The turn of the decade hadn't registered at all until someone's holiday card wished me a happy new one. I'm afraid my first thought was: oh, no! Not another decade! Isn't chalking off another year enough? Then I stepped outside to go for a walk in the first sunlight I'd seen for days, and pleasure in the moment took over.
As I walked I reflected a bit perfunctorily on the past ten years and all the changes and upheavals in the world and in my own life--which I will not enumerate. Then I found myself pondering time itself: round time, as in the earth's journey around the sun and the phases of the moon, and linear time which defines various beginnings and keeps relentlessly advancing into some elusive future and/or catastrophic end. Then there is ritual or religious time, which is some combination of both: liturgical calendars based on the sun and moon (round) that celebrate events that are considered unique and historical (linear). There is also what I call organic time: birth, growth, aging, death--of plants, animals, and ourselves. However cyclical organic time may be in our gardens, when it comes to our own lives, we also see it as linear. There's a beginning, a middle, and an end--ours.
In this season that is about to culminate in a global celebration that ushers in the secular new year of linear time, we've celebrated all the other kinds of time, too, round, religious, and organic. We are the calendar makers and the myth makers; I suspect there is some connection between those two things. Both may be based on keen observation, but both are also human constructs, our way of making sense of mystery. 2010 is a new year and a new decade only because most of us agree that it is--or have agreed to agree, whatever other calendars, religious, cultural or personal, we might also keep.
So what time is it, anyway? What time do you want it to be? We like to put adjectives before the word time and we also like to add an "s" to the word, which makes it clear that time is various. Good times, bad times, tough times, hard times, happy times, past times, end times. Memory and prophecy, the lines we cast into the past and future, are human constructs, too. What stories do we want to tell ourselves about time, what has happened and what is to come? And by the way: what time is it now?
Monday, December 28, 2009
Monday, December 21, 2009
The Glorious Mother of the Stars
Solstice News: My album MaevenSong is scheduled for delivery today! The first sung notes are: "This story begins in the night. There will be a dawn, I promise." The last: "You will rise with the sun!" You can preview MaevenSong at http://passionofmarymagdalen.com/ by clicking on the book covers and then the song links near the top of the page. You can download songs or the entire album at , http://www.digstation.com/ElizabethCunningham
The Glorious Mother of the Stars
The sun rises late at my house, because of a wooded hill to our east. At this time of year when it clears the crest of the hill it looks like a star fallen among the bare trees, a match about to set world ablaze. And I am reminded that the sun is a star; it is a fire, and all that we burn to warm ourselves and to give light comes from this star, our star, that the Celts saw as a mother:
Hail to thee, thou sun of the seasons,
As thou traversest the skies aloft;
Thy steps are strong on the wing of the heavens,
Thou art the glorious mother of the stars.*
And, not being so literal-minded that they had to stick to one gender, a god:
Glory to thee,
Thou glorious sun.
Glory to thee, thou sun,
Face of the God of life.*
The newborn sun is, of course, also associated with the Divine Child, perhaps especially in English poetic tradition with its ready-made connection between sun and son. Let us not forget the divine daughters, like Persphone, Inanna, among others, who journey to the underworld and then return bringing new life.
In my counseling practice, I often work with people who have deep wounds because they were in some way unmothered or unfathered. (Really, that describes most of us, no matter how well-meaning our parents might have been.) So I invite people to go to the Mother, to imagine her, whether they see her as Mary, Isis, Brigid, or someone who needs no name and may not take a human form. And if it is a good father you need, then look up at the sun see "the face of the God of Life" shining back.
The new solar year is also a good time to tend the divine child not just in ourselves but in the world--as the world. The divine child Jesus said that any service rendered to any one in need was rendered to him. So he tells us the divine is everywhere, hidden in the most threadbare humanity. What if we saw the earth itself as our divine child, to be nourished and cherished. As devoted parents, we might be willing to put the earth's needs first sometimes, to make some sacrifices that the earth might thrive.
Enough with the metaphors. the truth is we are the earth and the sun, the moon and the stars. We are the same substance, and so we resonate with the yearly round. We rise with the sun. We begin again. Happy Solstice!
** Both the above verses come from Carmina Gadelica, Hymns & Incantations collected in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland in the 19th Century by Alexander Carmichael. They are part of an oral tradition whose antiquity is hard to calculate. This work is now in public domain.
The Glorious Mother of the Stars
The sun rises late at my house, because of a wooded hill to our east. At this time of year when it clears the crest of the hill it looks like a star fallen among the bare trees, a match about to set world ablaze. And I am reminded that the sun is a star; it is a fire, and all that we burn to warm ourselves and to give light comes from this star, our star, that the Celts saw as a mother:
Hail to thee, thou sun of the seasons,
As thou traversest the skies aloft;
Thy steps are strong on the wing of the heavens,
Thou art the glorious mother of the stars.*
And, not being so literal-minded that they had to stick to one gender, a god:
Glory to thee,
Thou glorious sun.
Glory to thee, thou sun,
Face of the God of life.*
The newborn sun is, of course, also associated with the Divine Child, perhaps especially in English poetic tradition with its ready-made connection between sun and son. Let us not forget the divine daughters, like Persphone, Inanna, among others, who journey to the underworld and then return bringing new life.
In my counseling practice, I often work with people who have deep wounds because they were in some way unmothered or unfathered. (Really, that describes most of us, no matter how well-meaning our parents might have been.) So I invite people to go to the Mother, to imagine her, whether they see her as Mary, Isis, Brigid, or someone who needs no name and may not take a human form. And if it is a good father you need, then look up at the sun see "the face of the God of Life" shining back.
The new solar year is also a good time to tend the divine child not just in ourselves but in the world--as the world. The divine child Jesus said that any service rendered to any one in need was rendered to him. So he tells us the divine is everywhere, hidden in the most threadbare humanity. What if we saw the earth itself as our divine child, to be nourished and cherished. As devoted parents, we might be willing to put the earth's needs first sometimes, to make some sacrifices that the earth might thrive.
Enough with the metaphors. the truth is we are the earth and the sun, the moon and the stars. We are the same substance, and so we resonate with the yearly round. We rise with the sun. We begin again. Happy Solstice!
** Both the above verses come from Carmina Gadelica, Hymns & Incantations collected in the Highlands and Islands of Scotland in the 19th Century by Alexander Carmichael. They are part of an oral tradition whose antiquity is hard to calculate. This work is now in public domain.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Lights out: surrendering to the dark
Since Halloween, for the zealous, and since the day after Thanksgiving for just about everyone else, we've been turning on the lights. We've been beating back darkness, depression, fear, and gloom with commercial clamor and the added stress of determined holiday cheer.
What if we didn't? Yes, I know the traditions of this season have ancient roots and almost all cultures sufficiently north of the equator have held feasts and revels and called for the sun's return as or more vociferously than we do. I don't want to write a blog about old customs: good, modern customs: crass or compromised. No. I want to talk about the dark, our fear of it. I want to talk about the dark. Our hidden longing for it.
For ten years, I was a Quaker and continue to have great respect for The Religious Society of Friends. During that time I did sometimes feel oppressed by Friends frequent references to the Light, their metaphor of choice, the ocean of Light that covered the ocean of Darkness--darkness being the force that light invariably vanquished. Quakers are by no means the only people who make this ubiquitous equation. Who hasn't talked about "dark emotions" or used the expression "going over to the dark side." But consider:
The womb is dark; the earth where the seed gestates is dark; the ocean where all life began is dark; the night which gives us the map of the stars is dark; corn ripens in the dark. Nor is light always benign; there is the naked light bulb of interrogation, the too much light that withers crops, the light of a bomb exploding. When we equate darkness with evil and light with good, are we not, however unintentionally, implying that light-skinned people are superior to dark-skinned people? Could we find another metaphor? Or use this one differently?
I am now an interfaith minister and a pagan with Christian roots. The Church's liturgical year and the pagan year, indeed the liturgial year in most religions are not so different. All of them had their origins in observing and aligning with the journeys of the sun and the moon, the changing seasons. For the past seven years I have also been studying tai chi, whose symbol is the dark and the light in dynamic balance, each one holding the seed of the other.
In the Northern hemisphere it's the nadir of the dark time. Why not surrender to the dark? I like holiday lights as well as anyone, because they are tiny in night's vastness, light seeds. All I am saying is: sometimes just let the dark be dark, let the night be silent. Turn out all the lights and sit in the dark. Inside darkness. Take a bath in the dark. Turn out the outside lights and look at the stars. Parties can be fun. But stay in sometimes. In the dark. Inside the restorative, generative dark.
What if we didn't? Yes, I know the traditions of this season have ancient roots and almost all cultures sufficiently north of the equator have held feasts and revels and called for the sun's return as or more vociferously than we do. I don't want to write a blog about old customs: good, modern customs: crass or compromised. No. I want to talk about the dark, our fear of it. I want to talk about the dark. Our hidden longing for it.
For ten years, I was a Quaker and continue to have great respect for The Religious Society of Friends. During that time I did sometimes feel oppressed by Friends frequent references to the Light, their metaphor of choice, the ocean of Light that covered the ocean of Darkness--darkness being the force that light invariably vanquished. Quakers are by no means the only people who make this ubiquitous equation. Who hasn't talked about "dark emotions" or used the expression "going over to the dark side." But consider:
The womb is dark; the earth where the seed gestates is dark; the ocean where all life began is dark; the night which gives us the map of the stars is dark; corn ripens in the dark. Nor is light always benign; there is the naked light bulb of interrogation, the too much light that withers crops, the light of a bomb exploding. When we equate darkness with evil and light with good, are we not, however unintentionally, implying that light-skinned people are superior to dark-skinned people? Could we find another metaphor? Or use this one differently?
I am now an interfaith minister and a pagan with Christian roots. The Church's liturgical year and the pagan year, indeed the liturgial year in most religions are not so different. All of them had their origins in observing and aligning with the journeys of the sun and the moon, the changing seasons. For the past seven years I have also been studying tai chi, whose symbol is the dark and the light in dynamic balance, each one holding the seed of the other.
In the Northern hemisphere it's the nadir of the dark time. Why not surrender to the dark? I like holiday lights as well as anyone, because they are tiny in night's vastness, light seeds. All I am saying is: sometimes just let the dark be dark, let the night be silent. Turn out all the lights and sit in the dark. Inside darkness. Take a bath in the dark. Turn out the outside lights and look at the stars. Parties can be fun. But stay in sometimes. In the dark. Inside the restorative, generative dark.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Mixed Marriage
Later this month we will be celebrating thirty years of mixed marriage. Some people said it couldn't last, and it's true: we come from radically different cultures whose members have battled each other off and on since pre-history and still struggle today. But we persisted. We beat the odds. Statistics vary, but some sources say close to fifty percent of marriages like ours will fail. Yes, a marriage between one man and one woman, a mixed gender marriage, which some people and some legislative bodies, like the New York State Senate, insist is the only kind of marriage there is.
I am not only a thirty year veteran of a mixed gender marriage, my husband and I are also minority members in our immediate and extended family. When we gather around a holiday table, more than half the company is gay. When I consider my circle of friends and my wider community, the same is true. The difference in our minority status is that no one discriminates against us, passes moral judgment on us, or deprives us of our civil rights.
I am also an interfaith minister and a couples counselor. As a minister, I have helped many people create their wedding ceremonies. If they want to write their own vows, I don't stand in their way, but I always put in a plug for the traditional vows: "for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health, until we are parted by death." That's what marriage is, making those vows to another person and having the guts, grace, and good luck to keep them. Nothing more, and nothing less.
I rarely perform marriages anymore, because it feels like a blurring of the separation of church and state for me, as a member of the clergy, to sign a state document. I also don't like to offer a service to mixed gender couples that I am not allowed by law to provide for same gender couples. Here's a common sense solution that would preserve the boundary between church and state. All unions should be civil unions with all rights accorded equally to all couples, mixed or same gender. The marriage ceremony as a blessing of the union could then be performed by the church, clergyperson, religious tradition, or community that the couple chooses. Of course, some churches will not bless same gender marriages, but many will and already do, as do many interfaith ministers like me.
During our long marriage, we have been through many phases, including one where it seemed as though all our friends' marriages were breaking up. For reassurance I called the most stable couple I knew. "Are you all right?" I asked. "You're not breaking up, are you?" They assured me they were fine. Of course, they were a same gender couple, and didn't have the challenges of a mixed marriage. They celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last year.
I am not only a thirty year veteran of a mixed gender marriage, my husband and I are also minority members in our immediate and extended family. When we gather around a holiday table, more than half the company is gay. When I consider my circle of friends and my wider community, the same is true. The difference in our minority status is that no one discriminates against us, passes moral judgment on us, or deprives us of our civil rights.
I am also an interfaith minister and a couples counselor. As a minister, I have helped many people create their wedding ceremonies. If they want to write their own vows, I don't stand in their way, but I always put in a plug for the traditional vows: "for better, for worse; for richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health, until we are parted by death." That's what marriage is, making those vows to another person and having the guts, grace, and good luck to keep them. Nothing more, and nothing less.
I rarely perform marriages anymore, because it feels like a blurring of the separation of church and state for me, as a member of the clergy, to sign a state document. I also don't like to offer a service to mixed gender couples that I am not allowed by law to provide for same gender couples. Here's a common sense solution that would preserve the boundary between church and state. All unions should be civil unions with all rights accorded equally to all couples, mixed or same gender. The marriage ceremony as a blessing of the union could then be performed by the church, clergyperson, religious tradition, or community that the couple chooses. Of course, some churches will not bless same gender marriages, but many will and already do, as do many interfaith ministers like me.
During our long marriage, we have been through many phases, including one where it seemed as though all our friends' marriages were breaking up. For reassurance I called the most stable couple I knew. "Are you all right?" I asked. "You're not breaking up, are you?" They assured me they were fine. Of course, they were a same gender couple, and didn't have the challenges of a mixed marriage. They celebrated their thirtieth anniversary last year.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Brother Blue: alive in the story
We think of stories as words, whether spoken or written. But where do those words come from? When the last word is spoken, where do they linger? Where do they live?
