There are countries that have walls. And we think, Well we don’t have walls in our country.
And we see militaristic writing on those walls. And we think, Well we don’t have hurtful or hateful messages in our country.
Or we see streets draped in offensive flags. And, once again, we think, Well we don’t have racist or sectarianist flags in our country.
The beautiful thing about the peace and transformation process is that we all need it. Every country. And every person.
In the U.S., we, too, have walls, words, images, flags that cause pain.
We all need to navigate conflict better, to build a longer-lasting peace.
“My life’s work has been trying to make a difference,” said Rev. Dr. Gary Mason who is building a peace and conflict transformation organization after completing his work with the East Belfast Mission and Skainos, a community center in East Belfast. He…
I walked at the Stormont Estate in Belfast. Very pretty.
At the airport gate, I chatted with an older woman who had just walked the Camino in Spain. I’m not really sure where the Camino is. I’m too jetlagged from my Ireland trip to google it. But I think it’s a pilgrimage following in the footsteps of some beloved saint.
The 70ish woman carried only a small backpack. Her feet were tired she said but her boots were sturdy. She lifted a boot to show me.
“Nice,” I said although they were just plain old hiking shoes, not attractive at all. I guess hiking boots are not supposed to be attractive. “They look functional.”
“Some people do hike the Camino in sneakers, but I think you need these.”
“I am going to do that – a spiritual journey,” I nodded.
“Any walk can be a spiritual walk,” she said. “Like you told me you’re from New York. You could walk the Hudson River?”
“Really?” I said. “What’s spiritual about the Hudson?”
“I don’t know. Maybe do Vermont then,” she said.
This is a path Dan Wakefield and I walked at the Pendle Hill, a Quaker retreat in Pennsylvania.
I am attracted to the idea of long walks like the Camino, wherever that is, or the Appalachian Trail. Yes, the AT’s cool. You start in the spring in the south and end in the fall in New England. But do you sleep in a cozy bed? I don’t think so. I love a bed and breakfast where someone – not me – makes me coffee.
Maybe I should consider the wise woman’s advice and see the Hudson as a spiritual path. I could blog about it. I might call the new blog, Hiking the Hudson, A Spiritual Journey. Oh, I like the sound of that. The Hudson is beautiful in the fall. Maybe I’ll do the hike this fall when my darlings go back to school.
Wait. The Hudson is too ordinary. I want to do an extraordinary hike — Mount Kilimanjaro or K2 — a climb that will make me famous. Or at least make me feel alive. I might encounter rattlesnakes, freeze to death, stare down a wild boar. But will I sleep in a soft place? I don’t think so. Maybe I should stick with the Hudson and then I can head home every night to my cozy bed on the Upper West Side.
Maybe every walk can be a spiritual walk, just like the elder pilgrim said. Every journey can spark lofty thoughts, philosophical ponderings and celebrations of God.
I believe God is found in nature and in chance encounters on the daily journey. Maybe God even resides in the ordinary river that I pass every day.
Maybe I don’t have to make a pilgrimage to some distant land and blog about it to find my spiritual path.
I wrote this post at the Ecumenical Library lunchtime writing group at the Interchurch Center led by Tracey Del Duca. The next God Box writing group meets on Aug. 10 and 24.
I have been to Ireland, at least, three times before – ’74, ’83, and ’96. When I was 12, in ’74, I was with my mother, we were on a tour, paid for, I believe, by a small inheritance from my grandmother Catherine. And we were with my aunt Terry and a couple of hilarious great aunts. I remember riding on a tour bus, having a lot of laughs.
Then in ’83, I’d been studying in an NYU London summer program, gobbling up delicious chunks of Cadbury, Shakespeare, theatre, French Silk, and art history. In London, I’d dyed my hair with streaks of blue. My roommate was punk and she inspired me. My hair was basically platinum blonde, so the color of my blue streaks was green. Pretty. So I thought. Sure, I couldn’t get a comb through it. The day after I got home to Park Ridge, Illinois, my mother made me visit Arlene to get my hair cut and colored. From that day forward, my hair has been, semi-normal. Well, at my first wedding, I wore it asymmetrical, you know, one side long and the other short. But that was just cool.
