From Poets to Memoirs to Gratitude

 Today, it’s a hop, skip, and jump from poetry, to my “granddaughter,” to my gratitude for all of you. So, let’s begin:

#1

On February 6, I posted about Sister Mary Lee who introduced the fifth-grade class, of which I was a part back in 1946-47, to poetry. She began with “story” poems, which I detailed in that posting.

 

Soon after we’d memorized the first of these story poems, she introduced us to a much shorter poem that lent itself to interpretation: “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost. After she’d handed each of us a copy of the poem, she invited us read it in unison. 

 

Then she asked us what story the poem told. As we shared the story that had come to our minds, it became clear that the poem brought different stories to individual minds. That was a revelation to all of us.

 

Then she asked what the final stanza meant to each of us. There, too, we encountered differences among us. Another revelation.

 

For the rest of the year, she introduced us to poems that lent themselves to individual interpretation—like “I’m Nobody. Who Are You? By Emily Dickinson. 

Sister Mary Lee was such a fine teacher; her enthusiasm and nonjudgmental acceptance of our responses to poems touches my life still. She has truly gifted my life.

 

#2

Elisa, the young woman who has become like a granddaughter to me and whom I introduced to you in posting back in November 2020, is doing well with her Stage 4 Melanoma cancer. She has been writing about it and now has a contract for a memoir that will be released in June of this year.

 

#3

Starting now, I’m making a commitment to myself to post every other Monday, at least for 2022. I’m announcing this because letting you all know that creates an imperative for me. And believe me, with my tendency toward “when-in-doubt-about-what-to-do—Read! Nap! Watch BritBox!” I need something to goad me on to getting in touch with all of you. Reaching out, as it were. 

 

Because of not driving, I’ve truly become a recluse since October 2016. However, I’m extraordinarily fortunate in that I have friends living here and there—Minnesota, California, Boston, etc.—and I talk to two or three of them each week. So, I do stay connected with the human race via a voice on the phone. 

 

These long-time friends share their happiness and sorrows, their woes and triumphs, their heartwishes and health with me; they keep me from the self-absorption that can come from living alone. Also, from the self-pity that can ferment in seclusion. In their graciousness, they are the mainland of my solitude.

 

As are all of you with whom I want to stay connected. Through the years of blogging, you have become treasured and cherished virtual friends. I am so grateful for all of you. When I visit your blogs, in which you share the ups and downs and realizations of your lives, I step out of my own remoteness and enter your daily routines, your philosophical realizations, the books you’re reading, the friends you cherish, the incidents that bring joy or confusion to you lives. 

 

That is so wonderful, whether you be in the states of Washington, California, the Carolinas, New York or in Australia, New Zealand, Pakistan or anywhere else in this country or around the globe. All of you bring me the sustenance of life. Thank you. 

 

Please know that you are in my thoughts and prayers and that we meet in the Holy Oneness of All Creation. That is, in the great river of grace that flows toward the depth-less ocean of Love.

 

Peace. 

Songs, Poems, and Memorization

 

Words have always enthralled me. My real appreciation for their power, beauty, and background came in the fifth grade at St. Mary’s Grade School on Liberty Street in Independence, Missouri. That year—1945-46—Sister Mary Lee, a short, enthusiastic educator—came to our classroom each Wednesday to introduce us to the realm of poetry.  

 

She started with lyrics to popular songs. Most of my classmates listened to the radio and knew the songs of the earlier decades as well as the patriotic songs of World War I and II and the songs from Hollywood musicals. 

 

Just the year before, Bing Crosby had sung “Swinging on a Star” in the musical “Going My Way.” All of us—some twenty-one students—knew that song: it’s lyrics; its beat; its cadence. The melody coursed through our bodies so that our feet got the beat, our hands clapped the cadence.

 

In our first poetry session in September 1945, Sister Mary Lee invited us to sing the Academy Award song. Then she invited us to recite the words and let our bodies feel them. 