Hugh Morgan Hill, loved by many as Brother Blue, died last month at age 88 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I first encountered him on the Cambridge Commons when I was an undergraduate in the 1970s. There was no flyer for an event, no stage, no time of performance, only a slender man dressed in blue, out under the trees telling stories with his whole body. The story I heard him tell that day was one he told many times about a teacher who'd inspired him. I can still hear him rhythmically repeating one of the story's refrains, "blue eyes, true eyes," as if it were a song. I can still see the way his hands danced in the air, the way he seemed to be telling the story to me alone.
Some thirty years laters, on tour with The Passion of Mary Magdalen, I was scheduled to appear at Club Passim in Harvard Square. It was a Monday night. The only people there were the host, my husband, my cousin, the act that followed mine, and a man I was sure had to be Brother Blue. When I approached him to ask, he said "Yes, baby, that's me," pleased but not at all surprised to be recognized. I told him a little about my book, and then got ready to go on stage.
For this tour (and every one after that)I had decided to depart from the standard reading format. I opened by singing the first three paragraphs of the novel blues style. That night as soon as I started singing, Brother Blue leapt onto the stage and started singing with me--in the voice of Jesus! So I sang back to him in the voice of Maeve (aka Mary Magdalen) and we had a sung, impassioned, improvised lover's quarrel on the stage. "Baby, you know I love you," he sang. "But you left me," I sang back. "I've been searching for you all this time." Words to that effect. It's not the words I remember so much as suddenly finding myself alive in the story, confronted with a wild, living Jesus.
According to Brother Blue's wife Ruth Hill, curator of oral history at the Schlesinger Library, Brother Blue was once a struggling playwright. As he described his plots and characters to his friends, he discovered his gift for oral storytelling and for improvisation. I never aspired to be anything but a novelist, but after months of touring and telling stories, I found it strange to go back to the written word. I missed my body. I missed that electrifying-anything-can-happen moment I knew with Brother Blue. That moment where he lived his life, that gift he gave to anyone lucky enough to be drawn, however briefly, into his story.
Hugh Morgan Hill, loved by many as Brother Blue, died last month at age 88 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I first encountered him on the Cambridge Commons when I was an undergraduate in the 1970s. There was no flyer for an event, no stage, no time of performance, only a slender man dressed in blue, out under the trees telling stories with his whole body. The story I heard him tell that day was one he told many times about a teacher who'd inspired him. I can still hear him rhythmically repeating one of the story's refrains, "blue eyes, true eyes," as if it were a song. I can still see the way his hands danced in the air, the way he seemed to be telling the story to me alone.
Some thirty years laters, on tour with The Passion of Mary Magdalen, I was scheduled to appear at Club Passim in Harvard Square. It was a Monday night. The only people there were the host, my husband, my cousin, the act that followed mine, and a man I was sure had to be Brother Blue. When I approached him to ask, he said "Yes, baby, that's me," pleased but not at all surprised to be recognized. I told him a little about my book, and then got ready to go on stage.
For this tour (and every one after that)I had decided to depart from the standard reading format. I opened by singing the first three paragraphs of the novel blues style. That night as soon as I started singing, Brother Blue leapt onto the stage and started singing with me--in the voice of Jesus! So I sang back to him in the voice of Maeve (aka Mary Magdalen) and we had a sung, impassioned, improvised lover's quarrel on the stage. "Baby, you know I love you," he sang. "But you left me," I sang back. "I've been searching for you all this time." Words to that effect. It's not the words I remember so much as suddenly finding myself alive in the story, confronted with a wild, living Jesus.
According to Brother Blue's wife Ruth Hill, curator of oral history at the Schlesinger Library, Brother Blue was once a struggling playwright. As he described his plots and characters to his friends, he discovered his gift for oral storytelling and for improvisation. I never aspired to be anything but a novelist, but after months of touring and telling stories, I found it strange to go back to the written word. I missed my body. I missed that electrifying-anything-can-happen moment I knew with Brother Blue. That moment where he lived his life, that gift he gave to anyone lucky enough to be drawn, however briefly, into his story.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Maeve on Menopause
I am not going to write about Thanksgiving. We didn't have it in the first century, though we gave thanks and made offerings, chucked a lot of gold down votive wells. When Celts feasted, usually a roast pig was involved. It could be quite dangerous. There was such a thing as a "hero's cut of meat." Men have been known to fight to the death over that cut. Think about that when you ask for the drumstick.
This piece may be my last for awhile. Elizabeth has been invited to experiment with this blog in a particular way over the next few weeks. For my (perhaps temporary) swansong I am responding to the question: What does Maeve have to say about menopause? Yes, I have gone through it.
In Magdalen Rising there's a whole chapter about my menarche. To my dismay, I realized there is no corresponding chapter about menopause in Bright Dark Madonna. Dear readers, I apologize. Like many of you, I had a child (my second and long awaited) in my early thirties. Her menarche and my menopause roughly coincided, but her change took center stage. My menopausal years were also complicated by having to contend with Paul of Tarsus. No wonder I did not notice my hot flashes. My blood was always boiling. I don't want to give away too much plot. But I might as well tell you: not long after one final knock down drag out battle with Paul, I spent seven years wandering the world searching for my runaway daughter. My red hair turned grey. I did not bleed, except in my heart. Then I took care of my mother-in-law. Believe it or not, when I had given up all hope and thought of such things, I had the most wonderful, tender, fleeting love affair in my early post-menopausal years.
So what do I want to say about menopause: there is life after it. Life that can be juicy, sweet, surprising, as well as sometimes dismaying and out of control (when wasn't it?) If you are lucky, you may get to sojourn for a time in a cave or other retreat as I did. You may learn to love yourself, even forgive yourself; you may have moments of wisdom. (I for one am still capable of being rash and foolish.) For sure you will find out what the moon has been trying to tell us for a long time: It's just a phase. It'a sll just a phase. Life itself, a phase. Don't let it phase you!
This piece may be my last for awhile. Elizabeth has been invited to experiment with this blog in a particular way over the next few weeks. For my (perhaps temporary) swansong I am responding to the question: What does Maeve have to say about menopause? Yes, I have gone through it.
In Magdalen Rising there's a whole chapter about my menarche. To my dismay, I realized there is no corresponding chapter about menopause in Bright Dark Madonna. Dear readers, I apologize. Like many of you, I had a child (my second and long awaited) in my early thirties. Her menarche and my menopause roughly coincided, but her change took center stage. My menopausal years were also complicated by having to contend with Paul of Tarsus. No wonder I did not notice my hot flashes. My blood was always boiling. I don't want to give away too much plot. But I might as well tell you: not long after one final knock down drag out battle with Paul, I spent seven years wandering the world searching for my runaway daughter. My red hair turned grey. I did not bleed, except in my heart. Then I took care of my mother-in-law. Believe it or not, when I had given up all hope and thought of such things, I had the most wonderful, tender, fleeting love affair in my early post-menopausal years.
So what do I want to say about menopause: there is life after it. Life that can be juicy, sweet, surprising, as well as sometimes dismaying and out of control (when wasn't it?) If you are lucky, you may get to sojourn for a time in a cave or other retreat as I did. You may learn to love yourself, even forgive yourself; you may have moments of wisdom. (I for one am still capable of being rash and foolish.) For sure you will find out what the moon has been trying to tell us for a long time: It's just a phase. It'a sll just a phase. Life itself, a phase. Don't let it phase you!
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
MotherRight
First to everyone who has been so kindly inquiring, my husband is continuing to do thorough research about his treatment options. My mother-in-law, Olga, is thriving in her lively new home, as much a queen as ever. She has several guardian cats. She regards them with a certain tolerant disdain (and secretly enjoys their attention). What is a goddess to do?
Every now and then a story in the news gets under my skin, and I have to respond directly. I read the story on http://www.truthout.org/1114098. The next day aol had picked it up: w|dl3|link3|http%3A%2F%2Fnews.aol.com%2Fmain%2Fnc%2Farticle%2Falexis-hutchinson-refuses-deployment-to%2F769226 Here's the gist:
Alexis Hutchinson, an army cook and the single mother of an eleven-month-old son, was scheduled to be deployed to Afghanistan on November 15th. The plan for her son's care that she had filed with the army fell through when her mother realized she could not add care of an infant to the load she was already carrying. (Three family members in need of nursing care.) The army first granted, and then revoked an extension that would have allowed Alexis Hutchinson to arrange for alternative care. When Ms. Hutchinson refused to leave her son on the appointed date, he was taken into foster care, and she was arrested and is currently confined on a base in Georgia. She faces potential court martial and a year in jail.
The army's decision to revoke the extension, place the child in foster care, and arrest the mother appalls me. That Alexis Hutchinson was using her child to avoid deployment in Afghanistan, as military officials have alleged, is the grossest speculation and moreover beside the point. If parents of either gender are willing to risk their lives in the course of military service, the military has an obligation to support them in every way possible in making acceptable arrangements for their children. Forcing a parent to place a child in foster care is unacceptable. The suffering already inflicted on this child and this mother is both cruel and unnecessary. I wrote to Michelle Obama, who has said that she has a particular concern for military families, to ask her not only to look into this case but into military policy regarding parents who must leave children behind when they deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan and other posts where family cannot follow.
The title of this blog is Mother Right, a concept that was part of ancient Celtic law and the laws of some other ancient peoples, I believe. I have been searching for a definition of it among my books, including in Magdalen Rising where Maeve gives a definition. But I haven't been able to place my finger on it yet, and I am almost out of time today. I will keep looking and include the definition in next week's blog.
For now, I am going to make something up. Mother right, in today's winging-it definition, not only has to do with the rights of women to own property, participate in all aspects of the political process, bear arms, have spiritual authority, and sexual autonomy, all of which rights ancient Celtic women exercised and enjoyed. Mother right in today's definition is law that includes both common sense and compassion. The spirit that gives life instead of the letter than kills (as good lordess deliver us Maeve's nemesis Paul of Tarsus once said). A law that is unresponsive to individual circumstance soon becomes a form of oppression and abuse.
As to the subject of mothers (and fathers!) in the military and the heartrending choices they make--or have made--that is a subject for another blog. Or novel, like the one I am writing now set during the rebellion of Queen Boudica against the Roman occupation. A hard book to write. More another day.
Every now and then a story in the news gets under my skin, and I have to respond directly. I read the story on http://www.truthout.org/1114098. The next day aol had picked it up: w|dl3|link3|http%3A%2F%2Fnews.aol.com%2Fmain%2Fnc%2Farticle%2Falexis-hutchinson-refuses-deployment-to%2F769226 Here's the gist:
Alexis Hutchinson, an army cook and the single mother of an eleven-month-old son, was scheduled to be deployed to Afghanistan on November 15th. The plan for her son's care that she had filed with the army fell through when her mother realized she could not add care of an infant to the load she was already carrying. (Three family members in need of nursing care.) The army first granted, and then revoked an extension that would have allowed Alexis Hutchinson to arrange for alternative care. When Ms. Hutchinson refused to leave her son on the appointed date, he was taken into foster care, and she was arrested and is currently confined on a base in Georgia. She faces potential court martial and a year in jail.
The army's decision to revoke the extension, place the child in foster care, and arrest the mother appalls me. That Alexis Hutchinson was using her child to avoid deployment in Afghanistan, as military officials have alleged, is the grossest speculation and moreover beside the point. If parents of either gender are willing to risk their lives in the course of military service, the military has an obligation to support them in every way possible in making acceptable arrangements for their children. Forcing a parent to place a child in foster care is unacceptable. The suffering already inflicted on this child and this mother is both cruel and unnecessary. I wrote to Michelle Obama, who has said that she has a particular concern for military families, to ask her not only to look into this case but into military policy regarding parents who must leave children behind when they deploy to Iraq and Afghanistan and other posts where family cannot follow.
The title of this blog is Mother Right, a concept that was part of ancient Celtic law and the laws of some other ancient peoples, I believe. I have been searching for a definition of it among my books, including in Magdalen Rising where Maeve gives a definition. But I haven't been able to place my finger on it yet, and I am almost out of time today. I will keep looking and include the definition in next week's blog.
For now, I am going to make something up. Mother right, in today's winging-it definition, not only has to do with the rights of women to own property, participate in all aspects of the political process, bear arms, have spiritual authority, and sexual autonomy, all of which rights ancient Celtic women exercised and enjoyed. Mother right in today's definition is law that includes both common sense and compassion. The spirit that gives life instead of the letter than kills (as good lordess deliver us Maeve's nemesis Paul of Tarsus once said). A law that is unresponsive to individual circumstance soon becomes a form of oppression and abuse.
As to the subject of mothers (and fathers!) in the military and the heartrending choices they make--or have made--that is a subject for another blog. Or novel, like the one I am writing now set during the rebellion of Queen Boudica against the Roman occupation. A hard book to write. More another day.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Who Died for What Sin? Theology with Maeve
It is my turn this week. But before I begin to put my foot in my mouth (at least theologically) Elizabeth asked me to thank everyone who responded to her post last week in comments, emails, on facebook, and twitter. So much loving kindness from so many. As the Dalai Lama says (yes, of course I know him, but don't expect a novel about it) kindness is what matters. Religion is only useful if it supports you in being kind. Or words to that effect. Elizabeth is very grateful for your kindness.