During that NYU London summer, I’d stayed with Colin, my grammar school penpal in Belfast. We were frisked just going into the movie theatre. And to get into the city center, soldiers eyed you, patrolled our bus.
When I asked Colin, ‘Where are all those soldiers, riding in the back of the open trucks, going?’ He said, ‘Nowhere. They just ride around.’ With machine guns, they rode around then. I haven’t seen soldiers like that on this visit.
We had a lot of laughs in pubs and talked politics then. How we hated Ronald Reagan. I went to a party, this guy who hosted the party, this swank Iranian, made a recurring joke, more and more frequently as the drinking went on, about kidnapping me –because that was the thing then, the kidnapping of Americans by Iranians. And I didn’t think it was funny, but I went along, laughing. Because I felt it was impolite. I didn’t want to be a buzzkill in another country and say to the host of the party, “That’s not funny.”
That summer, when my classes ended, my boyfriend at the time, Jim, who would become my first husband, met me in London. We came back over to Ireland, rented a car and toured around. Mostly, we had a great time, going to pubs and driving the countryside. Snapping pictures. (As always, having a lot of laughs. My kids sometimes tell me now, ‘You have a laughing problem.’)
I remember thinking, Ya, it’s easy to take great pictures here. I took my pics with film, of course. And Jim, moody bastard, encouraged me, believing me to be a brilliant writer and photographer. So whatever other failings he/we had, I loved and was grateful for the way he encouraged me to write and take pics.
Then, 19 years ago, my godfather Uncle Kevin was taking his six siblings and their spouses and his two children on a round-the-country Ireland trip to celebrate his 50th birthday. And Chris, my new husband at the time, and I horned in on the journey (and I was self-conscious about that during the trip, believing I had imposed ourselves in their journey. I was/am sensitive.)
I was pregnant with Hayden. My aunt Judy told me, ‘This is probably the happiest time of your life – the pregnancy of your first child.’
And I remember being happy, so happy when I was pregnant, as if my purpose in life had been revealed, I was going to be a mother. And a damn good one. I had been a great babysitter. How different could it be?
I made a little video of Ireland at the time of that trip. I was still doing my cable show when I was pregnant.
***
I have had a lot of dreams in Laura’s sweet second bedroom in Dublin, near the docks.
My writing teacher Wendy Rohm said that her students report a lot of vivid dreams during the Dublin workshop. And, apparently, they also see ghosts at the Arts Club where her workshops were held. I don’t believe in ghosts, but I don’t not believe in them. I’m like Scooby Doo, a scaredy-cat until they’re revealed to be the local real estate agent, trying to drive away tourists or something. Then, I’m all bravado.
When I visited the Yeats exhibit at the National Library of Ireland, I saw how Yeats believed in automatic writing as a way to enter into your unconscious — to use writing to find a deeper level of existence.
The Irish are mystics.
The Dublin writing retreat with Wendy helped me organize my thoughts on plot points, blurbs, the structure of my narrative. Those are not my strengths. (Probably not Yeats’s either.)
I like to meander in my writing, in my life. Travel is good for meanderers.
I’m writing this from the train from Dublin to Belfast for my work with United Methodist Women. I love the blessing (and occasional curse) of working for this group — and Global Ministries too. I love that these agencies love and support peace and peacemakers..
In the Shadow a Gunman by Sean O’Casey which I saw Friday night at the Abbey, the poet is not the brave soul. He is grand, dramatic, beautiful, full of bluster. It is the girl Minnie Powell who is brave. She is a perfect mix of idealist and pragmatist. I love her. I love that it was Yeats’s muse, Maud Gonne, who inspired him.
Women are mystics.
Women are more revered in Irish culture than American culture. Maybe it’s the inheritance of the Catholic cult of Mary. What’s not to love about Mary?
