...pass the peace, pt 2: shift happens

There was a funeral

two thousand years ago

that we never forget

It ended with an explosion

of ascendant life.

from Trail of Hope by Charles Van Gorkum

A female mate was hit by a car as she swooped low across the road, and the

condition was soon fatal.

Her mate brought her food and attended her with love and compassion.

He brought her food again, but was shocked to find her dead.

He tried to move her, a rarely seen effort.

Aware that his mate was dead and would never come back to him again,
he cried with adoring love

...and stood beside her with sadness and sorrow.

From the email I received:
The photographer sold these pictures for a nominal fee
to the most famous newspaper in France.
All copies of that edition were sold out on the day
these pictures were published.

A decade ago, when I was told by the 911 operator to get out of my house immediately - out into very unfriendly elements - I had no idea what had just happened. Only that my basement was filling up with swirling, thick, muddy water. When she said "Get out NOW", I wondered what I had ever done to this person on the other end of the line that she would send me out into a raging storm. By the time I ran through the heavy downpour and cloud-to-ground lightning to my car, the firemen had arrived. They yelled for me to get up my driveway NOW. There was that word again. I was up and out in a flash but, during that short drive, time ceased to exist for me. How surreal to pass the corner of the house and see light where none should be.The song, "His Eye is on the Sparrow", began to play in my mind and calm settled over me. In that moment, nothing, not even death, held sway over me. Later I would hyperventilate again. But not in that pre-dawn flight from disaster. 

I've thought about my short drive many times in the intervening years. That morning was the culmination of a year that began with the events of 9/11. I met with hospice three hours after the attack and my mother died three days later. Nine months later, my husband died. Three months after that, the house collapsed. I recall watching the endless coverage in the days following 9/11 and asking, "Will war solve anything?" An enemy who wanted nothing from us except our extinction had spoken. An enemy who can, if not through physical attack but by sheer numbers at the polls, overwhelm. I still ask that question. Having been stripped of control, vulnerable...I learned that powerlessness doesn't kill.

Those in power, beware: shift happens. Kings and kingdoms shall all pass away. And so shall I...every fallible cell of me will cease to function one day. Could be today. I don't know. No guarantees. But ascendent life exploded after a funeral two thousand years ago. And that life calls me to love my neighbors as I love myself: "NOW". That word again. Whatever happens along the way, I have countless choices,  a multitude of chances, to do the next right thing. I have missed too many. Note to self: Celeste, you are made in the image of radical love...keep your eyes on the sparrows. Even the pesky ones. And leave some decent ripples.

...pass the peace, please

Desiderata  [from the Latin meaning "things to be desired"]

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. 

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. 

Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

― Max Ehrmann, Desiderata: A Poem for a Way of Life

The year was 1971.  Home was a fifth-floor dorm room in South Myers at the University of Georgia. Pre-renovation. Five flights of stairs, no air-conditioning, two twin beds, a pair of small closets, a desk, an illegal popcorn popper good for heating soup and a Mateus bottle/candle holder (illegal on several counts) covered with decoupaged quotes and waxen drips.  

The poster above my bed was also standard issue for the times that were a'changin': Desiderata by Max Ehrmann, written in 1927. An obscure piece, the poem gained a degree of fame in 1965. According to the Wiki, "when Adlai Stevenson died in 1965, a guest in his home found the Desiderata near his bedside and discovered that Sevenson had planned to use it in his Christmas cards." 

Leonard Nimoy and Les Crane produced spoken word recordings of the poem. Both changed the line "Be cheerful" to "Be careful"...a sign of the times. Another measure of the poem's popularity in the Seventies: National Lampoon produced a parody called Deteriorata.

