tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-37147097542612768882024-03-05T02:28:30.947-05:00Joan Soble: So Already . . . A Blog about Moving Forward, Paying Attention, & Staying ConnectedJoan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.comBlogger267125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-32717990075673944772024-02-13T13:42:00.005-05:002024-02-13T16:17:42.130-05:00Circling for Campus Community<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So already, as a mid-1970s Harvard-Radcliffe student, I lived in Quincy House*, and I've been thinking about it a lot since October 7 when events in Israel and Gaza created grave tensions among Harvard students and members of other groups and communities on other college campuses, across the USA, and in Israel and other countries.</span></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVJnOd12sfxCYQ7csD4YKWKxArE_Hqbn3ORncuZiQXNu42C0Ls7Go_-3XgjAQdPZXU6DaPEQ8VAHVBsU32IzxHizctImtPIKMgYC0pNfQKZU6xWLh5PB4whn-HBcvBs-orAZpC5pwvbSK2RK8JaDRmUPhhRCdQSVpGIbDHywz6XbexqPUApgo8ghJY-jk/s674/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%2011.01.52%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="396" data-original-width="674" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCVJnOd12sfxCYQ7csD4YKWKxArE_Hqbn3ORncuZiQXNu42C0Ls7Go_-3XgjAQdPZXU6DaPEQ8VAHVBsU32IzxHizctImtPIKMgYC0pNfQKZU6xWLh5PB4whn-HBcvBs-orAZpC5pwvbSK2RK8JaDRmUPhhRCdQSVpGIbDHywz6XbexqPUApgo8ghJY-jk/w400-h235/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%2011.01.52%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Of late, the national news hasn't been saying much about what's been happening among students on those tense campuses. <br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">From my perspective, Quincy House in my day was a friendly--or at least friendly enough--house, despite the social jockeying and pursuit of individual goals that were bound to be in evidence at a place like Harvard. Many of us who lived there said hello or otherwise acknowledged one another upon coming face-to-face in the courtyard, the elevator in the eight-story "new Quincy," and the dining hall. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlBEIjMKj_I3dkPEOwQ5oxKVp1Lrji16ro-Xoii_OP_3RxIC-S5oskkQ5HtAmRHkiKLg0WQNU9gXm-u_qkxt9KSm9poNzP2XnYfY97Xp9LUAKmjrS9rTgK1CbSRJEL_RHoXUnK86ChD10N95anYhJiO2s5tZ6TAU_IpFucZQjGUR-loyrXrOVwtn3heV_/s978/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%2011.55.52%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="333" data-original-width="978" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxlBEIjMKj_I3dkPEOwQ5oxKVp1Lrji16ro-Xoii_OP_3RxIC-S5oskkQ5HtAmRHkiKLg0WQNU9gXm-u_qkxt9KSm9poNzP2XnYfY97Xp9LUAKmjrS9rTgK1CbSRJEL_RHoXUnK86ChD10N95anYhJiO2s5tZ6TAU_IpFucZQjGUR-loyrXrOVwtn3heV_/w500-h170/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%2011.55.52%20AM.png" width="500" /></a></div>More importantly, on those occasions when each of us went alone to the dining hall, we could sit down with people with whom we usually didn't eat--and sometimes didn't know--and expect to be welcomed and included in the conversation. There was a common understanding that the dining hall belonged to all of us.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">This made Quincy House different from some other Harvard houses. I knew from some friends that there were dining halls where established friendship groups who ate dinner together every night were less inclined to be welcoming of "outsiders." Some people I knew even skipped meals rather than go to their house dining halls alone.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Even back then, I had several thoughts about what made Quincy House "different." Most important was the physical design of the house itself, a fenced-in compound containing old and new buildings accessible only through a single gate. Since we all had to pass through that same gate to leave and enter, we regularly came face-to-face with one another--and minimally couldn't avoid knowing one another by sight. In addition</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">, the compound's central courtyard was a common gathering and stopping place that naturally supported breezy conversation on beautiful fall and spring afternoons.</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">There was also the social-cultural reality of Quincy House. Because it was a relatively new house, it hadn't yet developed the reputation for being the house of choice for particular types of students--such as classical musicians, aspiring journalists, varsity athletes, theater people and other artists, political activists--although it had gained attention for its space club and wine cellar. So its residents were relatively diverse in their interests and lifestyles.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4gP_Js5MpSRQhFYsFT5wVOb536XWfCNf2p0w1IistuEvF4pRNwzw1J0FE3y5lfSUeFlOXpQDVhnBSY07eBdWdVPU-Y-DvnVUipDyDbn-dSl0QaAg4B0VhlAKVkd-tw7gwwxNxiSuQgOfcSKdW0LCGsqPCVPTqTS4ag1vXObla9gdqhiXkqjFm89UmFKCp" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="540" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEi4gP_Js5MpSRQhFYsFT5wVOb536XWfCNf2p0w1IistuEvF4pRNwzw1J0FE3y5lfSUeFlOXpQDVhnBSY07eBdWdVPU-Y-DvnVUipDyDbn-dSl0QaAg4B0VhlAKVkd-tw7gwwxNxiSuQgOfcSKdW0LCGsqPCVPTqTS4ag1vXObla9gdqhiXkqjFm89UmFKCp=w400-h226" width="400" /></a></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In addition, it was less apt to be selected by students drawn to the traditional, iconic red-brick-and-wood-paneled Harvard and by those wanting to live where their fathers and other relatives had lived as undergraduates. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Though some assigned to Quincy House would have preferred assignment to those older houses, others chose it because it <i>wasn't </i>the old, traditional Harvard and/or they were not legacy students--which is not to say they felt adequately comfortable, visible, and culturally seen and understood as Quincy House residents. I know for a fact that I experienced Quincy House as friendlier and more comfortable than some of them did.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So why am I writing about this now? Because I'm wondering how we mid-1970s Quincy House residents would have acted and reacted had we been confronted by the events on and after October 7 in Israel, Gaza, and Washington D.C., and on the Harvard campus. Would
our House community have fractured and broken down? Would each of us
have stopped talking to or even making eye contact with those around us
whose views we knew--or suspected--differed from our own--and whose
palpable pain was rooted in lived experiences and world views different from
our own?</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIF5tC-2OavXE2lsFob_zh8NJUvVPaVHfkg24jftsogxStCvKm0hNBX_7a6jZ4YYNymX5mK_iVVjLsXCAl9SRUlXTmo12riwDGXgqj8NbVLlleQyLpTEp_uqhsK8f1eBBg-zXqUCMLd4QlLtM-zV4djNpwr5nzc8XH_owH3SOzl_K2AYJ_wgBu0cdRbYJ/s600/Screen%20Shot%202015-02-15%20at%207.21.16%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="388" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEIF5tC-2OavXE2lsFob_zh8NJUvVPaVHfkg24jftsogxStCvKm0hNBX_7a6jZ4YYNymX5mK_iVVjLsXCAl9SRUlXTmo12riwDGXgqj8NbVLlleQyLpTEp_uqhsK8f1eBBg-zXqUCMLd4QlLtM-zV4djNpwr5nzc8XH_owH3SOzl_K2AYJ_wgBu0cdRbYJ/w259-h400/Screen%20Shot%202015-02-15%20at%207.21.16%20AM.png" width="259" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In the weeks since October 7, I have been involved in some painfully difficult conversations with some old Harvard friends. I deliberately used the word "painfully" in the preceding sentence because, as the only Jewish participant in one of those conversation groups, I've felt deeply disturbed by**** the fact that many in the group have been most concerned about the Harvard brand and Harvard's reputation as intellectually rigorous--and seemingly unconcerned about the widely reported on-campus expressions of antisemitism and other types of hatred and bias. Antisemitism anywhere concerns me.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">To the credit of our group, we've agreed not let our robust differences tear us apart. Still, I didn't find it easy to send the email in which I explained that</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> I viewed Harvard first and foremost as a school and wanted Claudine Gay to remain at its helm, so, as someone publicly and transparently continuing to learn and grow, she could lead and support others living and learning at Harvard to navigate this perilous campus, national, and world moment. </span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Over the last weeks, I have continued to worry about the undergraduates, even though their daily experience has ceased to be of interest to the national press. How have the students been managing to live side-by-side, face-to-face, and day-to-day in the company of those</span></span></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they hate and/or by whom they feel hated, </span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they fear and/or in whom their words and actions have created fear, </span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they believe deserve annihilation and/or by whom they fear being annihilated, </span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they believe not only cannot understand their experiences and those of people like them, but belong to the groups responsible for their feelings, </span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they hold responsible for the ongoing violence, injustice, and inhumanity in Israel and Gaza,<br /></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">whom they no longer feel they know--and/or wonder if they ever knew? </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></li></ul><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7HILUZT_oakx8A3AHcyFoLyJxflKuWhF7BonIJ9XXkcUKlHJIhA_Kks3B30Li_MqegkXisGsRWzmrxGNoolarYeLQaktbPwOD5qO0ydaXUXEcw-3NHs6uvkH3Fz-Hv61ZsymVGQJ3_ciYfbIL2MenBNLXdX1ahzp1LBZ2tq9X-7TbRtgU9J0RdM7bI0m/s690/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%205.05.47%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="519" data-original-width="690" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW7HILUZT_oakx8A3AHcyFoLyJxflKuWhF7BonIJ9XXkcUKlHJIhA_Kks3B30Li_MqegkXisGsRWzmrxGNoolarYeLQaktbPwOD5qO0ydaXUXEcw-3NHs6uvkH3Fz-Hv61ZsymVGQJ3_ciYfbIL2MenBNLXdX1ahzp1LBZ2tq9X-7TbRtgU9J0RdM7bI0m/w400-h301/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%205.05.47%20PM.png" width="400" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">That last question may be even more important than any of the others, even though it's personal and emotional. In my experience as an educator, it's always first and foremost about people and relationships. </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">As I've read articles and listened to cable news, I've heard questions about what is being and should be taught in history and political science courses to help students make sense of this historical moment and prepare them to engage in informed, respectful debate about causes and next steps. But I don't think what's happened on campus is only an intellectual or pedagogical problem.*****</span></span></span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Consequently, I've been thinking for weeks that the work of rebuilding safe, respectful community should happen in dormitories and dining halls, the emotional spaces of collegiate life, the places where individuals can't avoid coming face-to-face with the very people who may be angering and frightening them, and by whom they may be feeling betrayed, unseen, stereotyped, or misunderstood.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqqEFfJ5fXIr3Mun3TMlp3YFpMlf04hTp6_ES10bjKPWF8E4dnYJ5eW919O67ixZbUH46C0s08An_9Im_igrmsC8-Wt3osTe4XzBRRDhWlGHBx6QiCwM8LyGET1LcmHuV_ivCnfDQg1kY_tL4QIPBbWUi0LcA0E7Qp_Yk8f4ccv80jRMhXWfp7-onZNWr/s4032/zsfa3semSWGxLYbvDGOieA.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYqqEFfJ5fXIr3Mun3TMlp3YFpMlf04hTp6_ES10bjKPWF8E4dnYJ5eW919O67ixZbUH46C0s08An_9Im_igrmsC8-Wt3osTe4XzBRRDhWlGHBx6QiCwM8LyGET1LcmHuV_ivCnfDQg1kY_tL4QIPBbWUi0LcA0E7Qp_Yk8f4ccv80jRMhXWfp7-onZNWr/s320/zsfa3semSWGxLYbvDGOieA.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>But until this weekend--when I read Rabbi Sharon Brous's <i>The Amen Effect: Ancient Wisdom to Mend Our Broken Hearts and World</i>******--I had no idea what this might really look like. Now I have an idea for a house-based activity. It would have to be voluntary, and it would no doubt feel strange and even uncomfortable at first, especially for those who are by habit very private about what they feel. Some undergraduates (and Harvard others) might dismiss it as uncool, contrived, silly, unintellectual, and/or suspect because of its religious roots, while those willing to participate would likely feel vulnerable doing so--but also curious, courageous, and hopeful.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">One of Brous's major inspirations is <a href="https://www.sefaria.org/English_Explanation_of_Mishnah_Middot.2.2.2?lang=bi" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">an ancient Jewish text in the Mishna</span></a> that describes a rite performed on the Temple Mount during a pilgrimage holiday. As Brous explains, summarizing the text, </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span>"The crowd would enter the [Temple Mount] Courtyard in a mass of humanity, turning to the right and circling--counterclockwise--around the enormous complex, exiting close to where they had entered.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span>"But someone suffering, . . . --<i>someone to whom something awful had happened--</i>that person would walk through the same entrance and circle in the opposite direction [thus, to the left]. . . . And everyone who passed the brokenhearted would stop and ask, 'What happened to you?' . . . </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span><span>"And [after hearing the answer] those who walked from right to left--each one of them--would look into the eyes of the ill, the bereft, and the bereaved. 'May God comfort you,' they would say, one by one. 'May you be wrapped in the embrace of the community.' (3-4)</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Two pages later, Brous modernizes and secularizes the ritual:</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span></span></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrLQzeL0jLPfGtWH6fAnSwng4i7SNDyQ9q9FvATj7s2j1gay32p7RFxG-5JiOacO3w4pQcN1T36meltpJL_lHq7L2l99IkO3GoycW4Erf_Ykn62KGas5WBVw23WqaSN20ZOGtklViGYjXUXvyGIDr7vKtasaCPaUICM0v-RJzmhGKoC-S41e5iYihryrI/s514/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-13%20at%209.49.01%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="514" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUrLQzeL0jLPfGtWH6fAnSwng4i7SNDyQ9q9FvATj7s2j1gay32p7RFxG-5JiOacO3w4pQcN1T36meltpJL_lHq7L2l99IkO3GoycW4Erf_Ykn62KGas5WBVw23WqaSN20ZOGtklViGYjXUXvyGIDr7vKtasaCPaUICM0v-RJzmhGKoC-S41e5iYihryrI/s320/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-13%20at%209.49.01%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div></span>. . . There's a stranger coming toward you, making her way against the flow of the crowd. . . . She is clearly suffering. . . . You stop and greet her with a simple, open-hearted question: 'What's your story? Why does your heart ache?'</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span>And this grief-stricken person answers: 'I am broken.'</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span>You offer words of comfort. 'I see you,' you say. 'You are not alone.'</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span>You continue to walk, until the next distressed person approaches.(5)</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Brous then goes on to comment on why this ritual heals, or at least potentially begins a healing process.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span></span></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span>There is a timeless wisdom in entering the sacred circle: this is, on some fundamental level, what it means to be human. Today, <i>you</i> walk from left to right. Tomorrow it will be me. I hold you now, knowing that eventually, you'll hold me. Every gesture of recognition marries love and humility, vulnerability and sacred responsibility.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span>. . . This ancient . . . ritual . . . has taught me the transformative nature of showing up when we want to retreat, of listening deeply to each other's pain even when we fear there are no words. Of . . . recognizing that even though we can't heal each others, we can <i>and we must</i> see each other. (5-6)<br /></span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>It was the reference to courtyards in the Mishna text that got me thinking that a variation of this ritual could be enacted at the Harvard houses. Harvard houses have courtyards, courtyards have perimeters, and the common entrances into those courtyards could serve as the entering and leaving points for those walking those perimeters. Furthermore, Harvard houses have common spaces that could be good post-circling gathering places for those wanting to continue engaging with one another after the activity.******* <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>I would change the script for the campus activity--and make it available to all students prior to the actual circling, which I would advise happen once a week for 4-5 consecutive weeks, allowing--and encouraging--all to participate at least once and ideally multiple times. I would also suggest this in recognition of the fact that some people wait to see how such activities go for the first round of participants before giving them a try themselves.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>My suggestions for the ritualized responses would be as follows.</span></span></span></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>A person circling to the right, upon encountering a person circling to the left would say, "Hello. Why are you in distress?"</span></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>The person circling to the left would say, "I have been feeling ______." Any number of adjectives could go into this blank--"sad," "misunderstood," "enraged," "fearful," "confused," "distrustful," "alienated," "endangered," "betrayed," "abandoned," "ostracized," "frustrated," "outnumbered," "stereotyped," "hated," "hopeless," and "concerned" are some possibilities. And students could share as many adjectives as they pleased.<br /></span></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>The person circling to the right would then say, "Thank you for telling me. I see you and hear you." </span></span></span></li></ul><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCz7EuEl4OOBvdcqV3AFqnmvXbJXtwurozTZf_76Yv_fVpynoNWmNsJWtSb7vkbLvvAX8ir1FGBJlr3P9fKSBtdOwSsBmZ18qotcRrtntM7bnENMwfnmbVC3wZO1aG2kmJEVBAf_wjNP40QMANP1PseCwwF48SoCJqruc8twK-ySb3Ud9IZXgrdr8D_ER-/s689/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%204.57.54%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="689" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCz7EuEl4OOBvdcqV3AFqnmvXbJXtwurozTZf_76Yv_fVpynoNWmNsJWtSb7vkbLvvAX8ir1FGBJlr3P9fKSBtdOwSsBmZ18qotcRrtntM7bnENMwfnmbVC3wZO1aG2kmJEVBAf_wjNP40QMANP1PseCwwF48SoCJqruc8twK-ySb3Ud9IZXgrdr8D_ER-/w400-h303/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%204.57.54%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>That's all. No one would be expected to say anything else; in fact all would be directed to say nothing else during the activity. But all would be expected to participate in good faith or at least in open-hearted curiosity. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>My inspiration for adding the hello at the beginning of the exchange was Maya Angelou's optimistic inaugural poem "<a href="https://poets.org/poem/pulse-morning" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">On the Pulse of Morning</span></a>," in particular its final stanza:</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="long-line" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Here, on the pulse of this new day</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">You may have the grace to look up and out</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">And into your sister's eyes, and into</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Your brother's face, your country</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">And say simply</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Very simply</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">With hope--</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Good morning. </span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span> <br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">Immediately following the circling activity, anyone wanting to reflect on the experience of participating in it would be invited to gather for a conversation facilitated by a member of the House staff. Guiding questions might be </span></span></span></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">How did it feel to participate?</span></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">What, if anything, surprised you about the experience? <br /></span></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">Would you participate again?</span></span></span></li><li style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">What, if anything, did you learn--about yourself? about our House? about others? about structured activities like this one? </span></span></span></li></ul><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">Refreshments would be a must at this further conversation!</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line"></span></span></span><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line">I wonder if there's any chance that Faculty Deans (called housemasters in my day) at Quincy House or other Harvard houses would consider giving this idea a try. My own feeling is that circling the courtyard or the dining hall would be far healthier for a fractured community than circling the wagons.</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="long-line"> But then again, as a longtime teacher in a public democratic alternative school with lots of experience making groups work in schools and classrooms (thank you, <a href="https://pz.harvard.edu/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Project Zero</span></a> at the Harvard Graduate School of Education), I trust in structured activities that protect all participants while making their voices heard and their faces seen. Healing and community-building take time and work, but that work needs to start somewhere.<br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_X_Y5HW7a93Yb2R0zYn8HVVxpne5oLvkmIqlpZr19Yeofi_1Fv8c4QOxuEpPbRGCAcRfIwnIZUBOuDuu0cv6ZoYrnPf4DtVMYBKpBolKrtSGnV-f5Am7CKsx6VkGJhjabAnrkiArERuf2hxhSOcnbJbHckKp5pOLfhvwLnrWqfXjrIzLYUliYuFQ9Jc_g/s615/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%204.36.05%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="463" data-original-width="615" height="301" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_X_Y5HW7a93Yb2R0zYn8HVVxpne5oLvkmIqlpZr19Yeofi_1Fv8c4QOxuEpPbRGCAcRfIwnIZUBOuDuu0cv6ZoYrnPf4DtVMYBKpBolKrtSGnV-f5Am7CKsx6VkGJhjabAnrkiArERuf2hxhSOcnbJbHckKp5pOLfhvwLnrWqfXjrIzLYUliYuFQ9Jc_g/w400-h301/Screen%20Shot%202024-02-11%20at%204.36.05%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">* Screen shot of an online photograph by Jeff Soongs or Jeff Songs--can no longer find it, but will keep trying.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">**Screen shot of one of the header photos on the following website: Harvard Univerity. (n.d.) <i>Quincy House.</i> <b><u>https://quincy.harvard.edu/</u></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">***Screen shot of one of the header photos on the following website: Harvard Univerity. (n.d.) <i>Eliot House.</i> <b><u>https://eliot.harvard.edu/</u></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">**** "Blue Self," a painting by Scott Ketcham: <b><u>https://www.scottketcham.com/post/110473758402/259-blue-self-2015-42-x-34-oil-on-denril</u></b></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><b><u> </u></b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">*****Screen shot of a photo on blog, filtered by me: Mitchell, M. (2016, September 22). Collaborative circle mural. <i>This little class or mine. </i><b><u>https://thislittleclassofmine.weebly.com/home/collaborative-circle-mural</u></b> (The original unfiltered photo is pictured next to these endnotes.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">*(6) Brous, S. (2024). <i>The amen effect: Ancient wisdom to mend our broken hearts and world. </i>Penguin Random House. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">*(7) </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>I now have some thoughts about what might happen next, but they are for a further blog post.</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-50533140654379230122024-01-29T11:31:00.005-05:002024-01-29T20:31:38.996-05:00Bewildered and Learning<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8y24ApHkIDWcE6-l820f3URD6K03MLjMX7SLp6Fl9X4NzI1XfJ9dUDQVL8bJ1fu7V-xmXzkgAcSNWfsN29utycBrWOL4gVdfzUTlbT_52wJ2rS4PUP1FSnIR36tB91Al9t9SQ9yue2B6IBDSsb6XavPpMZiUGSndeZ32uSKRav2UBMCDayZHAwmBYXHzi/s656/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%207.04.27%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="622" data-original-width="656" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8y24ApHkIDWcE6-l820f3URD6K03MLjMX7SLp6Fl9X4NzI1XfJ9dUDQVL8bJ1fu7V-xmXzkgAcSNWfsN29utycBrWOL4gVdfzUTlbT_52wJ2rS4PUP1FSnIR36tB91Al9t9SQ9yue2B6IBDSsb6XavPpMZiUGSndeZ32uSKRav2UBMCDayZHAwmBYXHzi/s320/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%207.04.27%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>So already, for the past month I have been taking a writing cla</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">ss. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">"Beguiled & Bewildered*: A Generative Poetry Workshop" is a self-guided month-long class offered by <a href="https://www.poetrybarn.co/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Poetry Barn</span></a>, and I have one more assignment to complete before the course ends in four days.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I decided to take the class because I felt stuck in the poetic same old same old and didn't know how to pull myself out of it. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
poems I was writing seemed more apt to draw attention to
me--my personal sensitivities, preoccupations (neuroses?), experiences--than to the objects, phenomena, and relationships about which I
was writing. I wondered if my problem was my
lack of tools or methods for getting closer to the
sparks of meaning I believed were present in them.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">A
good course, I reasoned, might supply me with a new tool or method while requiring me to engage with something new, stimulating, and challenging. In addition, it would provide structure while relieving me of the need to design my own path "forward." And since I'd be spending my own money to take
it--$99 to be exact--I knew I'd feel compelled to complete it.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-biO3ux-vYmgwYcrFwvuGK1hgtUxiZdnYvK0paOzYiGksb6AF7PQZlYs2ZMJ-TQSKhfNcIXiWXOYhg3tblWRBV8HVKV8WU-pbk5vIl1TZHIPvQEwpfyGHZLN_G73SFfXpVFJWL0juRk4aMj49yk8rR-pmVHi3DfjXF7VusYarG01oWy4ihIm6LaJqP1r-/s746/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-27%20at%201.09.43%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="342" data-original-width="746" height="172" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-biO3ux-vYmgwYcrFwvuGK1hgtUxiZdnYvK0paOzYiGksb6AF7PQZlYs2ZMJ-TQSKhfNcIXiWXOYhg3tblWRBV8HVKV8WU-pbk5vIl1TZHIPvQEwpfyGHZLN_G73SFfXpVFJWL0juRk4aMj49yk8rR-pmVHi3DfjXF7VusYarG01oWy4ihIm6LaJqP1r-/w373-h172/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-27%20at%201.09.43%20PM.png" width="373" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">And this course's title suggested something far less mechanical and craft-centered than some other course offerings I'd seen online. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">At its center was Fanny Howe's essay "<a href="https://www.asu.edu/pipercwcenter/how2journal/archive/online_archive/v1_1_1999/fhbewild.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Bewilderment</span></a>." For each of the four sessions, we read approximately a quarter of it, wrote a reflection about both it and a poem by a contemporary poet exemplifying Howe's ideas and practices being focused on that week, and wrote a poem--really, did a directed poetic experiment--to maximize our chances of using and experiencing Howe's philosophy and poetic practices.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">That "beguiled" was the first word of the course's title intrigued
me, given its connotation of, among other things, deception: as a student in this course, would I be guided to cultivate some level of self-deception a means