A mother of three young children is nearby on the train. She is reading a paperback with a pretty cover, How To Cope, a welcoming approach to life’s challenges. Something like that. The Welcoming Approach. I must try that.
Another woman, across from, looks exactly like my mother’s cousin with Maureen. But with a different color hair, blonde instead of black (not green or blue). It’s funny to be in a place where people look familiar, like family, yet are unrelated. I am half-Irish.
And I’m from an island, too.
***
I remember when we were in Nantucket. Just me and the kids on spring break. A Jamaican guy in a sandwich shop – or was it a teacher at the Whaling museum? – one of the two said, “People who come from islands do well on islands, like people from the Caribbean or Ireland do well on Nantucket.” And I said, “Ah, like me from the island of Manhattan?” I joked.
There was a beautiful assignment my children wrote at PS 87- write a poem, beginning with, “I am from…” I am from here.
The displays at the Titanic Museum were so interactive and creative. Here’s me in front of one video.
The Titanic Museum was ah-mazing. Highly recommend.
Under your feet is a replica of the remains of the Titanic.And, of course, the beauty of the Irish countryside, just spotted outside of my train window.
I was reminded that women are powerful communicators. We love to tell stories about ourselves. We love to chat.
Two years ago when I went
to Blogher in Chicago, I attended every free yoga class in Millinneum Park and every booth in the exhibit hall. I met Pioneer Woman and Sheryl Sandberg. This time, I was happy seeing Gwyneth Paltrow from a distance. I left early this afternoon to hang out with my husband and son.
I don’t have to make high-powered friends. I have enough.
The last sesssion I went to addressed the social media phenomenon, FOMO, fear of missing out. Led by a couple of psychologists and a world traveler, they reminded us to put down our phones, realize we have choices, talk openly when we feel left out, and yes, have gratitude for all our gifts and friends. Thanks @drbenmichaelis and @drjenonline and @elisadoucette and thanks #blogher
I am writing this on my phone at the airport – heading off to be with a book club buddy in Dublin. I will also attending a writing workshop and visit some peacemakers in Belfast.
I am excited, nervous, curious. Here.
With Varda and Holly at blogher, friends made from Listen to Your Mother.
That’s me, up top, saying cheese. I am the second oldest and the oldest girl.
My family is loud – my brothers, my sister, my cousins, aunts, uncles. I love the chatter, the pushing and pulling of words, the running of mouths at mealtimes. Joking, jockeying for attention. I could never get enough attention.
No matter how much I wanted to talk about my student council victory, it only received a passing nod and a “pass the potatoes.”
My mother was a good cook in the corned beef and cabbage, meatloaf and carrots category. Pork tenderloin roll-ups were my favorite: Wrap a piece of pork tenderloin and pepper in bacon. Bake.
We shared one phone, the seven of us. We’d take the phone off the hook at dinner time by dialing our one phone number, 825-3428, listen for the busy signal, then throw the phone in the silverware drawer.
Dinner was sacred, a functional time in a dysfunctional family. Studies show that a family that eats dinner together is less likely to harbor burgeoning criminals or drop outs. Family dinner was just what my family did and maybe it is what saved us. I still try to do family dinner.
***
*I took the title Memoir in Progress from Kelly Wallace. (Thanks, Kelly).
This essay is the beginning of a series of essays I wrote at Dan Wakefield’s Writing the Spiritual Autobiography class at Pendle Hill over the last few days.
Pendle Hill is a Quaker retreat center outside Philadelphia — super nice! I love the Quakers — their fierce pacifism, their gentle spirits and their minimalism.
The retreat was sorely needed. I don’t want to go into all the reasons. But one reason is the anticipatory grief of my son going off to college. I am going to miss that little (6’4″) dude at family dinner.
Harriett Olson, United Methodist Women, receives a thank you from Soon Duk Woo for the support of Sunlit Sisters’ Center in Korea, a place of advocacy and hope for marginalized women who worked on American military bases.