During this period, I also had purple bellbottoms and a borrowed mini-skirt. Illegal on all counts back home, the brown tweed a-line bordered on micro since my roommate was a good four inches shorter than I. The University of Georgia in the seventies was hardly a hotbed of controversy. Unless one counts the infamous parachuting streaker who landed on campus sans everything but boots and chute. HIs alleged response: "Ouch!" My mother called in a panic once after a report about campus demonstrations ran on a national news program. I assured her that no riotous conditions existed. Just some frat boys annoyed by the Hare Krishna's efforts to elevate Greek consciousness. The scandalous scuttlebutt: someone from the press handed placards to the brothers (frat, that is) and offered to buy beer if they would walk around in a circle behind the broadcaster in a staged protest against the war. The response: "No" (preceded by a pithy expletive, according to lore, first cousin to the afore-mentioned scuttlebutt). 

This was the era of Vietnam, the first televised war: surreal images of death and destruction were the backdrop of dinnertime conversation. Young boys fresh out of high school were the first to go to the steamy jungles of Southeast Asia. They were later joined by those beer-swilling, poker-playing college boys who were drafted - later "lotteried" - after graduation. And when they all came home, no bands played. My Marine brother-in-law told of garbage dumped by peace protesters on his ship (and consequently upon the men on deck) as it returned beneath the Golden Gate Bridge. How sad that an action in response to violence became violent. No bullets. Not a one. But the chants and slime that rained down upon those soldiers killed their spirits, stripped them of homecoming, stripped many of hope. They left Agent Orange only to return to misguided agents of peace armed with rotten oranges and insults.

Bill, a registered physical therapist, was sent post-college not to Vietnam but, after training, to a hospital in Germany...in charge of a ward filled with anywhere from two hundred to four hundred men with spinal chord injuries. He hates war. How could any sane human being not despise it? But he cares deeply for those who go to that place we'd rather not see too clearly.

Rewind, then fast-forward. A dorm room poster. John Lennon's Give Peace a Chance. Followed by another war. And another. Instead of ordering young men and women to "aim and shoot", couldn't we at least aim high? I've quoted my friend, the other Bill, twice already in my posts...this friend who went to Vietnam, who paid the price to speak these words. Here we go again: 

As I travel all over the world to places as wealthy as Monaco or as poor as rural India, I find one recurring theme irrespective of religion, culture, education level or standard of living.  Just as a shake of the head means “No” anywhere on the planet, people simply want to live in peace...to provide for and raise their families, to enjoy social interactions.  It’s the same everywhere.  Only the crazies want to destroy others.  Only the desperate turn to violence to make a statement.  Almost everywhere that there is tolerance, there is peace.

The starting place is within. From the Dalai Lama:  The question of real, lasting peace corcerns human beings, so basic human feelings are also at its roots. Through inner peace, genuine world peace can be achieved. In this the importance of individual responsibility is quite clear; an atmosphere of peace must first be created within ourselves, then gradually expanded to include our families, our communities, and ultimately the whole planet. 

The seeds were planted long ago...praying for the harvest.

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. John 14:27

...tell a teacher "thank-you"

At times our own light goes out and is rekindled by a spark from another person. 

Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.

Albert Schweitzer

Since 2002 I've made several moves. If you've read my posts, you know that, once, a house moved from beneath me during a storm. Through the kindness of neighbors and strangers, mud and sewage-coated belongings that could be rescued were drug from the sludge. Frankly, I was grateful some could not be removed. 'Less is more" has never been more appreciated.

From house to apartment to rental condo (hot water never worked) to rental condo (decided I should buy) to purchased condo (now rented) to a sailboat, then to another condo...this time, with Bill, in northern California. With each move, a letting go; sometimes a losing...or two or three. And with each move, gratitude that I have less stuff. 

Before the move to California, I sorted through most of my things but did not have time to sift, scan and organize paperwork that was filed away. This has occupied my time in recent weeks. Last week I opened a large envelope and found a surprise: six folded themes, each with two grades, one above the other: style over content. Written in 1969, they are yellow with age. Along with these, my seventh grade English grammar notebook. Tucked inside this, I found a paper written in tenth grade. My treasures.

The notebook was compiled in Mrs. Afdahl's class. In her class, I first learned that President Kennedy had been shot. And encountered the mother lode of grammar rules. The paper was written in Mr. Barr's tenth grade class. We were assigned a research paper on a Georgia author of our choosing. I had read Flannery O'Connor's short story "Everything That Rises Must Converge" during my thirteenth summer.