I looked back through the comments for the topic request I haven't yet addressed. I thought it was something like how on earth would a devout praticing first century Jew end up with a pagan pig-eating Celt who became an Isis-worshipping whore? That is a good question, and I was working up quite a sermon on the importance of hanging out with people who are NOT like-minded. And perhaps I will deliver it sometime. But here is the question I will tackle today:
"How a beautiful fiery pagan Celt would answer to the subject of Jesus being the 'chosen one who died for our sins, and that we are all heathens who do not follow.' "
First, thank you for the adjectives! I appreciate them. I am not a theologian or a historian of religion, so I had better speak only for myself. I wanted to blame the whole concept of Jesus dying for our sins on Paul of Tarsus (with whom I have had my struggles). He surely did go on (and on) about it in some of his epistles, but a quick check on the internet (too much information!) tells me the idea did not originate with him. Here's an article on the diverse sources for this concept: http://www.biblicaltheology.com/Research/CostaT03.pdf
Sin was not a concept native to me. A Celt (especially a hero) sometimes had to deal with a geis being laid upon him. A geis is something like a taboo imposed on an individual. Cuchulain (whose name means hound) had a geis laid upon him against eating dog meat. If you broke a geis danger and destruction followed. Grainne forced Diarmuid to be her lover by laying a geis on him if he refused. And I am afraid when I was an impressionable, headstrong young girl under the influence of such stories, I laid a similar geis on You Know Who. He turned me down flat, and I have sometimes wondered if I am responsible for all his subsequent troubles, except that, of course, he eventually relented, but only of his own free will, as he insisted. Very murky waters.
Did I sin in attempting to force my will on him through word magic? Perhaps. If you define sin as "missing the mark," not being in alignment with the will of the whole mystery. If we are all sinners, can someone's death atone for our sins, take them away? I confess I have never been able to see the connection. And as many a child has asked, if Jesus died for our sins once and for all, how come the world is the way it is? Who and what has been saved from sin?
I don't know that answer to that one. As for one person being sacrificed for many, the Celts had something called the god-making death. The idea was that a perfect and willing human sacrifice could, through death, go between the worlds and speak on behalf of the people with the gods. It wasn't that the people were bad; they needed a representative, one made powerful by passing through the mystery of death.
Even if that concept was or is true, I, for one, wasn't having it. I stole away the human sacrifice from under the druids' noses. And even though I fretted for years that the subsequent invasion of Britain might have been my fault, I would do it again. And if I could have prevented the crucifixion, I would have. His mother tried, if you read my version of the story. And when MaevenSong is released, you will be able to hear her defiant lament at the foot of the Cross.
As I lived and healed with Jesus, I know he felt the inexorable pull of the god-making death, as we called it when we spoke of it privately, but to the Jesus I knew it was a mystery. And he also felt a pull towards life, the heartbreaking beauty of ordinary life. He healed people by seeing them, in their brokenness and in their wholeness. There was nothing abstract or theological in that moment of healing. He often said, Your sins are forgiven, and he got in trouble for that. Only God could forgive sins, people said. Who did he think he was?
As you know, people subsequently decided he was the Son of God and moreover the Only Begotten Son of God, and only people who accept that doctrine can be saved--and the rest of us, including me, are damned. Because I never became a Christian. I am a lover of Jesus. That is all I can say. I am myself. I am that I am.
If I believe in anything, apart from loving kindness, it is this: that we are all incarnations of the mystery, all called to mediate the divine and human, little self and the expanded one, the in breath and the out. We are here to embody this paradox, not to condemn our humanness or exalt our divinity, to embody both. To love this earth, to love each other while we're here. Sure sometimes we'll miss the mark. Forgive yourself, forgive another. Draw back the bow string and take aim again.
For more about my stories: www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
I looked back through the comments for the topic request I haven't yet addressed. I thought it was something like how on earth would a devout praticing first century Jew end up with a pagan pig-eating Celt who became an Isis-worshipping whore? That is a good question, and I was working up quite a sermon on the importance of hanging out with people who are NOT like-minded. And perhaps I will deliver it sometime. But here is the question I will tackle today:
"How a beautiful fiery pagan Celt would answer to the subject of Jesus being the 'chosen one who died for our sins, and that we are all heathens who do not follow.' "
First, thank you for the adjectives! I appreciate them. I am not a theologian or a historian of religion, so I had better speak only for myself. I wanted to blame the whole concept of Jesus dying for our sins on Paul of Tarsus (with whom I have had my struggles). He surely did go on (and on) about it in some of his epistles, but a quick check on the internet (too much information!) tells me the idea did not originate with him. Here's an article on the diverse sources for this concept: http://www.biblicaltheology.com/Research/CostaT03.pdf
Sin was not a concept native to me. A Celt (especially a hero) sometimes had to deal with a geis being laid upon him. A geis is something like a taboo imposed on an individual. Cuchulain (whose name means hound) had a geis laid upon him against eating dog meat. If you broke a geis danger and destruction followed. Grainne forced Diarmuid to be her lover by laying a geis on him if he refused. And I am afraid when I was an impressionable, headstrong young girl under the influence of such stories, I laid a similar geis on You Know Who. He turned me down flat, and I have sometimes wondered if I am responsible for all his subsequent troubles, except that, of course, he eventually relented, but only of his own free will, as he insisted. Very murky waters.
Did I sin in attempting to force my will on him through word magic? Perhaps. If you define sin as "missing the mark," not being in alignment with the will of the whole mystery. If we are all sinners, can someone's death atone for our sins, take them away? I confess I have never been able to see the connection. And as many a child has asked, if Jesus died for our sins once and for all, how come the world is the way it is? Who and what has been saved from sin?
I don't know that answer to that one. As for one person being sacrificed for many, the Celts had something called the god-making death. The idea was that a perfect and willing human sacrifice could, through death, go between the worlds and speak on behalf of the people with the gods. It wasn't that the people were bad; they needed a representative, one made powerful by passing through the mystery of death.
Even if that concept was or is true, I, for one, wasn't having it. I stole away the human sacrifice from under the druids' noses. And even though I fretted for years that the subsequent invasion of Britain might have been my fault, I would do it again. And if I could have prevented the crucifixion, I would have. His mother tried, if you read my version of the story. And when MaevenSong is released, you will be able to hear her defiant lament at the foot of the Cross.
As I lived and healed with Jesus, I know he felt the inexorable pull of the god-making death, as we called it when we spoke of it privately, but to the Jesus I knew it was a mystery. And he also felt a pull towards life, the heartbreaking beauty of ordinary life. He healed people by seeing them, in their brokenness and in their wholeness. There was nothing abstract or theological in that moment of healing. He often said, Your sins are forgiven, and he got in trouble for that. Only God could forgive sins, people said. Who did he think he was?
As you know, people subsequently decided he was the Son of God and moreover the Only Begotten Son of God, and only people who accept that doctrine can be saved--and the rest of us, including me, are damned. Because I never became a Christian. I am a lover of Jesus. That is all I can say. I am myself. I am that I am.
If I believe in anything, apart from loving kindness, it is this: that we are all incarnations of the mystery, all called to mediate the divine and human, little self and the expanded one, the in breath and the out. We are here to embody this paradox, not to condemn our humanness or exalt our divinity, to embody both. To love this earth, to love each other while we're here. Sure sometimes we'll miss the mark. Forgive yourself, forgive another. Draw back the bow string and take aim again.
For more about my stories: www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Untying my tongue
I have spent the last ten days tongue-tied, if such a term can be applied to writing, responding only when necessary to email or messages directed to me on twitter. I still have not written in my journal. I have not worked on my novel. This blog today is my first step towards returning to writing practice. I can't write or speak without saying first:
My mother-in-law has just moved from her home of sixty-four years into an eldercare home where she can receive nursing care that we are unable to provide.
My husband has just received a diagnosis of prostate cancer.
Also, preceding the first event and during the delivery of the diagnosis, we both had flu. We don't know what kind, but it was severe.
There was a kind of grace in having the flu. We had to stay home; we had to sit with each other and take care of each other and grieve with each other. Although I wasn't able to visit my mother-in-law in person while I was sick, I spent much of the time during the week leading up to Halloween traveling between the worlds. My mother-in-law has alzheimers and zero short-term memory. She often seems to be a meditative state between waking and sleeping. During my own fever-doze, I felt I could communicate with her directly, soul to soul, and help prepare her for the change that was coming. I also spoke to the spirits of the land she has loved and tended for so long and to the spirits of the land across the river where she was going.
I also spent a lot of time crying my heart out. Fever is good for that, too.
The place my mother-in-law has moved is part of a movement in eldercare called the Eden Alternative, based on the idea that elders should be part of the flow of life. Islandview is home to an extended family of caregivers, including mother and daughter RNs, six elders, four cats, four dogs, and a cockatoo. Employees can bring their babies and toddlers to work, and grandchildren are in and out. That sounded great in theory. I am happy to say after hanging out there the last couple of days, it seems to be working out in practice. Here is a description of my mother-in-law's first afternoon from an email I wrote to my sister.
"The place really is sunny and homey. I sat with Olga for quite awhile in the living room while Douglas did paperwork. The other residents were friendly but not demanding of attention.
At one point the most gorgeous calico cat decided to make it her mission to sit on Olga's lap, which wasn't entirely easy since Olga wasn't helping. The cat tried one approach, then another, searching for a way to sit on her that would be comfortable for them both. Finally she settled in across Olga's stomach and chest. She lifted her nose to Olga's cheek a couple of times, then kneaded with her paws careful to keep her claws extended and not in the fabric (unlike my cat). At last she rested and purred loudly for about ten minutes. Although Olga reputedly does not like cats to sit on her, I think she was comforted and perhaps flattered. And probably warmed, too. The woman who runs the place says this cat was the guardian of the 103 year old woman who died recently. I hope she has decided to adopt Olga."
After all the deep grieving I did last week, I am now feeling huge relief that my mother-in-law is safe and cared for. She seemed quite peaceful today. And she is very much her regal, yet-goodnatured self, ready for a new adventure, willing to be pleased. So many of us identified her with the place she created. It is good to be reminded that she is who she is no matter where she is. There is a core nature that seems to transcend even memory.
Now my husband and I must turn our attention to information gathering, decision making, treatment, and recovery. We are at the bare beginning of this journey. We have gathered, so far, that his prospect for recovery from cancer is good but that sex as we have known it and cherished it for thirty-one years may change irrevocably and unpredictably. He is seventy; I am fifty-six. Our age difference, which has hardly been noticeable to us, may begin to make a difference. Nothing is certain. We know that. Everything and anything can change at any moment as if can for any and everyone. And does. Every moment.
There. I just needed to say that. My mother-in-law has left home for her last home. My husband has prostate cancer. We are all held in the mystery no matter what. Tomorrow, mystery willing, I will begin to write again.
For pictures of my mother-in-law's land where she ran a school for many years and where we now run a center: http://www.highvalley.org/ My website is still: http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
My mother-in-law has just moved from her home of sixty-four years into an eldercare home where she can receive nursing care that we are unable to provide.
My husband has just received a diagnosis of prostate cancer.
Also, preceding the first event and during the delivery of the diagnosis, we both had flu. We don't know what kind, but it was severe.
There was a kind of grace in having the flu. We had to stay home; we had to sit with each other and take care of each other and grieve with each other. Although I wasn't able to visit my mother-in-law in person while I was sick, I spent much of the time during the week leading up to Halloween traveling between the worlds. My mother-in-law has alzheimers and zero short-term memory. She often seems to be a meditative state between waking and sleeping. During my own fever-doze, I felt I could communicate with her directly, soul to soul, and help prepare her for the change that was coming. I also spoke to the spirits of the land she has loved and tended for so long and to the spirits of the land across the river where she was going.
I also spent a lot of time crying my heart out. Fever is good for that, too.
The place my mother-in-law has moved is part of a movement in eldercare called the Eden Alternative, based on the idea that elders should be part of the flow of life. Islandview is home to an extended family of caregivers, including mother and daughter RNs, six elders, four cats, four dogs, and a cockatoo. Employees can bring their babies and toddlers to work, and grandchildren are in and out. That sounded great in theory. I am happy to say after hanging out there the last couple of days, it seems to be working out in practice. Here is a description of my mother-in-law's first afternoon from an email I wrote to my sister.
"The place really is sunny and homey. I sat with Olga for quite awhile in the living room while Douglas did paperwork. The other residents were friendly but not demanding of attention.
At one point the most gorgeous calico cat decided to make it her mission to sit on Olga's lap, which wasn't entirely easy since Olga wasn't helping. The cat tried one approach, then another, searching for a way to sit on her that would be comfortable for them both. Finally she settled in across Olga's stomach and chest. She lifted her nose to Olga's cheek a couple of times, then kneaded with her paws careful to keep her claws extended and not in the fabric (unlike my cat). At last she rested and purred loudly for about ten minutes. Although Olga reputedly does not like cats to sit on her, I think she was comforted and perhaps flattered. And probably warmed, too. The woman who runs the place says this cat was the guardian of the 103 year old woman who died recently. I hope she has decided to adopt Olga."
After all the deep grieving I did last week, I am now feeling huge relief that my mother-in-law is safe and cared for. She seemed quite peaceful today. And she is very much her regal, yet-goodnatured self, ready for a new adventure, willing to be pleased. So many of us identified her with the place she created. It is good to be reminded that she is who she is no matter where she is. There is a core nature that seems to transcend even memory.
Now my husband and I must turn our attention to information gathering, decision making, treatment, and recovery. We are at the bare beginning of this journey. We have gathered, so far, that his prospect for recovery from cancer is good but that sex as we have known it and cherished it for thirty-one years may change irrevocably and unpredictably. He is seventy; I am fifty-six. Our age difference, which has hardly been noticeable to us, may begin to make a difference. Nothing is certain. We know that. Everything and anything can change at any moment as if can for any and everyone. And does. Every moment.
There. I just needed to say that. My mother-in-law has left home for her last home. My husband has prostate cancer. We are all held in the mystery no matter what. Tomorrow, mystery willing, I will begin to write again.
For pictures of my mother-in-law's land where she ran a school for many years and where we now run a center: http://www.highvalley.org/ My website is still: http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Maeve on Shame and Shamelessness
"Just like the Eve I hadn’t heard of yet, I saw that I was naked. Shame I hadn’t yet grasped." -Maeve from Magdalen Rising
Elizabeth posted that quotation on Twitter this morning. (Yes, speaking of shamelessness, we are on twitter. Follow us: http://twitter.com/EliznMaeve How shameless is that?)