of moving toward an otherwise elusive kind of truth and poetics?</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Furthermore, that "beguiled" was linked with "bewildered" suggested that bewilderment could be compelling and attractive, even though so often it was associated with a state of uncomfortable, problematic disorientation. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3ADLGJXyyAywY7uH8_PHEIzU5FVbToBakX1XNjJT0qDmYgcbBRcG_LulnRw6iYgF4nRjifoi9AXaq7ztnExLh34aw2ro-rZR_b6WaWwICEuYxHxAGijjVZiIn2sKEhI0_Uh4KXx-N2bzo2M9dNE6NnAA9FzG0GvsI6y2r0iUMoO8pgGZgqWnSX-lJEGW/s542/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%206.56.06%20AM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="390" height="322" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge3ADLGJXyyAywY7uH8_PHEIzU5FVbToBakX1XNjJT0qDmYgcbBRcG_LulnRw6iYgF4nRjifoi9AXaq7ztnExLh34aw2ro-rZR_b6WaWwICEuYxHxAGijjVZiIn2sKEhI0_Uh4KXx-N2bzo2M9dNE6NnAA9FzG0GvsI6y2r0iUMoO8pgGZgqWnSX-lJEGW/w232-h322/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%206.56.06%20AM.png" width="232" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">"Paired" by Scott Ketcham**</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But courtesy of David Ferry's 2012 collection <i><a href="https://press.uchicago.edu/ucp/books/book/chicago/B/bo13591302.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Bewilderment: New Poems and Translations</span></a></i></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">, </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">bewilderment already interested to me: there was just so much <i>there</i> in Ferry's poems, despite the haunting absences he posited and sometimes described, that I had to imagine bewilderment as a well and a source. Furthermore, when I read Katherine May's <i><a href="https://katherine-may.co.uk/enchantment" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Enchantment: Awakening to Wonder in an Anxious Age</span></a></i></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> this past fall, </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><i> </i>I wondered whether May understood enchantment not just as an antidote to </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">her own and others'</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> post-pandemic anxiety, but as a remedying response to the disorientation often associated with bewilderment.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Or, from her perspective, was bewilderment desirable? In fact, was it synonymous with enchantment? I wouldn't have asked that question had Howe not put those two words together in this sentence in her essay: "Bewilderment is an enchantment that follows a complete collapse of reference and reconcilability." Would that collapse have reduced or enhanced May's anxiety? Hmmm . . .<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Howe's statement sent me to the <i>Online Etymology Dictionary</i>, even though the real problem, I already understood, was that my everyday assumptions about "bewilderment" (as lost, confused, dazed, and disoriented) and "enchantment" (as magical, delightful, captivating, and enthralling) were casting them as antonyms. Howe was already challenging me, already suggesting that language was just . . . language, even if it is all we have as writers. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAWk88Rh17A2HBmzG9xCBk7DMQRO2dt8GkvTmaLlCHGU3g07KBSVqM117ypm-LfCLjUZW9YSoYYXxmNr0WfCn0gioo1f5Etp7Gi0q4aNPVLm5jx14XGgJaBlb0mgOP-f2s2LDpyefOVBsaM2fFdGz-J3Hgbf08zg0Vze6KRVXWO3_lAPRXsMxaH-gab2k/s4032/Gr07BNOEQsaKWJhdvNiFOw.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcAWk88Rh17A2HBmzG9xCBk7DMQRO2dt8GkvTmaLlCHGU3g07KBSVqM117ypm-LfCLjUZW9YSoYYXxmNr0WfCn0gioo1f5Etp7Gi0q4aNPVLm5jx14XGgJaBlb0mgOP-f2s2LDpyefOVBsaM2fFdGz-J3Hgbf08zg0Vze6KRVXWO3_lAPRXsMxaH-gab2k/w364-h273/Gr07BNOEQsaKWJhdvNiFOw.jpg" width="364" /></a></div>From the <i>Online Etymology Dictionary, </i>I learned that the roots of "bewilder" as understood figuratively imply a deliberate <i>will</i> to lead into "wild, uninhabited, or uncultivated" wilderness: </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">'perplex, puzzle, confuse,' from <a class="crossreference notranslate" href="https://www.etymonline.com/word/be-" title="Etymology, meaning and definition of be-">be-</a> 'thoroughly' + archaic <span class="foreign notranslate">wilder '</span>lead astray, lure into the wilds,' . . .."**** Similarly, the medieval meanings of "enchant," as "derive[d] </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">from Old French <span class="foreign notranslate">enchanter</span> 'bewitch, charm, cast a spell' (12c.), from Latin <span class="foreign notranslate">incantare</span> 'to <i>enchant</i>, fix a spell upon,' from <span class="foreign notranslate">in-</span> 'upon, into' . . . + <span class="foreign notranslate">cantare</span> 'to sing' . . .,"***** </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">suggest an intentional leading away from the orderly known and towards the rare, less commonly encountered, less "organized" unknown. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-XzL1ZIUvZQ2Z5yWwRwbknlEJGl-HXqiWSRv0mQUt1p73qTfbUPda7KEF8OKLQsZ4ePCUIHwfJOdmI3ocRFY3B07qDm9gX8syf0vlGo0lm8uWQvPhZVgPxrC5DpX6_RiS4b9iMB_tXXKdPK0sAusCYYiTAoAvm30SKzFlrDyePmWeq7dfZRiqQhvRF91/s4032/poOR83H5Qy6i1T1Vv9+7SQ.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb-XzL1ZIUvZQ2Z5yWwRwbknlEJGl-HXqiWSRv0mQUt1p73qTfbUPda7KEF8OKLQsZ4ePCUIHwfJOdmI3ocRFY3B07qDm9gX8syf0vlGo0lm8uWQvPhZVgPxrC5DpX6_RiS4b9iMB_tXXKdPK0sAusCYYiTAoAvm30SKzFlrDyePmWeq7dfZRiqQhvRF91/s320/poOR83H5Qy6i1T1Vv9+7SQ.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So given bewilderment's and enchantment's shared foundations in the experience of being enticed or lured away from the generally understood and experienced, why couldn't bewilderment be understood as an enchantment? </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Frankly, I don't have an answer to that question since Howe's ideas are still new to me. But that doesn't mean I haven't been able to experiment with them for the sake of rescuing my poetry from the same old same old.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Which brings me to what I've really appreciated about the course: the poem writing assignments for each session. Each has aimed to orchestrate an experience of bewilderment as a starting point for our writing, and then to have us write a poem related to it. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETBHvSzPjxWNra1_YVK0IKjkTtNlz9obKr0DgRjRq7Kr7kgjRN2AVeoAbnne5OkozdtaZynZ4gCfwC4VPfI-JhMYz2C3UxOPGDPKS5rSip4odVTbOYu0SEgkh6IWm08q1QGtrJnZ1MhUxM0bLpkMtHNUxjkrD9gj61qORxHQD6WXixpnbJjvDzI-Erc47/s332/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-29%20at%209.12.01%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="332" data-original-width="329" height="288" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgETBHvSzPjxWNra1_YVK0IKjkTtNlz9obKr0DgRjRq7Kr7kgjRN2AVeoAbnne5OkozdtaZynZ4gCfwC4VPfI-JhMYz2C3UxOPGDPKS5rSip4odVTbOYu0SEgkh6IWm08q1QGtrJnZ1MhUxM0bLpkMtHNUxjkrD9gj61qORxHQD6WXixpnbJjvDzI-Erc47/w285-h288/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-29%20at%209.12.01%20AM.png" width="285" /></a></div>Without sharing the first week's assignment--since one should pay to have access to the course--I will explain how I personally experienced randomness as preparation for writing my first poem-experiment. First, I made a set of directions for staying healthy; then a wrote a list of statements describing purpose. Then I put the two of them together so that their elements alternated, almost like I had riffle shuffled a deck of cards.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Next I examined the arbitrary whole I'd created for internal connections and resonances that my poem might explore or build on. Finally, given free rein to add to, subtract from, and otherwise use what I'd already generated, I wrote a draft poem, a poem-experiment that didn't feel same old same old:</span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instructions for Purpose </span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Relish eating wisely and well</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since the animal self needs fuel </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And <i>wisely and well </i>are a tonic for you.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Dance with abandon </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Since abandon may liberate you </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From purpose needing negating.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sing with the sparrows,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who don’t worry about purpose but
have it.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Or did you mean grand purpose?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Stretch in every conceivable
realm or way</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Though you’re
bound to judge</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Which ones best serve.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Sleep deeply,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Though dreams make vague
suggestions</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Oblivious to the logic of plans.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Walk even just part way </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> <br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Since street and byway scenes </span><br /></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Restore vision to the mind’s eye.</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Sit still and breathe</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Since your animal self has needs</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And knows how you wish otherwise.<br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Love what and who you
can,</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Though loving with a whole heart</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">May pull you from your purpose--</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Just the kind of conflict
you hate.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><br /></span></span></div>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiww7sw3NpvHmm3i9ftvPDEefc1v4lpk6eYQqinQcmQYjv-aqiQlJIsGdobSuFiBjizPyVcBouQsGWe8UgdfB94CRYJAXdtPq-o13BpIXfRbK_ix4swZlE3GtBSCeX2KRMnYq-EudMqIc6SCrfxHkJ1l_PGinCxv89pM9vPUQmqn2Is6ntQuwK0IC-9apkO/s858/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%206.48.05%20AM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="581" data-original-width="858" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiww7sw3NpvHmm3i9ftvPDEefc1v4lpk6eYQqinQcmQYjv-aqiQlJIsGdobSuFiBjizPyVcBouQsGWe8UgdfB94CRYJAXdtPq-o13BpIXfRbK_ix4swZlE3GtBSCeX2KRMnYq-EudMqIc6SCrfxHkJ1l_PGinCxv89pM9vPUQmqn2Is6ntQuwK0IC-9apkO/w400-h271/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-28%20at%206.48.05%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">"Zippered Mates" by Scott Ketcham***</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">***<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>As the course has gone on, it has highlighted poetic techniques for creating some coherence in poems marked by the seeming randomness of their content. I think of the poems we've written each week as "collide-o-scopic"--the result of colliding elements that might not be found together in poems not guided by a poetics of bewilderment--and that, upon colliding, spark and illuminate. Both to read and to write such poems asks for openness to and even trust in uncertainty.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0BtAys7Vt1MsO_tCBDmS2Gw3B6uoMp1pG28U23erB02An3zkBuBPc0D391RUWwCMgn_3N2tid5PTTuj0HtYh8j8BljSOPrA-T44ve0HnkRQJGImNN_0CzqIoXRKFdYbFxZvmDw-A8pwJVhosjUJ5DU6YAwU3WKJKXNcfYZ7v0vzQNN2Q1IGqmEa6VMyM/s597/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-29%20at%207.32.14%20AM.png" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="590" data-original-width="597" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix0BtAys7Vt1MsO_tCBDmS2Gw3B6uoMp1pG28U23erB02An3zkBuBPc0D391RUWwCMgn_3N2tid5PTTuj0HtYh8j8BljSOPrA-T44ve0HnkRQJGImNN_0CzqIoXRKFdYbFxZvmDw-A8pwJVhosjUJ5DU6YAwU3WKJKXNcfYZ7v0vzQNN2Q1IGqmEa6VMyM/s320/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-29%20at%207.32.14%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: x-small;">Dinner with Donald and Manuel<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table>Despite my take-down of purpose above, I've enjoyed having a writing-related learning purpose </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">during this damp, gray January. So it seems right to be posting this on Donald Burroughs' birthday since literature and writing were so important to him as a teacher and a person. I</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">n fact, I wrote a poem for the course about a dream I had about Donald not too long ago.</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> Maybe I'll share it one of these days.<br /></span></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">* Adjacent graphic screen shot from the top of <a href="https://stanforddaily.com/2023/02/08/on-bewilderment-both-a-poetics-and-an-ethics/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">an essay by Lydia Wei </span></a>appearing in <i>The Stanford Daily </i>on February 8, 2023. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">** Scott Ketcham's "Paired": https://www.scottketcham.com/post/737247742754242560/2025-paired-2023-30-x-22-oil-on-prepared-paper </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">*** Etymonline (n.d.). Wilderness. In </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i>Online Etymology Dictionary</i>. Retrieved January 28, 2024 from <b><u>https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=wilderness</u></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">**** Etymonline (n.d.). Bewilder. In </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i>Online Etymology Dictionary</i>. Retrieved January 28, 2024 from <b><u>https://www.etymonline.com/word/bewilder#etymonline_v_11100</u></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">***** Etymonline (n.d.). Enchant. In </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i>Online Etymology Dictionary</i>. Retrieved January 28, 2024 from <b><u>https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=enchant</u></b></span></div></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">****** Scott Ketcham's "Zippered Mates": https://www.scottketcham.com/post/737247864351309824/2027-zippered-mates-2023-24-x-36-oil-on-prepared </span><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-66073158102704375062023-12-31T10:47:00.009-05:002024-01-07T16:43:30.530-05:00Reflecting Back on Christmas Eve on New Year's Eve<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQrV3sRjAz_MSwj3VB9CDRx4wAii5YNQgbAlI8RvGjFA7LfAddetsLCuiymiOzhwJGJJbxd7MDC4_TIcbts106d9mIEPjJUI0qvAlTn8IXrqP69ON07BY8-k57qduG97TajQQGYFP3yLzi16Akyymm_abwLIDYv4VzydL_LxiJKTTz56uUmxDcDX5C5Tq/s432/Screen%20Shot%202023-12-31%20at%2011.20.36%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="432" data-original-width="327" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUQrV3sRjAz_MSwj3VB9CDRx4wAii5YNQgbAlI8RvGjFA7LfAddetsLCuiymiOzhwJGJJbxd7MDC4_TIcbts106d9mIEPjJUI0qvAlTn8IXrqP69ON07BY8-k57qduG97TajQQGYFP3yLzi16Akyymm_abwLIDYv4VzydL_LxiJKTTz56uUmxDcDX5C5Tq/w151-h200/Screen%20Shot%202023-12-31%20at%2011.20.36%20AM.png" width="151" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So already, happy New Year's Eve Sunday. I've been reflecting a lot on change since Christmas Eve, which was last Sunday.<br /></span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">How much has to change before someone feeling surprised and betrayed by that change proclaims angrily or despondently, "<i>Everything</i> has changed"? I contend that though lots can change--including the person lamenting that everything has changed--seldom does <i>everything</i> change. That said, enough can change to make the world feel different and disorienting, even indifferent and disorienting--until what's changed becomes the normal and expected. For better or for worse.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc3_-M6ZAOnNkBp2KZOsw9n95imsGPIN_YhvFHrGiddHjVVbQQ-s5Otok4nf0Uk_wEHdqq8Aq09cJ4jQzM6hQ_19iwrlvjTtxpM64-CaBkZAG8HsvJ_tKq-aIhqao_c6sHip3ce7Zpvunp5WWBbgQTWsIY3ozILFLAnmlusZjGt9ypjxVz5kF8PFgBOYr/s2851/fullsizeoutput_2c70.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1921" data-original-width="2851" height="261" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfc3_-M6ZAOnNkBp2KZOsw9n95imsGPIN_YhvFHrGiddHjVVbQQ-s5Otok4nf0Uk_wEHdqq8Aq09cJ4jQzM6hQ_19iwrlvjTtxpM64-CaBkZAG8HsvJ_tKq-aIhqao_c6sHip3ce7Zpvunp5WWBbgQTWsIY3ozILFLAnmlusZjGt9ypjxVz5kF8PFgBOYr/w386-h261/fullsizeoutput_2c70.jpeg" width="386" /></a></div>I had been thinking about this on Christmas Eve day while I was taking a mid-afternoon stroll around my neighborhood. The afternoon was balmy and gray, and I suddenly realized that there had been many balmy Christmas Eve days in recent memory, a number of them gray, and that at some point along the way, I had ceased to consider them aberrations. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuVeB0UI7VWMRAZS2vvx5MRI_29l_5CCnFUtxyBEfYUZfsTeqd9OdCnuG3u9bGHG7mzTKOb0J6X9lF79jAOP9Yoq99OLdgT6_jM3mPnlvx0rvMSeJ9l9UhapnuliQr8f1iGSYb74P760y0tlR4eKx5z9BVh-ycfM4qRe7xTF7kwYpCg53z24t1q282zoi/s3053/fullsizeoutput_2bfc.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2663" data-original-width="3053" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkuVeB0UI7VWMRAZS2vvx5MRI_29l_5CCnFUtxyBEfYUZfsTeqd9OdCnuG3u9bGHG7mzTKOb0J6X9lF79jAOP9Yoq99OLdgT6_jM3mPnlvx0rvMSeJ9l9UhapnuliQr8f1iGSYb74P760y0tlR4eKx5z9BVh-ycfM4qRe7xTF7kwYpCg53z24t1q282zoi/w400-h349/fullsizeoutput_2bfc.heic" width="400" /></a></div></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In fact, I'd gone so far as to forget to hope for white Christmases. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This even though in early December, a vigorous band of ocean-effect snow had transformed nearby Hingham and Norwell into ideal settings for every kind of holiday cheer, activity, and nostalgia.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Perhaps my failure to hope was </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">a
reflection of some of the sadder emotional adjustments I've had to
make in recent years. My good friend Donald, who died in 2021, loved everything related to Christmas--holiday music, holiday movies, holiday weather, holiday foods, holiday decorations. We spent an immense amount of phone time detailing what we were cooking, listening to, and watching. I so miss those days and calls. Still, I don't think forgetting to hope for
something beautiful, pleasurable, and evocative of happy times is ever a
good thing, even if what's hoped for is a
long shot.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I mused on how I'd slipped into accepting the new normal of damp, temperate late December weather and Donald's absence, I recalled several other things I've adjusted to in the last few years: the knowledge that the voice I hear when I pick up my landline phone will never again belong to my father; the understanding that old, good friendships can go through phases when they feel less good and require lots of good faith effort to feel good again;</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> the realization that the person with whom I most often need to spend more time when I'm plagued with feelings of indifference and disorientation is me--though I wouldn't act on that realization nearly so much were Scott not there to encourage me.<br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDZjnz0e54jZ-xEi2OmFqye8tYsqaV9sKopjgzAG3MkyOJfY_Ra3Fn0xMxzgHJSv-x6TXaHMfACplFyOI2BVDG3GTh7IZ4cSpP-AaBvRZ178rxZgsNa9BfELqEXhGNf78FoPSqqnl1VU8e8pvOnDCRul3jGlv59zO09m5ZOEd9nL0D4kZOfMyWRjC-A1g/s532/Hurlbut%20Street%20Christmas%20Eve%202023.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="355" data-original-width="532" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWDZjnz0e54jZ-xEi2OmFqye8tYsqaV9sKopjgzAG3MkyOJfY_Ra3Fn0xMxzgHJSv-x6TXaHMfACplFyOI2BVDG3GTh7IZ4cSpP-AaBvRZ178rxZgsNa9BfELqEXhGNf78FoPSqqnl1VU8e8pvOnDCRul3jGlv59zO09m5ZOEd9nL0D4kZOfMyWRjC-A1g/w400-h268/Hurlbut%20Street%20Christmas%20Eve%202023.png" width="400" /></a></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I was thinking about all of this while he and I were driving through the Cambridge neighborhood where I had lived </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">for thirteen years</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> in an apartment building next to </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the Graham and Parks Alternative School (</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">which had been Peabody School when I lived there; schools change, too). </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">We were heading to dinner in that</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> same neighborhood at the home of a really good old friend--she and I have been confidants for more than forty years--at whose
house I'd been a Christmas Eve guest at least twenty-five times. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">This year, because my friend has had some health issues, her daughter was serving as both cook and hostess. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It
seemed the natural order of things that Christmas Eve dinner was
changing in some ways and remaining the same in others: it had done so
many times over the years. </span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">At the earliest Christmas Eve dinners I attended, the only guest in addition to me was the Jewish friend of my friend's oldest daughter who, like me,</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> understandably, didn't have family Christmas Eve plans. I</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">n the ensuing years, the group expanded, gradually at first to include a few others, and then in leaps and bounds with the addition of the recently widowed, the recently divorced, the children of both, and several others who didn't have their usual Christmas Eve places to go. Somehow, my friend always managed to make room at the inn and to keep the loaves and fishes multiplying when some invited guest appeared at the door with "someone else." </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYuqBM1H8jxdKU7i8o3-p3HCsEsjD0eRncM9qnY2czru7itBIzN_v5gxE5ZjwyFMUE_eijbqQ7KMjKjoBgQC9qhVb2VjH5y3ohsXVJLXY2vhBFcVRae00Sn4BcDEBMcy9UTVWB1SrzkxKDrJ_EjzcCc5tOCAiMiwNizyphVvZB1Mvoljukbg6z9bYQoTt/s332/Screen%20Shot%202023-12-28%20at%205.47.32%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="329" data-original-width="332" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaYuqBM1H8jxdKU7i8o3-p3HCsEsjD0eRncM9qnY2czru7itBIzN_v5gxE5ZjwyFMUE_eijbqQ7KMjKjoBgQC9qhVb2VjH5y3ohsXVJLXY2vhBFcVRae00Sn4BcDEBMcy9UTVWB1SrzkxKDrJ_EjzcCc5tOCAiMiwNizyphVvZB1Mvoljukbg6z9bYQoTt/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-12-28%20at%205.47.32%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Always, a group of teenage girls sequestered themselves in a bedroom, preferring one another's company to that of the old people in the living room. Eventually they became adults with homes of their own, and that, combined with other natural forces, caused the group to contract in size. What remained constant while my friend was the chief cook and baker, whether those assembled numbered ten or thirty, was the flaming plum pudding at dessert time. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">After saying thank you and good night at the conclusion of what had been a happy, festive, delicious, different Christmas Eve, Scott and I headed out into the night. And I thought about my old apartment building, which we'd driven by earlier. </span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBf4Bo96GPEVCThqIZaMeATJBd-gEZ1Ae03tw1u8S_fmDuKkfnQVAEcPpjF0lzqGuGYr6n-7Z-DQc-5vSd1iXK8htb8KrkHsrn1h53gzG1U1pZnpb1cZDCuqGFb8ZwasnCLkQz5JRHWjYT2irQeA1UlsQHS1LTHziDnNA3bYO0x6nQjRSkxRWjWGvSDoSz/s446/36%20Linnaean%20Christmas%20Eve%202023.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="354" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBf4Bo96GPEVCThqIZaMeATJBd-gEZ1Ae03tw1u8S_fmDuKkfnQVAEcPpjF0lzqGuGYr6n-7Z-DQc-5vSd1iXK8htb8KrkHsrn1h53gzG1U1pZnpb1cZDCuqGFb8ZwasnCLkQz5JRHWjYT2irQeA1UlsQHS1LTHziDnNA3bYO0x6nQjRSkxRWjWGvSDoSz/w318-h400/36%20Linnaean%20Christmas%20Eve%202023.png" width="318" /></a></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Most the apartments were dark, but on the top floor, yellow light shone in the windows of the apartment of a former friend of mine--if, in fact, she still even lives there. In the old days, before I moved to Quincy, she often expressed her resentment of the fact that I annually headed off to my other friend's Christmas Eve celebration while she stayed home alone. Eventually, she expressed too many similar resentments, most related to the fact that I had gotten married and then moved to a place that better suited both Scott and me. I couldn't continue a friendship that routinely punished me for the happy changes in my life. And I never looked back, though I still sometimes look up at those fourth-floor windows.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sometimes, though, I wonder if she's changed over time, since people do. Maybe whoever now lives in the apartment with the brightly lit windows was hosting a festive Christmas Eve dinner for friends. And who knows? Maybe she was the person hosting that dinner. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Happy New Year! May 2024 bring only the best changes for you personally and for the whole world, since it's bound to bring changes. <br /></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-75112083225184177692023-11-17T18:52:00.005-05:002023-11-18T08:16:47.335-05:00Luminous Darkness: Scott Ketcham's Recent Works<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VxW7n8rK8KZTrP2VpbbWbd-L-32wutmyS2O_alPdNIJVGcfHdas_Ua3_dkdHC9KMPzzP64KyxqjyrAss219XjUTCjSR8N6DO_TIvSvRuz4pCTI9J-c2UiJ9OhelRJFIkHFKlTtc9LR3DfyKd2vUQHtI_eP8iT-Yf6QpPXQNHP-4a04Gih4BUuWrwZdAX/s5297/IMG_2064.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5297" data-original-width="3402" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9VxW7n8rK8KZTrP2VpbbWbd-L-32wutmyS2O_alPdNIJVGcfHdas_Ua3_dkdHC9KMPzzP64KyxqjyrAss219XjUTCjSR8N6DO_TIvSvRuz4pCTI9J-c2UiJ9OhelRJFIkHFKlTtc9LR3DfyKd2vUQHtI_eP8iT-Yf6QpPXQNHP-4a04Gih4BUuWrwZdAX/w413-h640/IMG_2064.JPG" width="413" /></a></div>So already, first of all, let's just say--and say it loud--that Scott Ketcham's open studios are this weekend--yes, coming right up, on Saturday, November 18 and Sunday, November 19, both days from 12:00 to 5:00 at the Sandpaper Factory, 83 E. Water Street, Rockland, MA.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's also just say that I'm not sure what the painting above is or represents, but I am sure it's beautiful. Its explosiveness may or may not be menacing, but for certain it makes the painting undeniably <i><u>alive</u>.</i><br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ_cg-SfZ6EzHR-MAGaVgijvbvfSKwAu0Xsh6J_cP_gUW0cuA2tBEQdOD07Iw_GA9JNxyfcbWrcsbbaM27PAf0Wbb27rviNZPgb_FzeyuTpqRNWdTPi_YYeXqcLYj2njTAoPWC_wnj69o0cHLcipxTkPTEpwsnkTKxcgMVf1eyCoRsWjZ5hROA5q1_qj4/s4787/IMG_2110.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4787" data-original-width="3371" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwZ_cg-SfZ6EzHR-MAGaVgijvbvfSKwAu0Xsh6J_cP_gUW0cuA2tBEQdOD07Iw_GA9JNxyfcbWrcsbbaM27PAf0Wbb27rviNZPgb_FzeyuTpqRNWdTPi_YYeXqcLYj2njTAoPWC_wnj69o0cHLcipxTkPTEpwsnkTKxcgMVf1eyCoRsWjZ5hROA5q1_qj4/w281-h400/IMG_2110.JPG" width="281" /></a></div></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's just say that usually the first or second weekend of November I publish a blog post that goes into some detail about Scott's latest work, especially as it reflects some emergent, unifying, compelling theme, method, palette, or subject matter </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">that I manage to write "into a ball/ To roll . . . toward some overwhelming question." (I often quote from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" in these blogs.) This year, despite my resolve, time got away from me and no such lengthy, substantial blog post materialized.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's just say that the fact that this post pales in comparison to some of yesteryear's longer, more reflective blog posts does <i><u>not</u></i> mean that Scott's work pales in comparison to what he's shown in the past. Frankly, it's vibrant and very interesting.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's just say that Scott's tendency, as a person and a painter, has always been to embrace rather than to ignore or minimize darkness. He experiences it as rich, deep, fertile, and giving. Consequently, for him, it is almost always luminous. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaPieILwupyWKdPGZ6vX5zz0-Ijpvu2PRPqVNCxckb3pQvqQsOT4awKcAEND_EekWECDZQ6mTnl_oVTZe66zUDBccRHTCOKo3FVImTVu5W5_fkCZ4nYGr6ameXwCugnUb-puhwJ7krYFSPTvfwyVUsC8UbOPlfoB3HV5WyJxuZZvlqN4TKErmF-sNxB1Q/s5475/IMG_2057.