 

For each stanza as well as the refrain, she asked one of us to act out the words with our bodies—face, hands, feet. She had us laughing with one another as individual students pantomimed the four animals—mule, pig, fish, and monkey—of the song.

 

The following week, she directed our attention to the words the song writer had chosen. She suggested other words, and we discussed why the lyricist perhaps hadn’t used them. 

 

She’d ask, “What picture comes to your mind with this word . . . that word?” “How does that word make you feel?” “What memories come to mind?”

 

In the following weeks, we studied two or three other songs. Then Sister Mary Lee introduced us to “poems” without melodies. Depending on their length, we learned one poem a week for the remainder of the school year. In the beginning, these poems were stories in verse. For instance: 

·       “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” by Edward Lear

·      “The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat” by Eugene Field 

·      “The Ride of Paul Revere” by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 

·      “Casey at the Bat” by Ernest Thayer 

 

Each week, after Sister Mary Lee read aloud the new poem, we discussed its story, savoring its words, pictures, and rhyme. As the weeks of that school year progressed, we learned alliteration, rhyme scheme, cadence, stressed and unstressed syllables. That is, we began to study some of the tools a poet uses.

 

At the end of each Wednesday class, Sister Mary Lee gave us our weekly assignment: Memorize the complete poem or, for longer verse stories, memorize a certain number of lines. 

 

“Be ready,” she’d always say, “to recite for me and your classmates next week! Practice in front of a mirror! Listen to yourself! Feel the words in your mouth. On your tongue. Whisper some. Shout others. Give this all you’ve got!”

 

That was the beginning of my memorizing each poem I met and liked in the years ahead. 

 

Next week I hope to introduce you to some other poems introduced to our class by Sister Mary Lee—poems that led to my burgeoning desire to write. 

 

I’m wondering what poems you remember learning in grade school. Did you memorize some of them?

 

Peace. 

 

PS: I finally responded to your welcomed comments on the three postings I did right before Christmas. If you have the time, energy, and inclination, you may want to scroll down and read my responses.

 

 

 

Gifts of In-Breaking: Part 3

  

In Part 2 of In-Breaking, I spoke of the “O” Antiphon “—O, Oriens” (the Morning Light from the East). The in-breaking of that light comes as gift to each of us in unexpected moments—leaves blazing autumn; smile dawning on a face awed by kindness; gnarled hands soothing a sobbing child. These can be moments of great enlightenment and wonder. They are always moments when, to paraphrase the English poet Wordsworth, our “heart leaps up.” 

 

As we move through the seasons of our life, the gift of light—insight—grace blesses us. Each moment of utter awareness becomes a treasured bead. From these beads, we make our life’s rosary of gratitude—gratefulness. The beads slip through the fingers of our mind whenever we need to recall the quiet, the peace, of blessedness.  

 

That startling moment of in-breaking for me last Tuesday brought questions . . . answers . . . and recall. 

 

In years past, I crocheted; worked jigsaw puzzles; walked four miles each day; macraméd; peddled a bike 10 miles before work; volunteered; protested; got out the vote with MoveOn.org; served as an election judge; painted watercolors; used a piano keyboard; practiced yoga; worked in my vegetable, perennial, and rock gardens; baked; tried countless new vegetarian recipes; threw dinner parties; studied classical Greek; memorized a stanza of a poem each day, . . .

 

When light broke in; I realized I’d left it all beyond. All the joy of it. The feeling of accomplishment. The delight. My life had narrowed to five items a day; I’d pinned my entire attention on writing a memoir.

 

That in-breaking also helped me realize why this had happened.

 

In October 2019, I published The Reluctant Spy, an historical novel. The novel reflected my own search for who Yeshua was and is, my struggle with a personal God, my dreams of Wholeness, and my dawning belief in Oneness. 

 

The Reluctant Spy represented 20 years of living, reflecting, researching, and writing. And . . . it was . . . it is . . . a dismal flop. Only a few—maybe 15—copies have sold. 