I came of age in the South during the Civil Rights era. This seminal time in America's history united those willing to grow but threatened people indisposed to change. Black leaders, writers and activists such as Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., James Baldwin and Malcolm X addressed the anger, the sorrow, the hope of their communities. It was, however, a tale of two women and one hat - a story of racial prejudice and ignorance - by Miss O'Connor that resonated with a young white girl.

The terms of our term paper included no encyclopedias. We were to contact our author if possible. Delve into the Georgia Archives for the papers and letters of long-deceased writers. Write to the peers of recently deceased authors. I had the great privilege to correspond with the late Miss O'Connor's mother. Beautiful Kitty Kellam from my mother's garden club was Flannery's childhood best friend. Mrs. Kellam allowed me to interview her for an oral history. The experience was life-changing for me. 

I was empowered to make deferential requests and to ask questions that encouraged critical thinking. I was awed by the generosity of the famous and not-so-famous alike. One of my classmates, Bill Sewell, wrote to novelist and poet, Conrad Aiken, a Pulitzer Prize winner. He was rewarded with an invitation to the writer's Savannah townhouse. The two talked there by the fire, then continued the conversation as they walked the beaches of Tybee Island.  

Mrs. Frances Powell taught me Literature during my junior and senior years. This last sentence is deceptively under-stated. Mrs. Powell challenged, prodded, inspired. Among other verbs. She was a friend outside the classroom, a fact that gave me no advantage in school. If anything, she worked me harder. We got the silly giggles when we climbed a ladder to pick pears at her house in the country and later had long, adult conversations over peanut butter pie in the breakfast room of her house on Pine Forest Circle. For decades she was my confidante. Alzheimer's claimed her incredible mind but I had the privilege of one last visit with her before the illness carried her into the fog. 

As an adult, I would sit with Mr. and Mrs. Powell at church when I returned to Dublin for visits. (I loved him, too.) The above-mentioned Dr. Barr was minister of music so I also saw him and his delightful wife, Lois. On one Sunday morning visit, Mrs. Powell didn't recognize me when I approached. I stepped back, sat on another pew...and wept. She was so near, yet so far away. I wasn't ready to let go. An hour later, during lunch, the phone rang. My late husband answered in his mother's kitchen, then called to me, "You're going to want to take this one."

"Celeste, this is Frances Powell. Jack tells me you were at church and didn't sit with us. You have some explaining to do so come on over now." 

I obeyed and, for the next four priceless hours, had my last conversation with this woman I loved. Multitudes loved her dearly and all had that love returned in spades over the years. I am eternally grateful for our last afternoon together. At the end of the conversation, she stood - shoulders back, chin up - and placed her hands on my shoulders. The end of our afternoon will remain private and precious. I will say that I have kept a promise I made to her that day. I keep it every time I post a blog. I will write, Mrs. Powell, until I can no longer peck at a keyboard or grip a pen. Or dictate.

All of you have had a teacher - or several - who made a difference. Please tell them. In writing. Make a little effort for someone who worked hard for low pay to change the world, one student at a time. Do it now. If they are no longer present, then pass the love forward.  Others loom large in my life. Mr. Wooddy, my math and drama teacher, is a story for another day. As are my two P.E. teachers, Mrs. Tanzine and Paula Raymer. God bless them...what a thankless task this pair had everytime I walked onto the basketball court. The list of teachers I love - not all had degrees or a job title - is long. 

When our class studied Keats' Ode to a Nightingale, Mrs. Powell said, "Before I die, I want to visit England and hear the nightingales." To my knowledge, she never made that journey. All during her protracted illness, I prayed the same prayer every night: please send into her silence a nightingale's song. 

I have no idea where my mother's cloisonne Sheffield steak knives ended up a decade ago. Or what happened to a set of my fine china. Clothes and cookbooks have gone by the wayside. But six themes, a paper, and a grammar notebook have never left my side. Literally. 

I am rich.