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3759" data-original-width="5475" height="333" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifaPieILwupyWKdPGZ6vX5zz0-Ijpvu2PRPqVNCxckb3pQvqQsOT4awKcAEND_EekWECDZQ6mTnl_oVTZe66zUDBccRHTCOKo3FVImTVu5W5_fkCZ4nYGr6ameXwCugnUb-puhwJ7krYFSPTvfwyVUsC8UbOPlfoB3HV5WyJxuZZvlqN4TKErmF-sNxB1Q/w485-h333/IMG_2057.JPG" width="485" /></a></div>Let's just say that some of the luminous darkness Scott has been trying to render is literal. Scott does a fair amount of <i>plein air</i> painting when we visit our cabin in easternmost New York state, and one of his favorite subjects and spots is the shaded stream that runs through the woods close to our cabin. For a long time, he was dissatisfied with his efforts to convey the quality of light he experiences in the often shadowy, nearly hidden places he chooses along the stream. Only recently has Scott been beginning to feel that he's getting the light right.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhCm1dClqA0sK4s84Vk0Xm2jr_Hhil8HNdOmQQCL9M54zuX4wKFAPgJC6v39x2hnD8HhXUGZy93YhpZFtQnCtMB7IjzLyvTkYLZ7jppFq_VOuHMhL5_25t2Jh_KsC8clAs_H9kz6kpGRfgrkoJxQ2wS9_aBlY3iC6OwOQr0pjvS-aqcKkWkgVYEYfzFjP/s5121/IMG_2063.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="5121" data-original-width="3570" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEhCm1dClqA0sK4s84Vk0Xm2jr_Hhil8HNdOmQQCL9M54zuX4wKFAPgJC6v39x2hnD8HhXUGZy93YhpZFtQnCtMB7IjzLyvTkYLZ7jppFq_VOuHMhL5_25t2Jh_KsC8clAs_H9kz6kpGRfgrkoJxQ2wS9_aBlY3iC6OwOQr0pjvS-aqcKkWkgVYEYfzFjP/w279-h400/IMG_2063.JPG" width="279" /></a></div>Let's just say that when the subject of his paintings is a discernible human figure, luminosity can both emanate from it and surround it. In the drawing-like painting to the right--it's done in etching ink applied with a brush--the serene African-American woman exudes composure and certainty. Her temples and forearms glow in light from no particular source, given that she appears in no particular context or space. She holds tight to, even kisses, something wiry, delicate, perhaps formerly coiled, and most definitely mysterious. What is it? Might it bruise or tear her hands? Ultimately, persuaded by her inner light and the outer light around her, we trust her choice to love what she loves.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxwwTR-wxtkthoJslm6h362z7Hnk6-rzTKc3r4XPgfTMO8Mw6-bxMb9vZdpMBdohNspUjysAjZCnPkcwjDBXlJwj7xQt6I3CoaJ7cFPLxIYejIf-7jSZPFXjlI5sQNsxhurkhyphenhyphensBHcniY8eNhtzAVfyeFoS3M5Majqq1LJHhVsrPunXJyuwwvHxA8C4Vw/s4738/IMG_2065.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4738" data-original-width="3452" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXxwwTR-wxtkthoJslm6h362z7Hnk6-rzTKc3r4XPgfTMO8Mw6-bxMb9vZdpMBdohNspUjysAjZCnPkcwjDBXlJwj7xQt6I3CoaJ7cFPLxIYejIf-7jSZPFXjlI5sQNsxhurkhyphenhyphensBHcniY8eNhtzAVfyeFoS3M5Majqq1LJHhVsrPunXJyuwwvHxA8C4Vw/w291-h400/IMG_2065.JPG" width="291" /></a></div>Let's just say when the subject is a human figure in a muscular relationship to a context or background, sometimes a space and sometimes a place, the figure often seems to be either emerging from or submerging in, even hurtling into, a darkness of undisclosed nature and origin. Often present in these paintings is intense blackness that devours light and then glows with it. But from whence comes this almost unworldly shimmering light, this luminosity?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytlQQAKNMrcxmPneK_ay9P3kWagyoHADUrbTDjeIJ2oVaDWvqCGHLWM345JcmNOYcgFInFcX4lGALCEC5MVBJHFKelqEWcUZEYxHqptRieXmgbtNdXUUjNr4YMN9IJP1vg4NugEPhIeaK4d77bCfs6c1sa-fOgKRUD-6bRUzzEXOWf5MfKk1toaOX1-d3/s479/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-17%20at%208.46.21%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="450" height="353" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjytlQQAKNMrcxmPneK_ay9P3kWagyoHADUrbTDjeIJ2oVaDWvqCGHLWM345JcmNOYcgFInFcX4lGALCEC5MVBJHFKelqEWcUZEYxHqptRieXmgbtNdXUUjNr4YMN9IJP1vg4NugEPhIeaK4d77bCfs6c1sa-fOgKRUD-6bRUzzEXOWf5MfKk1toaOX1-d3/w332-h353/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-17%20at%208.46.21%20AM.png" width="332" /></a></div>Let's just say that, in part because the colors in some of these paintings also appear prominently in the images captured by the Hubbell telescope, I always experience these paintings as expressions of the eternal and endless scheme of things and our certain place in it. Both light and luminosity come from a place where the scientific and the spiritual have never been separate. Thus, these paintings capture and radiate the numinous luminous, which holds, blesses, and births.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let's just say that Scott's latest work is provocative, evocative, and downright beautiful. Come down to his studio this weekend to experience the luminous, or at least to see the his paintings, his drawings, and the light. <br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxzCum_nunHcj_j48pkQ_hNwu1Zz-aH7llr6wbRjefQGTw8b_PP4Kixcx4_NtP21Koyp_KQxDbq9wO-hnx7HSrM2KSnEc-os9KECusC0CHOHmV8nSruL7jioXUlDWJw8GlKTPU83q_sl8FDCChO7eof66SUXJtY_fJkxojqhlbm3qHooTdPOicBuAklLw/s596/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-17%20at%206.22.48%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="316" data-original-width="596" height="340" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlxzCum_nunHcj_j48pkQ_hNwu1Zz-aH7llr6wbRjefQGTw8b_PP4Kixcx4_NtP21Koyp_KQxDbq9wO-hnx7HSrM2KSnEc-os9KECusC0CHOHmV8nSruL7jioXUlDWJw8GlKTPU83q_sl8FDCChO7eof66SUXJtY_fJkxojqhlbm3qHooTdPOicBuAklLw/w640-h340/Screen%20Shot%202023-11-17%20at%206.22.48%20PM.png" width="640" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br /></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-86847017523151620742023-10-20T18:23:00.005-04:002023-10-21T08:31:45.056-04:00Sharing Light in the Dark Times<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI-J4tCiZ-WHsUoBPMiNRFK1rQNtMVSn30RskSgw8SLYxSlvgnrSqmLAmTorX36-l2XzgjU7jGJD0WxuIA5om1lG76J8EwRTW7vuY5xZksLheuzuiR9yUiun6R-vOULBz3Syyj24CVcEi6m18kIA29-I5fgvoQdqUKcrq9X-xfkrh_AqvG4bGosxBBkMN/s648/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-19%20at%208.43.45%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="390" height="431" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvI-J4tCiZ-WHsUoBPMiNRFK1rQNtMVSn30RskSgw8SLYxSlvgnrSqmLAmTorX36-l2XzgjU7jGJD0WxuIA5om1lG76J8EwRTW7vuY5xZksLheuzuiR9yUiun6R-vOULBz3Syyj24CVcEi6m18kIA29-I5fgvoQdqUKcrq9X-xfkrh_AqvG4bGosxBBkMN/w260-h431/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-19%20at%208.43.45%20PM.png" width="260" /></a></div>So already, welcome back to ordinary time in extraordinary times--and even, perhaps, to time running out. The Jewish month of Tishrei, with its multiple major holidays, is over; the month of Cheshvan, with its absence of holidays, has begun; and the world and the country are teetering on multiple perilous edges*--as perilous as I've seen in my lifetime. In this context, our job as Jews--and as people generally, I believe--is to keep living our lives, mindful if possible of our most authentic purposes and motivations. As </span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">my <i>60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays</i> book explains by quoting The Rebbe Sholom Dovber, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote>After the <i>Tishrei</i> holiday season begins the period of <i>Ve'Yaakov holoch le'darko,</i> meaning 'And Jacob went on his way.' Every Jew goes on his way back to his work in fulfilling his unique mission in life. But now, he comes 'armed' with deep inspiration and energy that he has received from celebrating all the holidays in this month.</blockquote></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">If only being "armed" with deep inspiration and energy could suffice at this time. Or should I really be saying, "I hope and pray that </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">being "armed" with deep inspiration and energy will suffice at this time"? You can see that I'm caught between doubt and hope. But I'd like to hope. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mtdlZk7B0U_ySx-AJMFkuGzNwa37oerfzPaqyOhM2OH3o9Eq24BKwziuP3UTUbKlt-AcLwL4PfAsmizgFNA29xOSDgHOJ2lryxU7lUkq96S0StJym5Ip5HzkM-bBSpFMd2Q95h6Bg05JeWOsYGerDmVjZSX3I2GufXuF16tDH5KEZTqQtRM8y4cbaUSb/s4032/fullsizeoutput_1f68.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0mtdlZk7B0U_ySx-AJMFkuGzNwa37oerfzPaqyOhM2OH3o9Eq24BKwziuP3UTUbKlt-AcLwL4PfAsmizgFNA29xOSDgHOJ2lryxU7lUkq96S0StJym5Ip5HzkM-bBSpFMd2Q95h6Bg05JeWOsYGerDmVjZSX3I2GufXuF16tDH5KEZTqQtRM8y4cbaUSb/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_1f68.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>For that reason, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">despite these dark days, I am going to talk about several things that lifted me up--and one that brought me complete joy--during the week before the situation in Israel and Gaza exploded so frighteningly, lethally, deplorably, disturbingly, and sadly on the October 7--</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">actually, on Simchat Torah, the last of the Jewish High Holidays, and traditionally one typified by revelry. On this holiday, Jews--sometimes, I'll say "Jews," sometimes I'll say
"we" because I'm a Jew--"complete the cycle of reading the Torah (the
last verse of the Book of Deuteronomy) and we begin anew (with the Book
of Genesis)" (142).** <br /></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8VU7ayYXHYjTv8B07Wk32Zs16DHxds6_GBpcjWcZjUdctjL-tbFLO0mxz1W3w9MPavEHybP04VBLzOusR0ZXvCtmyuRJE4F1doMb-FdROQbaO3bIDg8IgLXLfc_UkBlFeqM7nZIQ1JNmYPKMoWJv22vebQHpdh4FpyIU01x7G3iPFy-sbZoLudmnUFKg/s761/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-17%20at%208.49.49%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="539" data-original-width="761" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT8VU7ayYXHYjTv8B07Wk32Zs16DHxds6_GBpcjWcZjUdctjL-tbFLO0mxz1W3w9MPavEHybP04VBLzOusR0ZXvCtmyuRJE4F1doMb-FdROQbaO3bIDg8IgLXLfc_UkBlFeqM7nZIQ1JNmYPKMoWJv22vebQHpdh4FpyIU01x7G3iPFy-sbZoLudmnUFKg/w358-h254/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-17%20at%208.49.49%20PM.png" width="358" /></a><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Even though I'm not someone who usually dances*** in the streets on Simchat Torah,**** there's nothing I like better than endings that are beginnings, especially when they can be counted on as annual experiences; cycles give me hope.</span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Simchat Torah comes right after Sukkot, a multi-day holiday during which Jews symbolize both their vulnerability as mortals living in a material world that they cannot control, and their lack of fear of that vulnerability because of their connections to and dependence upon God and one another. </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXfWhRgxW5z27bOsfFB6jxNjdX4XzGpRBd7qgFrjomidVI52FjvNBMHueUeuaImju8-mdiaGtcnXrj8lMUNmdAMLaTFb8s4MzaIw3W6N6dO78SzWAOHF3rS0AtJPrdnfLSNZtFIhU3AIh2TbnPYDcirRSEkUO1sMMFYI4hutLr6JXuG8j16ldShu-CwvVN" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="704" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgXfWhRgxW5z27bOsfFB6jxNjdX4XzGpRBd7qgFrjomidVI52FjvNBMHueUeuaImju8-mdiaGtcnXrj8lMUNmdAMLaTFb8s4MzaIw3W6N6dO78SzWAOHF3rS0AtJPrdnfLSNZtFIhU3AIh2TbnPYDcirRSEkUO1sMMFYI4hutLr6JXuG8j16ldShu-CwvVN=w400-h284" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">As the events of the last two weeks attest, these connections do not shield Jews from terrible occurrences, and the grief, anger, and vacillations between hope and despair that accompany them; what these connections do ensure is that they do not walk alone***** as they suffer and live on in the short and long terms.<br /></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span style="font-size: medium;">I use the word "they" in the preceding paragraph to emphasize my recognition</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> that my personal grief and fear are more abstract than those
being experienced by many others: I don't know personally any Israelis, Palestinians, and
Americans who have died, been captured, been forced from their homes,
lost loved ones, are longing for news of missing loved ones, are
wondering whether and how they'll survive physically and psychologically
during the weeks and months ahead. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTUmSugkYvPHA8zWPpwGTZ6vzmXq-6NmUAjer5znZbzPCAxu2gqBQdo-5ZQl5EI_OXikkanGT6WZLDmNYVnCFczOQHcXo_CBRvZIMeI-1QTIe2SNBa69E5Df7-3DzyEal0vQfYVFFDgAg2FCywHr4kc0GsuXyumoIPH57fOzG7U_6yEEuNBIjSvQxqIpdp" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="779" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTUmSugkYvPHA8zWPpwGTZ6vzmXq-6NmUAjer5znZbzPCAxu2gqBQdo-5ZQl5EI_OXikkanGT6WZLDmNYVnCFczOQHcXo_CBRvZIMeI-1QTIe2SNBa69E5Df7-3DzyEal0vQfYVFFDgAg2FCywHr4kc0GsuXyumoIPH57fOzG7U_6yEEuNBIjSvQxqIpdp=w244-h320" width="244" /></a></div>What better proof of this do I have than that I am sitting in the warm, bright safety of my dining room watching the latest news about Israel and Gaza as I'm writing this? That said, things can change fast.*(6)<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">That's exactly why I'm seizing this moment to talk about several things that made me smile--and one thing that made me jump for joy. Interestingly the first few are connected to Orchard Cove, the senior living community in Canton where my mother resides on the Skilled Nursing Floor.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I've always felt deeply appreciative of the way my mother is looked after, cared for, and engaged by the Orchard Cove staff. But recently, I've been noticing how much several of the residents on the floor who do not have cognitive or memory issues extend themselves toward the residents who do; for example, one of them is always telling my mother, "You're adorable," while another frequently says to her, "I love you." It won't surprise you to know how warm and welcoming they are to me as "her daughter." <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I was especially reminded of all this personalized kindness during the music therapy session in which my mother and some of her fellow Orchard Cove residents with cognitive and memory issues participated on the Monday before Simchat Torah. The music therapist, who comes every other week, is a member of the New England Irish Harp Orchestra, and she comes bearing not only her harp and a guitar, but an array of lightweight percussion instruments that can be banged, stroked, tapped, rattled, and shaken. One resident excitedly brings his own drum to the sessions. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_WFOrxWrbwQajYWLrlYIP7haghtizjjt4FwchIVmXWXhwwNvpQlYSepcjtCMAVw5MXpx5SzjHl_EK_t-TsuMw2a-ChGbaLkIGV-RgETEmNNNc8i_suC9QZtf2LahKNwJooQVatHayt4zzAFGPk5ohsUhwuU1lQDD6EYCZFZkqtoXWCIkEVkhjUPy_UPy/s526/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-19%20at%209.40.06%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="486" data-original-width="526" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz_WFOrxWrbwQajYWLrlYIP7haghtizjjt4FwchIVmXWXhwwNvpQlYSepcjtCMAVw5MXpx5SzjHl_EK_t-TsuMw2a-ChGbaLkIGV-RgETEmNNNc8i_suC9QZtf2LahKNwJooQVatHayt4zzAFGPk5ohsUhwuU1lQDD6EYCZFZkqtoXWCIkEVkhjUPy_UPy/w200-h185/Screen%20Shot%202023-10-19%20at%209.40.06%20PM.png" width="200" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Linda*(7) not only knows the names of all the residents, but sings songs multiple times so all members of the group are musically honored--"My Thelma Lies Over the Ocean" and "Marilyn, Marilyn, give me your answer, do" are examples of her inclusive efforts. There are games to play and conversations to have. By the end of the session, every resident feels essential and helpful to the ensemble, seen and heard, and very musical.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">The next thing that made me smile were my visits to the Orchard Cove sukkah. Both times, aside from enjoying the lovely fall weather, I thought about the meaning of the sukkah's temporariness and its mandated, very porous ceiling that as easily admitted windswept rain as sunlight and starlight. I definitely had in mind a few paragraphs from Sarah Hurwitz's <i>Here All Along</i>*(8)--which are even more relevant now, given the events of the last couple of weeks.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQcf58Df3nBvs9SjcM7xOwT7w1kdWHNj0pVrhLp3tlb5vq903H5ZcFn7CaN8Pn3lxEYjUDuGwqJZCFvBOn-Nj2N4NukcLYupZXpRW2Cx6r2_5xtNrhRVeMniXmoiGpLqBl7cr-GkjGu9CLOxmat9SJ18Ocv8liqc9DZGqM_W4-1S9L1slgYNUREyzxrqTK" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="1024" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgQcf58Df3nBvs9SjcM7xOwT7w1kdWHNj0pVrhLp3tlb5vq903H5ZcFn7CaN8Pn3lxEYjUDuGwqJZCFvBOn-Nj2N4NukcLYupZXpRW2Cx6r2_5xtNrhRVeMniXmoiGpLqBl7cr-GkjGu9CLOxmat9SJ18Ocv8liqc9DZGqM_W4-1S9L1slgYNUREyzxrqTK" width="320" /></a></div> Sukkot seems to be telling us that being written in the Book of Life is an all-inclusive kind of deal. It is not "The Book of the Pleasant Things in Life" or "The Book of the Easy Things in Life." It is "The Book of Life"--all of it. If you try to keep out the rain, you'll be unable to see any of the stars. If you refuse to bear the heat, you'll never feel the sun on your skin. Either you get the whole package--pleasure <i>and</i> pain, joy <i>and</i> sorrow--or you get a numb, closed-off, sleepwalking existence that might seem safe and manageable, but isn't much of a life. That kind of existence offers only the illusion of control, . . ..</span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> Echoing a theme that runs throughout Judaism, Sukkot urges us: Do this awake. And don't anxiously brace against the uncertainty of an awakened life, or grudgingly endure it. Rejoice in it. . . .. (201)</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As I wrote in my journal after my second visit to the sukkah, I had the "feeling I was in a God-space, or somehow surrounded [--distinctly not alone in world--], basically feeling I was where I was supposed to be with a kind of right-mindedness."</span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtozt3qkKa_Tmf9Z-gNQrFHQUZvwf4x4qy63X6tol695-sEkVxWcVrTa7S1QN9WAqVV-wkAGwLoGRAb1kq4sMiR_AQyRSCbPYHNcECdTZmFTicScuV_YYy_npus6AJlTpQWk7kMn7BUDT9b_Jj1OQQjVrEdj8u1Ip49-DIldHs61BcvsJaUbxxRLIPPanF" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="669" height="329" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhtozt3qkKa_Tmf9Z-gNQrFHQUZvwf4x4qy63X6tol695-sEkVxWcVrTa7S1QN9WAqVV-wkAGwLoGRAb1kq4sMiR_AQyRSCbPYHNcECdTZmFTicScuV_YYy_npus6AJlTpQWk7kMn7BUDT9b_Jj1OQQjVrEdj8u1Ip49-DIldHs61BcvsJaUbxxRLIPPanF=w340-h329" width="340" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">As for what blew my socks off and left me both weeping and jumping for joy, it was learning that Manuel Munoz, whose most recent short story collection has earned much critical acclaim, <a href="https://www.macfound.org/fellows/class-of-2023/manuel-munoz#searchresults" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">had just been named a MacArthur Fellow</span></a>.*(9) As I said on my Facebook page,</span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> "Today's
absolutely excellent news: Manuel Munoz has just been named a MacArthur
Fellow--yes, he's just been awarded a MacArthur Genius Grant. And yes,
sometimes, the right things happen to the people who so completely
deserve them." </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In my book, Manuel is </span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>tikkun olam </i>personified<i>, tikkun olam</i> meaning </span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">repairing the world, a Jewish obligation. </span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">His medium is writing and his skill is off the charts, but I believe his writing would not have the power to transform readers were it not a reflection of Manuel's deepest truly generous self and his authentic compassion for people generally, and especially for people making their ways without fanfare and often without much help through circumstances ranging from mundane to difficult. But don't worry: if you spent time with Manuel, you wouldn't for a minute wonder if you were in the presence of a saint: he wears his true self lightly, and he laughs a lot.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Manuel's work </span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">elevates his readers and his characters, especially those whose stories are often known to few or none. Manuel's writing is s</span></span><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">o spare, so vivid, so observant and concentrated on
the details that reveal his characters' inner lives that it <i>happens</i> to us while
we're reading it. Gently we're pulled into his characters' inner and
outer worlds, our own observations and emotions naturally conducting us to new
sensitivities, understandings, and awarenesses. If you've yet to
read <i>The Consequences, </i>you'll see what I mean when you do</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u x1yc453h" dir="auto" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcSKlZAc3yOTHdxoBqpFMjB8yBQO2a2Pd0kxE29TbaraaiLkE50yijfOoeh9F0S-6es8-3qxwnb1190iw0ReQWRnCGCVxsTjuntmngOB5tQ_kqGN0QDjrb9NfOZIUfJeikl24qbaG7L_PhhcFZaK8nELcYkzEW1D5ldTKEG-7tAHkSCitVxaDr0hz0XMkR" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="515" data-original-width="656" height="314" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjcSKlZAc3yOTHdxoBqpFMjB8yBQO2a2Pd0kxE29TbaraaiLkE50yijfOoeh9F0S-6es8-3qxwnb1190iw0ReQWRnCGCVxsTjuntmngOB5tQ_kqGN0QDjrb9NfOZIUfJeikl24qbaG7L_PhhcFZaK8nELcYkzEW1D5ldTKEG-7tAHkSCitVxaDr0hz0XMkR=w400-h314" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">At a time when so many can't smile and can only weep or worry, I think that those of us who can smile should in order to affirm life and hope<i> on behalf of </i>those who presently cannot. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Last week, one of my favorite poets, </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Louise </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Glück, died. As her editor Jonathan Galassi said in her <i>CNN </i>obituary, "</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">Louise Glück’s poetry gives voice to our untrusting but unstillable
need for knowledge and connection in an often unreliable world."*(10)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">Though some experience </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">Glück’s </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"> poetry as negative and depressing, I have always been reassured by its hard-edged pursuit of truth, its steely focus on "knowledge and connection." So I was pleased to come upon these words from her in the same obituary: </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">“Yes, the world is falling apart,” . . .. “But here we all are,
we’re still alive. And a sense of possibility emerges from that fact,
from anything — just that stubborn human need to hope.” Dark and discouraging as some of her verse could seem or be, she was ever hoping.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-gzXDJC7CE-1in_-aY7NErlqFoqukrz7YkkkFnhDL_g_q4gnnjCLR2gol8mmj_9RVNw7LJDmC2WtYySv4sjcfSf1jUSdlXPFdGrwPJ3013gJqiGrGA7-msjX5Jw3ePm76Z_J6l5l6dINPYj9VWvARp9BTI7x68Qre9QDvp2Da2MlYEqyySt5KnvC22Bgs" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj-gzXDJC7CE-1in_-aY7NErlqFoqukrz7YkkkFnhDL_g_q4gnnjCLR2gol8mmj_9RVNw7LJDmC2WtYySv4sjcfSf1jUSdlXPFdGrwPJ3013gJqiGrGA7-msjX5Jw3ePm76Z_J6l5l6dINPYj9VWvARp9BTI7x68Qre9QDvp2Da2MlYEqyySt5KnvC22Bgs=w300-h400" width="300" /></a></div>As I am now. So I end this blog on a light, silly note. Hallowe'en is coming, and each day, more and more houses in my neighborhood sport decorations ranging from cute-adorable to downright terrifying. The horrifying mailbox in the adjacent photo startled me into grossed-out silence before it cracked me up. If your heart isn't completely shattered, may Hallowe'en give you at least a temporary respite from the very important cares of our day. If you see something that makes you laugh and smile, enjoy that you can.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>* </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">"<i>Chronometer (Triptych) </i>Panel #1"--Painting by Scott Ketcham. </span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2010-2011, 60X40", Oil, Acrylic, Sand, Stocking, Spray Paint on Wood. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">https://www.scottketcham.com/post/96355432372/68a-chronometer-triptych-panel-1-2010-2011<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>** Jacobson, S. (2008). <i>60 days: A spiritual guide to the high holidays</i>. New York: Kiyum Press.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>***</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">As Simon Jacobson explains in </span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><span><i>60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays,</i>
Simchat Torah is such a joyous holiday that "we," confident in "our
inherent connection with G-d and Torah," literally dance: "We therefore
dance with absolute passion and no limits. Our legs carry us as our arms
are wrapped around a Torah scroll."*** </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>*** Screen shot of this page of the <i>Arizona Jewish Post</i>: https://azjewishpost.com/2018/if-dancing-on-simchat-torah-makes-you-feel-uneasy-think-of-it-as-a-test/ </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span><span><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>***** </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span class="caption | margin_right_half">Screen shot of photo with this caption on website of <i>The Boston Globe: </i>Mourners sat at the
funeral of Staff Sergeant Yuval Ben Yaakov, an Israeli soldier killed
when Palestinian militants entered Israel, in the cemetery in Kfar
