On Photographs

 I took pictures today as the sun was setting.  Almost every day I take pictures, whatever catches me: rocks, plants, water, light. Tonight, walking the dog, the setting sun took away my breath. No picture I take ever does justice to what I see, but it doesn't discourage me. Even dim reflections bring me back to the moment. 

This is an ordinary thing. Phones with cameras have made photography easier and also, more equitable. Certainly, the opportunity to be unconstrained by the fear of screwing up the shots and wasting film liberated me. As a kid, I saw photography like all visual mediums: only talented people can do it. The rest of us are embarrassing ourselves. 

My parents took pictures. They documented our childhood, up to a point. There was a period with very few pictures, and then later, when my siblings and I were older and leaving home, they began taking pictures of seasonal changes. Pictures of flaming sugar maples in fall, deep snow piles in winter, shining branches that looked like they were coated in glass, after an ice storm. And their cats, so many pictures of the cats. These weren't very good photos, but that didn't seem to matter. My mother put them in albums. 

When my brother and I sold the house in 2004, it was a gut-wrenching project to clean out that house which three generations had lived in. The photographs were everywhere.  At the time, I remember thinking: Why the hell do I have boxes of pictures of the old tree? And all this snow? And these cats? WHY did they take these pictures??? 

Recently, I was having a discussion in a group where we were asked if we had a spiritual practice. Many shared that writing was theirs, and though that's true for me, what I said was that one of mine is taking photographs, usually every day, and looking through them to return to the immediacy of presence.  

When I look through the pictures on my phone, or in albums, or in one of the digital vaults where everything goes -- like heaven after death, it's all in the cloud -- it feels like sacred ritual. Each piece connects to the next. Bead next to bead on a string, like a rosary or Buddhist mala, image after image. Each unique, each part of a whole. 

The visual mantra of life.

This week, for the first time, I imagined my parents looking through all those pictures. Not just taking them and stuffing them away, but taking them out, looking at the storms, the snow, the trees, the cats. Remembering. Reliving. Imagining this, I thought: I understand. As a child, you don't often feel like you can ever get your parents. I was 39 when my mother died. By my age, my mother was already fighting cancer.  Because I've been a parent without either of them alive, I've wondered a lot: how would it have been?  But I won't ever know the answer to that question, so when I make a connection like this, it feels like finding buried treasure.

As I write this, it's 10/31, Halloween. Samhain. Tomorrow is Dia de los Muertos. Is the veil thin? I'd like to believe so. Sometimes when I write, I imagine my parents are with me, over my shoulder. Certainly, they are in my heart. 

So friends: take all the pictures. If it moves you, if you want to remember it, do it. Go back; relive that instant. Life is only instants. You get to choose what to keep and what to savor. 

Peace

                                                                          


 

On Not Being Taken Seriously

I had an experience this week that I am still processing. There are parts of it I can't share but the parts that I can, I realized, connect to a bigger truth: lots of us are not taken seriously.

On Tuesday, a car on the train I use for commuting derailed. I wasn't on it, and in fact, no one was injured, thankfully. It was just another the-MBTA-is-a-broken-down-system event. 

But. But the immediate affect was that trains stopped running and shuttle buses were brought in. It was a rainy day, too. Bonus. I left work early, hoping to avoid some of the worst of what was sure to be commute hell. When I got to the station where the busses began -- Park Street, the hub of all commuting in Boston -- it was worse than I imagined. A sea of people and no buses. Waited, waited , waited. People were stressed and wet, since it was drizzling. 

A tall guy in front me started to yell: Where are the buses?!! where are the goddamn busses? 

To which I -- already pissed off from an earlier conversation in the day, a conversation where I felt passed over for something I knew I could do -- added: Yeah, haven’t you been doing this all day?!

At which point, the tall man turned and yelled at me: Hey lady, calm down! 