 

Six weeks after its publication, I had my second knee replacement. The recuperation from that, unlike the first replacement, was long. Difficult. Problematic.

 

Possibly because of the stress from those two incidents or from the changes wrought by climate change or because I’ve been diagnosed with Meniere’s that is “progressive and intractable,” the disease kicked in and for the past two years has been—it sometimes seems to me—ever present. 

 

What now? What after the gift of grace? 

 

First, gratitude abounds. Second, I’m taking baby-steps to redefine my life and put back into it those activities and thoughts that bless me: Puzzle pieces litter the dining-room table; the keyboard on the card-table beckons my fingers; yarn lies ready to be crocheted into an afghan. The yoga DVD is in the player. Two textbooks—one Greek, one Latin—await my inquiring mind. All invite me to create a new life as I move toward the Beyond.

 

Then, wonder of wonders, that in-breaking brought to me the first paragraphs of the memoir with which I’ve struggled for two years. It is, I believe, the perfect entryway to the telling of my life.

 

This sudden and welcomed in-breaking then is the gift of Advent and Christmas. Life truly is good.

 

Peace.

 

NOTE: The writings of Richard Rohr, whom I mentioned yesterday, explore a theology I no longer embrace. But often, his daily meditation provides food for thought about Oneness. 

 

I also read Cameron Trimble who writes for “Convergence.” His down-to-earth stories always bring new spiritual realizations to me. 

 

Photo from Wikipedia.

"O Oriens"--An Inbreaking: Part 2

Part 1 of “The In-Breaking of Light” provided the background for today’s posting about an in-breaking that lifted my spirits out of a malaise that began in November 2019. In future postings, I hope to explain what happened two years ago that brought me to what felt like an impasse. 

Let us begin:

 

As I explained yesterday, my rereading of my December 7^th posting left me befuddled. Last Tuesday, I went to bed somewhat disgruntled about myself. For a few minutes I played spider solitaire on my iPad. Then, wearied by my own loss of hope, I leaned back into the headrest. 

 

Closing my eyes, I went to the deep center of myself where Oneness dwells—has always dwelt no matter how I’ve tried to flee or ignore or remonstrate. Always there. At the deep center of my being. Always.

 

I let myself sink into the River of Oneness flowing through that center. Always and ever, I, a diminutive drop of life-giving water for humankind, enter the stream that moves inexorably toward Wholeness—toward the vast Ocean of Oneness that absorbs us so that all touches all and we unite in the great Alleluia of Life and Light, Love and Being. We become One.

 

This is the way I now meditate. It’s not the way of my thirties and forties. That served me well . . . then. The meditation of myself in Oneness has served me now for some forty years. I never read anything about what I’d come to believe and hold blest. I simply experienced living and reflected on it. Slowly the realization of Oneness came to me.

 

Yet just this past year, I discovered a writer who has published several books on Oneness. I am now on Richard Rohr’s daily meditation mailing list. For now, at least, he and I seem to be on the same path in our spiritual journey. He’s traveled farther than I; I stumble along trusting Oneness.

 

So, I’m meditating last Tuesday, flowing within the River of Oneness, and suddenly, light breaks in. Some would say, “an insight.” Raised as a Roman Catholic, I’d say I experienced a lovely grace—the Presence of all those who, throughout my life, have raised me, taught and educated me, befriended me, mourned with me, rejoiced with me, cherished me.

 

In that grace-filled moment, a sudden, and to me, surprising, thought came: “Why has my life narrowed down so?” 

 

With great certitude, I realized that it had nothing to do with the pandemic. No. I, myself, have allowed my life to narrow down to five activities: meditating, struggling to write a memoir, puzzling over spider solitaire, listening to mystery novels, and watching BritBox. Five!

 

Then another thought: “When and why did writing become the thumbtack that nailed me to only one definition of success: a published book read by many?”