Menachem, Israel, on Monday.</span><span class="credit uppercase"> AVISHAG SHAAR-YASHUV/NYT</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span class="credit uppercase">*(6)"No Danger" by Paul Carley: Currently on view at the Fourth Floor Artists Association's current "The Dark Side of Art" Exhibition. https://www.facebook.com/4thFloorArtists/ </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span class="credit uppercase">*(7) Music Therapist Linda LaSalle can be found on LinkedIn: https://www.linkedin.com/in/linda-lasalle-musictherapy/</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><span class="credit uppercase">*(8) </span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>Hurwitz, S. (2019). <i>Here all along: Finding meaning, spirituality, and a deeper connection to life--in Judaism (after <u>finally</u> choosing to look there). </i>Spiegel & Grau.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>*(9) Photograph of Manuel posted on his Facebook page on October 4, 2023. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>*(10) Andrew, S. (2023, October 13). </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>Poet and Nobel laureate Louise Glück dies at 80</i>. CNN. <b><u>https://www.cnn.com/style/louise-gluck-dies-poet-nobel-prize-cec/index.html</u><br /></b></span></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-24917790974031216072023-09-22T09:21:00.003-04:002023-09-24T14:23:25.636-04:00Deliverance: A Poem That's Mostly True<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsggvUSKF9EYOpQvo8qgBHMQb8_Fy2iFeHQXhl0AVrnzxhJaGmH59ALNtQ8nai8XhD1Gtpo1uoiSIpCeK0cM-b5NOPL-ejQ5rO3ndGncn1J84cO64iA7HFTFdxwk3gEqHl2UhB7vPKEjwqClDg5F6ogdNS7CbXkjZ3lwTvTzr0T0_vMXWANH9NBn2XehuU/s488/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-22%20at%208.14.37%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="488" data-original-width="289" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsggvUSKF9EYOpQvo8qgBHMQb8_Fy2iFeHQXhl0AVrnzxhJaGmH59ALNtQ8nai8XhD1Gtpo1uoiSIpCeK0cM-b5NOPL-ejQ5rO3ndGncn1J84cO64iA7HFTFdxwk3gEqHl2UhB7vPKEjwqClDg5F6ogdNS7CbXkjZ3lwTvTzr0T0_vMXWANH9NBn2XehuU/w238-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-22%20at%208.14.37%20AM.png" width="238" /></a></div>The first blessing</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of the new Jewish year:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Free parking,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With validation,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a Cambridge Street garage.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Among the Mondrian* thatch—</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Some spaces behind others,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Others perpendicular to those</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Next to signs admonishing</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Do not block other cars"--</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One spot,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Strangely short and narrow,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Tight against a cinder block wall<span> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just beyond a yellow post</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Marking a tight turn.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My parking skills</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Would be sore tested.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">But dared I pass it up?<br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My friend was already waiting</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">At the synagogue door . . .</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So in smallest increments,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I tucked my Honda Civic in close—</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And didn’t know how close</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Until I exited my car</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And looked at it from behind:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Between my car and the wall,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A space no wider than</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An index finger,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A slender marker,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A slice of bread.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And wasn’t this just my way—</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To maneuver myself</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With pride and care </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Into a place that would </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Prove too narrow? <br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Silent panic.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">How would I get out</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Without leaving</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My car’s red paint</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">On the gray wall?</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And then I slowed my breathing,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Calmed myself so I might hear</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The soft, wise voice</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of inner counsel:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Move your car now,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Or you’ll worry all service long</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">About how you’ll move it later.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And if someone blows a horn</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">While you’re doing it,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Don’t jump or tense.”</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And so I moved it, slowly</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Rocking forward and back,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Forward and back,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">My ear fearing the muffled crunch</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of metal on concrete,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4cnCda6--n64-wrsMPUPfWFPXm9P5tbYRB9odXwugJhueyGjd5zn5P_jAr4Tap1OeId7S3nAJflENUbrGrdAj7yO-o2sEZUUCoPbK5yJ_uj_7vidnK8JUhBfAwZfh4Ym6d_8pfQdqJfUuyWSGgKhqwa4HPGCXjBj9v7BEs1Su7FEf0JjMDv1y_nYkeMC/s447/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-22%20at%208.00.54%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="335" data-original-width="447" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4cnCda6--n64-wrsMPUPfWFPXm9P5tbYRB9odXwugJhueyGjd5zn5P_jAr4Tap1OeId7S3nAJflENUbrGrdAj7yO-o2sEZUUCoPbK5yJ_uj_7vidnK8JUhBfAwZfh4Ym6d_8pfQdqJfUuyWSGgKhqwa4HPGCXjBj9v7BEs1Su7FEf0JjMDv1y_nYkeMC/w290-h218/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-22%20at%208.00.54%20AM.png" width="290" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which did not come.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And I was out of my bind</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Without a scrape,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Amazed, grateful,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And certain I’d had help,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Which I kept having:</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">As I rounded a corner,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A Dodge ram pulled out</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of a space near the exit</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That I backed into with ease. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">* Screen shot of a photo of </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Piet Mondrian's “Composition 8,” 1914<span>,</span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> on this web site: Guggenheim Museum educational staff. (n.d.) <i>Piet Mondrian</i>. Guggenheim Museums and Foundation. <b><u>https://www.guggenheim.org/teaching-materials/the-great-upheaval-modern-art-from-the-guggenheim-collection/piet-mondrian?gallery=upheaval_L4a<i><br /></i></u></b></span></span></div>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-89928308548804971022023-09-15T16:15:00.006-04:002023-09-17T17:29:44.715-04:00Fielding Questions As a New Year Begins . . .<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtXpYlde7ayt-gaOk35fj_dRG4F3TURi9NY7ikbVpTiv0oTVqrfL7kQdi3jpkOaMs-aQ-auHjsjeJiwkdDdX4JOnfFIVjYFIH_DuXI5BdW_8IdbkJv-W6y1XjMaPaSnACh2IsDOQuvS_qim9h2akbyThwEQ4Tuer_atgG_C_q1kY-MynAR5_wfHACWyrc/s535/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-11%20at%209.01.33%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="507" data-original-width="535" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNtXpYlde7ayt-gaOk35fj_dRG4F3TURi9NY7ikbVpTiv0oTVqrfL7kQdi3jpkOaMs-aQ-auHjsjeJiwkdDdX4JOnfFIVjYFIH_DuXI5BdW_8IdbkJv-W6y1XjMaPaSnACh2IsDOQuvS_qim9h2akbyThwEQ4Tuer_atgG_C_q1kY-MynAR5_wfHACWyrc/w368-h349/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-11%20at%209.01.33%20PM.png" width="368" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, when is a field a mountaintop?</span><p></p><ol style="text-align: left;"><li><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">When it offers a "peak" experience.</span></li><li><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">When, since you were a child, you've been unable to hear the song "The Sound of Music"<i> </i>without envisioning Julie Andrews* singing it exuberantly while running across a rolling meadow high in the Austrian Alps.</span></li></ol><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I bring this up because recently, I've been thinking again about the field in front of my husband Scott's and my cabin just over the New York border from Massachusetts. As some of you know, I've written about the field in past years as I've prepared for the Jewish High Holidays, often in conjunction with </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Simon Jacobson's </span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>60 Days: A Spiritual Guide to the High Holidays.</i></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">** In particular, I've written about the difficulties I've had stepping into the field, and especially with walking up to God--the King in the Field--and asking Him for what I want or need:</span><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4xLA2pKLFFc55zVBaA_8EUjS1Du8Rn0WoiSQ0b13PQhhtC7hOi-QV19g4_r7L4jwCIXdAylazWguRK0uDgun9PtjebiprlFmNMyBVIfBZD5W82JhuSxO0C15BhzkKakkmL5NOLoRrHe4hqY93eJrMSSHFRT0I79R1jur-wBoCEQM9WEwRTDsV--ciDpc/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2b76.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgj4xLA2pKLFFc55zVBaA_8EUjS1Du8Rn0WoiSQ0b13PQhhtC7hOi-QV19g4_r7L4jwCIXdAylazWguRK0uDgun9PtjebiprlFmNMyBVIfBZD5W82JhuSxO0C15BhzkKakkmL5NOLoRrHe4hqY93eJrMSSHFRT0I79R1jur-wBoCEQM9WEwRTDsV--ciDpc/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_2b76.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span>"When
the king is in the field . . . every person has the opportunity,
without petitioning for an audience, to go over to him, say hello and
ask for whatever he or she needs. The king is smiling, . . ., and he is
predisposed to grant all requests. . . . It is a profound message of
hope that we don't have to wait for Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur to find
G-d. We can go out to meet Him now" (26).</span></span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">For reasons I don't fully understand, this particular "invitation" to connect with God has always filled me with feelings of both yearning and failure. Though on rare occasions I have spoken directly and personally to God on my own behalf, my inclination is not to do so.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXQN7uLuXAW6JDdgXDADXe3wueiDBCS0248dFQT3NEQkKDkG0GGgAXsXTMjTUa7Tm8lTQ4LAM5VFYyk9GnnjC1vMDj4_Vd2T8XvjqKLMU-5l3GgARj0UQIc7ukONcSZcV6NtysYTqS4cCNdUvu0JxZPZpxK54XVtm08So-ifp2812kS004vyIXByvb4r5/s2048/IMG_2481.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsXQN7uLuXAW6JDdgXDADXe3wueiDBCS0248dFQT3NEQkKDkG0GGgAXsXTMjTUa7Tm8lTQ4LAM5VFYyk9GnnjC1vMDj4_Vd2T8XvjqKLMU-5l3GgARj0UQIc7ukONcSZcV6NtysYTqS4cCNdUvu0JxZPZpxK54XVtm08So-ifp2812kS004vyIXByvb4r5/w300-h400/IMG_2481.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>But here's the irony: I love the field and </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> generally feel that God is there as a presence, though not as a King. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I associate the field with a state of integrated heart and mind that I seldom achieve in other places. Its natural</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> beauty, seasonal cycles, and inherent spirit, combined with the quality of the time Scott and I spend together there, often makes the time I spend there </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">a peak experience for me, so much so that when it's time to go home,</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> I often find myself musing on the idea expressed on the back cover of Jacobson's book</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">: "It's one thing to find happiness and life affirmation when we escape to a mountain; it's quite another to be able to experience it when we are immersed in cruel, material life." Much as I may want to sustain the field feelings when I'm back home, I know too well from experience that I won't be able to for very long.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But am I confusing peak experience with some other kind of important positive experience? The bliss that I feel on my best trips to the field is not momentary; it extends over a period of days and leaves me </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">deeply at ease rather than</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> breathless with wonder. Can an experience be considered "peak" if it doesn't take one's breath away? And do such distinctions even matter? Isn't it enough to know there are multiple kinds of really positive experiences?<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">A funny thing happened to me on my way way to Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur this year: as<i> </i>I was </span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i>yet again </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">working my way through </span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>60 Days</i>, I encountered some statements about the field that I'd completely overlooked in previous years:<br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3IUL4uJR_6Ro7R_k3Dx_dl9mb3LuhR4vX8QEPe9HS2iM7i14jSXD-Wnrm7Ei-uxJmFQziyal_8ROV-9giLnQbILcM2UO8GSdKVq_tijqXoYs_h2DtPHrAMMrElYZhHP0dEfxW8G2URJ3rqFy_yL4mRWiY-XjB_4q15h60Ftnip-ewpvd1A3O460TLgBo/s602/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%2010.54.58%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="602" data-original-width="372" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN3IUL4uJR_6Ro7R_k3Dx_dl9mb3LuhR4vX8QEPe9HS2iM7i14jSXD-Wnrm7Ei-uxJmFQziyal_8ROV-9giLnQbILcM2UO8GSdKVq_tijqXoYs_h2DtPHrAMMrElYZhHP0dEfxW8G2URJ3rqFy_yL4mRWiY-XjB_4q15h60Ftnip-ewpvd1A3O460TLgBo/w248-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%2010.54.58%20AM.png" width="248" /></a></div>Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur are holidays. <i>Elul</i> [the Jewish month during which Jews prepare themselves for these holidays that happen early in the month of Tishrei] is amid workdays. We are in the field, we are still living our normal lives. Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur have a very powerful energy, because on those days we petition the King in his inner sanctum. But in <i>Elul</i>, we petition the King on our turf (26).***<br /></blockquote>The field as my turf? In how many blog posts had I positioned myself on the edge of or at top of the field that I had characterized as sacred and set apart from the places where I transacted the daily business of living </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">among other people </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">in the world?<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2j43UYegRoZqOiKwhOJjiLDNCKSDPQTCwGFXgvWaWQC34Jk7SOvkgRI44Z0S5ImHfLD5RON_Qt__nfUCHM15c1bZa6jPADheHyc9kUUxXyKJJ5H-TzE-0Mh1UvVII6A0DnWZFwORkzYUJDKSLzpnJtfNUME1MWJY9QGlZpGBb5rtJC1bIOHNvyYmTOvf/s4032/wNt4uqwFSx2JO1S7XMZt9g.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgp2j43UYegRoZqOiKwhOJjiLDNCKSDPQTCwGFXgvWaWQC34Jk7SOvkgRI44Z0S5ImHfLD5RON_Qt__nfUCHM15c1bZa6jPADheHyc9kUUxXyKJJ5H-TzE-0Mh1UvVII6A0DnWZFwORkzYUJDKSLzpnJtfNUME1MWJY9QGlZpGBb5rtJC1bIOHNvyYmTOvf/w300-h400/wNt4uqwFSx2JO1S7XMZt9g.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>Why had I overlooked this idea of the field, I wondered. My only explanation was that for decades. so much of my daily life has largely transpired on city streets and subway trains, in traffic jams and crowded squares, and in buildings and courtyards--places not at all reminiscent of fields. So in my life, the Berlin field and others not only represent, but actually are departures from "my turf." <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But wait. Why was I obsessing over this? And about the criteria for peak experiences? </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"What a waste of time," I said suddenly said out loud </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">--</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">and then turned off my computer in disgust. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But as I did, I remembered one of the questions I'd posed to myself as I'd begun my Elul reflections: "How can I break the habit of letting my mind get in the way of my heart?" Clearly, I hadn't made very much progress in this focus area.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">The next morning, I awoke with no insights, and got busy with my day. I planned to visit my dad's grave at Sharon Memorial Park--</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">it's Jewish tradition to visit the graves of loved ones before the High Holidays</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">--before heading over to see my mother on the Skilled Nursing Floor at Orchard Cove. I shoved</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> Sarah Hurwitz's </span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Here All Along: Finding Meaning, Spirituality, and a Deeper Connection to Life--in Judaism (After <u>Finally</u> Choosing to Look There) </i>*(4) into my bag </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">just before leaving</span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;">: I always a bring a book with me in case my mother takes an extended nap while I'm with her.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuyhToz2GgB9nemrYnXf40VnHgzYd-Q05gENuaTDos7PAvfdaF0yKwRgrNotqj3AWXH9hPj2qLuTER4QeWHp-LtDvsck5unx4VXo1WBkjcwoInBpfabOzYuN3ZwUoXUeZpBFrv8tuJuhSqOZ71ilD8GOY7mhN4pY3jmAVMFa7J4k3JzNjwhmKzVEOnKFg/s791/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-15%20at%202.17.14%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="613" data-original-width="791" height="310" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYuyhToz2GgB9nemrYnXf40VnHgzYd-Q05gENuaTDos7PAvfdaF0yKwRgrNotqj3AWXH9hPj2qLuTER4QeWHp-LtDvsck5unx4VXo1WBkjcwoInBpfabOzYuN3ZwUoXUeZpBFrv8tuJuhSqOZ71ilD8GOY7mhN4pY3jmAVMFa7J4k3JzNjwhmKzVEOnKFg/w400-h310/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-15%20at%202.17.14%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>As usual, I got lost in Sharon Memorial Park. And I just had to laugh when I realized that now I lost in both the maze of the cemetery and the metaphor maze of my mind's making.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>Finally, I found my dad's grave, where I spent some time imagining his voice and seeing his smile. And then I thought about how he is feeling increasingly gone to me: after all, my new grand-nephew--my dad's second great-grandson--could only have been given my dad's name--Benjamin David--if my dad were dead. And at the same time, I recognized that through this naming, my dad is somehow living on in the person of this beautiful little baby boy who will never know his voice and smile. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><i> <br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkSFQpwTfioy3XqagO8dfGdi6F4nKenvkwRcIl637NiclalyqYDhZAMmFNuN5wEu3x5j-sll1dkTvKJ-t8XUmGiPJcovytmQtW8y1rKnnC7dbYfT_YoZ47QnxMkHFnYmvqFyNpbsdFrz_Kj2oXRnNnf9hhiLF5RRJQc7UiD6_KPUVPRbw1SJl8vsCwEGQ/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2b30.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHkSFQpwTfioy3XqagO8dfGdi6F4nKenvkwRcIl637NiclalyqYDhZAMmFNuN5wEu3x5j-sll1dkTvKJ-t8XUmGiPJcovytmQtW8y1rKnnC7dbYfT_YoZ47QnxMkHFnYmvqFyNpbsdFrz_Kj2oXRnNnf9hhiLF5RRJQc7UiD6_KPUVPRbw1SJl8vsCwEGQ/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_2b30.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>I would have liked to stay in the cemetery just a little bit longer, b</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>ut the clock was ticking, and I didn't want to be late to Orchard Cove: for sure my dad would have wanted me to spend more time with my mother than at his grave. He always put her ahead of himself; he always put life ahead of death.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>My mother was very cheerful when I arrived at her place, but she did sleep for about a third of my visit. So I had the opportunity to read most of the "Freeing God from 'His' Human-Shaped Cage in the Sky" </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>chapter in Hurwitz's book. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>It turned out to be just what I needed--a book that had questions that mattered and some answers to them. So thrilled was I to come upon them that I actually thanked my mother, my father, Sarah Hurwitz, and God (variously conceived, imagined, and explained in Hurwitz's chapter) for having combined forces to give me the opportunity to read it.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdd-KgAf2J-KWd0Y6vt77RhEM8LyiAWiZaCwDaxBpEcuEKItbd7rHPymN38KOGHlQgI1molvpaTY94Ykvn89f7jvP31piuwCrIp7xIt2_LSuVxg_lBh4SzCSwgvMfLEzCnRqMTNh1BwQ7-x-gs--NPl4YqQD40KVMw1MZIXoFmg1ybr5n3rCevHc75q36/s353/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%204.12.34%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="328" data-original-width="353" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEdd-KgAf2J-KWd0Y6vt77RhEM8LyiAWiZaCwDaxBpEcuEKItbd7rHPymN38KOGHlQgI1molvpaTY94Ykvn89f7jvP31piuwCrIp7xIt2_LSuVxg_lBh4SzCSwgvMfLEzCnRqMTNh1BwQ7-x-gs--NPl4YqQD40KVMw1MZIXoFmg1ybr5n3rCevHc75q36/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%204.12.34%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>Early in the chapter, Hurwitz explains that "a God-shaped wall" had stood between her and God because she knew only one way to think about God: as "a Father/King in the sky who performs miracles, rewards us if we're good, punishes us if we're bad, and really enjoys our repetitive prayers to Him" (53). That wall began to crumble only after she went on a multi-day Jewish meditation retreat, and, in its aftermath, continued studying Judaism, but with a new understanding of where she had been going wrong before*****: <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><blockquote>That retreat was when I first realized that I had been approaching the question of God backward. I had been starting with theology rather than experience. And even worse, I had been focusing on one particularly difficult theology--a theology that serves as a wall to the Divine for many modern Jews. (60)<br /></blockquote></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>It turned out that, like me, Hurwitz was generally prone to follow her mind before following her heart.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> As I reflected on the shift she knew she had to make, I realized again that the field is somewhere I actually <i>did experience </i>the Divine--until I tried to shoehorn that Divinity into the form of the King, to whom I should be speaking directly and am not.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>Hurwitz further comforted me--and included me--when she said, "While there are few things Jews agree on, there seems to be consensus that we cannot fully understand or adequately describe God" (62). After the retreat, she studied various Jewish conceptions of God; in fact, her book describes--yes, it seems somewhat contradictory that she would set out to describe them--at least nine different conceptions. There were more choices than I knew.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXeJW6bz7etNJIVojHIP2lsbKkOyvngEoVUqzOnV2LBV0miZ0ynRoucKPh1lN_d8QutB9N1rRax82Tyd8gsutj9ZhG4FME_y7ik3a-r-Uv2pCkFZrOjBwbyCU-0QZcXNslWu8s9CozN5QpyApxixWLNMlN8BPKH1pkXuN10KA8gXHXYJ_bwiheuya5Iot5/s448/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%206.44.14%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="294" data-original-width="448" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXeJW6bz7etNJIVojHIP2lsbKkOyvngEoVUqzOnV2LBV0miZ0ynRoucKPh1lN_d8QutB9N1rRax82Tyd8gsutj9ZhG4FME_y7ik3a-r-Uv2pCkFZrOjBwbyCU-0QZcXNslWu8s9CozN5QpyApxixWLNMlN8BPKH1pkXuN10KA8gXHXYJ_bwiheuya5Iot5/w400-h263/Screen%20Shot%202023-09-14%20at%206.44.14%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>In retrospect, Hurwitz learned another important lesson from doing her research, a companion lesson to the first that she learned: that "theology could be a gateway to even greater experience, expanding my sense of where and how the Divine could be" (63). Personally, I was glad that Hurwitz didn't talk about any fields--she'd said the Father/King was in the sky, not in the field--since I was tired of trying to apply metaphors to "spiritual realities" and, in the process, further distancing myself from the reality of the Divine. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">For Scott, the field is the field—a place, not a
symbol or metaphor, </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">even though he experiences it and natural places generally as imbued with "spirit</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">," a word he doesn't worry about capitalizing or not. If it offers an invitation to him, it’s an invitation to explore, to
observe, to inquire, and sometimes to paint and draw. Earlier this month when I asked him why he'd extended the path around the field a few years back, he explained that his one purpose was to lessen the threat of Lyme Disease to both of us: where there are deer, there are deer ticks, and on a recent morning, we had seven deer in the field. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDq4REDdP1zfkq_JA7Z2CwAuCIGmhjg-C7h-soqIRpMvBnNV_Cb8pkm569Qs5tJRAaoRsQXUl67vtyL6Vo5Xsoznob0lPh8pTph-Khq6CbCal6_W3lvwcCFRO8T3S-bDcojSbUBxHx1E0Yzp-zx4nBd7kmcf9NseSRsiBX0wrzBQ7jzhX1vRLhFDrHdw7/s4032/fRxdN0%250QLyLzDAZKrF9hg.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbDq4REDdP1zfkq_JA7Z2CwAuCIGmhjg-C7h-soqIRpMvBnNV_Cb8pkm569Qs5tJRAaoRsQXUl67vtyL6Vo5Xsoznob0lPh8pTph-Khq6CbCal6_W3lvwcCFRO8T3S-bDcojSbUBxHx1E0Yzp-zx4nBd7kmcf9NseSRsiBX0wrzBQ7jzhX1vRLhFDrHdw7/w300-h400/fRxdN0%250QLyLzDAZKrF9hg.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>From Scott's perspective, the field and the path around it are one, despite the path's shorter grass, courtesy of his new weed-wacker. During
his childhood summers, he simply walked through the fields on his grandparents' property in West Stockbridge, seeking to avoid only the shorter thorn bushes that occasionally cropped up among the tall, hissing grasses as he </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">made his way through them</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">. He still misses those days of parting waist- and chest-high grasses with his
arms. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">For me, the field and the path around it are both places and symbols. The path represents my personal journey around and in relationship to the field, the more traditional symbol of the potential for connecting with God during the month of Elul.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Sometimes I envy Scott his less complicated but no less profound relationship with the field and the path: there are certainly times I would rather just be at the field and not think about it what it stands for and requires. And on the other hand, sometimes I <i>like </i>thinking about the field as being more than a field. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Since reading Sarah Hurwitz, I feel newly empowered to choose between, or even to alternate between,"just a field" and "more than just a field." As Scott said this morning, "Metaphors aren't truth." They're merely products of imaginations intended to guide us or enlighten us. If certain ones don't work for us, or cease to work for us over time, we should push them to the side and find</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> ones that do.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span class="ILfuVd" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Tonight begins the new Jewish year. Shanah Tovah U'metukah</span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">! May 5784 be a sweet, beautiful new year for us all, one in which we find the tools and truths we need, or they find us.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* from the Amazon web site: https://www.amazon.com/Sound-Music-40th-Anniversary/dp/B0006OR0VC/ref=asc_df_B0006OR0VC/?tag=hyprod-20&linkCode=df0&hvadid=385619273957&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10310214093701885398&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9002014&hvtargid=pla-403761234434&psc=1&tag=&ref=&adgrpid=82333347721&hvpone=&hvptwo=&hvadid=385619273957&hvpos=&hvnetw=g&hvrand=10310214093701885398&hvqmt=&hvdev=c&hvdvcmdl=&hvlocint=&hvlocphy=9002014&hvtargid=pla-403761234434 </span></div><div><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;">** Jacobson, S. (2008). <i>60 days: A spiritual guide to the high holidays</i>. New York: Kiyum Press. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;">*** </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">Pieter the Elder Bruegel The Corn Harvest (August) Oil Painting Reproduction https://www.pieter-bruegel-the-elder.org/The-Corn-Harvest-August.html</span></span></div><div><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;">**** Hurwitz, S. (2019). <i>Here all along: Finding meaning, spirituality, and a deeper connection to life--in Judaism (after <u>finally</u> choosing to look there). </i>Spiegel & Grau. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(5) X image for @HereAllAlong: https://twitter.com/HereAllAlong/photo<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-24865183378558653262023-08-28T08:57:00.004-04:002023-08-28T09:56:55.457-04:00On Emmett Till, "Till," and Gwendolyn Brooks<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfum3gnkUnN1Dfee-8Kc5buZ3XP5nIAXI9MO02sMzAMxsOaPIUwJHx2EEmjU6qNS_j89-RuOz4_ynFbiJsP-LapAk4_6VTzeFT6wKrVPl9-fhWLhwn591Mx4Hb8u7jRn1sjkXkuecMAN9kBbAgX5sTiCMXPI2fVgl0Qu3Zg5sIviM5GFRr6wmg9buzZWv/s548/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-24%20at%209.30.23%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="548" data-original-width="412" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicfum3gnkUnN1Dfee-8Kc5buZ3XP5nIAXI9MO02sMzAMxsOaPIUwJHx2EEmjU6qNS_j89-RuOz4_ynFbiJsP-LapAk4_6VTzeFT6wKrVPl9-fhWLhwn591Mx4Hb8u7jRn1sjkXkuecMAN9kBbAgX5sTiCMXPI2fVgl0Qu3Zg5sIviM5GFRr6wmg9buzZWv/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-24%20at%209.30.23%20AM.png" width="241" /></a></div>So already, today is the anniversary of the lynching of Emmett Till in Mississippi sixty-eight years ago--the second anniversary of his death since the passage of the Emmett Till Antilynching Act. On the night of August 28,* Till was kidnapped, tortured, killed, and then disposed of in the Tallahatchie River, where he was found by a fisherman three days later.** On September 3, Mamie Till demanded that his casket remain open for the viewing in his hometown of Chicago: </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">'Let the people see what they did to my boy!'"*</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Ever late to the movie theater, I saw "Till"*** just a few weeks ago, and was humbled and awed by Mamie Till's emotional journey and steadfastness of purpose, and Danielle Deadwyler's portrayal of them: while thoroughly submerged in a mother's profound grief, Mamie Till navigated forward, making one brave, principled decision after another so that Emmett's death would not be in vain, so that it would unmask and foreground the unconscionable race-based violence and injustice baked into the American system and too easily unseen or ignored by most white people. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJBhjYQF621KGiHz7nVcNKK1x2rabqPa_bzv9LT-UZ8ABjFWx9cxqxeC5Qxr4A8k11z-Yx090wiPlpHyFqhI7tC-QzXRdLUVKsymgWteB_hQwlmFMR0ucjGaCRWvZduUKq1kRh0QC9r1R8MBhd8U-2Jd7_JzEWd9W-A4FSKuynrVQEydBHHXF-lAVqmzB/s522/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-13%20at%209.29.17%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkJBhjYQF621KGiHz7nVcNKK1x2rabqPa_bzv9LT-UZ8ABjFWx9cxqxeC5Qxr4A8k11z-Yx090wiPlpHyFqhI7tC-QzXRdLUVKsymgWteB_hQwlmFMR0ucjGaCRWvZduUKq1kRh0QC9r1R8MBhd8U-2Jd7_JzEWd9W-A4FSKuynrVQEydBHHXF-lAVqmzB/w256-h320/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-13%20at%209.29.17%20AM.png" width="256" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Though the movie vividly dramatizes how Mamie Till's choices jump-started and intensified civil rights efforts,**** it never lets us forget that Mamie Till is Emmett's heartbroken mother. In its beautiful final scene, after weeks in the national spotlight, she stands in her son's bedroom and envisions </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> a sunny Emmett</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">standing opposite her with </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">his signature hat upon his head</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">, and returns his smile with all the love, joy, and grief in her heart.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Some months ago, my poetry-reading group turned our attention to Gwendolyn Brooks' poems: we'd just read Joy Harjo's <a href="https://www.writersdigest.com/write-better-poetry/golden-shovel-poetic-form" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">golden shovel<span style="background-color: white;"> </span></span></a>poem "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92063/an-american-sunrise" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">An American Sunrise,</span></a>" and a few of us were unfamiliar with "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/28112/we-real-cool" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">We Real Cool</span></a>." Both it and </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"<a href="https://poetrysociety.org/poems-essays/saying-his-name-1/saying-his-name" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">A Bronzeville Mother Loiters in Mississippi. Meanwhile, a Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon</span></a>" appear </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">in Brooks' </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">third collection of poems, <i>The Bean Eaters</i>, published in 1960.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSo0g7J9agjk83o62J8rnSSS9lD7dkK8DCZZ8LdKb5wGIkTVy2OrLO3oTIgpgxUvLveETxyaAtOlM8B5JnWrqdtSB-chkKuOTxqmUIL3QR-XEtFJNjMbKWWTDajHw1js1vufpfV5C8kIkmXSMMasak6XPIlTZqK58U1gLeu5pLlIV0dJ9wUlZj949CoFtk/s402/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-25%20at%209.36.03%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="304" data-original-width="402" height="303" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSo0g7J9agjk83o62J8rnSSS9lD7dkK8DCZZ8LdKb5wGIkTVy2OrLO3oTIgpgxUvLveETxyaAtOlM8B5JnWrqdtSB-chkKuOTxqmUIL3QR-XEtFJNjMbKWWTDajHw1js1vufpfV5C8kIkmXSMMasak6XPIlTZqK58U1gLeu5pLlIV0dJ9wUlZj949CoFtk/w400-h303/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-25%20at%209.36.03%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>The poem's "Mississippi Mother"***** is Carolyn Bryant, whose accusations led to Emmett Till's being beaten and murdered by her husband and brother-in-law. Two
