. “It is the end of separation between you and me.” Sometimes she read the word “crap” amongst her philosophizing, and she always stopped and laughed.

At one point, she said she wanted to know about me: “I’m asking you to ask Jesus what he wants you to do and to share it with me. That’s communication. That’s important.”

I told her I preferred to listen rather than to talk, so she nodded and continued. I asked her what she believed. She continued reading aloud.

“I am only here to be truly helpful, to represent the one who sent me and to do what he or she or it or whatever sent me to do....I am here to represent he who sent me. That’s poor grammar. I’ve got to fix that. It should be him. Him includes her. I don’t like the ‘him’ but that’s out of my hands.” For a few moments, May Lynn works quietly, correcting the things she’s written. She began reading aloud again, in a hushed voice, trying to make sense of my handwriting from a day when she talked and I did the writing.

“What does this mean? She asked me. ‘Waiting for "Harrigan"?

“Oh,” I said. I remembered the allusion to Waiting for Godot that amused us both but decided not to bring it up. “That was the day you were trying to remember a song where the name was spelled out, and it finally came to you: Harrigan.”

She nodded and began to sing: “H, A, double-R, I, G, A, N spells Harrigan. Harrigan.”

She finished the song, laughed and then continued reading.

“What is your most strongly held belief? I believe there is one God, a he she or it, but not a they." She looked up over her glass and explained," A board of gods is like the board at a company that’s gone bankrupt. Somebody said that. God is the spin of the world, the light of the stars…God is whatever is…" She looked up as she thought about it, "observable, no…visible, no… just is.”

“The unexamined life is not worth living…I don’t remember who said that, but it’s a good mantra. Suppose I were an earthworm, burrowing in the mud for pleasure like I did as a kid. …”

May Lynn’s thoughts went on until my phone’s alarm told me that it was time to go for the day. A caregiver in a blue polo and kaki pants stopped to greet her. “Madeline, “ the caregiver said.

May Lynn had told me previously the story of her name. Her mom had intended to name her “May Lynn” but her mom was drugged after giving birth, and the doctor misunderstood her mom’s slurred speech, recording her name on her birth certificate as “Madeline.” May Lynn kept the official name “Madeline” and now invites those she trusts to call her May Lynn. Quite clever for someone with memory loss: she knows whom she trusts.

More than a year ago, the day I met May Lynn, we were doing a memory activity where she read a poem aloud. We both loved the poem and talked about it. At the end of our session, she had planned to go to a lecture but instead went outside to enjoy the lovely moment we’d just had. As she left, she said to me, “Call me, May Lynn.”

Lovely.