WHAT IS BEING BORN NOW?
Life springs out of death. It is a truism, and as a 74 year-old woman, I contemplate this frequently, wishing we had a cemetery that accepted Green Burials. I like the idea of being wrapped in a simple shroud (should be linen...), carefully placed in a hole in the ground, and then covered with dirt again. A tree could grow where I was planted, a place where birds would light and sing, perhaps even build nests. That makes sense to me. It feels right within my bones.
But aside from looking at my own demise--I want to think about what is being born during the pandemic of Covid-19, during this time of isolation and lockdown. What is coming forth in me?
Optimism is the cheery world-view that things will work out in the end. I am often optimistic, but not so much now. Hope is the belief that no matter what happens, all will be well in the end. Because it is God's world, not ours. This is a good time to go back to the inspiring and hopeful woman of the 13th-14th century, Julian of Norwich, who wrote, "All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
Lest you think Julian a wild-eyed optimist, she was alive during the Black Plague, at a time of wars and displacement, hunger, disease and all manner of trials. But she always saw the larger context, the world being in God's hands.
When things don't go the way I want--and that is often the case now ("Where is my can of tomatoes? How come we are out of spaghetti? The spinach has wilted! Argh!")--I find a new well of patience when I contemplate the horrifying numbers of dead just in our country from the virus, close to 160,000 now and probably greater. What is a can of tomatoes compared to this? What is my momentary frustration in light of this nation and world of mourning? I hold onto this new form of patience inside.
When the world is too much with me, I make tea (milk and a heaping spoon of sugar with 2 Stash Earl Grey tea bags), I sit on the couch, seeing the flocks of birds at our feeders and just feel a trickle of joy looking at them: the red-bellied woodpecker with his or her huge beak, plunging it into our suet, then ratcheting off to the maple tree to savor the large hunk; the chickadees bathing in our ancient frying pan full of water, the handle being a good place for perching birds; hummingbirds zooming back and forth, drinking nectar, then whizzing off again. The female is so afraid of the bullying male(s) that she doesn't even perch; she sips while whirring her wings, so she can have a head start on escaping. I feel for her.
I have always loved birds, but in this time of isolation this love is stronger, deeper, and it connects me back to my parents who also adored birds. My dad's fascination with birdlife got passed on to my amazing step-brother, Mario Cohn-haft, an ornithologist living in Manaus, Brazil with his Brazilian wife, Rita, also a scientist and ornithologist. They both are doing all they can to support wildlife. This gives me hope when I think of their shared dedication and soulful work. I find that my joy in wildlife is deeper, stronger now with fewer distractions in my life.
Those who know me know I am a passionate gardener, as well as a passionate cook. Somehow this year, despite some wobbliness in my mobility and needing to take a tall walking stick with me so I don't fall on my face each time I go out to weed, water, transplant, and plant in my raised beds, my heart sings. I contemplate the new perennial extension for pollinators I managed to dig and fertilize, watching a hummingbird zoom in to sip from the Nepata and feeling a sense of victory. The world is terribly broken now but by God, I can provide food for the hummers.
In the Diego garden as I call it, after this hard-working farmer who runs the Song Sparrow Farm in Florence, and who built the 9' fence to foil leaping deer, I found myself kneeling (yes, kneeling on the new knee! Who cares if I had to pop one of the last 1/2 vicodins afterwards?) and digging out errant strawberry plants which had rooted through the weed cloth barrier. Then I set them in bare spots in the raised strawberry bed, digging in compost and organic fertilizer. It is hard to convey the pleasure this brought me if you aren't a gardener. The green plants with white blossoms, promising harvest in days to come, felt like small babies of mine which I had just nursed and burped on my shoulder. (And how I thank God for my two grown "kids" now, and the wonder of their small beginnings so long ago.)
Ah, this is another thing I have noticed during lockdown--a trail of memories which comes into my mind at odd times. It is almost as if my brain is clearer, less cluttered now, and what has gone before in my life is present to me in new, more vivid ways. Examples: when watching "Call the Midwife" recently, one of the nurses spread her sweater over her dying grandmother, who complained of being cold. This hooked the memory of my taking off my Afghan embroidered sheepskin coat and spreading it over my mother on the gurney, as she was being taken to the end of her life in 1972 in hospital. When I weed the garden, I clearly see my wonderful father with his strapped-on kneeling pads, plucking out grass and other invasive plants in his large veggie garden. When I put binoculars to my eyes, hoping to identify an elusive warbler, I see my mother looking through her glasses and exclaiming, "It's the Chestnut-sided Warbler, Annie!" A gift, indeed.
I have written more about what is being born in our country in my previous 2 posts, dealing with my own racism and white privilege. And how I take heart from the Black Lives Matter movement. I do not think it will go away. I am holding to the hope that once Potus and his corrupt crew are gone from office and Biden and his crew of experts come in, that real change will occur in our country. Slowly, yes. With a lot of pushing back against it, yes. But I remain hopeful, as Julian of Norwich did in her small, stone cell centuries ago.
But aside from looking at my own demise--I want to think about what is being born during the pandemic of Covid-19, during this time of isolation and lockdown. What is coming forth in me?