weeks before our scheduled discussion, Carolyn
Bryant Donham****** died, triggering a media rehashing of her varying accounts of Till's actions in her Money, Mississippi general store where they came face-to-face. So there was a lot of easily available background material for our group to read as we prepared to discuss <i>The Bean Eaters</i>, including the </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">The <i>New York Times </i>article entitled "</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/27/us/carolyn-bryant-donham-dead.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Carolyn Bryant Donham Dies at 88; Her Words Doomed Emmett Till</span></a>" </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">that detailed the changes in Bryant Donham's story.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-weight: normal;">By the time Bryant Donham sought out Duke University historian Timothy B. Tyson to share her side of the story in 2008, she was already unclear about the details: </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">"'Honestly, I just don’t remember. It was 50 years ago.'”*******<span><span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> What she could recall--and I suspect this is what she really wanted to share with Tyson--was that she had never felt Till deserved what had happened to him, even though she bore so much responsibility for it: </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“'Nothing that boy did could ever justify what happened to him,'" she told Tyson.</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">*******</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So who and what was she? How did this woman </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">who entitled her unpublished memoir</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"More Than a Wolf Whistle: The Story of
Carolyn Bryant Donham”</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">******* </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">define herself? Who or what contributed to making her that twenty-one-year-old accident-just-waiting-to-happen from the perspective of a teenage black boy about whom so many were ready to believe the worst? What did she want and feel entitled to? </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEfozL6uDac2NeGUDS14qsQU0FfNgD-r5lp13d1W0tzimGUlFxRnrB2-2DKaLWzgu-qnualjOX2XdutEs3hFmhWMqOW3WbrpCN2g1GtMVp83w7xIZZPdI2fu3pQzUS8cjuSvPEm67yC1MQk6poAvac5nusxm384kFPcug5F3qDvYAUbTSoN4gSs-IjWS-/s556/Carolyn%20Bryant%20at%20Trial.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="459" data-original-width="556" height="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEfozL6uDac2NeGUDS14qsQU0FfNgD-r5lp13d1W0tzimGUlFxRnrB2-2DKaLWzgu-qnualjOX2XdutEs3hFmhWMqOW3WbrpCN2g1GtMVp83w7xIZZPdI2fu3pQzUS8cjuSvPEm67yC1MQk6poAvac5nusxm384kFPcug5F3qDvYAUbTSoN4gSs-IjWS-/w400-h330/Carolyn%20Bryant%20at%20Trial.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Whenever I look at the widely circulated courtroom photo********* in which Bryant Donham leans with her eyes closed against her husband's shoulder, I always feel like I'm looking at a scene in a movie. Perhaps she was genuinely overwhelmed by the situation her inconsistent accounts had precipitated but that was now far beyond her control. But I can't help thinking that as the winner of two beauty pageants, she knew something about how to present herself to an audience in order to achieve a particular effect.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">No doubt Gwendolyn Brooks saw this photo and the others that featured Bryant Donham's children, as if to suggest that Emmett Till had posed a threat an entire family: why else would two small children have even been present and photographed in a courtroom during their father's murder trial? Gwendolyn Brooks might have easily simply despised Bryant Donham for her lethal, inconsistent accusations packaged in feminine meekness that made her a sympathetic victim in the eyes of so many. But Brooks looked harder and further not only to understand how Carolyn Bryant Donham might have come to play her role in history, but to suggest what would her life might be like once the trial was over. What would have motivated a twenty-one-year-old Mississippi white woman, a former beauty queen and current mother of two who worked behind the counter of rural general store, to double down on the most disturbing of her uncertain claims? How did her hazily remembered encounter with Emmett go from being something she and her sister-in-law initially sought to hide from her husband to something she was willing to testify to in a courtroom, as if to justify her husband's actions?<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfGAR0G_FYX37onzPV5mQkaHZc0-osJbBlSEQ2KdcMJ0I5K19E8gx_tGSVWtnhe3EV2snJhliEwkHxDW9FoPfjNaccaSHwgQ3hIP6KbA1F9_HV8H7Gxsbtc6Alr28Gv0AYWMUEN_kKPVgUksgLIKrZq8gSNalFlIGFT4hzVTT37d8xLeYLU-0a1f-3vz5/s685/Carolyn%20Bryant%20with%20Kids.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="683" data-original-width="685" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxfGAR0G_FYX37onzPV5mQkaHZc0-osJbBlSEQ2KdcMJ0I5K19E8gx_tGSVWtnhe3EV2snJhliEwkHxDW9FoPfjNaccaSHwgQ3hIP6KbA1F9_HV8H7Gxsbtc6Alr28Gv0AYWMUEN_kKPVgUksgLIKrZq8gSNalFlIGFT4hzVTT37d8xLeYLU-0a1f-3vz5/w400-h399/Carolyn%20Bryant%20with%20Kids.png" width="400" /></a></div>Brooks explores these questions by writing a narrative poem set in the Bryant home around the breakfast hour the day after Roy Bryant's acquittal. And just to say, Mamie Till did not live in the Bronzeville section of Chicago; Gwendolyn Brooks, also a mother of two, did. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">What we learn at the start of </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">"A Bronzeville Mother Loiters in Mississippi. Meanwhile, a Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon"</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> is that the Mississippi Mother********* has imagined her story of the past few months as following the pattern of the romantic ballads she read in school but admits to not having fully understood: </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">the "milk white maid" is rescued from the "Dark Villain" by the "Fine Prince" to live in "The Happiness-Ever-After."</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <span style="font-weight: normal;">Standing at her stove the day after her husband's acquittal</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">, she muses on the </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">exhilaration she'd felt during the past weeks: "it had been like a/ Ballad. It had the beat inevitable. It had the blood./ A wildness cut up, and tied in little bunches." So during the last weeks, bloodshed had been an essential ingredient in her feeling excited and alive.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">But something's wrong, now that the events are over. She burns the bacon she's cooking as she wrestles with the problem, then identifies it: the Dark Villain was too young and innocent to merit being being slain by the Fine Prince. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The fun was disturbed, then all but nullified<br />When the Dark Villain was a blackish child<br />Of fourteen, with eyes still too young to be dirty,<br />And a mouth too young to have lost every reminder<br />Of its infant softness.*(10)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">. . .</span></span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It occurred to her that there may have been something<br />Ridiculous in the picture of the Fine Prince<br />Rushing (rich with the breadth and height and<br />Mature solidness whose lack, in the Dark Villain, was impressing her,<br />Confronting her more and more as this first day after the trial<br />And acquittal wore on) rushing<br />With his heavy companion to hack down (unhorsed)<br />That little foe. <br />So much had happened, she could not remember now what that foe had done<br />Against her, or if anything had been done.<br />The one thing in the world that she did know and knew<br />With terrifying clarity was that her composition<br />Had disintegrated. That, although the pattern prevailed, <br />The breaks were everywhere </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(10)</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">So how long can the Mississippi Mother play the part of the rescued milk white maid once she knows that the ballad story has a major flaw that might make her husband more bully than hero, even in the eyes of the men who shared his politics and allegiances?</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">With no time to figure this out before she has to call him to breakfast, she embraces her </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">two-time beauty queen default, </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">fixes her hair, and applies lipstick: "It was necessary/ To be more beautiful than ever" because </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">sometimes she fancied he looked at her as though/ Measuring her. As if he considered, Had she been worth It?" <br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Oh, the power of the capitalized, two-letter word "It"! Had it cost him too much to rescue his damsel in distress, and what exactly had it cost him? The Mississippi Mother imagines that what her husband might have seen, heard, and felt while murdering and disposing of the too young Dark Villain might have permanently disturbed his peace:</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtl-4JZ6g53eQQqwRxsvzdI_-z1glyxZxpBCB_J6xZGYctv7NpAZVPCmdaSfX4NNDmt89Sh94svFPCMkrLw4hNDZ3avOHxBaJuJwQISjGyAZ5F1PKB43qg52nvxJ9SviN_3_DGDa45G7EYUmedTM_FSzDh60kbk2POqDLRs-xVb2wV_2YSS0M5_qJNCK27/s670/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-13%20at%209.35.21%20AM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="448" data-original-width="670" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtl-4JZ6g53eQQqwRxsvzdI_-z1glyxZxpBCB_J6xZGYctv7NpAZVPCmdaSfX4NNDmt89Sh94svFPCMkrLw4hNDZ3avOHxBaJuJwQISjGyAZ5F1PKB43qg52nvxJ9SviN_3_DGDa45G7EYUmedTM_FSzDh60kbk2POqDLRs-xVb2wV_2YSS0M5_qJNCK27/w400-h268/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-13%20at%209.35.21%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div> . . . the cramped cries, the little stirring bravado, <br />The gradual dulling of those Negro eyes,<br />The sudden, overwhelming <i>little-boyness </i>in that barn?*(11)<br />Whatever she might feel or half-feel, . . .. He must never conclude<br />That she had not been worth It.</blockquote></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Once they're sitting at the table, things go from bad to worse. The morning papers' "meddling headlines" elicit the Fine Prince's racist, anti-Northern rage--and his easy relationship with murder: <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><blockquote>What he'd like to do, he explained, was kill them all.<br />The time lost. The unwanted fame.<br />Still, it had been fun to show those intruders<br />A thing or two. To show that snappy-eyed mother,<br />That sassy, Northern, brown-black—</blockquote></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">One thing both husband and wife share is the belief that in the right circumstances, violence and bloodshed are fun; maybe she is worrying too much about his having been disturbed by murdering a fourteen-year-old.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">And then that violence strikes home. When one of their children throws a </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">molasses jar at the other, and "</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The Fine Prince leaned across the table and slapped/ The small and smiling criminal," "She could think only of blood." This time, there's no mention of fun; any ballad comparisons are supplanted by allusions to <i>Macbeth</i>, in which "blood will have blood" (III.4.151), especially when the blood of the innocent has been shed</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">. <br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote>She did not speak. When the Hand<br />Came down and away, and she could look at her child,<br />At her baby-child,<br />She could think only of blood.<br />Surely her baby's cheek<br />Had disappeared, and in its place, surely,<br />Hung a heaviness, a lengthening red, a red that had no end.<br />She shook her had. It was not true, of course.<br />It was not true at all. The<br />Child's face was as always, the<br />Color of the paste in her paste-jar.<span><span> </span></span></blockquote><span><span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span>She stays silent, but recognizes "</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">one of the new Somethings—/ The fear,/ Tying her as with iron." The old ballad archetypes are completely broken as evidenced by the milk white maid's imagining herself tied and weighted down, as Emmett Till was.</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span>The Fine Prince completes his metamorphosis into the Dark Villain on the final page of the poem. He grabs her and kisses her, but his "wet and red" mouth, from her perspective, is only more blood. Though she's repulsed, she remains controlled:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><blockquote><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">He whispered something to her, did the Fine Prince, something <br />About love, something about love and night and intention.<br />She heard no hoof-beat of the horse and saw no flash of the shining steel.<br /><br />He pulled her face around to meet<br />His, and there it was, close close,<br />For the first time in all those days and nights.<br />His mouth, wet and red,<br />So very, very, very red,<br />Closed over hers.<br /><br />Then a sickness heaved within her. The courtroom Coca-Cola,<br />The courtroom beer and hate and sweat and drone,<br />Pushed like a wall against her. She wanted to bear it.<br />But his mouth would not go away and neither would the<br />Decapitated exclamation points in that Other Woman's eyes.<br /><br />She did not scream.<br />She stood there.<br />But a hatred for him burst into glorious flower,<br />And its perfume enclasped them—big,<br />Bigger than all magnolias.</span></span></blockquote></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The "Decapitated exclamation points" in Mamie Till's eyes--I saw them in Danielle Deadwyler's eyes in the movie when </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">they registered Mamie Till's knowledge that Bryant Donham was lying</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> during her testimony in the courtroom. While Mamie Till could believe that her son might have transgressed some Mississippi white-black behavioral boundary, she knew he would never have touched or propositioned a white woman. At this point, she knows definitively there will be no justice in that Mississippi court room. Any bond between these two mothers will have to exist in Donham Bryant's mind alone.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The poem's final scene testifies that Bryant Donham has done it again: orchestrated a brutish response she doesn't want, or at least claims not to want. This time, she's deliberately made herself as physically attractive to her husband as possible--but without having anticipated her husband's violent response to their misbehaving child moments before he responds. As readers, we join her in hating Roy Bryant for his brute forcefulness--but our sympathy for her is short-lived. We've seen this same miscalculation before. Yes, perhaps from her perspective, things got out of hand in the Emmett Till situation, but she helped them get that way--all so the "maid mild" could feel "the breath go fast"--and maybe so she and her husband could hold their heads high among their white Mississippi neighbors who'd read the same ballads in high school. W</span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">e know that she's made her bed and now must face lying in it.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The poem ends with three strange lines that anticipate <i>The Bean Eaters</i>' next poem, "The Last Quatrain of the Ballad of Emmett Till," which I believe may have been written in the voice of the Mississippi Mother, who's no poet--but who believes in the power of ballads:</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">The Last Quatrain of the Ballad of Emmett Till<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
(after the murder,<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
after the burial)<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
Emmett's mother is a pretty-faced thing;<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
the tint of pulled taffy.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
She sits in a red room,<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
drinking black coffee.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
she kisses her killed boy.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
And she is sorry.<br /></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
Chaos in windy grays<br /></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">
through a red prairie*(12)</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">It's the predominance of red, the insufficiency of the word "sorry" to express all that Mamie Till must be feeling, and the poem's attention to Emmett's mother's appearance that makes me attribute these words to the Mississippi Mother. But thus far, I can't find anyone other readers who agree with me. The <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92342/golden-shovels" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Poetry Foundation's commentary on the poem</span></a> assures me that Gwendolyn Brooks wrote both it and the Mississippi Mother poem to</span></span> "<span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">reflect, and implicitly critique, American society’s
tendency to value white experience more than black—at lethal cost."*(12)</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1oTSF6gbWz6hI23KrheUzyFQgqdDadqOFx4yAimrW6YIQjShL81nkr7mjvCStjnTJ5OxVKcDtXY5HBoeQt_Uou6_zKXYnIG05BUoUGR-D3vL-urSNZOVOldzn75Ue8-1SdMtqKJ624thnr81qIrNBsjNdJ_PmZtstdpqHp97eexllvH3PpZ3tK1M8LnqP/s400/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-28%20at%207.30.42%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="305" data-original-width="400" height="305" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1oTSF6gbWz6hI23KrheUzyFQgqdDadqOFx4yAimrW6YIQjShL81nkr7mjvCStjnTJ5OxVKcDtXY5HBoeQt_Uou6_zKXYnIG05BUoUGR-D3vL-urSNZOVOldzn75Ue8-1SdMtqKJ624thnr81qIrNBsjNdJ_PmZtstdpqHp97eexllvH3PpZ3tK1M8LnqP/w400-h305/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-28%20at%207.30.42%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">That same Poetry Foundation article then provides a link to Patricia Smith's Golden Shovel poem called "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/92066/black-poured-directly-into-the-wound" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Black, Poured Directly into the Wound</span></a>" which </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"using the quatrain as
its source poem, . . . focuses squarely on Mamie Till’s thoughts and
feelings."*(12) I read that magnificent poem for the first time only yesterday, and link it here to give you the chance to end your reading of my blog today with more thoughts of Mamie and Emmett Till than of Carolyn Bryant Donham.*(13) </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1o53Pcg9dboKU6S3WehAbciPcFEgJDIi6RmTUD1EErKQrZdgvLesxN_Mtp5mRaxZGKDXGWM2aS9MYCwqn9f_8osZWzDNNcFL_t2P8-BSNyMZATOaOxC0BCuqbcUstgZSQMISqzI158aKBWUR8fWOoR42flIjBJD-pZdCGsHbywJeouIab-l92oLpJ8xp/s562/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-27%20at%205.43.29%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="522" data-original-width="562" height="371" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB1o53Pcg9dboKU6S3WehAbciPcFEgJDIi6RmTUD1EErKQrZdgvLesxN_Mtp5mRaxZGKDXGWM2aS9MYCwqn9f_8osZWzDNNcFL_t2P8-BSNyMZATOaOxC0BCuqbcUstgZSQMISqzI158aKBWUR8fWOoR42flIjBJD-pZdCGsHbywJeouIab-l92oLpJ8xp/w400-h371/Screen%20Shot%202023-08-27%20at%205.43.29%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>I will always be grateful to Gwendolyn Brooks*(14) for walking in the shoes of the person who not only handed the gun to the murderer, but made sure it was good and loaded, despite her claims that she never wanted anyone to die. It's imperative that we try to walk in the shoes of those we shrink from instinctively so as never to forget that they are products of times and places, which in no way absolves them of personal responsibility for their actions, especially those for which others pay the ultimate price. Poetry helps hold them accountable without negating their humanity.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">* Linder, D.O. (1995-2023). <i>The Emmett Till murder case: chronology. </i>Famous Trials. <b><u>https://famous-trials.com/emmetttill/1759-chronology </u></b></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span>** Screenshot of a photo of a front page of a newspaper article with the caption "</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">A
selection of text from the Aug. 31, 1955 edition of the Chicago Daily
News, showing the first story to run in that paper about the discovery
of Emmett Till’s body in a river in Mississippi." <i>Kidnapped boy found slain. </i>(1955, August 31). Chicago Sun Times. https://chicago.suntimes.com/1955/8/31/23842064/emmett-till-news-kidnapped-boy-found-slain</span><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*** </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Screenshot of photo on UK Universal Studios website: https://www.universalpictures.co.uk/micro/till</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">**** </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Still, when I asked my father </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">just a few months before he died in 2020 </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">whether the White people he knew talked about Emmett Till's lynching and trial in 1955, he replied, "Not enough."</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*(5) </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Getty Images Photograph accompanying the following article: </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fox, M. (2023, April 27). Carolyn Bryant Dunham dies at 88; her words doomed Emmett Till. <i>The New York Times. </i><b>https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/27/us/carolyn-bryant-donham-dead.html</b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*(6) </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Carolyn Bryant divorced her husband and remarried twice. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><b> </b></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*(7) </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Fox, M. (2023, April 27). Carolyn Bryant Dunham dies at 88; her words doomed Emmett Till. <i>The New York Times. </i><b>https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/27/us/carolyn-bryant-donham-dead.html</b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*(8) </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Associated Press Photograph from 1955 accompanying the following article: Associated Press (2023, April 27). </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Carolyn Bryant Donham, the woman at the center of the 1955 lynching of Black teen Emmett Till, has died. <i>The Boston Globe</i>.</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <b>https://www.bostonglobe.com/2023/04/27/metro/carolyn-bryant-donham-woman-center-1955-lynching-black-teen-emmett-till-has-died/?camp=bg%3Abrief%3Arss%3Afeedly&rss_id=feedly_rss_brief&s_campaign=bostonglobe%3Asocialflow%3Atwitter&s_campaign=bostonglobe%3Asocialflow%3Afacebook&fbclid=IwAR2iQaagaKk_ZTzELnw-sal_Rz0FTqo-DcoQL0Y5HPuL1B_eRSP0-6cwKEU </b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*(9) Screenshot of photo accompanying <i>New York Times</i> article.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*(10) </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Brooks, G. "</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">A Bronzeville Mother Loiters in Mississippi. Meanwhile, a Mississippi Mother Burns Bacon."<i> </i></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Saying His Name: Poems on Emmett Till </span><span style="font-weight: normal;">curated by Terence Hayes. </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>Poetry Society of America</i>. </span></span></span><b><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">https://poetrysociety.org/poems-essays/saying-his-name-1/saying-his-name <br /></span></span></b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*(11) </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Duffy, C. (2018). </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>The barn where Emmett Till was tortured and murdered</i>
[Photograph). ABC News.