I have been asked to write a blog about shamelessness. I suppose scenes like the one cited above have earned me a reputation as an expert on the subject. For those who haven't read Magdalen Rising, this incident happened when I was about fourteen years old, away from home for the first time, having my period and missing my eight mothers. My mothers always went to the beach and fingerpainted on the rocks when they were bleeding. At druid school, I was shocked to discover, there were no organized activities for that time of the moon. Feeling a bit blue, I went off by myself, stripped off my tunic (it was a hot day) and practiced writing ogham, the druid ceremonial letters I was studying. I inscribed the name of the boy I liked on a rock. Well, what would you have done if you were me? You wouldn't have thought of writing your crush's name in menstrual blood?
Neither would Viviane, a stuck-up girl in my class, who tried to shame me for it. I showed her. I dipped my fingers into the original ink well and hauled off and anointed her, so to speak, right across the face. She didn't appreciate the honor, and we got into a bloody brawl, literally. Guess who ended up coming along to break up the fight? My crush, Esus. You know him as Jesus. Can you imagine his horror at this unclean naked girl writing his name on a rock with her blood? Please! (How he could possibly end up with someone like me is also a requested blog topic. Next time perhaps.) Many editors and reviewers were also shocked, and Elizabeth was told to omit all scenes having to do with bodily functions. She refused. She is not as shameless I am, but she is stubborn.
By the way, my next two volumes have very little about any bodily function--apart from sex. Elizabeth fretted that she had been influenced by the critics. But really, it's just that I grew older. In Magdalen Rising, I am a young girl, and everything is new to me. The truth is, until Viviane no one even attempted to shame me about my body or its functions, and she did not succeed. I kept that ease and comfort with my body all my life.
But many people do feel ashamed not only of their bodily functions but of their bodies, which tells you something about shame. We often feel shamed, or are shamed by others, for things that are out of our control. Shamed not so much for what we do (actions are at least somewhat in our control) but for what we are. We are too short, tall, have ears that stick out, have a big behind. We are not smart enough, quick enough, pretty enough, rich enough. There is something inherently wrong, and we feel shame.
Then there is also shame that we carry for someone else. That shame is even more insideous, because it's harder to identify. I once met a man who trained his dog to writhe and wimper in shame every time that man passed gas. It was supposed to be a joke, but it's not so funny when you consider that many of us are that dog. That's how abuse works, any kind of abuse from sexual abuse to economic abuse. The victim carries the abuser's shame. So shamelessness is not necessarily a good thing, not if someone else is carrying the shame that should yours. If you make a foul smell, people, own it!
I had no shame about my menstrual blood and no shame about sex, having been reared on my mothers' tales of Queen Maeve of Connacht, who delighted in freely offering the friendship of her upper thighs, who boasted that she was "never without one man in the shadow of another." She also had a devoted husband and lover, and no one called her promiscuous. This upbringing stood me in good stead during the years I was a whore. I felt no shame in being a whore and took some pride in being a skilled one. What did shame me deeply was being a slave, for my people considered loss of freedom shameful. They blamed the victim. Being a slave was not something I chose; it was not something I did. There was no way I could make amends for it. Though I tried to escape, I failed and my shame deepened into despair which fed the shame. There are many people who are suffering in just this way today whether or not they are called slaves.
So I do know something about shame. Freedom came to me by fluke. I was on my way to being crucified when the very woman who got me into the fix and who had enslaved and abused me for years, finally faced her own shame, her own culpabilty and pleaded with a woman who justifiably despised her in order to save my life. Read The Passion of Mary Magdalen if you want to know more.
Finally, that boy, my crush? He became my beloved. You know who he is. He was sentenced to a death that was designed to shame as well as torture. What is more shaming than to be hung naked and completely helpless while slowly dying in front of anyone who wants to watch? Yet I am here to tell you, he was not ashamed. All that shame that was cast on him, he burned away, as if he were the sun. I am witness.
Burning with shame. That's what we say. That's what it feels like. And that's just what to do with shame. Burn it up. The problems come when we are so afraid of that burning that we bury shame (and carry it as depression) or try to escape it through some addictive behavior that casts us back into shame or we dump it on someone else. So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.
Elizabeth posted that quotation on Twitter this morning. (Yes, speaking of shamelessness, we are on twitter. Follow us: http://twitter.com/EliznMaeve How shameless is that?)
I have been asked to write a blog about shamelessness. I suppose scenes like the one cited above have earned me a reputation as an expert on the subject. For those who haven't read Magdalen Rising, this incident happened when I was about fourteen years old, away from home for the first time, having my period and missing my eight mothers. My mothers always went to the beach and fingerpainted on the rocks when they were bleeding. At druid school, I was shocked to discover, there were no organized activities for that time of the moon. Feeling a bit blue, I went off by myself, stripped off my tunic (it was a hot day) and practiced writing ogham, the druid ceremonial letters I was studying. I inscribed the name of the boy I liked on a rock. Well, what would you have done if you were me? You wouldn't have thought of writing your crush's name in menstrual blood?
Neither would Viviane, a stuck-up girl in my class, who tried to shame me for it. I showed her. I dipped my fingers into the original ink well and hauled off and anointed her, so to speak, right across the face. She didn't appreciate the honor, and we got into a bloody brawl, literally. Guess who ended up coming along to break up the fight? My crush, Esus. You know him as Jesus. Can you imagine his horror at this unclean naked girl writing his name on a rock with her blood? Please! (How he could possibly end up with someone like me is also a requested blog topic. Next time perhaps.) Many editors and reviewers were also shocked, and Elizabeth was told to omit all scenes having to do with bodily functions. She refused. She is not as shameless I am, but she is stubborn.
By the way, my next two volumes have very little about any bodily function--apart from sex. Elizabeth fretted that she had been influenced by the critics. But really, it's just that I grew older. In Magdalen Rising, I am a young girl, and everything is new to me. The truth is, until Viviane no one even attempted to shame me about my body or its functions, and she did not succeed. I kept that ease and comfort with my body all my life.
But many people do feel ashamed not only of their bodily functions but of their bodies, which tells you something about shame. We often feel shamed, or are shamed by others, for things that are out of our control. Shamed not so much for what we do (actions are at least somewhat in our control) but for what we are. We are too short, tall, have ears that stick out, have a big behind. We are not smart enough, quick enough, pretty enough, rich enough. There is something inherently wrong, and we feel shame.
Then there is also shame that we carry for someone else. That shame is even more insideous, because it's harder to identify. I once met a man who trained his dog to writhe and wimper in shame every time that man passed gas. It was supposed to be a joke, but it's not so funny when you consider that many of us are that dog. That's how abuse works, any kind of abuse from sexual abuse to economic abuse. The victim carries the abuser's shame. So shamelessness is not necessarily a good thing, not if someone else is carrying the shame that should yours. If you make a foul smell, people, own it!
I had no shame about my menstrual blood and no shame about sex, having been reared on my mothers' tales of Queen Maeve of Connacht, who delighted in freely offering the friendship of her upper thighs, who boasted that she was "never without one man in the shadow of another." She also had a devoted husband and lover, and no one called her promiscuous. This upbringing stood me in good stead during the years I was a whore. I felt no shame in being a whore and took some pride in being a skilled one. What did shame me deeply was being a slave, for my people considered loss of freedom shameful. They blamed the victim. Being a slave was not something I chose; it was not something I did. There was no way I could make amends for it. Though I tried to escape, I failed and my shame deepened into despair which fed the shame. There are many people who are suffering in just this way today whether or not they are called slaves.
So I do know something about shame. Freedom came to me by fluke. I was on my way to being crucified when the very woman who got me into the fix and who had enslaved and abused me for years, finally faced her own shame, her own culpabilty and pleaded with a woman who justifiably despised her in order to save my life. Read The Passion of Mary Magdalen if you want to know more.
Finally, that boy, my crush? He became my beloved. You know who he is. He was sentenced to a death that was designed to shame as well as torture. What is more shaming than to be hung naked and completely helpless while slowly dying in front of anyone who wants to watch? Yet I am here to tell you, he was not ashamed. All that shame that was cast on him, he burned away, as if he were the sun. I am witness.
Burning with shame. That's what we say. That's what it feels like. And that's just what to do with shame. Burn it up. The problems come when we are so afraid of that burning that we bury shame (and carry it as depression) or try to escape it through some addictive behavior that casts us back into shame or we dump it on someone else. So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Recording MaevenSong
A few months ago Tim Dillinger www.timdillinger.com announced to me: We are going to Nashville to record your album. It sounded natural and inevitable. Though I am not a professional singer and have never recorded anything but nine minutes of my voice a capella, it did not occur to me to think twice or do anything but set a date and be grateful for having an experienced guide and companion who has produced two of his own albums. I didn't even get nervous until a couple of days before the trip. Then I wondered if I was crazy.
I would have been more worried if I had known that three days is considered a very short amount of time to make a full length recording. But I knew Tim had arranged for an expert guitarist, Dave Martin, to create accompaniment for the eleven songs I had sung into Tim's phone in August.
On Monday morning, we all met at Colorblind Soul Productions, the excellent studio Mike Torino runs from his home. Before going upstairs to the studio, we sat around Mike's dining room table.
"So," said Mike, looking from me to Dave, the guitarist. "You two have never met before? You've never rehearsed?"
Dave, who was having surgery later that day, remained calm and said that he'd heard the songs and had some ideas. I sensed that Mike was thinking something like: here's this lady who wants to make an album and doesn't have a clue.
"Do you know what key and tempo they're in?" he appealed to Dave.
"Some of them don't have a tempo," Dave allowed.
"Elizabeth has perfect pitch," Tim interjected at one point, perhaps picking up on Mike's skepticism.
"Some of them do have tempo," I spoke up. "Some of them have very standard forms, like Mountain Song. Let's start with one of those."
"Mountain Song?" said Dave. "I don't remember any Mountain Song."
It seems Mountain Song somehow got dropped from the songs Tim sent Dave.
"It's easy," I told the other three as they searched for the lost recording. "I'll just sing it."
And then the collaborative magic of music began to unfold. Dave and Mike brainstormed and found cords, and I soon understood that Mike was not just a sound technician but a brilliant and imaginative musical director with a perfect ear. I instantly forgave him for treating me like a dotty old lady. Dave's guitar playing was rich and supportive, and when we began to work on Pentecostal Alley blues, I was in heaven hearing his blues guitar. In less than an hour we had a rough arrangement for three songs including harmonies created by Tim, and we headed upstairs to lay down Dave's tracks so he could leave for his appointment.
Mike was thrilled to have a chance to work with a guitarist of Dave's caliber and he admitted to Tim that that I did indeed have perfect pitch. It made me feel a little better to be considered a dotty old lady with some natural talent, but I was worried about the songs that did not have a conventional form. I was especially worried about Miriam's Lament. I had never been able to sing it the same way twice. I was doing some short pieces a capella, but Miriam's Lament seemed too long and uncertain.
"I think I'm going to have to scrap it," I told Tim. "They'll never be able to find a tempo or a structure." Things both Dave and Mike had insisted were essential.
"No," said Tim. "You're not going to scrap it. It's a preach, and I know just what to do. I'm going to go get Ron. I'm going to get my son!"
Tim is not only a brilliant vocalist of immense range, he has another genius: people. Knowing people, loving people, seeing their gifts, encouraging their gifts, bringing people together. Everyone Tim loves becomes family. His son, Ron, is a young musician he met and has mentored since Ron was sixteen.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I told Ron when he arrived. "It goes something like this." I sang a bit. "But it never comes out the same twice."
Ron didn't bat an eye or respond in any particular way at all.
"It's a preach, Ron," explained Tim. "You'll know what to do."
So we went upstairs. Ron sat down at the keyboard. I sang a phrase, and a miracle happened. I knew just where the notes were, and Ron supported each one with rich, complex, soulful sound.
"Let them do this live," said Tim. "They need to do this live."
So I stood up, put on the head phones and went with Ron, as Tim later put it, to the foot of the cross. When it was over, we all wept. And remembering that moment still brings tears to my eyes.
That was Ron's first miracle. The next day, he also played with me on Psalm, which despite its Biblical form, lacked the requisite tempo and structure. The Prologue, which was to have been sung and spoken without accompaniment, now has blues piano all the way through. It was done in one take.
The biggest challenge was Resurrection Song. Dave had valiantly returned the day after his surgery to lay down the rest of the tracks. He has found some beautiful hypnotic chords for Resurrection Song and created a structure. It was taking all my concentration to stay within it, and I was having trouble building the intensity the song needs.
"I haven't raised him yet," I said to Tim at one point.
"Let Ron accompany her live," said Tim. "In addition to the guitar."
It took more than one take, because of the complexity of the rhythms. Ron turned to Mike between takes, and asked for a pad. I think that's the term. They searched around. At Ron's suggestion, they decided on strings.
I sang the next take carried on a swelling river of sound, and at last I was able to go where I needed to go, to the tomb, to the beloved. At last I raised him.
The night of that day, only the second day, a day in which time must have been suspended, Tim's friends Pam and Jerry came over to sing on Thou New Moon, an a capella piece. My idea was to go from a straight singing of it to a jam, perhaps with drums.
"No," said Mike. "I can't record that. That would be chaos. I thought you wanted a choral piece. Let's record it that way and then you can improvise over it on another track."
In record time, Pam and Jerry learned the tune and the upper and lower harmonies Tim had created. Together we laid down three tracks. Mike looped them to make it sound as though we were a huge choir. He had no way of knowing that this song was the one the entire druid college sang to Maeve went she was sent beyond the ninth wave. The effect was gorgeous, and I happily let go of my idea improvise over it.
"So," I said to Mike. "Maybe it could be a solo voice, then unison voices, then harmony?"
"No," Mike said bluntly. "The purpose of this song is to be a break between some of your other songs. Once is good, but three times, no."
By this time I had learned Mike was almost always right, and I appreciated his directness. That night when I woke at 3:00am to lie awake for two hours, as I had every night, I remembered what he said about the song's use, and the whole structure of the album became clear to me. I knew exactly how to group the songs.