Let me repeat that: he then yelled at ME to “calm down “

Think about this for minute. He did it because of course, sexism. I am a short, dumpy middle aged woman so very tall guys can do that. They get to decide who says what. 

Now, you may be saying: Leslie, stop being so sensitive. 

I hope to God you aren't saying that because if you are, then you are part of the problem.

Let me restate the problem: some of us are not taken seriously.  I can only speak to my experience, but as someone who recently discovered she doesn't even reach 5 feet tall anymore (4 ft 11 3/4 inches!), I am often, literally, not seen. Ask me how many times I've gone up to a counter, only to have the cashier speak to the person behind me. (HERE, here. HELLO!!!)  

I could give more examples but here is the thing: I am aware that my needing to already assumes that I am not believed, that I need to justify this truth with enough "evidence". 

There is much eyerolling in the world about the phrase: microaggressions. Even among those who care about it, there are doubts. Why worry about those, they say, when we haven't even eradicated the macro ones?  

I also know that after the last administration, there is deep exhaustion and PTSD. That's real. But here is the thing: being able to step away from compassion is a sign of privilege. If you are saying: This doesn't affect me, then you are using your privilege. 

I woke up this morning thinking about the end goal. I thought about all the times I've not been taken seriously, when I had to defend and argue, how something felt. Now let me be clear here. What I am talking about are the moments when I have stated how I felt. 

When I think about the cry for social justice, how the marginalized --refugees, indigenous people, people of color, trans people, gay people -- have often said how they feel, only to be disbelieved, it breaks my heart. 

In my world, the Unitarian Universalist world, we have 7 Principles, the first of which is: the inherent worth and dignity of all people. ALL people. 

I might be challenged: why do you only care about the feelings of minorities? 

My reply: I don't. I want ALL people to be believed, cherished and certainly: taken seriously. The historic truth is that those in power have used that power to control speech. In this time, I am working to give voice to those who have not always had a voice, and certainly, not felt safe and believed.  This feels important to me and yes, because part of me understands how this feels. I have written about this before. Though I may have my story and my life, if I hear your story, then I can get a glimpse into who you are and what you have known. 

So here was my first thought this morning: How about we assume that when people, especially from marginalized groups, say how something feels, how about we believe them? Rather than doubt their perspective, rather than overanalyze it because it's different from what we thought we knew, how about we just trust that they know themselves well enough to just say how it is??

I know this isn't a novel idea, but when I think about all the contortions I see some good-hearted, like-minded folks I know get into about microagressions, all I can think is: Why can't we just say yes? Why can't we just listen to that truth and let it sit within us? 

And on a personal note, I will add that after my awful commute, I emailed the person who'd I'd felt had not taken me seriously. The person replied to me, apologized, and said that they understood that I had a lot to offer. To me, this is how change in the world happens. To hold the truth, to speak the truth, to listen to the truth, and not deny its existence. 

In Zoom conversation this week with a wonderful friend who lives across the country, a woman who is well over six feet tall, we commented on how virtual conversations leveled the playing field. So many of the assumptions we had experienced when people met us in real life disappeared on Zoom. What clothes we wore, how tall we were, all of it -- meaningless -- and how freeing this was. 

My prayer for all is that we can reach this place, where our hearts lead the way and our stories are heard. 

peace

On My Empty Nest

My friends and my coworkers know I hate change. This is incredibly inconvenient since life is basically nothing BUT. Even so , there are moments and there are moments. This is the latter.

In November of 2019, my oldest child who had started that fall at college recognized that the decision wasn't healthy and came home. It wasn't a huge surprise to me but I told him: Just come home. We'll figure it out. The decision turned out to be timely. March 2020: Covid lockdown. We were home, all day every day.

