WHEN LOST, GO BACK TO THE BEGINNING

     It feels as if we have lost our way as a country and have forgotten our beginnings, where the founding fathers put in place some astonishing documents to protect democracy. (I know, it did not include everyone.) And some times I feel as if I, too, have lost my way in these dark times. But this will be a hopeful blog, so hang on!
    
     I once read that when we don't know where we are going or cannot find the way, go back to the beginning. This stuck in my mind as a piece of good wisdom, almost like something from Proverbs. I am going to go back to my happy childhood to see what I can glean from it to help me move forward and not give in to hopelessness.

     In 1953 our family of 5 moved from Great-Grandfather Seelye's big house in Northampton to a 1756 Colonial in Williamsburg with 11 acres. My two brothers and I were beyond excited to run through the meadows, explore the woods, and swing on grape vines over a small stream. There were even 2 barns with a few chicken feathers, as a prior owner had farmed chickens.

     One barn had a slate roof down which the 3 of us slid, ripping our shorts and jeans occasionally. My dear mom never seemed to mind terribly. She might have minded had she known how close we came to tumbling off the roof onto the ground below. 

But this was in the days before "helicopter parenting," thank God.  We had such freedom, such delight in the natural world. Lesson #1: Stop being afraid. Race down hills, or maybe hobble down hills; go barefoot in the woods.

     1/ If I am going back to the beginning, I must remember what the path in the woods felt like beneath my feet; what it was like to slide down a steep hill head first with no thought of danger; and what it was like to scroodge into the egg hatching machine in the barn and have my brothers crank me round and round. Utter delight. When did I become afraid of hurting myself?  

     We were a musical family. My older brother and Dad played the cello, Peter the flute, I the violin, and my mom, the piano. I don't remember the actual music, although I suspect it was from the famous 1945 book of folksongs. I do recall the sheer delight of being together and playing music. It didn't matter if anyone played a false note; we were together making sound, and hopefully, we all finished at the same time. Lesson #2: I need to stop being afraid of playing false notes, of always being right.

     2/ I think it's time I took my violin out from under the bed where it has lain since before cancer. I have music, some Irish jigs, folk music, and a bit of Bach. I will not worry about how good I sound but just take delight in having sounds float out from my instrument.

     When it rained, we took out board games and packs of cards to play "War," "Canasta," and "Michigan Rummy," which Dad taught us, being a fly card sharp. During the Depression when he was poor and at Yale, he used to hustle Bridge games with rich kids and made a bunch of money, as the MENSA dude he was. Lesson #3: we didn't expect to be amused by something outside of the family or house. We did things together, even if we wound up fighting on the floor, pieces flying with "Sorry." Lesson # 3: get out the board games and puzzles, set up a table by the fireplace and play games.

     3/ I am putting my iPad down more at night and in the morning to read books on paper and magazines.  I plan on getting back into "The Reed of God," by my favorite Carole Houselander, a British mystic. At hand I have my new, "Whence and Whither," by the marvelous writer, poet, and mortician, Thomas Lynch. Social media is ruining my mind. It does not feel interactive, as if my brain (and soul) were not getting fired up.

     Every single night in memory we three kids got into our ski pajamas and lay down on the living room rug where Dad read aloud to us from our favorite books: Laura Ingalls Wilder, "Half Magic" by Eager, "The Blue Dragon," the Narnia books, and many others. It was a perfect end to a day of busyness, school, running around outside, and probably fighting. Lesson #4: Hearing words out loud does something to our neurons; it calms us, sends peace into our hearts.

     4/ I have wonderful nature books by Gayle Boss to read aloud to my honey, though I do this in the morning not at night when we are tired. This is a fine way to begin the day, rather like reading Scripture. Her words remind me of the incarnation and the sacred nature of creation.

     More of my childhood history and values would include: how my dad organized a ship builders' union back in the Depression; 

how my folks had kids to stay with us from the inner city in the summer; how my dad always loaned money to people in need; how Dad wept when he had to let one of his workers go in his print shop; and how my parents took in an African-American teen when his mom lost her apartment. I remember many of us sitting under our butternut tree reading "The Catonsville 9" with Francis Crowe back in the day. This is simply to say: my parents cared about social justice; they looked out for the marginalized; and they worked for a better world with spirit and humor.  Lesson #5: I need to remember who I am and where I came from, that social justice is knit into the bones of my body.

     When the time comes to shuffle off my mortal coil, and I am standing before the pearly gates, I hope that God will receive me with the same ebullient hug that God surely lavished on my dear parents. Can somebody say Amen?