When I woke up on the third morning the sky (which for two days had been as dark as the crucifixion, in Tim's words) was a brilliant blue. We went to the studio where Tim laid down harmonies on two more songs while enjoying a visit from Reba Rambo McGuire and Destiny McGuire, more of his beloved kin, his mother and sister.
Later Mike added percussion to two songs. I didn't have to do anything but sit and listen. I remember thinking I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a sound studio making music with wonderful people. At last Mike played us some of all the songs, marvelling that they sounded as good as they did when he hadn't cleaned them up yet. Tim and I cried again.
After a warm parting with Mike, and a late lunch with Lenny, another brilliant musician and the one who led us to Mike, Tim and I went to see sacred Nashville sites, first one: the shelf in the library where Tim found The Passion of Mary Magdalen some fifteen months ago. It was there on the shelf in very battered condition, which Tim admitted was probably because of him.
I remain in a state of awe and gratitude for the miracles that led to MaevenSong. I will close with thanks from my heart to Lenny, Mike, Dave, Ron, Pam and Jerry, Reba and Destiny, brilliant musicians all and so welcoming and encouraging to someone new to their world. Thank you to Midori and her children and to Crystal for a celebration full of riotous laughter. Thanks also to David and Kare for sparing Tim for a week as they all get ready for the Soulkiss concert at Don't Tell Mama in NYC on October 23 and 30th. Most of all, thank you Tim, for MaevenSong, for your friendship, for your genius at generosity. Sing on! Write on! I love you!
I would have been more worried if I had known that three days is considered a very short amount of time to make a full length recording. But I knew Tim had arranged for an expert guitarist, Dave Martin, to create accompaniment for the eleven songs I had sung into Tim's phone in August.
On Monday morning, we all met at Colorblind Soul Productions, the excellent studio Mike Torino runs from his home. Before going upstairs to the studio, we sat around Mike's dining room table.
"So," said Mike, looking from me to Dave, the guitarist. "You two have never met before? You've never rehearsed?"
Dave, who was having surgery later that day, remained calm and said that he'd heard the songs and had some ideas. I sensed that Mike was thinking something like: here's this lady who wants to make an album and doesn't have a clue.
"Do you know what key and tempo they're in?" he appealed to Dave.
"Some of them don't have a tempo," Dave allowed.
"Elizabeth has perfect pitch," Tim interjected at one point, perhaps picking up on Mike's skepticism.
"Some of them do have tempo," I spoke up. "Some of them have very standard forms, like Mountain Song. Let's start with one of those."
"Mountain Song?" said Dave. "I don't remember any Mountain Song."
It seems Mountain Song somehow got dropped from the songs Tim sent Dave.
"It's easy," I told the other three as they searched for the lost recording. "I'll just sing it."
And then the collaborative magic of music began to unfold. Dave and Mike brainstormed and found cords, and I soon understood that Mike was not just a sound technician but a brilliant and imaginative musical director with a perfect ear. I instantly forgave him for treating me like a dotty old lady. Dave's guitar playing was rich and supportive, and when we began to work on Pentecostal Alley blues, I was in heaven hearing his blues guitar. In less than an hour we had a rough arrangement for three songs including harmonies created by Tim, and we headed upstairs to lay down Dave's tracks so he could leave for his appointment.
Mike was thrilled to have a chance to work with a guitarist of Dave's caliber and he admitted to Tim that that I did indeed have perfect pitch. It made me feel a little better to be considered a dotty old lady with some natural talent, but I was worried about the songs that did not have a conventional form. I was especially worried about Miriam's Lament. I had never been able to sing it the same way twice. I was doing some short pieces a capella, but Miriam's Lament seemed too long and uncertain.
"I think I'm going to have to scrap it," I told Tim. "They'll never be able to find a tempo or a structure." Things both Dave and Mike had insisted were essential.
"No," said Tim. "You're not going to scrap it. It's a preach, and I know just what to do. I'm going to go get Ron. I'm going to get my son!"
Tim is not only a brilliant vocalist of immense range, he has another genius: people. Knowing people, loving people, seeing their gifts, encouraging their gifts, bringing people together. Everyone Tim loves becomes family. His son, Ron, is a young musician he met and has mentored since Ron was sixteen.
"I don't know what I'm doing," I told Ron when he arrived. "It goes something like this." I sang a bit. "But it never comes out the same twice."
Ron didn't bat an eye or respond in any particular way at all.
"It's a preach, Ron," explained Tim. "You'll know what to do."
So we went upstairs. Ron sat down at the keyboard. I sang a phrase, and a miracle happened. I knew just where the notes were, and Ron supported each one with rich, complex, soulful sound.
"Let them do this live," said Tim. "They need to do this live."
So I stood up, put on the head phones and went with Ron, as Tim later put it, to the foot of the cross. When it was over, we all wept. And remembering that moment still brings tears to my eyes.
That was Ron's first miracle. The next day, he also played with me on Psalm, which despite its Biblical form, lacked the requisite tempo and structure. The Prologue, which was to have been sung and spoken without accompaniment, now has blues piano all the way through. It was done in one take.
The biggest challenge was Resurrection Song. Dave had valiantly returned the day after his surgery to lay down the rest of the tracks. He has found some beautiful hypnotic chords for Resurrection Song and created a structure. It was taking all my concentration to stay within it, and I was having trouble building the intensity the song needs.
"I haven't raised him yet," I said to Tim at one point.
"Let Ron accompany her live," said Tim. "In addition to the guitar."
It took more than one take, because of the complexity of the rhythms. Ron turned to Mike between takes, and asked for a pad. I think that's the term. They searched around. At Ron's suggestion, they decided on strings.
I sang the next take carried on a swelling river of sound, and at last I was able to go where I needed to go, to the tomb, to the beloved. At last I raised him.
The night of that day, only the second day, a day in which time must have been suspended, Tim's friends Pam and Jerry came over to sing on Thou New Moon, an a capella piece. My idea was to go from a straight singing of it to a jam, perhaps with drums.
"No," said Mike. "I can't record that. That would be chaos. I thought you wanted a choral piece. Let's record it that way and then you can improvise over it on another track."
In record time, Pam and Jerry learned the tune and the upper and lower harmonies Tim had created. Together we laid down three tracks. Mike looped them to make it sound as though we were a huge choir. He had no way of knowing that this song was the one the entire druid college sang to Maeve went she was sent beyond the ninth wave. The effect was gorgeous, and I happily let go of my idea improvise over it.
"So," I said to Mike. "Maybe it could be a solo voice, then unison voices, then harmony?"
"No," Mike said bluntly. "The purpose of this song is to be a break between some of your other songs. Once is good, but three times, no."
By this time I had learned Mike was almost always right, and I appreciated his directness. That night when I woke at 3:00am to lie awake for two hours, as I had every night, I remembered what he said about the song's use, and the whole structure of the album became clear to me. I knew exactly how to group the songs.
When I woke up on the third morning the sky (which for two days had been as dark as the crucifixion, in Tim's words) was a brilliant blue. We went to the studio where Tim laid down harmonies on two more songs while enjoying a visit from Reba Rambo McGuire and Destiny McGuire, more of his beloved kin, his mother and sister.
Later Mike added percussion to two songs. I didn't have to do anything but sit and listen. I remember thinking I wanted to spend the rest of my life in a sound studio making music with wonderful people. At last Mike played us some of all the songs, marvelling that they sounded as good as they did when he hadn't cleaned them up yet. Tim and I cried again.
After a warm parting with Mike, and a late lunch with Lenny, another brilliant musician and the one who led us to Mike, Tim and I went to see sacred Nashville sites, first one: the shelf in the library where Tim found The Passion of Mary Magdalen some fifteen months ago. It was there on the shelf in very battered condition, which Tim admitted was probably because of him.
I remain in a state of awe and gratitude for the miracles that led to MaevenSong. I will close with thanks from my heart to Lenny, Mike, Dave, Ron, Pam and Jerry, Reba and Destiny, brilliant musicians all and so welcoming and encouraging to someone new to their world. Thank you to Midori and her children and to Crystal for a celebration full of riotous laughter. Thanks also to David and Kare for sparing Tim for a week as they all get ready for the Soulkiss concert at Don't Tell Mama in NYC on October 23 and 30th. Most of all, thank you Tim, for MaevenSong, for your friendship, for your genius at generosity. Sing on! Write on! I love you!
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Nashville here we come: words, music, mystery
Maeve thanks everyone for their enthsiastic response to her blog. She will be back, and she will address all suggested topics including shamelessness and another topic that is a too complex to put into one word. The gist is how Jesus could choose her (a brazen out-spoken pagan Celt) despite what the church subsequently teaches about salvation. She might not know the answer, but no doubt she will have something to say. Thanks for the topics! Keep them coming.
Today it is my turn, and I have a story to tell. My dear friend and combrogo Tim Dillinger www.timdillinger.com has already told his side of the story more than once on his blog--and on stage! I wonder if he knows what an impact he has had and is having on my life and work. I will do my best to make it clear.
Who knows where the story really begins, why I had to write, why Tim had to sing. Maybe there is no why, and no why to Tim's heart being broken. Let's begin with his going to the library on one of the most terrible days of his life. Maeve must have been on the alert. She managed to get her big fat book to jump off the shelf into his hands where it stayed, Tim claims, for the next eight months. When we get an accurate count of how many times he has read The Passion of Mary Magdalen, we will be contacting the Guiness Book of World Records.
In early 2009, Tim wrote to my publisher, requesting to do a podcast interview for "Out the Box" http://outtheboxwithtimdillinger.blogspot.com/. We set a date in March. Meanwhile I scoped him out and got his CDs "Love is on My Mind" and "The Muse," which I urge you to do, too. From the first note he sang, I knew Tim was soul kin, and I am now going for the Guiness Book of World records myself for the number of times I have played his CDs. How to describe his music? His gospel and classic soul roots are strong and deep, but his expression is unique to him and his puts his whole heart out there. Listen, you will see what I mean.
When we met in Harlem on a cold windy day in March, we already knew each other's work intimately. The first words Tim said to me were: "I remember," the beginning words of a song he wrote long before he read Maeve's words about re-membering. He was wearing a winged Isis T-shirt with the same words on it. Yes, I also remembered. We had our interview at the Shrine, a venue in Harlem where he was appearing later that night with David Sosa and Kare Alford--the three of them are now Soulkiss. More on that in a bit.
During the interview, I sang the opening paragraphs of The Passion of Mary Magdalen. "Oh!" he said. "You can sing!" And it turns out that Tim can write! Not just songs but he had already written a memoir called Snapshots (check his website) and he has now embarked on his first novel. It is for him to talk about that. I will just hint that, between us, we may just re-write the Bible, or at least some juicy chunks of it.
Since that day we have stayed in touch and visited. (Tim and David both came to my place for Beltane and with great good nature sang endless rounds of "Oats Peas Beans and Barley Grow" in exquisite harmony as everyone danced the Maypole). And I had the immense joy of seeing Soulkiss live at The Triad this June when they began their busy summer tour season. Going to a Soulkiss concert is an ecstatic, soul-shaking experience. Don't miss the chance. They'll be at Don't Tell Mama with Charlene Moore in NYC October 23 & 30. Reserve now: http://www.donttellmamanyc.com/reservations.php
I did not get to see all the Soulkiss shows that summer, but I tuned in to the live podcast of their Kulak's show in LA, and was introduced to Patsy Moore, Myrrh, Susaye Greene, and Michael Micshaw (sorry if I spelled Michael's name wrong). When I was on tour in San Francisco I had the pleasure of meeting Andrea (the Godsistah!). I look forward to meeting Reba Rambo McGuire and Charlene Moore. Wherever Tim goes, he connects people, he creates community, and not just any kind of community but joyous, soulful community. He lives in Temple Magdalen, Maeve's place, where everyone is welcome. And if you have a conflict, open your mouth and sing it--till you burst out laughing.
I may not have had the worst day of my life this summer, but it has been a difficult time, as some of my past blogs will attest. Tim's friendship and the camaraderie of the combrogos has made a huge difference. I cannot remember how we decided that I would be making a recording of the songs I've composed for The Maeve Chronicles. I believe it was Tim's idea, and it was definitely Tim's idea to go to Nashville where he has done all the work of finding an affordable studio and an excellent and trusted musician to help set the songs. He's heading out this Friday, and I will meet him in Nashville this Sunday, October 4th. We'll be in the studio on Monday morning to begin work on the MaevenSong CD. We hope to have it ready to go before Christmas.
Words and music. One leads to the other, one is the other, or can be. A note on mystery. Whenever I am discouraged about the progress of my work in the world and the state of the publishing industry, I remember this chance or not chance meeting, a book falling into the right hands at the right moment, a meeting that has helped two people feel encouraged in their lives, in their work, in their joy. A meeting that is engendering more stories, more songs. And so it is.
Today it is my turn, and I have a story to tell. My dear friend and combrogo Tim Dillinger www.timdillinger.com has already told his side of the story more than once on his blog--and on stage! I wonder if he knows what an impact he has had and is having on my life and work. I will do my best to make it clear.
Who knows where the story really begins, why I had to write, why Tim had to sing. Maybe there is no why, and no why to Tim's heart being broken. Let's begin with his going to the library on one of the most terrible days of his life. Maeve must have been on the alert. She managed to get her big fat book to jump off the shelf into his hands where it stayed, Tim claims, for the next eight months. When we get an accurate count of how many times he has read The Passion of Mary Magdalen, we will be contacting the Guiness Book of World Records.
In early 2009, Tim wrote to my publisher, requesting to do a podcast interview for "Out the Box" http://outtheboxwithtimdillinger.blogspot.com/. We set a date in March. Meanwhile I scoped him out and got his CDs "Love is on My Mind" and "The Muse," which I urge you to do, too. From the first note he sang, I knew Tim was soul kin, and I am now going for the Guiness Book of World records myself for the number of times I have played his CDs. How to describe his music? His gospel and classic soul roots are strong and deep, but his expression is unique to him and his puts his whole heart out there. Listen, you will see what I mean.
