Taize Service & My Guys

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Candle Lighting Service

The huge bells toll, ring, do all those verb-y things that huge bells do.

In the church, the brothers take the center aisle like NFL players taking the field. In their efforts to be humble, they are bigger than life. They walk to their usual seat or knee rest. Sometimes they go to a new spot on the center aisle, but usually they take the same spot, Brother Emile said.

Brother Emile, who is Canadian, is one of “my guys.” There are other brothers that I love – the tall one who served me communion, the Asian one who helped me change rooms, the one who leads Bible Study. The Bible Study Leader is Brother Wolfgang and he rides a bicycle to Tent F where the adults gather. I admit I have a weakness for bike-riding monks.

One of my friends said that Wolfgang was one of her guys until he stopped leading the Bible Study in English and just let it be simultaneously translated into English by a couple of German 20-something year olds. But she liked his grey hair.

One of the brothers is handsome in a Robert Redford kind of way. I think he may be in love with a dark-haired 20 year old German woman. As he processed by her last night, he coughed. Then, the dark-haired girl’s friend, the one with glasses, pinched the dark-haired girl. They practically swooned. The cough signified something. But what?

Something new happened towards the end of the service. Instead of processing out, some of the brothers stood like sentinels around the perimeter of the sanctuary. Why? The answer becomes clear as people approached them. It’s confession or a time for guidance.

I have to admit I went up to one brother that night. I will not tell you what we talked about. But when he lay his heavy hand on my head, I really felt blessed and protected.

Then the last night at Taize, after the service, Brother Emile is standing right next to me. And I feel sorry for him, because no one is coming up to him to ask for guidance or forgiveness, so I go to him. I ask him for blessings for our group’s travel. And he puts his hand on my head and says something about “Jesus, forgive your friend, Mary Beth.” And maybe that’s his standard prayer but I wasn’t asking for forgiveness. I did like that he said I’m a friend of Jesus’s though. And I wondered if I could Facebook friend Jesus, would I?

Running (Late)

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Written at a cafe in Chalon Sur Saone

I know it’s wrong. It’s very naughty. It goes against the rest of my family, especially my father and my sister. But the truth? I like the adrenelin rush of nearly missing the bus. I like running for the bus or train as it gasps, about to pull away. I like the heart pumping, sweat starting minor transgression of a near miss. I like to dash through red lights, swipe by chatty pedestrians. I like the damp at the base of my neck. I like the unknown. Will I make it? I like it when I do.

Light Within

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written around October 15, 2009 at the Taize community

The Altar

Last night I stayed in evening worship until the candles were extinguished by two young people. Today I arrived early to morning service in time to see the candles being lit by one young man. I was one of the first in and the last out (FILO). I also was one of the first out at the morning service.

The altar is a jumble of about a hundred leaning cement blocks with candles within. It’s hard for me not to imagine that the candles are symbolic of all of the lights within all of us at Taize and beyond. We each have a light within and we lean, round shouldered on one another.

Challenges

Although I love the worship three times a day – the amazing singing (the harmonies!) and the time of silence, I must admit that monastic life may not be for me.

Taize is more like Outward Bound than a week in the French countryside. For example, you have the tight living quarters in the barracks, the ladled serving at mealtime on a plastic plate, the one utensil (a spoon), the seats on wooden benches, and the unforgiving cold.

The Bus

I did discover a way out — there is a bus that cuts through the campus. Today, like several days, I snuck away from morning service and boarded the public bus for one Euro fifty cents. I took the bus until a petite ville beckoned. I hopped off and had an adventure.

I stayed at Taize and led a contemplative life. Yet, if truth be told, I also snuck away, and discovered hidden treasures in the neighboring French countryside. Both kept me going. And the memories will keep me going.

Changing Barracks

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I am sensitive. I am a light sleeper.

Because of the snoring, that first night at Taize, I did not get more than one or two hours of sleep. At three in the morning, I sat outside under a bare lightbulb. I was cold on that concrete step. It was raining lightly. I read the book, “Incredibly Loud and Extremely Close.”