September 2020, the other child entered high school senior year virtually. We happen to be in that small demographic who benefitted from remote schooling, so we stayed virtual all year. (Graduated with honors, straight As. Yes, I’m proud.) Again, home all day, every day. 2021 arrived along with the numbing sense of Blursday. The sameness, the strangeness, the where-do-we-go-from-here-ness. What day is it? When did I wear pants? In that fog, it would be a gap year for both, they said. But then, a thing happened. From the depths of the slumbering state, ideas arrived. Inspiration. A direction, plans. One set sites on LA; the other, college in Boston. Money was saved, applications were sent, acceptances were received. Spring raced forward, then summer. Details became clear for both coasts. The paperwork, the documentation, the arrangements all listed and checked. It happened so fast. And now, I draw a sharp, pained breath. My children are leaving. I remember— very well, in fact— when I was where they are now. My freshman year of college, my first apartment. I was so freaking excited. To not know what the hell you’re doing , but to get out there and figure it out with friends. Becoming yourself. It’s magic, when you can do that- because it’s transformative and because not everyone gets to. My first two apartments gave me some of my best friends, whom I adore, forty years later. People who I pick up conversations with as though we were just living together last year, not 1982 or 1985. I want that for my children. They’re headed out. Sunday at 6 am, a plane leaves for LA. My first-born -- Mr. Bright Eyes, the midwife called him at birth-- will be on that plane with four friends. They'll share a living space and begin calling it Home.

Next month with the second child, we load up the car and run the freshman gauntlet that is arrival on campus, the first day in the dorm and college life. So many of my friends have already been here, at the Empty Nest precipice. Here I am. I'm not worried about boredom; I have more projects lined up than I can likely accomplish in my lifetime. I love time to myself, too. When I remember my own stumbling, serendipitous path in my 20s , I am both ridiculously excited for and proud of them for setting off on their own. And yet. Yet it won’t be the same. I remember that "going home" was never the same after that, after I was ready to leave. I understand this; it’s part of the parenting bargain. I throw open my arms ushering them out, understanding that this is the change we are making. Knowing that they are both really leaving. I applaud them, and I weep. Both are true. So we’re off for a new adventure, all of us. Off we go. Peace

On What Sweeping Means to Me

 I ended my day today the way I often do in the summer: I swept the debris off my front porch and the sidewalk in front of house. I'd been transplanting seedlings today so there was a fair amount of dirt to sweep, but even on evenings when I'm not actively creating the mess, this is something I do. 

I realized at some point last summer -- the summer during COVID lock-down -- that it had become a ritual. My house is literally on the line of the sidewalk. There is no front yard, just sidewalk, and my open porch is lined with slate stones that do a fantastic job of catching dirt. I had swept periodically during the 20 years that I've lived here but when the house became mine a couple of years ago, I realized my sense of being here, of ownership, had shifted within me. 

I was born in 1960. My mother's father, who I never knew, owned a small office supply store in the Upper Valley of New Hampshire where I grew up. I remember the store and they way the downtown area was in that decade. Small businesses were owned by local families, and in the mornings in the summer, the ones who had awnings in front would unroll them and sweep the sidewalk. It was how they got ready for the business of the day.  It seems like such a small thing now, and sometimes I wonder if I am even remembering it accurately.  I know my grandfather did this, and my recollection is that lots of them did.  Does anyone do this, still?

The cynic in me imagines that when sweeping happens, it may be a task given to an employee, someone who may or may not care about how it looks when it's done. I say that not because employees don't care -- or even that they should -- but because the piece that resonates with me when I am sweeping is that I am thinking about my grandfather and what I imagine it meant to him. It was his store, his caretaking for customers.

It's different when it's yours. It's about pride, of course, but to me, it's also about being welcoming and hospitable. It's the same reason I spend time every spring putting hanging flower baskets on my porch, planting sunflowers in the incredibly tiny spot of dirt next to my house. I want it to look nice, of course, but I want it to look cheerful, open-hearted.  

Everyone has their own level of filth tolerance. I know that. If you are thinking: She sweeps her sidewalk, dear God how neat must her house be??? Rest easy. We all pick our organizational battles. A meticulous housekeeper, I am not.