 

It was then that the light promised by Advent dawned within me. The “O” Antiphon—O Oriens—said at Vespers on December 21 each year beseeches Oneness to send us light—the light we all need if we are to grow into wholeness.

 

O Morning Star,

splendor of eternal light and sun of justice,

come and shine on those who dwell in darkness

and the shadow of death.

 

For Christians, that Morning Star is Yeshua. For myself, Yeshua is one human—a beloved one—among many. Among all. So that Morning Star is the Oneness of all humans who—however and whenever and wherever I have met them—have shed light into the darkness of my own doubt. 

 

Tomorrow, I hope to share with you how that River of Light that streamed through my bemusement brought change. You will, I trust, rejoice with me when you read the next installment. 

 

Peace. 

 

The In-Breaking of Light--Part 1

 

Two weeks ago, in my first posting since July, I shared with you the despondency that had come upon and over me due to an inability to find an entryway into a second memoir. 

 

That posting was, perhaps, too personal, too revealing. It reveals the “inner skin” of my thoughts, not just the outer.

 

However, I always tend to write the words that come to me in the flow of inspiration that passes from head to heart as I sit here at the computer. For several days, the words for this posting have been bounding forth like a river bursting its dam. Today will be background for one or two more postings. (Such is the baptism of graciousness that has been given to me in the past two weeks.)

 

So let us begin.

 

I’ve reread the December 7^th posting several times and been somewhat dismayed. Why? Because the temperament of the Dee Ready displayed in much of that post was from the first ten years after I left the convent. 

 

In the depths of that Dee was an insecure, somewhat narcissistic, self-absorbed, self-centered, immature young woman—a consummate actor—who fled the life she’d been living as a Benedictine and continued to flee—from Missouri to Ohio to New Hampshire to Minnesota—for ten years. Never looking back, seldom keeping in touch with those she met, she fled like an immigrant from the rubble of the war waging within her troubled mind and bewildered heart. 

 

In the months that I’ve struggled to write another memoir, I’ve come to cherish and, yes, understand that young woman. Within that deep center of myself where Oneness dwells, I’ve sobbed for her pain and her despair as she fled the three presences/entities/hallucinations that accompanied her from the convent. I’ve come to admire her strength and her bravery.

 

When I reread that last posting, I wondered if that strength had deserted me. In the ten years of my flight, I'd found my strength in meditating—in the Jesuit style—on the four faith testaments of the early Christian churches in and around the Mediterranean. 

 

I did not see those four “Gospels,” or proclamations of good news, as exact accounts of the life of Yeshua. They were not memoirs, biographies, or autobiographies. Yeshua never read those words written about himself. He planned no Church; he dictated no unambiguous letters to be left to posterity. 

 

I suspected then, as I do now, that were he to read the faith testaments, he’d be somewhat surprised by them. Surprised by the stories, the beautiful myths, that the authors used to convey the wonder of his birth and childhood.

 

The four faith testaments, written by four early Christians, represent the beliefs of four communities—for instance, the Church at Antioch. These communities (first of Jews and then of Gentiles) found in the man they called Yeshua the answer to their questions about the meaning and purpose of living and dying. Of loving and forgiving. Of embracing and accepting. Of letting go and holding on. Of reaching out to others and even loving those who might act as enemies.

 

These four, plus others, both men and women, wrote down what they had seen for themselves or heard from others about an itinerant Jew who had assiduously and prayerfully studied the Hebrew Scriptures and found there a God who called on all humans to seek out the poor, the outcast, the homeless, the sick, the refugee, “the other.” 

 

To seek with the belief that in the Holy Oneness of All Creation we find the answers to our deepest heart-wishes and we embrace kindness, mercy, and generosity with open hearts made lovingly compassionate by an acceptance of our own weakness and vulnerability.

 

That’s all for today. I’ll continue this tomorrow with a quotation and the great grace—the inbreaking of light—given to me this past week.

 

Peace.

 

Photo from Wikipedia.