I never want to cause any waves or ruffle any feathers so when I had to go to La Morada to ask if I could be moved from my barrack, I felt bad. (Yes, the Taize bunk bed rooms are called barracks.)

But the barrack the gentle novitiate moved me to already had its six beds (three bunk beds) full. (“I will have to ask one of the sisters to investigate,” he said.)

The only barrack left for me was with the four women on the silent retreat week.

“I promise I will not speak to them,” I said.

“And they certainly will not speak to you,” the brother said.

“Let’s hope they are as quiet in the night as they are in the day,” I joked. He smiled, unapologetically, raised his eyebrows, as if he could not guarantee.

The women were quiet and peaceful. After my first dark night of the soul at Taize, I got many good nights sleep on the top bunk in the quiet room with the women (mostly German, I figured) who were on silent retreat.

They were incredibly quiet and extremely close.

The 13-minute barrier

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Yesterday, I tried to run for longer than 13 minutes.

They (http://www.fromcouchto5k.com) say you should have a goal. That is my pathetic goal.

Yesterday I made it running from my house to the georgeousness of the Riverside garden near the Hippo Park. (All of New York is measured for me in playgrounds.) I think that’s almost 20 blocks (from about 76th to about 95th).

I was so tired after 11 minutes, I had to walk around the garden. There are still bees and blooms. The beauty inspired me. I started running again. And I ran for oh, about 10 minutes.

So, I ran for 11 minutes, walked for 1 minute, ran again for 10 minutes. I’ve gotta run for longer than 13 minutes.

Here’s another goal – to run a 5K before New Year’s Day. 2010.

Poverty – It’s Not Rocket Science. It’s Harder than Rocket Science.

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Reducing poverty? “It’s Not Rocket Science. It’s Harder than Rocket Science.”

Geoffrey Canada, very charismatic, threw away his notes at the beginning of the talk. Notes serve to comfort the audience, but the speaker didn’t need them.

 His topic? “Changing Lives, Changing Communities.” It was my NYU college reunion on Saturday (25 years since undergrad, and 20 years since grad). I’m interested in what makes for community and how to uplift people caught in the multi-tentacled beast of poverty.

Canada is the genius behind the Harlem Children’s Zone. Their slogan? “Whatever It Takes.” The zone is a 100 block radius to lift about 15,000 Harlem kids socially, educationally, medically. The zone promises to stick with a child through college.

 Goals for Children

“We have to have the same goals for poor children, as for our own children. We aspire for college, not technical schools or the military, for our children. Because, at different times, people have break throughs,” Canada said. The one kid that no one thought would amount to anything continues through college and earned their Master’s degree in education. “So, we don’t know.” 

Do Lots of Things

“The U.S. is a rogue nation. We lock up more people than any other country. There’s a school to prison pipeline… You believe that children are our future and you love America.” So do something. But, Canada said, we have to do lots of things.

“Growing up in the ’60s, we always thought there was a conspiracy. The government had a plan. I’ve talked to presidents. There is no plan. There is no answer…. We keep thinking we can do one thing. We have to do everything,” Canada said.

 The cure for poverty is like the current treatment for AIDS, he said. You can’t give one pill – like better schools – you have to provide many antidotes – “hold people’s egos in tact while getting them to work harder.” What you need is an AIDS cocktail of pills, not just one anti-viral.

How We Talk to Children

“Poor parents use far more negatives when talking to kids. ‘Stop. Don’t. How dare you!'” Canada acted out an example of this. When a child with educated parents, dumps his juice on the floor, the parent gently corrects, coddles, maybe even uses the spillage as a teaching moment about gravity. When a poor child does the same thing, the family yells, “Stop that!”

The guy is engaging. The speech was a part of NYU Silver School of Social Work as it kicks off the new McSilver Institute of Poverty Policy, Practice and Research in a week or two.

At NYU, I attended the English department for grad and undergrad. I believe writing is a form of advocacy and social work. In college, I loved abnormal psych, anthropology, drama, literature, and writing.