 The thing about the sidewalk is that for me, it's a ritual. There is a meditative quality to it. Back and forth, back and forth. It's a lovely rhythm. The next thing I know, I'm done and I can stand back, take a look and smile. For this one minute, it looks neat, and I feel satisfaction.

I think about the reliable, low-tech pleasure of brooms, too. In an age of loud leaf-blowers -- which to me only seem to move piles somewhere else -- the quiet broom seems like an antique. 

The sidewalk isn't literally mine, but I feel a responsibility towards it.  I battle the weeds in the cracks but because I won't add poison to the earth, well, the crabgrass tends to win many of those skirmishes.

As I am writing this, I am reminded of a poem I love called Red Brocade. I often share it when I am asked to read a poem for an occasion. The spirit of it calls to me about being welcoming to all. To me, these ideas connect. To be in a place of open-heartedness, ready to offer kindness. 

So I will sweep my sidewalk and hope it says to all: welcome. 

My prayer is for all to center their lives with brooms and poems, to create receptivity everywhere.

Peace.

Red Brocade ~Naomi Shihab Nye - 1952-

• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 

The Arabs used to say,
When a stranger appears at your door,
feed him for three days
before asking who he is,
where he’s come from,
where he’s headed.
That way, he’ll have strength
enough to answer.
Or, by then you’ll be
such good friends
you don’t care.
 
Let’s go back to that.
Rice? Pine nuts?
Here, take the red brocade pillow.
My child will serve water
to your horse.
 
No, I was not busy when you came!
I was not preparing to be busy.
That’s the armor everyone put on
to pretend they had a purpose
in the world.
 
I refuse to be claimed.
Your plate is waiting.
We will snip fresh mint
into your tea.

On Being Stuck

 A confession: I've been stuck. 

I've had random blog-y ideas but in the last weeks, haven't had the ability to put them together. We've reached that place in this now, this whatever, that should feel better and for brief, shining moments, does feel like life, but in the bigger ongoing way, I am really, really stuck. Fried. Worn out. 

April is the cruelest month, says T.S. Elliot. Certainly, for those of us who work in academia, it's one of the most exhausting. I know that. And yet, I expect myself to transform the experience, transcend the exhaustion and GET IT OUT THERE. But I haven't. Because I'm stuck.

But today, I caught the lyrics to a song. My kids think my taste in music is hysterical which probably all kids do, but it's my affection for what they don't expect me to like that catches them off-guard. I like the group AJR. I really do. I love their exuberance and use of brass instruments. I love it that they are siblings, but mostly, I like how they approach life. 

Today I caught the lyrics to a song that's on their third album: Neotheater. The song: Can't Wait to See What You'll Do Next just stopped me in my tracks. It is, friends, the *essence* of this blog's inspiration. The song is bouncy and it just filled me with joy and seemed so GOOD for this moment. It made me...well, you can SEE what it did. I am putting it down.

So...without further ado, lyrics and song. 

And yes, I am still here, processing it and wondering about all of you...and myself...I wonder what we will do next... 

peace

-Leslie

AJR - Finale (Can’t Wait To See What You Do Next) [Official Audio] - YouTube

Finale (Can't Wait To See What You Do Next)

Song by AJR

Main Results

Lyrics

Don't you go, we need you here
You brighten up, a shitty year
Well, congratulations on your bit of success
We can't wait to see what you do next

Come outside, come outside
You fell low, but now you're high
You been outside, been outside
So go ahead and do it one more time
Come outside, come outside
You went hard, and you did fine
You been outside, been outside
So go ahead and do it one more time

They wanted, they wanted
They wanted, they wanted
They wanted heaven from me, I gave 'em hell
Now they want something bigger, I'm overwhelmed
And if you're just as hopeless, I wish you well
We can't wait to see what you do next