When we met in Harlem on a cold windy day in March, we already knew each other's work intimately. The first words Tim said to me were: "I remember," the beginning words of a song he wrote long before he read Maeve's words about re-membering. He was wearing a winged Isis T-shirt with the same words on it. Yes, I also remembered. We had our interview at the Shrine, a venue in Harlem where he was appearing later that night with David Sosa and Kare Alford--the three of them are now Soulkiss. More on that in a bit.
During the interview, I sang the opening paragraphs of The Passion of Mary Magdalen. "Oh!" he said. "You can sing!" And it turns out that Tim can write! Not just songs but he had already written a memoir called Snapshots (check his website) and he has now embarked on his first novel. It is for him to talk about that. I will just hint that, between us, we may just re-write the Bible, or at least some juicy chunks of it.
Since that day we have stayed in touch and visited. (Tim and David both came to my place for Beltane and with great good nature sang endless rounds of "Oats Peas Beans and Barley Grow" in exquisite harmony as everyone danced the Maypole). And I had the immense joy of seeing Soulkiss live at The Triad this June when they began their busy summer tour season. Going to a Soulkiss concert is an ecstatic, soul-shaking experience. Don't miss the chance. They'll be at Don't Tell Mama with Charlene Moore in NYC October 23 & 30. Reserve now: http://www.donttellmamanyc.com/reservations.php
I did not get to see all the Soulkiss shows that summer, but I tuned in to the live podcast of their Kulak's show in LA, and was introduced to Patsy Moore, Myrrh, Susaye Greene, and Michael Micshaw (sorry if I spelled Michael's name wrong). When I was on tour in San Francisco I had the pleasure of meeting Andrea (the Godsistah!). I look forward to meeting Reba Rambo McGuire and Charlene Moore. Wherever Tim goes, he connects people, he creates community, and not just any kind of community but joyous, soulful community. He lives in Temple Magdalen, Maeve's place, where everyone is welcome. And if you have a conflict, open your mouth and sing it--till you burst out laughing.
I may not have had the worst day of my life this summer, but it has been a difficult time, as some of my past blogs will attest. Tim's friendship and the camaraderie of the combrogos has made a huge difference. I cannot remember how we decided that I would be making a recording of the songs I've composed for The Maeve Chronicles. I believe it was Tim's idea, and it was definitely Tim's idea to go to Nashville where he has done all the work of finding an affordable studio and an excellent and trusted musician to help set the songs. He's heading out this Friday, and I will meet him in Nashville this Sunday, October 4th. We'll be in the studio on Monday morning to begin work on the MaevenSong CD. We hope to have it ready to go before Christmas.
Words and music. One leads to the other, one is the other, or can be. A note on mystery. Whenever I am discouraged about the progress of my work in the world and the state of the publishing industry, I remember this chance or not chance meeting, a book falling into the right hands at the right moment, a meeting that has helped two people feel encouraged in their lives, in their work, in their joy. A meeting that is engendering more stories, more songs. And so it is.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Maeve on Daughter/Mother Equinox
First, thank you to everyone who read my first blog and left comments. (Is there a derivation for the word blog? Eliz just looked it up online. Web log became We blog? Here is an alternate derivation. "Blabber" plus "Falling off a Log" equals blog.) Anyway, it is good to know I am not just talking to myself, although I often do, and there is nothing wrong with it, especially if you are a good conversationalist. So keep that in mind.
I am pleased that several people suggested topics, and the first two balance each other, so as today is Autumn Equinox, I am going to write on both daughters (Maeve, what would you say to my two daughters, ages eight and seven?) and mothers or the Mother (Maeve, write about serving the Mother). And speaking of mothers and daughters, let us not forget Demeter and Persephone. There is some scholarly dispute about the actual timing of Persephone's descent based on when grain came ripe in the ancient Mediterranean world. But here in the Northern Hemisphere, things are beginning the journey to underworld: sap into root, seed into ground, snakes and bears and other creatures to earth. Day is tipping into night.
Back to the daughters, ages eight and seven. Most of what I would say to you, I think you know already. The main thing is not to forget as you get older. Love yourself from the inside out. Enjoy yourself from the inside out. Know yourself from the inside out. What do I mean by that? Be inside your own skin and don't worry about what other people see or think. Find something that makes you happy to be yourself--running, skating, jumping from rock to rock, swimming, dancing, singing, drawing, writing, climbing trees, or just lying on your back and staring at the sky. Know that pleasure in being yourself and know that no one can take it from you, no matter what. Make friends with trees and animals and rocks. I am sure you already have. Just remember: you can have those kind of friends all your life, and they will help you when times are hard. Find people that you can trust in the same way. People of all ages, younger than you and older, old. It is good to have fairygodmothers and fathers and fairy grandmothers and grandfathers. Then when you are older, you will get to be a fairygodmother, and that is wonderful thing.
Now I will tell you a little about myself as a daughter and a mother. (Some of you already know a lot about me from The Maeve Chronicles; others, here's an introduction). I was the only daughter of eight warrior-witch mothers. We lived on an island in the Otherworld (which means you can only get there if the conditions are right). I think it might be fair to say that I was spoiled, but in a good way. My mothers were pleased with me, and I was very pleased with myself. They taught me all kinds of things about animals and birds, fighting, chariot racing, and best of all weather magic. There were some things they forget to tell me till too late, but that is the subject for another blog. My fairygodmother was an old, old woman called the Cailleach. She took over teaching me when I was about thirteen, and my very first lesson involved a journey underground. She also taught me to speak all the languages I would need to know how to speak.
I loved her, and I loved my mothers, and I loved the goddess Brigid (or Bride) from who we claimed descent. But did I serve the mothers or the Mother? I have to admit I did not. Not consciously, anyway. I took them for granted, like the air and the earth, the sun, sky and sea, which are also worthy of our care and reverence. When I was a teenager at druid school, there were some long suffering priestesses that had charge over the female students, and another old woman named Dwynwyn who helped me save life of the boy I loved. But the concept of service had not entered my consciousness and did not until years later.
Fast forward to Rome when that immensely self-impressed, self-possessed little girl had fallen on hard times, lost her freedom, become a slave. Enter the all sovereign, all-compassionate Isis who called me to her service as a priestess and a healer. I answered, at first reluctantly, but with deepening and lived understanding of the goddess's own long, bitter journey. Even then, I did not serve Isis as the mother goddess, but as the lover goddess, who searched the world for her lost beloved, even serving for a time as a sacred prostitute. When I founded my own holy whorehouse, we received the god-bearing stranger in the name of Isis.
How did I come to love and serve the mother? In a very particular, human way. I became the mother of a daughter I adored with the strength of eight mothers, a daughter who vanished for a time, just as Persephone also disappeared from her mother's sight. I also became a daughter again, not of my eight mothers, but of my mother-in-law Ma, Miriam, aka the Blessed Virgin Mary, who swore that whither I would go, she would go, and that my goddess would be her goddess. If you want to know the truth, I was none too pleased with the responsibility at the beginning. But by the end, I did put myself in her service, and through her, in service to the Mother of all. (See my Hymn of Ma of Ephesus in Bright Dark Madonna).
It is getting close to the actual time of Equinox, so I will bring the blog to a close. Before I do, I want to say this about mothers and the Mother. There is a correlation between the way we treat mothers and women, and the way we treat the Earth. When we expect them to give without limit (when we, as women and mothers, refuse to set limits) we get ourselves into the mess we're in today. We exhaust her and ourselves. Mothers, children, it is time to give back to the Earth. Time to let her replenish and renew herself. Time to remember that we also need to stop, be quiet, let the sap sink into our roots, go into the nourishing dark and rest.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
I am pleased that several people suggested topics, and the first two balance each other, so as today is Autumn Equinox, I am going to write on both daughters (Maeve, what would you say to my two daughters, ages eight and seven?) and mothers or the Mother (Maeve, write about serving the Mother). And speaking of mothers and daughters, let us not forget Demeter and Persephone. There is some scholarly dispute about the actual timing of Persephone's descent based on when grain came ripe in the ancient Mediterranean world. But here in the Northern Hemisphere, things are beginning the journey to underworld: sap into root, seed into ground, snakes and bears and other creatures to earth. Day is tipping into night.
Back to the daughters, ages eight and seven. Most of what I would say to you, I think you know already. The main thing is not to forget as you get older. Love yourself from the inside out. Enjoy yourself from the inside out. Know yourself from the inside out. What do I mean by that? Be inside your own skin and don't worry about what other people see or think. Find something that makes you happy to be yourself--running, skating, jumping from rock to rock, swimming, dancing, singing, drawing, writing, climbing trees, or just lying on your back and staring at the sky. Know that pleasure in being yourself and know that no one can take it from you, no matter what. Make friends with trees and animals and rocks. I am sure you already have. Just remember: you can have those kind of friends all your life, and they will help you when times are hard. Find people that you can trust in the same way. People of all ages, younger than you and older, old. It is good to have fairygodmothers and fathers and fairy grandmothers and grandfathers. Then when you are older, you will get to be a fairygodmother, and that is wonderful thing.
Now I will tell you a little about myself as a daughter and a mother. (Some of you already know a lot about me from The Maeve Chronicles; others, here's an introduction). I was the only daughter of eight warrior-witch mothers. We lived on an island in the Otherworld (which means you can only get there if the conditions are right). I think it might be fair to say that I was spoiled, but in a good way. My mothers were pleased with me, and I was very pleased with myself. They taught me all kinds of things about animals and birds, fighting, chariot racing, and best of all weather magic. There were some things they forget to tell me till too late, but that is the subject for another blog. My fairygodmother was an old, old woman called the Cailleach. She took over teaching me when I was about thirteen, and my very first lesson involved a journey underground. She also taught me to speak all the languages I would need to know how to speak.
I loved her, and I loved my mothers, and I loved the goddess Brigid (or Bride) from who we claimed descent. But did I serve the mothers or the Mother? I have to admit I did not. Not consciously, anyway. I took them for granted, like the air and the earth, the sun, sky and sea, which are also worthy of our care and reverence. When I was a teenager at druid school, there were some long suffering priestesses that had charge over the female students, and another old woman named Dwynwyn who helped me save life of the boy I loved. But the concept of service had not entered my consciousness and did not until years later.
Fast forward to Rome when that immensely self-impressed, self-possessed little girl had fallen on hard times, lost her freedom, become a slave. Enter the all sovereign, all-compassionate Isis who called me to her service as a priestess and a healer. I answered, at first reluctantly, but with deepening and lived understanding of the goddess's own long, bitter journey. Even then, I did not serve Isis as the mother goddess, but as the lover goddess, who searched the world for her lost beloved, even serving for a time as a sacred prostitute. When I founded my own holy whorehouse, we received the god-bearing stranger in the name of Isis.
How did I come to love and serve the mother? In a very particular, human way. I became the mother of a daughter I adored with the strength of eight mothers, a daughter who vanished for a time, just as Persephone also disappeared from her mother's sight. I also became a daughter again, not of my eight mothers, but of my mother-in-law Ma, Miriam, aka the Blessed Virgin Mary, who swore that whither I would go, she would go, and that my goddess would be her goddess. If you want to know the truth, I was none too pleased with the responsibility at the beginning. But by the end, I did put myself in her service, and through her, in service to the Mother of all. (See my Hymn of Ma of Ephesus in Bright Dark Madonna).
It is getting close to the actual time of Equinox, so I will bring the blog to a close. Before I do, I want to say this about mothers and the Mother. There is a correlation between the way we treat mothers and women, and the way we treat the Earth. When we expect them to give without limit (when we, as women and mothers, refuse to set limits) we get ourselves into the mess we're in today. We exhaust her and ourselves. Mothers, children, it is time to give back to the Earth. Time to let her replenish and renew herself. Time to remember that we also need to stop, be quiet, let the sap sink into our roots, go into the nourishing dark and rest.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Maeve's first blog: on the Nature of Reality
I am not a philosopher, so don't get worried. I am not about to hold forth on epistemology. (I only recently learned that word, and I just had to use spell check to make sure I got it right; BTW I do not identify myself as a luddite; I am so before and beyond all that.) As to philosophy, I never got very far with the Greeks Joseph of Arimathea forced me to read when he did his damnedest to turn me into hetera (is that the singular?) instead of a plain old whore.
Lots of people have a problem with the word whore, and I hope you are not one of them. I like the word, and I intend to use it freely. I just asked Elizabeth to look up its derivation. Its root (don't ask me to explain roots) is ka with a flat line I don't know how to make over the a. The Germanic word derived from this root means "one who desires." In Latin this root leads to carus, dear, and from this Latin word come some lovely English words: caress, charity, cherish. And let us not forget good old Sanskrit, kama, meaning love, desire, hence the Kamasutra. So please, dear readers, next time someone calls you a whore, smile and say: "Why, thank you. I am flattered."
Back to the nature of reality, specifically mine: I am a fictional character. At least that is what Elizabeth answers when people ask me if she is channeling me or when they doubt the historicity of a redheaded Celtic (not to mention gentile) whore ending up with Jesus, even marrying him (which is something Elizabeth tried to talk me out of doing. She said it ruined her archetype, the whore archetype. And I said to her, what good is an archetype if you can't ruin it?) So as a fictional character, am I real or am I imaginary? And is imaginary in fact the opposite of real?
I don't like to compare myself with G-d in any way, not just because of my humble nature but because I never got along all that well with The Unpronounceable One. I do recall a theological argument (can't remember whose) that went something like this, if G-d didn't exist, we would have to invent G-d. Leaving the question of G-d aside, I would venture to say that perhaps fictional characters are like that: once imagined, they do exist--often independently of their authors and of their fictional contexts. Many people who have come to know me through The Maeve Chronicles, now have their own conversations with me about their own lives, including Elizabeth.