https://www.abc.net.au/news/2018-07-21/new-probe-into-emmett-till-murder-reopens-southern-wounds/10020712</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(12) Poetry Foundation. (2017, February 1). <i>Golden shovels<b>. </b></i><b>https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92342/golden-shovels</b></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(13) </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Screenshot of photo accompanying <i>New York Times</i> article.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span>*(14) Drawing by </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span class="c-txt c-txt_fanciful">Tyrue "Slang" Jones called “Through the Words of Miss Brooks” accompanying </span><span class="c-txt c-txt_fanciful"></span><span>Poetry Foundation. (2023). </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span class="c-txt c-txt_catMeta"></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i>Gwendolyn Brooks: A Chicago Legacy</i><span><span><i><b>. </b></i><b>https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/92342/golden-shovels</b></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> <br /></span></div></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-7460256903270470832023-07-28T18:56:00.002-04:002023-07-28T18:56:53.483-04:00Summer Reading Summed Up<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIoKkfVqawuo2cFnNuV0nr7tqNfJkyN3v7SVXKMZKXPMPE9kEna5njWYxYSCHzwEF8rAvKtsADNsuxKSf-yI7xQO3XzJylGiPHVEt5DB90DdXV_Y6CX-iA-e6twxgV58x0EgNp5JlRqQhrgxSZ4YbRTMUenmvi4Q5UuXj2fmRLWEEL63SZ0FGh-cKLJtPj/s2472/fullsizeoutput_2b36.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2472" data-original-width="1932" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIoKkfVqawuo2cFnNuV0nr7tqNfJkyN3v7SVXKMZKXPMPE9kEna5njWYxYSCHzwEF8rAvKtsADNsuxKSf-yI7xQO3XzJylGiPHVEt5DB90DdXV_Y6CX-iA-e6twxgV58x0EgNp5JlRqQhrgxSZ4YbRTMUenmvi4Q5UuXj2fmRLWEEL63SZ0FGh-cKLJtPj/w313-h400/fullsizeoutput_2b36.jpeg" width="313" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">a</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">bout ten days ago, I noticed that the well-watered world--it's been a very rainy July in New England--was awash in the pinks, purples, blues, and whites of blooming Rose of Sharon. Midsummer was here, July was fast passing, and no blog yet. Years ago, I promised myself to blog at least once a month.<br /></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">What had I been doing instead of blogging? Mostly reading and rereading. That realization gave me an idea. So before July is in the books, here's a blog post about the books I've been reading and am still hoping to read while summer lasts.<br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGoChC7KCdCxsS9fWtBsPkoxobLjhxNUXbzC-pFbe06m4nTf6yBbhjFZp7_QKWqf6A0TFR7v153zmNE5b0Ulujh-8UJl8T75LOM29s9vawdjp-kcOgFVA4OrKVzGC0nCjgNfMRv7FnIOc5gJW5netRQG222YUeyCdO9VsD5OK785WjZlz_vJkBK4rYlaq/s2915/fullsizeoutput_2b37.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2514" data-original-width="2915" height="345" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNGoChC7KCdCxsS9fWtBsPkoxobLjhxNUXbzC-pFbe06m4nTf6yBbhjFZp7_QKWqf6A0TFR7v153zmNE5b0Ulujh-8UJl8T75LOM29s9vawdjp-kcOgFVA4OrKVzGC0nCjgNfMRv7FnIOc5gJW5netRQG222YUeyCdO9VsD5OK785WjZlz_vJkBK4rYlaq/w400-h345/fullsizeoutput_2b37.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">In the rereading category are Charles Dickens' <i>David Copperfield </i>and Alan Lew's <i>This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared: The Days of Awe as a Journey of Transformation</i>. </span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I chose Dickens' novel because Barbara Kingsolver's Pulitzer Prize-winning <i>Demon Copperhead</i>, which I'm anticipating reading later this summer,<i> </i>alludes to it. Given the vagueness of my junior high school memories of David and the whole Dickensian crew, I decided a reread was in order--and it's been great to read the novel as an adult: like so many adolescent readers, I didn't trust myself to know when writers were being mocking or satirical.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Then there was the practical aspect of choosing <i>David Copperfield</i>, since I didn't<i> </i>anticipate wanting to underline passages or write notes in the margins<i>:</i> I could put it on my glow-screen Nook and read it late at night or early in the morning without putting on a light--an especially good thing when you're sleeping in a small cabin in the shadows of the eaves or trying to keep a low profile while being a guest in someone else's house.<br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">As far as the Alan Lew book is concerned, let's just say that I'm one of the people to whom Norman Fischer refers in his</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> foreward to the paperback version of the book:</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> "For many, reading </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i>This is Real and You Are Completely Unprepared </i>on an annual basis during the Yomim Noraim (Days of Awe) constitutes the cornerstone of spiritual practice" (xi).* Tisha B'Av was last Wednesday. I didn't fast, but I reread the chapter of the book entitled "I Turned, the Walls Came Down, and There I Was: Tisha B'Av."</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMMxqaaoEYoiTgsdc2NSuHsPdCh-8gboAUh0ZpgyYaoX2mpvsQ5hk9h4IXgmKdCdDZu7QxhBiyZxRhweXczCXw9sNcC_juair40RrGzCCcdcqI8JOGLuFCwYwXr6ntbpS5nr2aKQaDsxaI-760dRevwUb9F9V9L22CX2n3WGAJ_8i7scEWnQbYDzNwuMS/s2850/fullsizeoutput_2b3a.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2847" data-original-width="2850" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMMxqaaoEYoiTgsdc2NSuHsPdCh-8gboAUh0ZpgyYaoX2mpvsQ5hk9h4IXgmKdCdDZu7QxhBiyZxRhweXczCXw9sNcC_juair40RrGzCCcdcqI8JOGLuFCwYwXr6ntbpS5nr2aKQaDsxaI-760dRevwUb9F9V9L22CX2n3WGAJ_8i7scEWnQbYDzNwuMS/w400-h400/fullsizeoutput_2b3a.jpeg" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">In the "new reading" department have been three mysterious books of poetry: Carl Phillips' Pulitzer Prize-winning <i>Then the War</i> (I hadn't known of Phillips before his prize was announced), <i>Eruv </i>by Eryn Green (which I've owned for several years but had never read), and <i>On the Surface of Silence: The Last Poems of Lea Goldberg,</i> translated by Rachel Tzvia Back. I first encountered Goldberg's poetry in the margin of the Jewish memorial service printed in my <i>Siddur Lev Shalem</i> prayerbook earlier this year.</span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I have a lot more reading of the poems in these books to do before I can say more about them to other people, but I do find them mesmerizing--or is it arresting? I can't tell if I'm more consoled or disturbed by them, but I also feel they're speaking true.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Interestingly, Carl Phillips wrote the forward to Eryn Green's collection, and it reads like a whole separate and worthy work of literature to me, even though its purpose is primarily to provide an important way in to Green's poems on the first reading of them. Likewise, Back's essay entitled "Toward the 'Whole Fragment': An Introduction to Lea Goldberg's Last Poems" is thought-provoking in a door-opening way that both makes Goldberg's poems more meaningful and moves beyond them. Fragments, borders, margins, mergings, separations, things that fall apart--so much love and yearning in the poems of all three books, all filtered through the sensibilities and shaped by the particular life experiences of these poets and their champions.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinLz7silUxI4bphqb27jORAKT9ffypwore7_QBV5XugltwQVoabYHJMyEHBCAXx4kXpMBgZ-aEZ3_ffUmGzoRnKXdFDqXdwWQyONiXz3mEUdImC0KMVn-cmjeL663zWZBEprkBRqhiXvE3vBWOHJ9NFgt2bh3SX9E_qRcERDCKs41D8sSvEVfdO52iMr6I/s3890/fullsizeoutput_2b3b.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3890" data-original-width="2904" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinLz7silUxI4bphqb27jORAKT9ffypwore7_QBV5XugltwQVoabYHJMyEHBCAXx4kXpMBgZ-aEZ3_ffUmGzoRnKXdFDqXdwWQyONiXz3mEUdImC0KMVn-cmjeL663zWZBEprkBRqhiXvE3vBWOHJ9NFgt2bh3SX9E_qRcERDCKs41D8sSvEVfdO52iMr6I/w299-h400/fullsizeoutput_2b3b.jpeg" width="299" /></a></span></div><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Finally, for the "rest of summer" reading. Robert Cormier's <i><a href="https://www.kirkusreviews.com/book-reviews/robert-cormier/fade-3/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Fade</span></a></i> will be up next: I learned about it from good friends in Orono, Maine during a discussion about French-Canadian and Acadian history and culture, and about the family history of one of those friends in particular. Next up will be the assigned reading for my book group's August meeting, <i>Better Living Through Birding: Notes from a Black Man in the Natural World</i> by Christian Cooper. Then, before I forget too much about <i>David Copperfield </i>again, I'll turn to <i>Demon Copperhead.</i> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">As for Kathe Mueller Slonim's <i>Escape from Dachau</i>, it will probably have to wait until fall since I plan to lend it to friends who visited Dachau just recently. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-huSW31XsSMmkqZ2Jew9korF0Au4UnydbmD6DSz3DujDW7jVO7Fl7ETqGg1fwaq2WGs0XPkDYIjWhzXfSwy9w4hDyuJ9n7rSWKnwK3SbKLQztp1dppUFnntzGd9f7_riF1g8uUAIQ88oEWTnL78LhnxhfZE8aJYMcMCkzJmIfE2_4AlJNFi_n3Tmq6Pz/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2b30.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9-huSW31XsSMmkqZ2Jew9korF0Au4UnydbmD6DSz3DujDW7jVO7Fl7ETqGg1fwaq2WGs0XPkDYIjWhzXfSwy9w4hDyuJ9n7rSWKnwK3SbKLQztp1dppUFnntzGd9f7_riF1g8uUAIQ88oEWTnL78LhnxhfZE8aJYMcMCkzJmIfE2_4AlJNFi_n3Tmq6Pz/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_2b30.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>I have roughly a hundred pages left of <i>David Copperfield, </i>so<i> </i><i>Fade </i>is coming up fast. But so too are slightly lower temperatures and easing humidity--perfect weather for walking, checking out neighborhood flowers, and reading outdoors. Or not reading outdoors. I'm glad only one of the books I'm planning to read in August has to be read by a certain date. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, what are you reading? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* Fischer, N. (2018). Foreward. In Lew, A. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i>This is real and you are completely unprepared: The days of awe as a journey of transformation</i> (xi-xiv), Little, Brown and Company.<br /></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-34934867660762710682023-06-25T11:30:00.001-04:002023-06-26T08:45:59.025-04:00Soon After the Summer Solstice<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, summer's here, and I've been keeping my eye on it--its trees, its flowers, its birds, its light and skies. In terms of the birds, I've been watching hawks like a hawk. In terms of trees, it's been Japanese lilacs.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I've
also been keeping my nose on summer. As I write this, I'm sitting next
to my living room window breathing in the fragrance of the humid, warm, alternatingly blue and gray morning just beyond it. Sweet, but not too sweet.</span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqLkpsIjLzp5ssdGIFJuUzedyDxok0y6qNvqM6vdxQlx6zEs8zrEOxmOwLq88rrXPKJBSVUAAe86TjFEkuYOjaRrUrq4IpIL8a0AJd63_fOoTfjKmbtUvn2dym0ZHVC9mBCM5TK_0Kh3v1wLi9KlTD3bxSb5nbki8G2UBypr75pOEpkX4DMlRlAkevUJJ/s640/fullsizeoutput_2ae2.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFqLkpsIjLzp5ssdGIFJuUzedyDxok0y6qNvqM6vdxQlx6zEs8zrEOxmOwLq88rrXPKJBSVUAAe86TjFEkuYOjaRrUrq4IpIL8a0AJd63_fOoTfjKmbtUvn2dym0ZHVC9mBCM5TK_0Kh3v1wLi9KlTD3bxSb5nbki8G2UBypr75pOEpkX4DMlRlAkevUJJ/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_2ae2.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>In truth, some of the hawks I've been watching are actually other kinds of raptors. Of late, I've been enraptured by raptors. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">First, there are the local hawks, the marsh hawks (or northern harriers, as they are often known) that often don't move even when I walk pretty close to them on the paths in and around the Black's Creek salt marsh. Then, there are the "at the field at our cabin" hawks, the Cooper's hawks that sweep by us at eye level as they jet from some clump of low branches or shrubs at the edge of the field to another right next to our cabin, and the buzzards and vultures (which actually aren't hawks) that soar above our field and our neighbor's, eyeing their next meal. The hunt is always on. As I said when I posted in May, "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://soalready.blogspot.com/2023/05/in-midst-of-life-we-are-in-death-and.html" target="_blank">In the Midst of Life We Are in Death</a></span>."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-kXFYD9CbsDevbvG_5jTifTTsWh-sSvMBGffpZ5vmCjkHoeId3p05Q5lLw0y0ZuXL6kgtR_VKOb6s5HFyjvYzRjA1EQTIF_YCnHTXjnY4ZiRCGy-AS6JRcKqiseOL5_9gALM-MCjnHoiwz974m7yLNO0yx0YNUZMJclQIpnnH0oPrU52NNHQnfWxhmyS/s655/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-25%20at%207.27.42%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="653" data-original-width="655" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN-kXFYD9CbsDevbvG_5jTifTTsWh-sSvMBGffpZ5vmCjkHoeId3p05Q5lLw0y0ZuXL6kgtR_VKOb6s5HFyjvYzRjA1EQTIF_YCnHTXjnY4ZiRCGy-AS6JRcKqiseOL5_9gALM-MCjnHoiwz974m7yLNO0yx0YNUZMJclQIpnnH0oPrU52NNHQnfWxhmyS/w400-h399/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-25%20at%207.27.42%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>Last Wednesday, the summer solstice*, I was surprised to see this last type of raptor--not a usual site in marshy yet urban Quincy--when I took an afternoon walk. So here's my account of that solstice walk and the thoughts it conjured.</span></div>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Two hours after the solstice
moment, I walked out on the most perfect summer afternoon: bluest blue skies,
cumulus clouds at the distant horizon, seasonal warmth tempered by a subtle sea-breeze,
and no humidity: not a drop of moisture to coalesce with others to create even
the thinnest milky veil to soften the day’s crisp edges and hues. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So fragrant was the air on the
first tree-lined street down which I headed that my eye was drawn to the ivory
blossom clusters overhead. Never before had I noticed the delicate fineness of
the multitudes of tiny blossoms that together formed each of canopy’s many-flowered
fists. Each individual blossom seemed rendered in pen and ink, the pen tipped
with the thinnest of nibs. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SyADWBYuL2f9E9o94zk6c3j2lVcKcu-bYKT6Ka5Uw8nu37_ECLgvAJCXUHgIcto1iZxWMTQZjva-oSFuRlrkMrUp3qQVPfdGf-vMWQctVGTO0Dv6fiA6JDSlQ0ETO_XCsxtj1lV5YVMnLFlwv17kgHZGwVg9PWPBpvHxMzjmNmG8fZjuMw62VHVbGHu5/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2af5.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9SyADWBYuL2f9E9o94zk6c3j2lVcKcu-bYKT6Ka5Uw8nu37_ECLgvAJCXUHgIcto1iZxWMTQZjva-oSFuRlrkMrUp3qQVPfdGf-vMWQctVGTO0Dv6fiA6JDSlQ0ETO_XCsxtj1lV5YVMnLFlwv17kgHZGwVg9PWPBpvHxMzjmNmG8fZjuMw62VHVbGHu5/w300-h400/fullsizeoutput_2af5.jpeg" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">What were these trees, I
wondered. I snapped a picture of one of them and a few of its blossom clusters,
hoping my cellphone would do what it often does when I photograph a bird: ask
if I wanted to know what kind it was. But my phone acted only as a camera and offered
no assistance.</span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Suddenly, the faintest whiff of
something too sweet distracted me from my olfactory reverie—so briefly that I
paid it no mind, though I noticed it.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">One house ahead, two men stood
next a Department of Conservation and Recreation truck. Synchronicity, I
thought: the world gives you what you need. For sure, one of them would know
about the trees. So I approached and asked. <br /></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">“Let’s stroll down to that tree
so I can have a good look,” one of the men said. And so we did. “Japanese lilac,
I think,” he said. “If not, some not-so-common kind of dogwood.” [My laptop
later confirmed his first answer.]</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Not the first lilacs I’d seen
that weren’t purple. I thanked him, and continued on, passing other Japanese
lilac trees, breathing them in, glorying in the afternoon’s summer riches.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">And suddenly, another brief,
cloyingly sweet whiff of—perhaps decay? Where was it coming from? I glanced
upward and observed the telltale rust on the edges of two flower clumps. </span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">And isn’t it like this every
June—that even on the longest day, when none of summer’s long days have been
squandered, when the possibility of life and bliss seems infinite, Nature
tosses out some subtle reminder that life and death are ever linked and that
summer is just one season in an endless cycle?</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vEJ22MuKB-RAEty7IzQdK3apBk9T05Egbj6W3fxEtyoeC52eFLzm-yfBkuy-BWT03sbcOnfWY4iYi-VhFLQ0gdX4Gtitg2vMVGnDZ7LolxSloXNpvQuNsk5rXqyu5uF3dfhHfkDbJhoeze3vi1WKY4ksH8x7ybyMmejQ9OzzQQplWlVXuslc2RQxJyDD/s4032/IMG_4494.JPG" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4vEJ22MuKB-RAEty7IzQdK3apBk9T05Egbj6W3fxEtyoeC52eFLzm-yfBkuy-BWT03sbcOnfWY4iYi-VhFLQ0gdX4Gtitg2vMVGnDZ7LolxSloXNpvQuNsk5rXqyu5uF3dfhHfkDbJhoeze3vi1WKY4ksH8x7ybyMmejQ9OzzQQplWlVXuslc2RQxJyDD/w400-h300/IMG_4494.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Later, as I walked the final leg
of my walk, a fleeting shadow on the shimmering grass of the salt marsh pulled
my eye upward: above, a turkey vulture soared high, circled, drifted, and
swooped. And isn’t it like this on every walk—that Nature, often graceful and
pleasing to the eye, reminds us that Nature feeds and thrives on Nature?</span><p></p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">* Summer Solstice 2019. Contemporary abstract painting by Jen Gray. Inspired by the sunrise and sunset on the summer solstice 2019. All images copyright 2017-2019 Jen Gray, GrayBirds.org. All rights reserved. Available for purchase on Pixels: <b>https://pixels.com/featured/summer-solstice-2019-jen-gray.html</b>.<span> </span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-11323428076058846892023-06-24T21:00:00.005-04:002023-06-25T10:35:26.359-04:00Still Reading James Baldwin<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpBYo5vgGHuQCGSNZt0J9KCLJqgrGhjKXd2x9n3T96ROrcjDn04B5wpuj6cEJzEpzGeP1b_kJcin7bW2SHd1WoZRqtV3Wg3ZBDQyOv7s-En__wl3j35l51wTnijYP3jxExWwyKHRAXCiHjaNrIuSOJoALafv7V0wSngDjml5DNUDHfHnvicgEq0pVP0dq/s579/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%205.37.43%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="579" data-original-width="390" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxpBYo5vgGHuQCGSNZt0J9KCLJqgrGhjKXd2x9n3T96ROrcjDn04B5wpuj6cEJzEpzGeP1b_kJcin7bW2SHd1WoZRqtV3Wg3ZBDQyOv7s-En__wl3j35l51wTnijYP3jxExWwyKHRAXCiHjaNrIuSOJoALafv7V0wSngDjml5DNUDHfHnvicgEq0pVP0dq/w270-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%205.37.43%20PM.png" width="270" /></a></div>So already, as you may know from <a href="https://soalready.blogspot.com/2023/06/reading-baldwin-on-milestone-birthday.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">my last blog post</span></a>, I've been reading James Baldwin. As I was writing that post and thinking about what Baldwin's impact is on Americans and what I think it should be, I recalled that </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">in the National Museum of African American History and Culture,</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> there's a quotation from Baldwin high on the wall of its ascending multi-leveled history section. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">That quotation appears below, highlighted and presented in the context of the paragraph in which it appears in his essay entitled "<a href="https://blackstate.com/james-baldwin-unnameable-objects-unspeakable-crimes/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Unnameable Objects, Unspeakable Crimes</span></a>":</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><blockquote>For history, as nearly no one seems to know, is not merely something to
be read. And it does not refer merely, or even principally, to the past.