Having written about reducing poverty through the Circles Campaign for Global Ministries, I have begun to learn what works, what doesn’t, and what the average person can do to help dig another person out of entrenched poverty. It seems to me that the Harlem Children’s Zone is digging deep and well in its attempt to reduce poverty.

It’s Not About You!

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The first time I consciously shut up about myself was at my sister’s Marymount College reunion. The wonderful Catholic women’s college in Tarrytown was closing and this was the last hurrah for the graduates. The college had been folded into Fordham and then simply disappeared. Gone from everywhere but collective memory.

All that remained of the college was the fading sign at the Metro North Station, once a “Welcome Home!” symbol, now a reminder there was no home to be welcomed into.

I knew the reunion would be hard on my sister and her friends (Katie!) So I said to myself. “Yes, Mary Beth, you have troubles, issues, ideas, opinions. But today is not about you. You are not the center of the universe. Support MK. Focus on her. Don’t go into any of your diatribes about the sexism of the Catholic church.”

This last edict was hard on me. I wanted to vent about the BS of Catholicism. About how the nuns were smarter, yet could never have more authority than the priests. About how God resides in everyone – especially in the least of these – not more fully in the Pope. How Catholicism kept abusive marriages together and women down over the centuries. Well, you can see, I’m about to go off again!

My point is that I told myself in my journal and then throughout that day, “Do NOT talk, think, focus on yourself today. Not one little bit. Today is NOT about you. Other days will be about you, but not this one.” And it worked. I relaxed, felt receptive, and was non-judgmental.

In our modern culture of narcissism, giving up on my own opinion is difficult, but that day, it paid off. I listened more. I nodded more. I really heard more. My heels sank into the mud under the tent on the lawn and I experienced more. I felt embedded in the Marymount community. Although it was disappearing before my eyes, it was also coming to light – what community had been so many and what it could have continuted to be.

On the ride home, I could resist no longer. A flood gate opened and I had to mention the BS of the Catholic mass that day – how could the presiding priest not recognize the huge, gaping sadness of so many people in attendance? He did not even mention the loss to so many people. I couldn’t help it. I shared my sadness too. I did apologize for having an opinion. But, luckily, MK agreed. She vented too.

It was hard not to talk about myself all day. I find myself and my views so interesting and I have something to say about, oh, just about everything.

I recommend this exercise. Give up your own point of view. Focus on some community. Or some person who is having a special day. Like a wedding, divorce, graduation, bar mitzvah, funeral, reunion.

Put all your attention on the other person or the community. You will find a freedom in getting away from yourself. And then, if you’re lucky, you will be able to debrief and put in your two cents on the ride home. Or you can write about how the exercise made you feel. Because, ultimately, it’s all about you.

My Running Update

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A week ago I ran to the end of the pier — the one around 70th in Riverside Park. I started at  75th on Riverside Drive.  

I was breathing very hard. Hayden, who ran lightly beside me, told me not to breathe so heavily. He said that, “It just makes you more tired.”

“It’s all in your mind.” That’s what people tell you about running. They say, “Trick yourself when you run. Say ‘I’ll just run to the lamp post’ and then you find you’ve run to the FAR  lamp post, not the NEAR lamp post.” 

So a day later, I ran again. This time by myself. And I ran to the end of the pier and back. I was trying not to breathe hard. I was trying not to let the exhaustion get to me. I felt I’d doubled my distance.

This last weekend, on Saturday, I ran to the end of the pier and then back. And then to my surprise, I kept running.

I followed a guy a dozen paces ahead of me. He was at least 10 years older than me and at least 50 pounds heavier. He was sweating. I let him set the slow pace. I felt good.

I made it all the way to the women’s restroom near the boat basin. I looked at my phone. I had run for 13 minutes without stopping. I felt proud. I felt maybe I could’ve kept going.

The only problem with this new pursuit of running is that the endorphins have not kicked in yet.