It's the middle of the night. Maeve? I hear, Can I talk to you? Yes, I always say. Elizabeth has spent the past eighteen years listening for my voice, living my story with me, so the least I can do is listen to her troubles (even though they tend to be repetitive, not nearly as exciting, and very much in rough draft form). Elizabeth once admitted to these conversations at a book event. "I see," one woman said, "so you have an imaginary friend." I do not really mind being called imaginary. When Elizabeth first got to know me, I was a 20th century woman named Madge, and it was not lost on either of us that Elizabeth drew my portraits with magic markers. Magic, imagination, what better gifts could any magi present?
Elizabeth, who is more tactful than I am and does not like to give offense, recently came up with another answer to the question of whether or not she channels me. "She is a real archetypal force, and she comes through me in this particular way, because of my particular gifts." Elizabeth relies on the word archetypal too much. But I like the idea that I am a real force, one that she contends with, as I contend with her. We are both affected and changed by each other, as anyone is by any relationship.
Now as to whether or not I am the real (as in the only & historical) Mary Magdalen, let's leave the question for another day--or maybe never. Blogging is a 21st century form and a bit disorienting for someone who spends most of her time in the 1st century. If you would like me to blog on with my bad self, please give me some juicy topics. That's enough about reality for now. I'm off to the imagi-nation.
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
Lots of people have a problem with the word whore, and I hope you are not one of them. I like the word, and I intend to use it freely. I just asked Elizabeth to look up its derivation. Its root (don't ask me to explain roots) is ka with a flat line I don't know how to make over the a. The Germanic word derived from this root means "one who desires." In Latin this root leads to carus, dear, and from this Latin word come some lovely English words: caress, charity, cherish. And let us not forget good old Sanskrit, kama, meaning love, desire, hence the Kamasutra. So please, dear readers, next time someone calls you a whore, smile and say: "Why, thank you. I am flattered."
Back to the nature of reality, specifically mine: I am a fictional character. At least that is what Elizabeth answers when people ask me if she is channeling me or when they doubt the historicity of a redheaded Celtic (not to mention gentile) whore ending up with Jesus, even marrying him (which is something Elizabeth tried to talk me out of doing. She said it ruined her archetype, the whore archetype. And I said to her, what good is an archetype if you can't ruin it?) So as a fictional character, am I real or am I imaginary? And is imaginary in fact the opposite of real?
I don't like to compare myself with G-d in any way, not just because of my humble nature but because I never got along all that well with The Unpronounceable One. I do recall a theological argument (can't remember whose) that went something like this, if G-d didn't exist, we would have to invent G-d. Leaving the question of G-d aside, I would venture to say that perhaps fictional characters are like that: once imagined, they do exist--often independently of their authors and of their fictional contexts. Many people who have come to know me through The Maeve Chronicles, now have their own conversations with me about their own lives, including Elizabeth.
It's the middle of the night. Maeve? I hear, Can I talk to you? Yes, I always say. Elizabeth has spent the past eighteen years listening for my voice, living my story with me, so the least I can do is listen to her troubles (even though they tend to be repetitive, not nearly as exciting, and very much in rough draft form). Elizabeth once admitted to these conversations at a book event. "I see," one woman said, "so you have an imaginary friend." I do not really mind being called imaginary. When Elizabeth first got to know me, I was a 20th century woman named Madge, and it was not lost on either of us that Elizabeth drew my portraits with magic markers. Magic, imagination, what better gifts could any magi present?
Elizabeth, who is more tactful than I am and does not like to give offense, recently came up with another answer to the question of whether or not she channels me. "She is a real archetypal force, and she comes through me in this particular way, because of my particular gifts." Elizabeth relies on the word archetypal too much. But I like the idea that I am a real force, one that she contends with, as I contend with her. We are both affected and changed by each other, as anyone is by any relationship.
Now as to whether or not I am the real (as in the only & historical) Mary Magdalen, let's leave the question for another day--or maybe never. Blogging is a 21st century form and a bit disorienting for someone who spends most of her time in the 1st century. If you would like me to blog on with my bad self, please give me some juicy topics. That's enough about reality for now. I'm off to the imagi-nation.
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Reclaiming the Power of Oracular Speech
We have all heard the saying: Money talks. In a pending case, Citizens United vs the Federal Election Commission, the United States Supreme Court will rule on whether or not money is speech. If money is so defined, then there will be no longer be limits on donations to political campaigns lest those who choose money as their language have their freedom of speech curtailed. "Who" includes corporations. There is a precedent dating to the 1880s that defines corporations as legal persons. If money is ruled to be speech, John Dough, as I call this corporate entity, may be the only one whose voice is heard.
If I were to argue the upcoming case (which as I have never before even written a political blog it's as well I am not) I would ask the justices to consider these questions: if money is speech, what is poverty? If money is speech, are those who don't have any consigned to silence, and is that not a form of censorship? If money is speech, what about it is free and how can its freedom be defended?
I spent Labor Day weekend at the annual fellows meeting of The Black Earth Institute: connecting earth, spirit, and society through the arts. (I am a fellow of the institute, but here speak only as myself. I encourage you to visit the website to learn more http://www.blackearthinstitute.org/ ) A diverse group of artists, scientists, sociologists, and historians gathered on a farm in the driftless area of Wisconsin where our hosts are helping to restore native prairie grasses and oak. The institute was founded in 2005 partly as a corrective to the commodification and trivalization of the arts. Poets, prophets, oracles, griots in a wide variety of cultures once had a responsibility to call the powers that be to account. Their speech was potent. There are stories of druids who could blister the skin of a king with their verses. Our contemporary culture tends to celebrate only celebrity, to reward a few with extraordinary wealth while the vast majority of writers and other artists remain obscure and underpaid.
Falling into this latter category myself, I found it heartening and inspiring to meet with a community of people who are concerned with more than making their own voices heard. Many among us are true oracles speaking not only human truth but the truth of the wolves, the truth of the soil, the truth of the water, and the complex truth of interconnection between all life forms and the elements that sustain us. I feel challenged and encouraged to learn from my fellow fellows, to break out of the isolation of despair, to join with other voices to make a fierce and joyful noise, to reclaim the power of oracular speech.
As a luddite (someone recently offered to help me smash my computer) I have long resisted the blogosphere and twitterland. But my recent forays have made me reconsider. It could be argued that we are all just talking to ourselves, parallel speech, so to speak. But I see evidence that people are talking to each other--and listening!--exchanging not only ideas and information, but humor, comfort, and camaraderie. And however new this form of speech is, it is free to anyone with access to a computer. (Bless the public libraries.) Money does not speak here. Human beings do.
With instructions from a friend, I finally figured out how to install a subscription widget. If you subscribe, this blog with be delivered to your email address. I only blog once a week, so not to worry that you will be inundated. And I promise it will be Maeve's turn soon. Maybe next week.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
If I were to argue the upcoming case (which as I have never before even written a political blog it's as well I am not) I would ask the justices to consider these questions: if money is speech, what is poverty? If money is speech, are those who don't have any consigned to silence, and is that not a form of censorship? If money is speech, what about it is free and how can its freedom be defended?
I spent Labor Day weekend at the annual fellows meeting of The Black Earth Institute: connecting earth, spirit, and society through the arts. (I am a fellow of the institute, but here speak only as myself. I encourage you to visit the website to learn more http://www.blackearthinstitute.org/ ) A diverse group of artists, scientists, sociologists, and historians gathered on a farm in the driftless area of Wisconsin where our hosts are helping to restore native prairie grasses and oak. The institute was founded in 2005 partly as a corrective to the commodification and trivalization of the arts. Poets, prophets, oracles, griots in a wide variety of cultures once had a responsibility to call the powers that be to account. Their speech was potent. There are stories of druids who could blister the skin of a king with their verses. Our contemporary culture tends to celebrate only celebrity, to reward a few with extraordinary wealth while the vast majority of writers and other artists remain obscure and underpaid.
Falling into this latter category myself, I found it heartening and inspiring to meet with a community of people who are concerned with more than making their own voices heard. Many among us are true oracles speaking not only human truth but the truth of the wolves, the truth of the soil, the truth of the water, and the complex truth of interconnection between all life forms and the elements that sustain us. I feel challenged and encouraged to learn from my fellow fellows, to break out of the isolation of despair, to join with other voices to make a fierce and joyful noise, to reclaim the power of oracular speech.
As a luddite (someone recently offered to help me smash my computer) I have long resisted the blogosphere and twitterland. But my recent forays have made me reconsider. It could be argued that we are all just talking to ourselves, parallel speech, so to speak. But I see evidence that people are talking to each other--and listening!--exchanging not only ideas and information, but humor, comfort, and camaraderie. And however new this form of speech is, it is free to anyone with access to a computer. (Bless the public libraries.) Money does not speak here. Human beings do.
With instructions from a friend, I finally figured out how to install a subscription widget. If you subscribe, this blog with be delivered to your email address. I only blog once a week, so not to worry that you will be inundated. And I promise it will be Maeve's turn soon. Maybe next week.
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Not According to My Plan
I had planned (yesterday, actually, blog Tuesday) to ask Maeve to write a funny upbeat blog on being a fictional character. That may yet happen.
Instead I spent yesterday afternoon climbing a mountain with a new much younger but very wise friend. Many wonderful things happened. We made tobacco offerings to boulders the size of whales. We met a tiny blue-eyed snake who consented to let us hold her or him in our hands. An owl flew over us. Ravens made oracular pronoucements. When we got to the top, vultures and hawks circled above us, their shadows wheeling over a rockface riddled with crevices over thirty feet deep that sent up breaths of cool, damp air.
In the course of four hours or so, we enjoyed long talks and long silences. One of our many ponderings was on commitment. Someone had said to him that if you make a commitment, then a plan emerges. But without a commitment, there is no plan. I thought about my life, some thirty years longer than his, and I realized that I made a commitment to writing at very young age. I was ten when I knew I wanted to write, fifteen when I began a daily writing practice, twenty-two when I began writing novels, which I have been doing now for thirty-three years.
I have kept my commitment to writing. But my corresponding plan does not (from my point of view) seem to be working out. It was a simple plan, really, quite obvious and unoriginal: to become a widely recognized, successful writer, to be able to sustain myself financially with writing, and if possible (dear god/dess) to be on the NYT bestseller list. Would the #1 spot be too much to ask? (And don't think I haven't prayed for that.)
I don't want to go into my publishing history here or anywhere. Suffice it to say that despite the best efforts of my current publisher and my own frankly herculean or sisyphissian (sp?) efforts, my publishing future is uncertain, as is the future of publishing itself. We are all caught up in huge societal changes. I do get that it's not about me. But part of me is still stunned, wondering: what happened to the plan? And if that isn't the plan, what is? And whose plan is it?
Yesterday I felt that question, or the pain that has accompanied it, absorbed into the rocks, drawn up by the warm sun into one of those rare perfectly blue skies. There was a moment when, in the midst of this wild place, we heard sirens in the distance, as if two distinct worlds had overlapped. Maybe that moment stayed with me, because that is my reality. I am alarmed and grieved that my plan hasn't worked and so much has gone wrong in our suffering world, and I am also connected with something ancient and deep that is not alarmed, even though rocks may tumble, huge cracks open, lives and life forms come and go.
When I can let go of my own plan, however reasonable it may be, I sometimes get glimpses of another plan far more intricate and elegant than I could ever have conceived. Maybe it doesn't matter whose plan it is. Maybe plan is too small a word, a four letter word and far from my favorite. There is more to say, but the words aren't coming now. Thanks to my friend Yehoshua for our rich exchange on and with the mountain and to all my combrogos. Tim, I need to dedicate a whole blog to you and our story. I'll close with words from Dwynwyn, one of the crazy old wise women in Magdalen Rising.
"Choose blindly with your eyes open. Walk and whistle in the dark. You're not the whole story, only a part. Even the teller is changed in the telling."
Instead I spent yesterday afternoon climbing a mountain with a new much younger but very wise friend. Many wonderful things happened. We made tobacco offerings to boulders the size of whales. We met a tiny blue-eyed snake who consented to let us hold her or him in our hands. An owl flew over us. Ravens made oracular pronoucements. When we got to the top, vultures and hawks circled above us, their shadows wheeling over a rockface riddled with crevices over thirty feet deep that sent up breaths of cool, damp air.
In the course of four hours or so, we enjoyed long talks and long silences. One of our many ponderings was on commitment. Someone had said to him that if you make a commitment, then a plan emerges. But without a commitment, there is no plan. I thought about my life, some thirty years longer than his, and I realized that I made a commitment to writing at very young age. I was ten when I knew I wanted to write, fifteen when I began a daily writing practice, twenty-two when I began writing novels, which I have been doing now for thirty-three years.
I have kept my commitment to writing. But my corresponding plan does not (from my point of view) seem to be working out. It was a simple plan, really, quite obvious and unoriginal: to become a widely recognized, successful writer, to be able to sustain myself financially with writing, and if possible (dear god/dess) to be on the NYT bestseller list. Would the #1 spot be too much to ask? (And don't think I haven't prayed for that.)
I don't want to go into my publishing history here or anywhere. Suffice it to say that despite the best efforts of my current publisher and my own frankly herculean or sisyphissian (sp?) efforts, my publishing future is uncertain, as is the future of publishing itself. We are all caught up in huge societal changes. I do get that it's not about me. But part of me is still stunned, wondering: what happened to the plan? And if that isn't the plan, what is? And whose plan is it?
Yesterday I felt that question, or the pain that has accompanied it, absorbed into the rocks, drawn up by the warm sun into one of those rare perfectly blue skies. There was a moment when, in the midst of this wild place, we heard sirens in the distance, as if two distinct worlds had overlapped. Maybe that moment stayed with me, because that is my reality. I am alarmed and grieved that my plan hasn't worked and so much has gone wrong in our suffering world, and I am also connected with something ancient and deep that is not alarmed, even though rocks may tumble, huge cracks open, lives and life forms come and go.
When I can let go of my own plan, however reasonable it may be, I sometimes get glimpses of another plan far more intricate and elegant than I could ever have conceived. Maybe it doesn't matter whose plan it is. Maybe plan is too small a word, a four letter word and far from my favorite. There is more to say, but the words aren't coming now. Thanks to my friend Yehoshua for our rich exchange on and with the mountain and to all my combrogos. Tim, I need to dedicate a whole blog to you and our story. I'll close with words from Dwynwyn, one of the crazy old wise women in Magdalen Rising.