On the contrary, <span style="background-color: #ffe599;">the great force of history comes from the fact that
we carry it within us, are unconsciously controlled by it</span> in many
ways, and <span style="background-color: #f9cb9c;"><span style="background-color: #ffe599;">history is literally present in all that we do</span>.</span> It could
scarcely be otherwise, since it is to history that we owe our frames
of reference, our identities, and our aspirations.**</blockquote></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPG5aX4gf-txkCl1UsRi7pMtQj5zZqtEju3IA5mFDXVu6ULNcu4Nvhr_8pGwQkS9Mya37QF2pf58wRg1kfcRrIyjN8Xlyi_fc4KMpWZ6WG5YM3AQra3fInfJDalJ8t3wDJr2S-iDwx5eXgvGXov4rz6pqAFtmgH2jWzUttyFS6kNMVazBccct03wqcGqIG/s2048/IMG_0225.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPG5aX4gf-txkCl1UsRi7pMtQj5zZqtEju3IA5mFDXVu6ULNcu4Nvhr_8pGwQkS9Mya37QF2pf58wRg1kfcRrIyjN8Xlyi_fc4KMpWZ6WG5YM3AQra3fInfJDalJ8t3wDJr2S-iDwx5eXgvGXov4rz6pqAFtmgH2jWzUttyFS6kNMVazBccct03wqcGqIG/w400-h300/IMG_0225.jpg" width="400" /></a></div> <p></p></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>At the conclusion of my last post, I included a link to </span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"Unnameable Objects, Unspeakable Crimes"</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> and recommended it to those who hadn't read it. In so many ways, its wisdom and memory can help</span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> us understand--and address--our present-day situation: here we are in 2023 <i>still</i> grappling as a nation with the "questions" of what history is true and whether African Americans will have the same rights and privileges as white Americans. </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span> </span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDaaiaBNEd1YMhvYxWb20O0H3mz0iNo8YO6wwJ0y7Sk0W4UpSTRHTIgpFULcFYQFNjldYR7Ao3qwofI0i442ea4yx669F_HMEBP5thpeA-CjYzEHC62LEMwcZZxmL0ujqHePxTZuyUDZ_FjBdf7emgbeBvQEpMrXm7a5MXudUmM6MuxkzsPyLNw88vV9K/s545/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%204.50.52%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="545" data-original-width="417" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDaaiaBNEd1YMhvYxWb20O0H3mz0iNo8YO6wwJ0y7Sk0W4UpSTRHTIgpFULcFYQFNjldYR7Ao3qwofI0i442ea4yx669F_HMEBP5thpeA-CjYzEHC62LEMwcZZxmL0ujqHePxTZuyUDZ_FjBdf7emgbeBvQEpMrXm7a5MXudUmM6MuxkzsPyLNw88vV9K/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%204.50.52%20PM.png" width="245" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>The essay, which seems so current, </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>first appeared in <i>The White Problem in America</i>, a special edition of <i>Ebony</i> published in 1965 and published in 1966 in book form. <br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>Since then, I've reread it and decided that it's too important, too thought-provoking, too useful in our present moment not to feature it. So in this blog, I am going to share some quotations that I think can speak importantly to a lot of readers, particularly to white readers. Perhaps some will be inspired to read the whole essay.<br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span>First, here's the opening paragraph in which Baldwin speaks about what he's often wondered about:</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><blockquote>I HAVE OFTEN WONDERED, AND IT IS NOT A PLEASANT wonder, just what white
Americans talk about with one another. I wonder this because they do
not, after all, seem to find very much to say to me, and I concluded
long ago that they found the color of my skin inhibitory. This color
seems to operate as a most disagreeable mirror, and a great deal of
one’s energy is expended in reassuring white Americans that they do not
see what they see. This is utterly futile, of course, since they do see
what they see. And what they see is an appallingly oppressive and bloody
history, known all over the world. What they see is a disastrous,
continuing, present, condition which menaces them, and for which they
bear an inescapable responsibility. But since, in the main, they appear
to lack the energy to change this condition, they would rather not be
reminded of it. Does this mean that, in their conversations with one
another, they merely make reassuring sounds? It scarcely seems possible,
and yet, on the other hand, it seems all too likely.</blockquote></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The idea of reassurance that requires the obfuscation of reality seems especially worth considering seriously. Experiences of shame often induce </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">people</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> to change or veil the facts, never a sound long-term solution for nations or individual people.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">A bit later, he lays out the possible inner struggles and debates of white people confronting their dawning comprehension that the history they've embraced is at least partially inaccurate and self-serving: <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This is the place in which, it seems to me, most white Americans find
themselves. They are dimly, or vividly, aware that the history they
have fed themselves is mainly a lie, but they do not know how to release
themselves from it, and they suffer enormously from the resulting
personal incoherence. This incoherence is heard nowhere more plainly
than in those stammering, terrified dialogues white Americans sometimes
entertain with that black conscience, the black man in America. The
nature of this stammering can be reduced to a plea: Do not blame me. I
was not there. I did not do it. My history has nothing to do with Europe
or the slave trade. Anyway, it was your chiefs who sold you to me. I
was not present on the middle passage. I am not responsible for the
textile mills of Manchester, or the cotton fields of Mississippi.
Besides, consider how the English, too, suffered in those mills and in
those awful cities! I, also, despise the governors of Southern states
and the sheriffs of Southern counties; and I also want your child to
have a decent education and rise as high as his capabilities will
permit. I have nothing against you, nothing. What have you got against
me? What do you want? </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But, on the same day, in another gathering, and in the most private
chamber of his heart always, he, the white man, remains proud of that
history for which he does not wish to pay, and from which, materially,
he has profited so much. </span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I've heard people say the things that Baldwin imagines them saying. In addition, I'm glad that Baldwin identifies pride as a factor in the resistance to the truth of history: a group's or family's dearly-held stories of achievement often become defining legends, though they seldom reflect only the efforts, actions, and characters of their members; histories are made and told in contexts.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I loved Baldwin's story a little later in the essay about marching to the Montgomery, Alabama Capitol in the company of Harry Belafonte, creating a need for angry, disapproving young white women to try to reconcile Belafonte the civil rights activist with Belafonte the handsome, popular entertainer. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX97hHJmLlkhSPGlS5mm9GAoUAFMkzHziS7s-vVlWk1AP0FFz6A1VuQjLfJ7r8wVEne-Zs2ilNGfLiAlqJbuwZ_PQfQmr9gz3efPxqlVrrKnO0lbSpJgyLa542WgghAiB4XsHhlwZeeyVgVyRDWRXhha6wetgQwtQ3keKqnJ6zrZrzu2JqOYf5YkclMMkO/s457/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%205.48.53%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="434" data-original-width="457" height="380" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX97hHJmLlkhSPGlS5mm9GAoUAFMkzHziS7s-vVlWk1AP0FFz6A1VuQjLfJ7r8wVEne-Zs2ilNGfLiAlqJbuwZ_PQfQmr9gz3efPxqlVrrKnO0lbSpJgyLa542WgghAiB4XsHhlwZeeyVgVyRDWRXhha6wetgQwtQ3keKqnJ6zrZrzu2JqOYf5YkclMMkO/w400-h380/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-24%20at%205.48.53%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>I was next to Harry Belafonte. From upstairs office windows, white
American secretaries were leaning out of windows, jeering and mocking,
and using the ancient Roman sentence of death: thumbs down. Then they
saw Harry, who is my very dear friend and a beautiful cat***, and who is
also, in this most desperately schizophrenic of republics, a major, a
reigning matinee idol. One does not need to be a student of Freud to
understand what buried forces create a matinee idol, or what he
represents to that public which batters down doors to watch him (one
need only watch the rise and fall of American politicians. This is a
sinister observation. And I mean it very seriously). The secretaries
were legally white-it was on that basis that they lived their lives,
from this principle that they took, collectively, their values; which
is, as I have tried to indicate, an interesting spiritual condition. But
they were also young. In that ghastly town, they were certainly lonely.
They could only, after all, look forward to an alliance, by and by,
with one of the jeering businessmen; their boyfriends could only look
forward to becoming one of them. And they were also female, a word,
which, in the context of the color curtain, has suffered the same fate
as the word, “male” : it has become practically obscene. When the girls
saw Harry Belafonte, a collision occurred in them so visible as to be at
once hilarious and unutterably sad. At one moment, the thumbs were
down, they were barricaded within their skins, at the next moment, those
down turned thumbs flew to their mouths, their fingers pointed, their
faces changed, and exactly like bobby-soxers, they oohed, and aahed and
moaned. God knows what was happening in the minds and hearts of those
girls. Perhaps they would like to be free. </blockquote></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I wonder which the young women wanted more, to love Belafonte or to hate him. I wonder if they talked about it with one another.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Finally, the essay ends by making reference to the Henry James novel,<i> The Ambassadors</i></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">--and how often do you get to read about Harry Belafonte and Henry James in the same essay? </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote>In Henry James’ novel <i>The Ambassadors</i> published not long before World
War I, and not long before his death, he recounts the story of a
middle-aged New Englander, assigned by his middle-aged bride-to-be-a
widow-the task of rescuing from the flesh-pots of Paris her only son.
She wants him to come home to take over the direction of the family
factory. In the event, it is the middle-aged New Englander--The
Ambassador--who is seduced, not so much by Paris, as by a new and less
utilitarian view of life. He counsels the young man to “live. Live all
you can. It is a mistake not to.” Which I translate as meaning “Trust
life, and it will teach you, in joy and sorrow, all you need to know.”
Jazz musicians know this. Those old men and women who waved and sang and
wept as we marched in Montgomery know this. White Americans, in the
main, do not know this. They are still trapped in that factory to which,
in Henry James’ novel, the son returns. We never know what this factory
produces, for James never tells us. He only conveys to us that the
factory, at an unbelievable human expense, produces unnameable objects.</blockquote></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have to wonder about the degree to which many Americans would bristle at the idea of being "trapped in that factory," especially by choice, due to their alleged penchant, according to Baldwin, to opt for profits and goods--"unnameable objects"--even when they could opt for "life" and freedom. </span></span><br /></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifz5r2ihJayZ7VlVro3ZdlBqsfpxVv88lnFymbfvDpiL4zW8WcQuxkALZsmhyZRHWgCopIPb8Bw_ZjW0LUYNk8xu-574qpruK4Zr3KAjD64z6wFOZ8vKT0ZpWgLwx0AnYSVjVyzw_VFDJgT1xWSiWuJqVaM6WY6m2sy9xhGknGB1Vr0Z9TJwnkO0pvK2EK/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2a14.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifz5r2ihJayZ7VlVro3ZdlBqsfpxVv88lnFymbfvDpiL4zW8WcQuxkALZsmhyZRHWgCopIPb8Bw_ZjW0LUYNk8xu-574qpruK4Zr3KAjD64z6wFOZ8vKT0ZpWgLwx0AnYSVjVyzw_VFDJgT1xWSiWuJqVaM6WY6m2sy9xhGknGB1Vr0Z9TJwnkO0pvK2EK/w300-h400/fullsizeoutput_2a14.heic" width="300" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"Unnameable Objects, Unspeakable Crimes,"</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> with its various generalizations and examples, is bound to elicit a range of strong reactions in white readers--and I hope some of you will share your reactions below. As for my readers who are initially very uncomfortable with Baldwin's thoughts, I hope you will hang in there with this essay, perhaps reread it once or twice before coming to your final conclusions about its truth and its value to us as a society in which liberty and justice are not yet for all. Seeing reality is always the first step toward making the changes we claim we want to see.<br /></span><p></p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* Screenshot of photograph accompanying James Baldwin (2023, June 15). Wikiquote. <b>https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/James_Baldwin </b></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">** </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Baldwin, J. (2016, August 23). <i>Unnameable Objects, Unspeakable Crimes</i>. Blackstate. <b>https://blackstate.com/james-baldwin-unnameable-objects-unspeakable-crimes/ </b>[Note: This essay was originally published in <i>The White Problem in America, </i>compiled by the editors of Ebony Magazine, and published by Johnson Publishing Company, Chicago in 1966.]</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*** Photograph by Robert Abbott Sengstacke accompanying New York Review of Books article entitled </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">"‘The Central Event of Our Past’: Still Murky" by Andrew Delbanco, published on February 9, 2012. <b>https://www.nybooks.com/articles/2012/02/09/central-event-our-past-still-murky/</b></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-55588991938373419332023-06-20T22:37:00.007-04:002023-06-21T08:58:51.484-04:00Reading Baldwin on A Milestone Birthday<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, the other day when<i> Joan Soble: So Already . . . A Blog About Moving Forward, Paying Attention, & Staying Connected</i> turned ten years old, I was reading the final essays in James Baldwin's <i>Notes of a Native Son</i>. </span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKtOalNwrlXYsoCUJcgnRKY6LyMbnSCZlYLHNEncTgDfqiwDfkRg0jWd0OlK2sXtx0LsMq6a1nTuRXErH6AS4dxxkGiJWwVP7IV-VDcx9a1WfjTOcB6_jGgpufOMoYm_42xzhnQGFt74SYCsJUtMuy14zhhLxPzeYJF2xZs33QiPUuee1sWjq8QNzKw/s4032/6kzjHXSbT3yz2TX9REVtbg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="368" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKtOalNwrlXYsoCUJcgnRKY6LyMbnSCZlYLHNEncTgDfqiwDfkRg0jWd0OlK2sXtx0LsMq6a1nTuRXErH6AS4dxxkGiJWwVP7IV-VDcx9a1WfjTOcB6_jGgpufOMoYm_42xzhnQGFt74SYCsJUtMuy14zhhLxPzeYJF2xZs33QiPUuee1sWjq8QNzKw/w491-h368/6kzjHXSbT3yz2TX9REVtbg.jpg" width="491" /></a></div>It was my friend Berhan Duncan's and my April visit to </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.amherst.edu/museums/mead/exhibitions/2023/god-made-my-face-a-collective-portrait-of-james-baldwin" target="_blank">"God Made My Face: A Collective Portrait of James Baldwin" at the Mead Art Museum</a></span> at Amherst College that had sent me searching for <i>Notes of a Native Son</i> a couple of months ago. At the height of the pandemic, at Berhan's urging, I'd read Baldwin's <i>Another Country</i>; as the pandemic loosened its grip, we'd both read <i>Giovanni's Room</i>. Since we'd been reading and talking Baldwin for a while, we were keen to make the pilgrimage to Amherst. <i><br /></i></span></span></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">While we were driving west</span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> on that brisk Tuesday, Berhan expressed some anxiety and apprehension: what if the exhibit got Baldwin wrong? what if it failed to convey his complexity, insight, and purpose and vision as a writer? what if it reduced him in order to make him more palatable and digestible for museum-goers interested in learning and appreciating <i>something</i> but not necessarily in being deeply, authentically confronted and engaged--which Baldwin's work generally demands?</span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The museum was
practically empty when Berhan and I arrived, and it largely stayed that way:
except for a student studying in comfortable chair in a far corner of
one of the exhibit rooms, we generally had the whole Baldwin exhibit to
ourselves. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0k1Xm_u5i9JS-cEDMBuMupVmVQiDBjsuEf4-HHRTO7RHgux603CpW3bCBNXAUwmfZzc-UmCeOyOpkc-C8EulY5SRHVWADzz8kHSqfGkJcSOe8OQJeeO-h8YFo_6oAaCy18X32tPUq5sUle2E55jyJOCVWQOLNQmiuV8TAb3dxzuVVHXWdvhf2uU_cwCF/s3438/fullsizeoutput_2af0.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2652" data-original-width="3438" height="280" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu0k1Xm_u5i9JS-cEDMBuMupVmVQiDBjsuEf4-HHRTO7RHgux603CpW3bCBNXAUwmfZzc-UmCeOyOpkc-C8EulY5SRHVWADzz8kHSqfGkJcSOe8OQJeeO-h8YFo_6oAaCy18X32tPUq5sUle2E55jyJOCVWQOLNQmiuV8TAb3dxzuVVHXWdvhf2uU_cwCF/w362-h280/fullsizeoutput_2af0.jpeg" width="362" /></a></div>It featured artistic renderings of Baldwin and his contemporaries as well as works by other African-American artists conveying African-American experience. In one photo, Baldwin encountered a sculpture of of himself.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvf5uwTUsSkAr7zJSqLqpQ5RjH9WURL3RueGX0fhinh1Abr4dq4L3rT5ZlY1Mz0uBiknOQdKeui7dTe_TJ6TzCOTDN_EX4wFI_1_Gnot7eKe44KNmYhMopFYDBjBCqODHK0q8SDCI3UyGKW7AD-Iqch_ETnAE9OTpwwpIEEHfqBFF7b-rSIdKr9fIBQ/s4032/evelyKFQTZq0DOyJ8DxDdg.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbvf5uwTUsSkAr7zJSqLqpQ5RjH9WURL3RueGX0fhinh1Abr4dq4L3rT5ZlY1Mz0uBiknOQdKeui7dTe_TJ6TzCOTDN_EX4wFI_1_Gnot7eKe44KNmYhMopFYDBjBCqODHK0q8SDCI3UyGKW7AD-Iqch_ETnAE9OTpwwpIEEHfqBFF7b-rSIdKr9fIBQ/w400-h300/evelyKFQTZq0DOyJ8DxDdg.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Berhan and I looked separately and silently until we came back together in the large room featuring Glenn Ligon's huge, highly textured black painting entitled "Stranger."</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">After a few minutes of standing next to each other just looking, Berhan said to me, "This is it. This is what I think I hoped for." (I think I captured the spirit of what Berhan said, but he also can't remember what he said verbatim.)</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">We sat down on the bench opposite the painting, alternating between looking silently and softly commenting, occasionally getting up to move closer to the painting to examine its texture or identify words featured--or maybe embedded--in it. Periodically, we paused to express how grateful we were that that we had the space and the bench all to ourselves for so long. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">We talked about Ligon's use of coal dust, the challenge of reading the language in the painting (and not knowing how much language there was and how much we needed to look for it), the painting's size, the way the painting was lit and how that lighting contributed to how its blackness shimmered, and the fact that coal pressed hard enough becomes diamond. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsxSJrc0Ld5NKm5AM_7n-W57a0UPhcpJohbhiAeXFsFPuHPwwJZIVHXnERHbBy6iVdaovCYuc5yXih3Zspzy99N57nTOsneN4Iveh2uDpsB4zAi7v4ieHMD1EXlwl1jubGYmTkwWqVBYLCjBqmtah6lZbtC8Ud1Qe7yEWnSBXzkM24QowpwVgNM0GFoOi/s446/James%20Baldwin%20Book%20Cover.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="288" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDsxSJrc0Ld5NKm5AM_7n-W57a0UPhcpJohbhiAeXFsFPuHPwwJZIVHXnERHbBy6iVdaovCYuc5yXih3Zspzy99N57nTOsneN4Iveh2uDpsB4zAi7v4ieHMD1EXlwl1jubGYmTkwWqVBYLCjBqmtah6lZbtC8Ud1Qe7yEWnSBXzkM24QowpwVgNM0GFoOi/w259-h400/James%20Baldwin%20Book%20Cover.png" width="259" /></a></div>As we left the museum, we realized neither of us had read <i>Notes of Native Son*</i>, which contained the essay "<a href="https://www.janvaneyck.nl/site/assets/files/2312/baldwin.pdf" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Stranger in the Village</span></a>" from which some of the quotations in the painting were drawn. So as we headed toward the center of town to eat really good hamburgers and French fries before heading home, I knew I needed to read more--more by James Baldwin and more about Glenn Ligon.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I didn't read "Stranger in the Village" right away: recently, I've been reading collections start to finish, my assumption being that the order of the pieces within them is deliberate and important. So I wouldn't be writing this post if I hadn't finally made it to "Stranger in the Village," the last essay in the collection, and then read it again<i>. </i> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I still need to think about it, so for now, I'll simply share three quotations, one about language, Baldwin's medium, and two about the connection between the Swiss village where Baldwin lived as "the only one" and the America that "cannot" and "has not . . . admitted" his "human weight and complexity" (165).<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Every
legend, moreover, contains a residuum of truth, and the root function
of language is to control the universe by describing it. (170)</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span><br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The ideas on which American beliefs are based are not, though Americans often seem to think so, ideas which originated in America. They came out of Europe. And the establishment of democracy on the American continent was scarcely as radical a break with the past as was the necessity, which Americans faced, of broadening the concept to include black men. (175)</span></span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The time has come to realize that the interracial drama acted out on the American continent has not only created a new black man, it has created a new white man, too. No road whatever will lead Americans back to the simplicity of this European village where white men still have the luxury of looking on me as a stranger. I am not, really, a stranger any longer for any American alive. One of the things that distinguishes Americans from other people is that no other people has ever been so deeply involved in the lives of black men, and vice versa. This fact faced, with all its implications, it can be seen that the history of the American Negro problem is not merely shameful, it is also something of an achievement. (179)</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">No doubt these ideas spoke to Glenn Ligon, perhaps comforting him, perhaps electrifying him, most definitely inspiring him. Carly Berwick's article "Stranger in America"** discusses the Ligon's "Stranger "series,<i><br /></i></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span><blockquote><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">begun in 1996 and accounting for nearly 200 works
produced over 13 years. . . . Baldwin has particular resonance for Ligon,
not only because he was also black and gay but because he emphasized the
role of language in creating the “legends” (a Baldwin term) that we
make of one another. “Stranger in the Village,” for instance, relates
the author’s experience in a small Swiss hamlet, where children, struck
by his novelty, touched his hair with fascination or ran after him
shouting “Neger!” Baldwin ruminates on what it means to be perceived as
black in the village and in America, writing, “The root function of
language is to control the universe by describing it.” </span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyg-JYOg4OqWJ-uoXPHNC41YkfZQJ64iF2ylOAklORvQXfMIYLdNT4qZtXSrZpGM7tcbNiWzqD8E06sJ2VQIF8Hv5QvyDFwkuXW5YfLTtAIRSgNQH4RM4vLPlUFzgBGmVi7ki99yQcYUdqfF78rNJS0Igjflih5Uk4ZwVpvOi2SFRygDOl1dRH_C9CCiik/s4032/gnYldZO6TsGM6Fey7trVFw.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyg-JYOg4OqWJ-uoXPHNC41YkfZQJ64iF2ylOAklORvQXfMIYLdNT4qZtXSrZpGM7tcbNiWzqD8E06sJ2VQIF8Hv5QvyDFwkuXW5YfLTtAIRSgNQH4RM4vLPlUFzgBGmVi7ki99yQcYUdqfF78rNJS0Igjflih5Uk4ZwVpvOi2SFRygDOl1dRH_C9CCiik/s320/gnYldZO6TsGM6Fey7trVFw.jpg" width="320" /></a></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Some of the quotes taken from Baldwin’s essay are visible in the
paintings . . . but most are not. The artist repeatedly stenciled the text in
black oil stick, layering in coal dust. He proceeded in regular lines,
from top to bottom. The letters rose from the surface and the text
thickened until it was nearly illegible. Ligon has said he chose coal
dust because he was looking for something with a literal weight.