I think they did kick in when running in the Adirodacks. But then the air is fresher there. The view of the mountains beautiful.

I started this blog when I started running with Deirdre and the girls. We ran upthe private road and all the way on Camp Dudley Road to the school house.

I really just took up running in search of endorphins. I’m still searching.

French Class – Vive La Vie!

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On Friday, I finished a two-week immersion class at the French Institute, Alliance Francais (FIAF). On the last day of class, we took a test. It took about an hour – we watched une petite filme about a family returning from vacances. Then we answered questions. We discussed our answers. I got one wrong.

I still received my passport entitling me to move up to the next level from intermediate towards mastery. The passport said I was able to “understand sentences and frequently used expressions related to areas of most immediate relevance (e.g., very basic personal and family information….)”

Then we turned off the lights and watched a feature film. It was “Cote d’Azur.” Very silly and sexy. Every few minutes, someone was masturbating in the shower in a villa near the beach. It was Friday morning. I thought, “I paid $500 for this!” well worth it!

I was one of six people in the class. My classmates were all at least 15 years younger than me. My teacher, Michelle, was my age. Just about everyday Michelle wore polka dots.  She was from Haiti, Mexico City, France, and Queens (as far as I could understand).

The other kids (I always call people in my classes “kids,” whether I’m the student, teacher, oldest, or youngest) spoke French very well. They were from Colombia, Russia, England, Cuban descent, far flung places. I was the only one from the heartland. They were taking the class to communicate better with their husbands, boyfriends, jobs, lives. I took it to prepare for my trip to Geneva and Taize in a week and a half.

At some point during every class, Michelle would exclaim, “La vie est belle!” or “Vive La Vie!” I loved that!

We discussed deep topics — religion, crime, cancer.

I learned several things:

1. School is difficult. Concentrating on new words and unfamiliar grammatical patterns is exhausting. I give my kids credit. I applaud anyone who attempts to learn anything.

2. I have to forget what I think I know. Having studied a little Spanish, the Spanish word will pop in my head first and I just have to forget it. I have to listen for my second wave of thinking.

3. There are rules. Like when I took tennis at NYU, I loved it; because unlike studying literature, there are actually right answers. The ball bounces inside the line or not. There are absolutely correct and incorrect ways of doing things. In life, the rules are often amorphous. It’s nice to have clarity – to speak and read and think properly, not ambiguously.

4. That I have an aptitude for realms beyond work and family. When I first had kids, my whole wide circumference of life in NYC shrunk. I was lucky if I made it to Fairway or Riverside Park, forget a museum. If I took a class, it was on parenting. But now, taking a class in French, my world opens up again. And the world is wide.

5. Studying French means studying contemporary French culture too. France is not fixed in some ancient belle epoch. Because I modeled for a brochure, I was given tickets to see Bettina Atala, a French performance/film artist in the FIAF festival, “Crossing the Line.” So funny and creative, Bettina narrated her film, “Season 1, Episode 2,” a commentary on the unreal rules of filmmaking.

6. The fine art of listening? Not so facile! When you talk, you absolutely know the next thing you are going to say. But when you listen, wow! It’s almost always a surprise. Especially in French. Je prefere parler. Mais j’aime entendre francais.

Beaucoup!

Central Park

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I have ridden my bike every day since French class began a week and a half ago.  I ride through Central Park with my heavy text books (yes, they’re paperbacks, but they’re BIG paperbacks). Lately I take my laptop in my backpack too so that I can write in the library here at the French Institute.

I love riding my bike in New York City. I love when I forget my helmet and I feel the wind in my hair. I love the beauty of Central Park.

Everyday there is a spot where I have to brace myself for the beauty. That’s when I leave the road and travel briefly on the sidewalk to the exit at 59th. On my right is the pond and I ride over a bridge. Today there was a young Asian woman standing on the slight wall of the bridge. Her arms were outflung and her head was back. As if to say, I own this place. This place of beauty.

Almost every day I ride over that bridge some tourist is photographing a  friend on the bridge. It is the spot. And I get to see it every day.