Come outside, come outside
You fell low, but now you're high
You've been outside, been outside
So go ahead and do it one more time
Come outside, come outside
You went hard, and you did fine
You've been outside, been outside
So go ahead and do it one more time

Don't you go, we need you here
You brighten up, a shitty year
Well, congratulations on your bit of success
We can't wait to see what you do next

They wanted, they wanted
They wanted, they wanted
They wanted heaven from me, I gave 'em hell
Now they want something bigger, I'm overwhelmed
And if you're just as hopeless, I wish you well
We can't wait to see what you do next

We can't wait to see
We can't wait to see
We can't wait to see
Can you wait a sec? Let me catch my breath, let me catch my
Let me catch my, I can't remember how I got here
Can you wait a sec? Let me catch my breath, let me catch my
I can't remember how I got here, got here

They wanted heaven from me, I gave 'em hell
Now they want something bigger, I'm overwhelmed
I think it's time to go now, I think my curtain's falling
Just don't forget about me when you get out of college
If it's my final album and if I am forgotten
I hope I made you smile, that's all I ever wanted

Well, congratulations on your bit of success
Welcome to the Neotheater
We can't wait to see what you do next
Eh, okay

On Poetry - and Losing Ferlinghetti

 3:24 PM

You sent Today at 3:24 PM

About two hours ago, I was looking for a poem. More specifically I was looking through poems trying to decide which ones to choose for a poetry salon that some folks in my church are having tonight. I was looking through the works of Lawrence Ferlinghetti because he is -- as I have often said-- my favorite poet. He may not in fact be the "best" poet I have read -- I tred lightly here -- but he is the one who made me fall in love with poetry. There’s so many poems to choose from. Most people who know him know his probably most famous book A Coney Island of the Mind. Some people know him because he was the one who published Allen Ginsberg's famous poem Howl. And of course he started City Lights Booksellers in San Francisco, which I consider to be Mecca for all readers, writers, thinkers, and lovers of words.

A few minutes ago, I got a text from one of my oldest and dearest friends who lives in San Francisco. He and I used to compete together in college in public speaking tournaments. He knew me back when I discovered Ferlinghetti. He texted me to break the hard news: Ferlinghetti died today at 101. I can’t quite put together how this happened. I can’t quite explain why it is that I had been immersed in Ferlinghetti, pondering his mortality and now find myself holding this news as I walk my dog on the beach. I am walking on crunching sand, looking at fragments of shell and stone and sea and thinking of words and connections and all that I love and have loved. What a miracle.

I told my friend that I am so glad he was the one to break the news to me. In the next few days-- probably in the next few hours -- tributes and testimonials will pour open. I’m sure there will be readings and people asking: wasn’t he one of those Beat poets? What were those guys doing? Hint: you really have to read it to get it.

For me, this moment is an outpouring of love and gratitude and tears. Without Ferlinghetti, for me there would’ve been no Raymond Carver, no Maya Angelou, no Yeats, or Billy Collins. I am not a poet though I’d like I know my way around a sentence. But God, I do love language. Ferlinghetti did too.

He was also fiercely political. At age 100--100! --that he was still writing and railing against the evils of Donald Trump with his poem "Trump's Trojan Horse" which decried "predatory capitalism". Physically he was a bit frail but mentally he was 150% there. I hope for that in my life.

There’s no more to say except that I knew this moment was coming and one of my very few life regrets is that I never got to see him at a reading. I’m so grateful for his work and spirit. Godspeed good wordsmith.

Lawrence Ferlinghetti Turns 100: Hear the Great San Francisco Poet Read "Trump's Trojan Horse," "Pity the Nation" & Many Other Poems | Open Culture

Dove Sta Amore ~

Dove sta amore
Where lies love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
In lyrical delight
Hear love's hillsong
Love's true willsong
Love's low plainsong
Too sweet painsong
In passages of night
Dove sta amore
Here lies love
The ring dove love
Dove sta amore
Here lies love

Lawrence Ferlinghetti