As the months have gone by (I've essentially been in lockdown since knee surgery, Feb. 24th) I find myself hurtling between frustration, anger, a sense of doom, and then patience--deep breathing--a feeling of God holding me up, providing firm ground I can stand on. I said to my better half last night, "You know, I am not afraid of dying. Truly. As I know I will be going home to God, my first home." Not fearing the future is a wonderful gift to find during this time.
He replied, "That's what we say at the end of the Creed--'I look forward to the Resurrection of the dead and the life in the world to come.'" Those words strengthen and give me hope. I can pull myself up on this rope from whatever slough of despond I might be in. And just to remind ourselves, hope is not the same as optimism.
He replied, "That's what we say at the end of the Creed--'I look forward to the Resurrection of the dead and the life in the world to come.'" Those words strengthen and give me hope. I can pull myself up on this rope from whatever slough of despond I might be in. And just to remind ourselves, hope is not the same as optimism.
Optimism is the cheery world-view that things will work out in the end. I am often optimistic, but not so much now. Hope is the belief that no matter what happens, all will be well in the end. Because it is God's world, not ours. This is a good time to go back to the inspiring and hopeful woman of the 13th-14th century, Julian of Norwich, who wrote, "All shall be well, all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well."
Lest you think Julian a wild-eyed optimist, she was alive during the Black Plague, at a time of wars and displacement, hunger, disease and all manner of trials. But she always saw the larger context, the world being in God's hands.
When things don't go the way I want--and that is often the case now ("Where is my can of tomatoes? How come we are out of spaghetti? The spinach has wilted! Argh!")--I find a new well of patience when I contemplate the horrifying numbers of dead just in our country from the virus, close to 160,000 now and probably greater. What is a can of tomatoes compared to this? What is my momentary frustration in light of this nation and world of mourning? I hold onto this new form of patience inside.
When the world is too much with me, I make tea (milk and a heaping spoon of sugar with 2 Stash Earl Grey tea bags), I sit on the couch, seeing the flocks of birds at our feeders and just feel a trickle of joy looking at them: the red-bellied woodpecker with his or her huge beak, plunging it into our suet, then ratcheting off to the maple tree to savor the large hunk; the chickadees bathing in our ancient frying pan full of water, the handle being a good place for perching birds; hummingbirds zooming back and forth, drinking nectar, then whizzing off again. The female is so afraid of the bullying male(s) that she doesn't even perch; she sips while whirring her wings, so she can have a head start on escaping. I feel for her.
I have always loved birds, but in this time of isolation this love is stronger, deeper, and it connects me back to my parents who also adored birds. My dad's fascination with birdlife got passed on to my amazing step-brother, Mario Cohn-haft, an ornithologist living in Manaus, Brazil with his Brazilian wife, Rita, also a scientist and ornithologist. They both are doing all they can to support wildlife. This gives me hope when I think of their shared dedication and soulful work. I find that my joy in wildlife is deeper, stronger now with fewer distractions in my life.
Those who know me know I am a passionate gardener, as well as a passionate cook. Somehow this year, despite some wobbliness in my mobility and needing to take a tall walking stick with me so I don't fall on my face each time I go out to weed, water, transplant, and plant in my raised beds, my heart sings. I contemplate the new perennial extension for pollinators I managed to dig and fertilize, watching a hummingbird zoom in to sip from the Nepata and feeling a sense of victory. The world is terribly broken now but by God, I can provide food for the hummers.
In the Diego garden as I call it, after this hard-working farmer who runs the Song Sparrow Farm in Florence, and who built the 9' fence to foil leaping deer, I found myself kneeling (yes, kneeling on the new knee! Who cares if I had to pop one of the last 1/2 vicodins afterwards?) and digging out errant strawberry plants which had rooted through the weed cloth barrier. Then I set them in bare spots in the raised strawberry bed, digging in compost and organic fertilizer. It is hard to convey the pleasure this brought me if you aren't a gardener. The green plants with white blossoms, promising harvest in days to come, felt like small babies of mine which I had just nursed and burped on my shoulder. (And how I thank God for my two grown "kids" now, and the wonder of their small beginnings so long ago.)
Ah, this is another thing I have noticed during lockdown--a trail of memories which comes into my mind at odd times. It is almost as if my brain is clearer, less cluttered now, and what has gone before in my life is present to me in new, more vivid ways. Examples: when watching "Call the Midwife" recently, one of the nurses spread her sweater over her dying grandmother, who complained of being cold. This hooked the memory of my taking off my Afghan embroidered sheepskin coat and spreading it over my mother on the gurney, as she was being taken to the end of her life in 1972 in hospital. When I weed the garden, I clearly see my wonderful father with his strapped-on kneeling pads, plucking out grass and other invasive plants in his large veggie garden. When I put binoculars to my eyes, hoping to identify an elusive warbler, I see my mother looking through her glasses and exclaiming, "It's the Chestnut-sided Warbler, Annie!" A gift, indeed.
I have written more about what is being born in our country in my previous 2 posts, dealing with my own racism and white privilege. And how I take heart from the Black Lives Matter movement. I do not think it will go away. I am holding to the hope that once Potus and his corrupt crew are gone from office and Biden and his crew of experts come in, that real change will occur in our country. Slowly, yes. With a lot of pushing back against it, yes. But I remain hopeful, as Julian of Norwich did in her small, stone cell centuries ago.
Fabulous, Annie!
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