Ms. Sook Ja Kim, center, shares a smile after a tear-filled meeting, recounting the struggles of former prostitutes in Korea.
When they were young, they were lauded as heroes, having sacrificed themselves and contributed to the economy after the war. The government told them that the money they brought in would rebuild a ravaged Korea. Fifty years later, these heroes are literally being pushed from their homes, unable to pay the heating bills. “Now that we’re old, we’re discarded,” said Ms. Sook Ja Kim.
Ms. Kim is a former sexual worker, exploited by her country and the US servicemen who lived on the military base. While there is a stigma in sharing her story…
In one week, we will have this explosion of blooms in Riverside Park.
My one today. My new today.
A new year. A new day. Sun streaming in my window. Calling me out.
I get out my bike. I ride around Central Park. I color Easter eggs.
I plan a little party for my son’s high school graduation. I RSVP to a dinner party.
My friend is coming over and we are making sushi tonite. And she’s giving me a massage. She’s a masseuse.
In college we had a cooking club; we made sushi. My life has not changed much since college. Although I live 65 blocks uptown from where I lived in college.
And in college I lived on Washington Square and Fifth Avenue and yes, for a little while on 34th Street. Living in New York is all about the real estate. Oh, I lived on 204th Street too and on 21st Street. In New York we don’t ask What you do? we ask Where do you live? As if, it defines us. Ah yes, you live on the Upper West Side. That explains it.
I am so lucky. To have the Upper West Side.
And I have awesome, crazy, creative kids. My husband is a caution. A challenge, but every single day, he tries to keep it together. That’s better than most. Keeping it together is good enough.
He made me an omelette for my birthday. And almond croissants. How nice is that?
My daughter Cat told me tonite that there will be a blood moon.
I may go for a swim now. Or to yoga. Maybe Pilates.
I do have freelance work to do. And must put in my time. I think I could give myself time off today for good behavior.
This was from the Easter Parade a few years ago. How fun is this New York City tradition! Happy Easter!
I need to paint the apartment.
I need to read my book for book club. We are reading the Boys in the Boat.
I need to plan my trip to Ireland. Am I really going to go? How hard it is to organize myself. I am much better at organizing my family.
This is my day. I am not crazy about getting older. But I consider the alternative.
And as I tell Chris, when he feels down, “You have a lot of love still to give.”
“Yes,” he says. “And a lot of love to receive.”
A birthday is a day to receive and I am not that good at acceptance. I would rather be the giver.
But oh, all right, if you must, then, give me a gift.
I tell my kids, “With me, it’s always the same. You can give me chocolate, a candle, a journal.” And so they do. And I am very, very grateful.
That is today’s Daily Post: Write op-ed piece, IMHO (In my humble opinion) that you’d like to see published.
april, cherry blossoms in central and riverside parks
At the end of the day at my coworking community, New Work City, occasionally, we’d get jello shots delivered to our work stations. Now I get chocolate chicken chip cookies and hot chocolate. My career has shifted from corporate-y to entrepreneurial to teaching.
And the river runs through it.
I started writing this blog post on Pajama Day last week. Yes, I got up and changed out of one pair of PJs and put on another pair. Working in a classroom is so way better than working in a cubicle. If only for pajama day. (At New Work City, I could’ve worn PJs, I’m sure; but not at GBGM.)
I asked my husband last night, “Do you think I’ll ever want to go back to corporate-y or non-profit work?”
“No,” he paused, then added, “But you did love your office.”
Ah, gone are the days of having a beautiful office on the 14th floor overlooking Grant’s Tomb and Riverside Church. With a big desk (containing a drawer full of shoes) and an expansive view of George Washington Bridge spanning the beautiful Hudson River…Those were the days… (Here, I enter a reverie state…..)
february, the view from my old office
Ahem. Back to reality. From my shared Green Room drama classroom space at the school, I have a drawer in a desk. And still, to be sure, a view of the Hudson River — this time from the first floor.