"Choose blindly with your eyes open. Walk and whistle in the dark. You're not the whole story, only a part. Even the teller is changed in the telling."
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A Luddite's Summer Vacation
Everyone in my family takes photographs, good photographs. I enjoy seeing their work, what subjects they choose, how they approach them, the effects they achieve. I am sure that walking around with a camera can heighten a person’s power of observation. Photographers are always on the lookout for a picture that way I might be alert for a poem. All my family members have digital cameras now and can do things on the computer with their photographs that I do not even have the vocabulary to describe. As a Luddite, I never even owned a conventional camera.
I spent last week with some of my family on the coast of Maine, the best place to be during an East Coast heat wave. We took many shore walks, clambering up and down rocks, in and out of coves, across pebbled and musseled sandbars to tidal islands. As we walked, everyone but me stopped frequently to photograph dramatic rocks, fantastical arrangements of seaweeds, and, when we finally had some surf, they quested for the curl of the wave, fleeting spume of spray.
Although I respect and will benefit from my family’s art (new computer wall paper on its way) I felt confirmed in my ancient Luddite ways. The camera may evoke but cannot record the sound of the waves, the wind, the sea birds, the scent of low tide and beach roses—or the impact of all those multi-sensory elements on the senses.
In the course of writing The Maeve Chronicles, I have traveled widely doing onsite research. People are always shocked when I tell them I don’t bring a camera. I also rarely take notes. I can find facts and photographs in books or online when I need to. But what I can’t look up is the mood of a place, the way I feel when I am there. Someone once asked me: How do you remember? Without hesitation and without having to think, I answered: with my body.
That is how I find the poems I referred to early. My body alerts me. I know something is there. I pay attention. I absorb whatever it is. But I don’t think about it. I don’t start writing in my mind. It happens later, when I sit down and invite whatever it is to rise again, to take form in words. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t. But the memory is still there in my cells. I will close with two stanzas from a longer poem. I was writing about a strong emotion but it was the sensual memory of a moment that evoked it for me.
I had to stop
pursuing her. I had to
stand still at low tide
with the vanished islands
and the silent
cormorants, opening
their wings one after
another in slow motion
trying to lift the fog
from their feathers
A small memento of a Luddite’s summer vacation. PS: If you can figure out, how to subscribe to this blog, please do! http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
obsession: god
My first memory from the age of three is a theological one. I had worked out a plan (call it an obsessive fantasy) for killing God and Jesus. They would be floating along the desert floor, and, from a pinnacle, I would tip a huge boulder onto them and flatten them. The always boinged back to life (just like Road Runner) so I had to kill them over and over.
I have now spent eighteen years re-writing the New Testament in a series of novels that I believe balance devotion and irreverence. But a friend of mine felt that I had finally succeeded, theologically, in killing off god—or at least orthodox, monotheistic Christianity.
passion: passion
My method for carrying out my obsession is passion. My narrative character is Jesus’s lover. (I became rather fond of him over his years, though I still refer to his father as The Terrible One.) She never becomes his disciple, and she has her own apotheosis. (I like to say that she puts the erection back into resurrection even though it doesn’t quite scan as a pun.)
fixation: writing about religion and sex, obsessively and passionately. They belong between the same covers—of my books.
Blog # 2
Facing the Abyss
A twitter friend answered my request for blog topics with these questions (wording approximate): What makes a good writer? What makes for good writing?
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
A Luddite’s summer vacation
Everyone in my family takes photographs, good photographs. I enjoy seeing their work, what subjects they choose, how they approach them, the effects they achieve. I am sure that walking around with a camera can heighten a person’s power of observation. Photographers are always on the lookout for a picture that way I might be alert for a poem. All my family members have digital cameras now and can do things on the computer with their photographs that I do not even have the vocabulary to describe. As a Luddite, I never even owned a conventional camera.
I spent last week with some of my family on the coast of Maine, the best place to be during an East Coast heat wave. We took many shore walks, clambering up and down rocks, in and out of coves, across pebbled and musseled sandbars to tidal islands. As we walked, everyone but me stopped frequently to photograph dramatic rocks, fantastical arrangements of seaweeds, and, when we finally had some surf, they quested for the curl of the wave, fleeting spume of spray.
Although I respect and will benefit from my family’s art (new computer wall paper on its way) I felt confirmed in my ancient Luddite ways. The camera may evoke but cannot record the sound of the waves, the wind, the sea birds, the scent of low tide and beach roses—or the impact of all those multi-sensory elements on the senses.
In the course of writing The Maeve Chronicles, I have traveled widely doing onsite research. People are always shocked when I tell them I don’t bring a camera. I also rarely take notes. I can find facts and photographs in books or online when I need to. But what I can’t look up is the mood of a place, the way I feel when I am there. Someone once asked me: How do you remember? Without hesitation and without having to think, I answered: with my body.
That is how I find the poems I referred to early. My body alerts me. I know something is there. I pay attention. I absorb whatever it is. But I don’t think about it. I don’t start writing in my mind. It happens later, when I sit down and invite whatever it is to rise again, to take form in words. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t. But the memory is still there in my cells.
I will close with two stanzas from a longer poem. I was writing about a strong emotion but it was the sensual memory of a moment that evoked it for me.
I had to stop
pursuing her. I had to
stand still at low tide
with the vanished
islands and the silent
cormorants, opening
their wings one after
another in slow motion
trying to lift the fog
from their feathers
A small memento of a Luddite’s summer vacation.
PS: If you can figure out, how to subscribe to this blog, please do!
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
I spent last week with some of my family on the coast of Maine, the best place to be during an East Coast heat wave. We took many shore walks, clambering up and down rocks, in and out of coves, across pebbled and musseled sandbars to tidal islands. As we walked, everyone but me stopped frequently to photograph dramatic rocks, fantastical arrangements of seaweeds, and, when we finally had some surf, they quested for the curl of the wave, fleeting spume of spray.
Although I respect and will benefit from my family’s art (new computer wall paper on its way) I felt confirmed in my ancient Luddite ways. The camera may evoke but cannot record the sound of the waves, the wind, the sea birds, the scent of low tide and beach roses—or the impact of all those multi-sensory elements on the senses.
In the course of writing The Maeve Chronicles, I have traveled widely doing onsite research. People are always shocked when I tell them I don’t bring a camera. I also rarely take notes. I can find facts and photographs in books or online when I need to. But what I can’t look up is the mood of a place, the way I feel when I am there. Someone once asked me: How do you remember? Without hesitation and without having to think, I answered: with my body.
That is how I find the poems I referred to early. My body alerts me. I know something is there. I pay attention. I absorb whatever it is. But I don’t think about it. I don’t start writing in my mind. It happens later, when I sit down and invite whatever it is to rise again, to take form in words. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t. But the memory is still there in my cells. I will close with two stanzas from a longer poem. I was writing about a strong emotion but it was the sensual memory of a moment that evoked it for me.
I had to stop
pursuing her. I had to
stand still at low tide
with the vanished islands
and the silent
cormorants, opening
their wings one after
another in slow motion
trying to lift the fog
from their feathers
A small memento of a Luddite’s summer vacation. PS: If you can figure out, how to subscribe to this blog, please do! http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
obsession: god
My first memory from the age of three is a theological one. I had worked out a plan (call it an obsessive fantasy) for killing God and Jesus. They would be floating along the desert floor, and, from a pinnacle, I would tip a huge boulder onto them and flatten them. The always boinged back to life (just like Road Runner) so I had to kill them over and over.
I have now spent eighteen years re-writing the New Testament in a series of novels that I believe balance devotion and irreverence. But a friend of mine felt that I had finally succeeded, theologically, in killing off god—or at least orthodox, monotheistic Christianity.
passion: passion
My method for carrying out my obsession is passion. My narrative character is Jesus’s lover. (I became rather fond of him over his years, though I still refer to his father as The Terrible One.) She never becomes his disciple, and she has her own apotheosis. (I like to say that she puts the erection back into resurrection even though it doesn’t quite scan as a pun.)
fixation: writing about religion and sex, obsessively and passionately. They belong between the same covers—of my books.
Blog # 2
Facing the Abyss
A twitter friend answered my request for blog topics with these questions (wording approximate): What makes a good writer? What makes for good writing?
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
A Luddite’s summer vacation
Everyone in my family takes photographs, good photographs. I enjoy seeing their work, what subjects they choose, how they approach them, the effects they achieve. I am sure that walking around with a camera can heighten a person’s power of observation. Photographers are always on the lookout for a picture that way I might be alert for a poem. All my family members have digital cameras now and can do things on the computer with their photographs that I do not even have the vocabulary to describe. As a Luddite, I never even owned a conventional camera.
I spent last week with some of my family on the coast of Maine, the best place to be during an East Coast heat wave. We took many shore walks, clambering up and down rocks, in and out of coves, across pebbled and musseled sandbars to tidal islands. As we walked, everyone but me stopped frequently to photograph dramatic rocks, fantastical arrangements of seaweeds, and, when we finally had some surf, they quested for the curl of the wave, fleeting spume of spray.
Although I respect and will benefit from my family’s art (new computer wall paper on its way) I felt confirmed in my ancient Luddite ways. The camera may evoke but cannot record the sound of the waves, the wind, the sea birds, the scent of low tide and beach roses—or the impact of all those multi-sensory elements on the senses.
In the course of writing The Maeve Chronicles, I have traveled widely doing onsite research. People are always shocked when I tell them I don’t bring a camera. I also rarely take notes. I can find facts and photographs in books or online when I need to. But what I can’t look up is the mood of a place, the way I feel when I am there. Someone once asked me: How do you remember? Without hesitation and without having to think, I answered: with my body.
That is how I find the poems I referred to early. My body alerts me. I know something is there. I pay attention. I absorb whatever it is. But I don’t think about it. I don’t start writing in my mind. It happens later, when I sit down and invite whatever it is to rise again, to take form in words. Sometimes it will, sometimes it won’t. But the memory is still there in my cells.
I will close with two stanzas from a longer poem. I was writing about a strong emotion but it was the sensual memory of a moment that evoked it for me.
I had to stop
pursuing her. I had to
stand still at low tide
with the vanished
islands and the silent
cormorants, opening
their wings one after
another in slow motion
trying to lift the fog
from their feathers
A small memento of a Luddite’s summer vacation.
PS: If you can figure out, how to subscribe to this blog, please do!
http://www.passionofmarymagdalen.com/
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
Facing the Abyss
A twitter friend answered my request for blog topics with these questions (wording approximate): What makes a good writer? What makes for good writing?
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
A good writer is doubtless sometimes a lousy writer. Writers have bad days, just like everyone else. A good writer persists. A persistent writer faces the blank page day after day, whether on a screen or in a good-old-fashioned notebook. I’ve done both. The awe and terror are the same. The blank page is the freakin’ abyss, the void, the great nothing that contains all. That’s why I named my computer Wu Ji, the beginning posture in Tai Chi Chuan.
So take a breath and make a mess, write the first word, the first page, pages. Pages can be ripped up, backspace and delete can be hit, but you have to actually create your material before you can work with it. And when you’ve honed it and polished it and finished it, your reward is: another blank page. Here are a few scattered thoughts. A good writer is:
always a beginner
a tracker, follows the trail of a story or idea, knows when it’s cold or when it’s challenging
is ruthless, will chuck hours, days, weeks, months of work and start again if necessary
knows when it’s right the first time
is patient and attentive to detail
loves language the way a mechanic loves the engine of a car
is in partnership with work itself, is a co-creator
knows how to listen
delights in being surprised
Blogs are supposed to be short, so I will save the second question for another time. Meanwhile all you writers: Right on, Write on!
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
Friday, August 7, 2009
a luddite's first blog
I wrote a blog yesterday in response to a contest invitation from Redroom.com, a writer's website I seem to belong to but can never figure out how to access. The challenge from Joyce Maynard was to write about obessions, passions, and fixations. I could not figure out how to enter my blog, so I decided to create my own. My first blog follows:
obsession: god
My first memory from the age of three is a theological one. I had worked out a plan (call it an obsessive fantasy) for killing God and Jesus. They would be floating along the desert floor, and, from a pinnacle, I would tip a huge boulder onto them and flatten them. The always boinged back to life (just like Road Runner) so I had to kill them over and over.
I have now spent eighteen years re-writing the New Testament in a series of novels that I believe balance devotion and irreverence. But a friend of mine felt that I had finally succeeded, theologically, in killing off god—or at least orthodox, monotheistic Christianity.
passion: passion
My method for carrying out my obsession is passion. My narrative character is Jesus’s lover. (I became rather fond of him over his years, though I still refer to his father as The Terrible One.) She never becomes his disciple, and she has her own apotheosis. (I like to say that she puts the erection back into resurrection even though it doesn’t quite scan as a pun.)
fixation: writing about religion and sex, obsessively and passionately. They belong between the same covers—of my books.
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
obsession: god
My first memory from the age of three is a theological one. I had worked out a plan (call it an obsessive fantasy) for killing God and Jesus. They would be floating along the desert floor, and, from a pinnacle, I would tip a huge boulder onto them and flatten them. The always boinged back to life (just like Road Runner) so I had to kill them over and over.
I have now spent eighteen years re-writing the New Testament in a series of novels that I believe balance devotion and irreverence. But a friend of mine felt that I had finally succeeded, theologically, in killing off god—or at least orthodox, monotheistic Christianity.
passion: passion
My method for carrying out my obsession is passion. My narrative character is Jesus’s lover. (I became rather fond of him over his years, though I still refer to his father as The Terrible One.) She never becomes his disciple, and she has her own apotheosis. (I like to say that she puts the erection back into resurrection even though it doesn’t quite scan as a pun.)
fixation: writing about religion and sex, obsessively and passionately. They belong between the same covers—of my books.
www.passionofmarymagdalen.com
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