Between the school buildings and the river, the children run, play, scream. I love the outdoor space of the country school. I love that the kids breathe in cold air between classes. Fresh air is enlivening. I love running outside myself between classes. Hugging my heavy sweater tightly around me.
And all along my pathways, the Hudson River is my guardian angel. Watching over. Gliding beside. Big-shouldered and steady. Freezing over and then, thawing.
I do believe the big floats of ice will melt. Our parkas will be replaced by sweaters. And we’ll see the muddy ground.
First crocus. Then daffodil. Raises her hand. And asks, “Is it my turn?”
Spring asks Winter, “Isn’t it my turn soon?”
Winter hesitates.
“Can I go now?” Spring asks. And then, Winter takes a sabbatical.
I am a tree hugger. If you ever go hiking with me, you will see that I literally stop in my tracks, go rogue and hug the tall, unsuspecting, happy tree.
I say, “Good for you, you tree. You just stand there. And you just keep giving us oxygen. You ask for nothing. Thank you. I love you.”
When you hug a tree, your back opens. And you feel a solid connection to some depth of dirt or center of the earth.
I don’t know why the term ‘tree hugger’ is a pejorative. If every single human being found a tree to hug once a day, I think we would be a much better human race. (Maybe we’d even stop the race and just love.)
Trees are wise. They ask nothing of us. They can’t go anywhere. Maybe a person would flinch when I hugged them, or hug me back a little too hard (yes, that happens too). But a tree doesn’t do that. A tree just stands there.
I love in fairy tales when trees come alive. Like I think it was in one of the million Lord of the Rings movies — don’t the trees come alive, run with roots dragging, and save the world? Or at least until the next sequel?
My kids are highly suspicious and embarrassed — even in the woods — that I hug trees. They go, “Mooom!” You know that Mo-o-om! that has at least syllables?
“Do it!” I scream at them. “Hug the tree! You’ll like it!” I act all strict and mean. Begrudgingly, they do. And with an eye roll, they’ll admit, “Yes, hugging a tree is okay.”
Tree hugging is nice. And there’s nothing wrong with nice. Especially when it takes you to a happy place.
My kids hiking Owl’s Head near Lake Placid. So many fun memories of hiking with my kids in the Adirondacks.
“Tell us about the last experience you had that left you feeling fresh, energized, and rejuvenated. What was it that had such a positive effect on you?”
Today I wanted to do something different. So I went to Unity Church. John Shelby Spong, a retired Epicopal bishop, preached on the Gospel of John.
Basically, he said, the gospel was made up. He said – how can you trust something written three generations after a person lived? The John Gospel, he said, was written 70 years after Jesus’ crucifixion.
The bishop told the story of the woman at the well. She was not judged. The conversation at the well was a metaphor for peaceful coexistence. (This is my interpretation of the sermon). Although the two at the well had different faiths, they shared the same god. And god does not belong to any one faith. The sermon inspired me to love without judging.
Spong concluded the sermon,
“It’s not that Christianity has failed, it’s that it hasn’t been tried yet.” I agree – we have not tried a radical love of neighbor and a deep tolerance for difference.
As I rode my bike from the church at Symphony Space along Broadway, I thought, yes, but if we are all sisters and brothers, why are we so divided? This message of brotherhood has not been the prevailing message of mainstream Christianity.
I went to Unity because I didn’t want to hear about the historical Jesus. I needed a spiritual boost – a personal empowerment. I am in a transitional mode (will let you know more as it develops!) and I wanted something personal, inspirational, and self help-y.
The last time I was at Unity, pastor Paul Tenaglia offered these affirmations:
“God has the right and perfect well-paying work as a New York artist for me.”
“I believe I have a natural abundance;
prosperity is mine;
I have unlimited success in my creativity.”
“Divine love blesses and increases in me.”
I liked those affirmations – and today’s sermon too. God is there – in love for self and neighbor.
Then, I went and bought a Christmas tree on Broadway.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 