Catching the light and making the raised letters glint like gems, coal
dust reminded him of Andy Warhol’s diamond dust. But coal can also be
seen to have racial overtones, as in the phrase “coal black,” which in
the early 20th century came to be used as a slur. </span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Of course, when Berhan and I encountered this painting in Amherst, we'd read none of the above. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">On the morning after after I'd finished reading "Stranger in the Village" on a jam-packed rush-hour train on which we riders were pressed together so tightly for so long that I thought we might all become diamonds, I called Berhan.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGo3VRd-W8NDzT8o08vbwnZgL074ui2_X4Qeh76p_WBnxNzLmEkVDzYmMLxeWDxOYuDREZV8T0f5B79_NHc9kirV63o34TGltkYSkfuldYB9cx5tbkPJiXRH47E_fppLF6kZu8jejrOEFf3t6L24a1__Dd7kYeOV9ap_pGbr9mYUwmwQL4cLvnNB44ihJ/s255/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.29.27%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="255" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyGo3VRd-W8NDzT8o08vbwnZgL074ui2_X4Qeh76p_WBnxNzLmEkVDzYmMLxeWDxOYuDREZV8T0f5B79_NHc9kirV63o34TGltkYSkfuldYB9cx5tbkPJiXRH47E_fppLF6kZu8jejrOEFf3t6L24a1__Dd7kYeOV9ap_pGbr9mYUwmwQL4cLvnNB44ihJ/w400-h271/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.29.27%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>"Berhan, I'm thinking about the Ligon painting at the museum in Amherst. I'm trying to remember what you said about why it was so right."</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"I remember I felt that way, but I can't remember what I said about it," Berhan said. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"Can you tell me what you think you thought? Or think now?" I asked, and he did.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"Well, first of all, it's black on black, and that matters on a few levels. Also, it used words, and Baldwin used words--the exhibit needed to present him as a writer, and a writer with a mission. And it was hard to read--as Baldwin is. When you read Baldwin, you have to sit with him, and there keeps being more to think about. With the painting, you kept looking and you kept noticing and trying to read--but you kept seeing more and thinking more and feeling more." [Note: I'm majorly paraphrasing Berhan here, with his permission.]</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Berhan's "sitting with it" comments made me think of that bench on which he and I had camped out in that gallery, trading observations and thoughts related to them. I wrote the following in my journal soon after our phone call: "There's no speed-reading of Baldwin; and by virtue of what is being described and generalized about, namely who we are as groups and individuals as we share the same space as other groups and individuals, we can't avoid thinking about ourselves--our actions, our attitudes, our assumptions--unless we're determined to. Which some people are."<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRVDqaA84pmPWDmDi9iXhLfGrZQetLtn0eRCehuPjaw6wnFaoIgGXhLX84_74Da3ufytrXudgHcJpTHsimzVR4GD5YmMk_vggudY38CKqrsjtKB_8k0cKxjOzXMdiaIrto-1nVcfngkQRFK-NTkCj3MTfpFHMkSDsHMGuJJXKpoU44GunjFTE4IHKipxS/s845/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-20%20at%209.17.18%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="219" data-original-width="845" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvRVDqaA84pmPWDmDi9iXhLfGrZQetLtn0eRCehuPjaw6wnFaoIgGXhLX84_74Da3ufytrXudgHcJpTHsimzVR4GD5YmMk_vggudY38CKqrsjtKB_8k0cKxjOzXMdiaIrto-1nVcfngkQRFK-NTkCj3MTfpFHMkSDsHMGuJJXKpoU44GunjFTE4IHKipxS/w544-h141/Screen%20Shot%202023-06-20%20at%209.17.18%20PM.png" width="544" /></a></div>But why, on my blog's tenth birthday, write about this exhibit, Baldwin and his essay, Ligon and his painting, and Berhan's and my great road trip "out west" to Amherst? </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Because this blog, over the last ten years, has been much about "sitting with"--sitting with a whole lot of ideas; places; extraordinary moments and important experiences; works of art; educational issues; books, articles, and poems; religious teachings and spiritual practices; and people who matter a great deal to me. This post represents a lot of these areas of attention and reflection.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">It's been a pleasure and challenge to blog monthly in <i>So Already</i>, and I so appreciate that so many of you have read my blog from time to time--and some of you often. Thank you for your attention and encouragement over many years. Today's post is my 256th; #257 will be out by the end of July.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweSBy7BQ4WYPA6Wx4IrZdUUqlEnMiKAUYLvoTIkiXw8DdOvh6A5ZuHYC9NOg3682WwNQvjc9yzq93pQ4x9hcTO1trTbvgVNdHI7n8nUVxQRB4XO8ofxFEnM5hrEnTTdf0ZkANhGK6j8hncs03pN0D0vE0XgDRK_GMrrMaWqlS6KX_jNuRtJ5qvPMwMSSe/s4032/0utZ72dBRYuLZCQ9KeeBCA.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjweSBy7BQ4WYPA6Wx4IrZdUUqlEnMiKAUYLvoTIkiXw8DdOvh6A5ZuHYC9NOg3682WwNQvjc9yzq93pQ4x9hcTO1trTbvgVNdHI7n8nUVxQRB4XO8ofxFEnM5hrEnTTdf0ZkANhGK6j8hncs03pN0D0vE0XgDRK_GMrrMaWqlS6KX_jNuRtJ5qvPMwMSSe/w300-h400/0utZ72dBRYuLZCQ9KeeBCA.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>P.S. While I have your attention, I'd like to recommend a Baldwin essay I read yesterday for the first time: <a href="https://blackstate.com/james-baldwin-unnameable-objects-unspeakable-crimes/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Unnameable Objects, Unspeakable Crimes</span></a>. And j</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">ust so you know, the last day of <a href="https://www.amherst.edu/museums/mead/exhibitions/2023/god-made-my-face-a-collective-portrait-of-james-baldwin" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">the exhibit</span></a> is July 9, so you can still go visit it. <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* Baldwin, J. (1955). Stranger in the village. <i>Notes of a native son</i> (pp. 163-179). Beacon Press.<i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">** Berwick, Carly. (2011, April 23). <i>Stranger in America</i>. Art in America. <b>https://www.artnews.com/art-in-america/features/glenn-ligon-62890/</b></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><b> </b></span><br /></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-65713076741002042952023-05-31T18:06:00.002-04:002023-05-31T18:30:57.798-04:00In the Midst of Life We Are in Death . . . And Vice Versa<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVXbGF0jDdp6E-YE57sIPV0KvawzqcyyGOC5hLX8YPaGlUdvcxsQrKcYt5BE7D6b-9MDJjrhN9RPwM4yWJNydELeLCWTJos8foxbwtUranLyt5tU4NEtoPe4dgsxi4_Y-sDZX7vHhzASS_y8NUKhDyDo-6kJMkmMJJlXobxbDtQLYdoS5AKjGG6ZhQQ/s689/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%201.36.18%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="412" data-original-width="689" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoVXbGF0jDdp6E-YE57sIPV0KvawzqcyyGOC5hLX8YPaGlUdvcxsQrKcYt5BE7D6b-9MDJjrhN9RPwM4yWJNydELeLCWTJos8foxbwtUranLyt5tU4NEtoPe4dgsxi4_Y-sDZX7vHhzASS_y8NUKhDyDo-6kJMkmMJJlXobxbDtQLYdoS5AKjGG6ZhQQ/w400-h239/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%201.36.18%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><p></p><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, last Saturday, May 27, was the second day of Shavuot, the Jewish holiday celebrating </span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">"the great revelation of the giving of the <span class="glossary_item">Torah</span> at Mount Sinai, more than 3,300 years ago."* The second day of Shavuot is also one of several days during the Jewish calendar year that Jews recite <i>Yizkor</i>, the memorial prayer for deceased loved ones. In my early years, I understood that the prayer was said only for parents, siblings, children, and spouses; today, I understand that it can be recited for any dead loved one, and even for anonymous individuals and groups. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I said it while sitting at the edge of the field at our cabin in Berlin--definitely deviating from various Jewish norms and rules, I'm sure--for my father and my friend Donald, who became family long ago. I also said it this time for two old friends who died in the past month: Jonathan, who succumbed to sudden altitude-related illness on Mt. Everest on May 1, and Delia, who died of unexpected cancer-related complications on May 22. Two Mondays, three weeks apart. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Some time ago, I lost direct touch with Jonathan, my fellow Needham High School graduate who was s</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">uch a great big brother to me during my freshman year at college</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">, but I still kept tabs on his life through the reports of mutual friends. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxH8yIOa7YnRKdtrrEHDJ7kGLZLJHSfL4u9OFefHP-KXDqCdIXV-BivTfzkqt-I_8o-bI1ycEKKMtYOsKjTbWrWfHBiIhMCN3LG1Oe6I0Hk1sJ3BdKh0a0GRIKvuvWHGAmlEqTmhc5_8RxdIEfVT9o8JTnRA6mEPdMLdWkv_ztLTpOwd5OFaIrUYyEcw/s389/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%202.07.44%20PM.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="223" data-original-width="389" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxH8yIOa7YnRKdtrrEHDJ7kGLZLJHSfL4u9OFefHP-KXDqCdIXV-BivTfzkqt-I_8o-bI1ycEKKMtYOsKjTbWrWfHBiIhMCN3LG1Oe6I0Hk1sJ3BdKh0a0GRIKvuvWHGAmlEqTmhc5_8RxdIEfVT9o8JTnRA6mEPdMLdWkv_ztLTpOwd5OFaIrUYyEcw/w400-h229/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%202.07.44%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Most of the Roommates</span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">In contrast, I was in good touch with Delia, a former college roommate. I always felt a special connection to Delia because she and my dad shared not only the same birthday, but the same habit of naturally and unceremoniously doing what they could when others needed a helping hand.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGEF7z7HYO_WLnzfKdCwBXi8tU0eL_f2UVEYHPfIG37ZSA9hW00t89156yULpeFaryv96qTfGtqPQAj1DHBiJGJAlbpIC8Z0spxYj6jPKE7qJeGPa_nHgBovtjNW5kcIoe6SDSM21Uv857XRJSDB5zyxUiEP4pwDPPYQrPAmJNxOUz2F3sUbXy7Y6IQ/s2048/IMG_5115.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmGEF7z7HYO_WLnzfKdCwBXi8tU0eL_f2UVEYHPfIG37ZSA9hW00t89156yULpeFaryv96qTfGtqPQAj1DHBiJGJAlbpIC8Z0spxYj6jPKE7qJeGPa_nHgBovtjNW5kcIoe6SDSM21Uv857XRJSDB5zyxUiEP4pwDPPYQrPAmJNxOUz2F3sUbXy7Y6IQ/s320/IMG_5115.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>If it's one thing I've learned sitting at the edge of the field at the cabin, it's that life and death are always happening at the same time. A favorite old apple tree at the bottom of the field, as seen from our chairs on the field's stream side, is now distinguished by one huge dying branch bending toward the ground beneath: no doubt some combination of winter ice and wind forced that brittle bough toward the ground into its current bowed position. The cracking sound it made when it broke from the main trunk must have been <i>loud</i>.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKn4-aZgHtMe7P7ehqhE1n-19DKkIarhM6MzNv0P8AdkslxqV9lG3J0xQRLlXAR6oLMZKFvEBUPmux3Vhio7D9jSvkuG-4bsVb89KuTPTgAAyUxBK_fHoTngjmui29Cxe2ZyiomvgJllThmqZDRmSwNqPBe6l2V0Gfz_Y0tD2JCxP8Ne2LYBGmPouMA/s673/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%202.46.00%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="253" data-original-width="673" height="189" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEKn4-aZgHtMe7P7ehqhE1n-19DKkIarhM6MzNv0P8AdkslxqV9lG3J0xQRLlXAR6oLMZKFvEBUPmux3Vhio7D9jSvkuG-4bsVb89KuTPTgAAyUxBK_fHoTngjmui29Cxe2ZyiomvgJllThmqZDRmSwNqPBe6l2V0Gfz_Y0tD2JCxP8Ne2LYBGmPouMA/w504-h189/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%202.46.00%20PM.png" width="504" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Some season soon, that damaged branch will lie horizontally on the ground. But for now, it suggests to me that death happens gradually, whether or not that 's true. I keep thinking that Delia and Jonathan are still getting used to it, perhaps because I'm still trying to get used to the fact of their deaths.</span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Meanwhile, I'm relieved that it's just that branch, as opposed to the whole tree, that's dying: the tree's elbow-shaped bend that Scott loves to paint and draw and that I love to photograph is intact. And even the broken branch that's in the process of separating from the rest of tree is sprouting leaves in a few places. </span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">It's hard not to think of trees of life (1) when </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">trees all around are burgeoning with new life even as some parts of them, through all kinds of natural processes, are returning to the earth--and (2) when </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> the holiday is Shavuot: the the Torah is often described as a </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"<a href="https://www.sefaria.org/sheets/295960?lang=bi" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">a tree of life</span></a> to those who hold fast to it."</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">It's also hard not to think of trees of life when the family tree grows a new branch: the day before Delia died, my nephew and niece-by-marriage became the parents of their first son and my second grand-nephew. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So
as I greeted the terrible news about Delia, this new
little boy in our family was happily much on my mind. "In the midst of life we are in death," and in
the midst of death we are in life, I thought to myself, having sung
"The Service for the Burial of the Dead" by Thomas Morley so many times
during college. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Such a beautiful baby boy whose name would not be revealed until the B'rit Milah, the ritual circumcision that would take place eight days after his birth.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZxKTJZgp2UsEeZZ7wPgMwCj8X5TV-uUJ5XAFthsipbgLYNYqNUgSNI7CjMzSA8aDt1MOWxAy_bVEBoKgI0tmmvk-f2WO7EkCkSc-VzLvbobnYNv-Sv9iTQZW7YEZkTO-yxbHkK9TsFA4QmOhuLtn8gMz8fePdgi41AQrrDTii5DttL0D-5_TjGSlUQ/s1236/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%203.31.36%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="1236" height="182" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKZxKTJZgp2UsEeZZ7wPgMwCj8X5TV-uUJ5XAFthsipbgLYNYqNUgSNI7CjMzSA8aDt1MOWxAy_bVEBoKgI0tmmvk-f2WO7EkCkSc-VzLvbobnYNv-Sv9iTQZW7YEZkTO-yxbHkK9TsFA4QmOhuLtn8gMz8fePdgi41AQrrDTii5DttL0D-5_TjGSlUQ/w320-h182/Screen%20Shot%202023-05-31%20at%203.31.36%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>In the Jewish tradition, babies are named only for people who are no longer living.** So my first question was whether my new nephew would be named Benjamin David, for my father who died in December 2020. My second jumping-the-gun question was whether the baby, if he were named Benjamin, would be called Ben or Benjie. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I was hopeful: Delia had had her last pre-surgery chemo treatment on her and my dad's birthday. She was being cared for at the home of her older brother Benjie (I don't know he spells it) and his wife. After she died, I was communicating with her nephew Ben, sending photos of her, letting him know whom I'd notified of her passing. The name Benjamin was everywhere in the air, consoling me and giving me hope.</span></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYCauNgP7HEm-odfIhobcTJz9MbfP4DM0JNlAkl6g7U9BGJrNv3uR-tQOumInXqsGbnYkyKnGiXXgdSjkbYIwyA2zMlyzaLaIw_MJpGm77rH_L8fk56XPY1WQ7pF2qTHwc9Wen6JgvPjafoj9EywVzHCrUbIddFRAFqd77meegYE1t7eHoAkN8M6cbQ/s523/Screen%20Shot%202015-07-14%20at%208.49.33%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="523" data-original-width="418" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVYCauNgP7HEm-odfIhobcTJz9MbfP4DM0JNlAkl6g7U9BGJrNv3uR-tQOumInXqsGbnYkyKnGiXXgdSjkbYIwyA2zMlyzaLaIw_MJpGm77rH_L8fk56XPY1WQ7pF2qTHwc9Wen6JgvPjafoj9EywVzHCrUbIddFRAFqd77meegYE1t7eHoAkN8M6cbQ/w320-h400/Screen%20Shot%202015-07-14%20at%208.49.33%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">The <i>Yizkor </i>service also comforted me, giving me something to do that I didn't have to invent. The <i>Lev Ha Shalem </i>prayer book is always a great source of inspirational and provocative poems and readings in addition to the traditional prayers and translations. Because my husband Scott's art often, in my opinion, suggests a fluidity between life and death, I shared with him the poem "In Everything" by Lea Goldberg that was featured alongside one page of the service:</span><p></p><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In everything there is at least an eighth part</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">that is death. Its weight is not great.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">With that secret and carefree grace</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">we carry it everywhere we go.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">On lovely awakenings, on journeys,</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">in lovers' words, in our distraction</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">forgotten at the edges of our affairs</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">it is always with us. Weighing</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">hardly anything at all.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">(translated by Rachel Tvia Back)***</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Scott asked me about the "eighth part"--why not a different fraction, he wanted to know. I said that eight is often an important number in Judaism: eight days of Passover, eight days of Hanukkah, eight days between a birth and a b'rit. But I didn't have a real answer, since other numbers are significant, too.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWb0-5uR344SrJkJ7S1WLlmZpm-cM7tslXwLLTxB3khLphY_99FfNiHAr7lMOIj7BReelMyDDbE0kzJ1tYtftpEEfyF_IZNdITMDdIxPnP_Pdp_qolj3ynt4EHC7AtoKSylZMGZJ239-s1ZI4hV0Yj9Vf5zwwkdfXJw8Is6X_WQAo5KCylCe3lxjdxw/s2048/fullsizeoutput_2ad3.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTWb0-5uR344SrJkJ7S1WLlmZpm-cM7tslXwLLTxB3khLphY_99FfNiHAr7lMOIj7BReelMyDDbE0kzJ1tYtftpEEfyF_IZNdITMDdIxPnP_Pdp_qolj3ynt4EHC7AtoKSylZMGZJ239-s1ZI4hV0Yj9Vf5zwwkdfXJw8Is6X_WQAo5KCylCe3lxjdxw/w300-h400/fullsizeoutput_2ad3.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div>I wish I were naturally and completely easy with the perpetual overlapping of life and death. My impulse is always to try to keep life "safe" from death. So I'm appreciative of this poem in which the reality of the fraction of death in life does not taint life, does not weigh it down, does not make it less alive, less valuable, less wonderful. The idea that we carry death with "secret and carefree grace" reassures me. I'm certain that that grace is coming through me, not from me, and I'm grateful for it.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In this month of so much sad news--but with so many happy memories associated with that sad news--along comes a beautiful new baby and eight days later, the revelation of his name--Benjamin David, my sister told me in a text on Sunday morning. My father's memory--and the memories of Delia, Jonathan, and Donald--are indeed for blessings. All four of them shared a love of life.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* Chabad.org. (*2023, May). </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i>Hear the Ten Commandments on Shavuot. </i><b>https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/2157/jewish/Hear-the-Ten-Commandments-on-Shavuot.htm </b>(art also accompanying this post by Sefira Lightstone: https://www.sefiracreative.com/)</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">** Photo accompanying article: Klein, M. (N.D.). <i>A historical view of choosing a Jewish name.</i> My Jewish Learning. <b>https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/a-historical-view-of-choosing-a-name/</b></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*** See page 337 of the following Lev Ha Shalem <i>Yizkor</i> pdf file: <b>https://images.shulcloud.com/1039/uploads/passover-pages/YizkorforPesahandShavuotSIDDURLEVSHALEM.pdf</b></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-77605293209910589122023-04-24T12:30:00.012-04:002023-04-25T20:36:08.102-04:00What Words Should Be Passed? The Challenge of Educating Against Racism and Antisemitism<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPHr3hYrG1g9OwVo03Mti7itSsxYM6Q5Udyv-1hgAx-D6eTShYzrfYs43YkFZBCEnqxnDS2emZWudVXMQzAW6RZ2EcJbVhoDLVJPIe3ByWnrgpBL5e6-KrgfNzsFsv3QypUMUHaqXG2nVihN7g-TvdOI4F0-PbUvARW8_tJwonpSQmHQFFxTVOgvjfg/s3750/fullsizeoutput_2a1a.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"> <img border="0" data-original-height="2792" data-original-width="3750" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXPHr3hYrG1g9OwVo03Mti7itSsxYM6Q5Udyv-1hgAx-D6eTShYzrfYs43YkFZBCEnqxnDS2emZWudVXMQzAW6RZ2EcJbVhoDLVJPIe3ByWnrgpBL5e6-KrgfNzsFsv3QypUMUHaqXG2nVihN7g-TvdOI4F0-PbUvARW8_tJwonpSQmHQFFxTVOgvjfg/w400-h297/fullsizeoutput_2a1a.heic" width="400" /></a></div>So already, how interesting that the same week I was finishing Clint Smith's <i>How the Word Is Passed: A Reckoning with the History of Slavery Across America*, </i>I also happened upon Dara Horn's article "<a href="https://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2023/05/holocaust-student-education-jewish-anti-semitism/673488/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Is Holocaust Education Making Anti-Semitism Worse?</span></a>**" with its secondary headline "Using dead Jews as symbols isn't helping living ones" in the just-arrived May 2023 print issue of<i> The Atlantic. <br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I read both with great interest--Horn's because it seemed almost heretical for a Jewish person (or any liberal person) to suggest a downside to teaching Holocaust history, and Smith's because I found its exploration of a very important topic so compelling, humble, and usefully episodic. Chronicled in separate chapters, Smith's forays to sites not only where enslaved people labored, but where they were sold, exported, housed, and separated from family--Angola Prison in Louisiana,</span><span> <span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Gorée island*** in Senegal</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">,</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> and the Wall Street area of New York City, to name a few--collectively and concretely captured many different facets of the history of slavery. Furthermore, each of the chapters included the voices--and thus the invaluable perspectives--of those Smith encountered officially and unofficially as he made his rounds.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fd44WxFQWrbLQ6bQt14vzGHiE8P7bYIkla22PFu3ufkUW1VIpbIQxRQgbU84ZHMWl47yKz-7IZAReWU407yaSnsamErmcP_JPl97GS_nJwnToU94XXIt9gsbWuUGzQtV3I6FBr3A_eMA-kMcyeNmgJ6KxXguqp0ToSRHwONToTE6_enHK83JYNJjfQ/s3660/fullsizeoutput_2a1c.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2937" data-original-width="3660" height="321" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4fd44WxFQWrbLQ6bQt14vzGHiE8P7bYIkla22PFu3ufkUW1VIpbIQxRQgbU84ZHMWl47yKz-7IZAReWU407yaSnsamErmcP_JPl97GS_nJwnToU94XXIt9gsbWuUGzQtV3I6FBr3A_eMA-kMcyeNmgJ6KxXguqp0ToSRHwONToTE6_enHK83JYNJjfQ/w400-h321/fullsizeoutput_2a1c.heic" width="400" /></a></div>Both the Horn article and the Smith book explore the popular idea that remembering and understanding history**** is not just essential, but perhaps the best way to create a world in which race- and religion-related violence, murder, and injustice ideally become relegated to the past--a world in which members of groups that historically have been subjected to violence, murder, exploitation, and other forms of injustice can live in justice and peace.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But does
understanding the history of dehumanization, cultivated contempt, and genocide actually eradicate them? Does looking squarely at the violence and harm perpetrated
against Jews and African-Americans over time lead other people to adopt respectful
attitudes towards them and/or to take actions against racist and antisemitic practice and policy in
the present day?* In 2023, members of both groups are more apt to
be the targets of violent attacks than they were ten years ago. And much silence and inaction often follows those attacks.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I would not have even be asking the questions in the last
paragraph were others not asking them in what I was reading. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZT8tjdr9wkUUOW9PM0Mv0QWzNuLqraK6TkGxHLTfzEUBU9j00I35rRCpSXGmRao_LBaKcgB6jx_m8LzGyzwr7RpJTQ_Brbax69uPVO72fSU2tWgQ_Cn9R0w3kwCB5fsjW3AYoyrO3z-SgU80wf7FgqGuJTls9gPQ8bzro57WDBAip0hhDY7uH1yCkQ/s657/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-22%20at%206.41.19%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="520" data-original-width="657" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2ZT8tjdr9wkUUOW9PM0Mv0QWzNuLqraK6TkGxHLTfzEUBU9j00I35rRCpSXGmRao_LBaKcgB6jx_m8LzGyzwr7RpJTQ_Brbax69uPVO72fSU2tWgQ_Cn9R0w3kwCB5fsjW3AYoyrO3z-SgU80wf7FgqGuJTls9gPQ8bzro57WDBAip0hhDY7uH1yCkQ/w400-h316/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-22%20at%206.41.19%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">In both the article and the book<i>, </i>the question being asked by several peopl<i>e </i>was <i>what</i> history specifically, or what <i>histories, </i>should be taught to ensure history's potential liberating, transformative effect on individuals and society. A number of the slavery history educators were as concerned about slavery education's effect on the descendants of enslaved people as they were about its effects on the descendants of those who enslaved them or tacitly accepted their enslavement. I suspect that there's probably an important, related question about how these histories should be taught if they are to foster the changes in understanding and attitude they're designed to foster.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNPY79fOk5EOEEFzONUI6Dx0v_NmZOX-VDKDlS90t0tsFmRJwxlDOiYddRSCzqLDdF_Y17vp3kq2RaJI026ZQ8fnqCBdp4xkY8xD01LBbnLsGVAPJMjKGjW9A6RyqlhzG-Vwg1En-fWid39qjFI0g-0O3eN319pbtZ-ogSXZHWPUaapEMyq7VxATROg/s4032/fullsizeoutput_2a21.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzNPY79fOk5EOEEFzONUI6Dx0v_NmZOX-VDKDlS90t0tsFmRJwxlDOiYddRSCzqLDdF_Y17vp3kq2RaJI026ZQ8fnqCBdp4xkY8xD01LBbnLsGVAPJMjKGjW9A6RyqlhzG-Vwg1En-fWid39qjFI0g-0O3eN319pbtZ-ogSXZHWPUaapEMyq7VxATROg/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_2a21.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So, a warning: I am going to quote lengthily from the book and the article so you have sufficient context to understand the "new" perspectives I encountered in reading them. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I'll begin with the article. At the center of the Holocaust education "debate" is the question of whether and how effective learning about the Holocaust can be if students are not also learning about antisemitism and Jewish culture and religion. Observing a lesson at the Illinois Holocaust Museum & Education Center, Horn took issue with a docent's explaining to students that for German Jews in the 1930s and 40s, "'</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">all of a sudden, things changed'" (Smith, 28).</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">As Horn further contemplated this characterization<i>, </i>discussed it with a museum official, and explored the museum itself, she realized that the museum inadvertently reinforced this falsehood. </span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i></i><blockquote><i>All of a sudden, things changed.</i>
Kelley Szany, the museum’s senior vice president of education and
exhibitions, had told me that the museum had made a conscious decision
not to focus on the long history of anti-Semitism that preceded the
Holocaust, and made it possible. To be fair, adequately covering this
topic would have required an additional museum. But the idea of sudden
change—referring to not merely the Nazi takeover, but the shift from a
welcoming society to an unwelcoming one—was also reinforced by survivors
in videos around the museum. No wonder: Survivors who had lived long
enough to tell their stories to contemporary audiences were young before
the war, many of them younger than the middle schoolers in my tour
group. They did not have a lifetime of memories of anti-Semitic
harassment and social isolation prior to the Holocaust. For 6-year-olds
who saw their synagogue burn—unlike their parents and grandparents, who
might have survived various pogroms, or endured pre-Nazi anti-Semitic
boycotts and other campaigns that ostracized Jews politically and
socially—everything really did 'suddenly' change. (28)<br /></blockquote></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Given the authenticity of the perspectives the museum did share, Horn saw all the more reason for incorporating the study of antisemitism itself: people, especially young people, needed <i>not </i>to understand the Holocaust as an event so historically rootless, distinct, and isolated that it could never happen anywhere again.</span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">At another Holocaust education event, after conversations with various Holocaust educators revealed to her that little or nothing was taught about Judaism and Jewish culture, Horn broached the topic with Kim Klett, </span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">a Holocaust educator with an organization called Echoes and Reflections.</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I asked Klett why no one seemed
to be teaching anything about Jewish culture. If the whole point of
Holocaust education is to 'humanize' those who were 'dehumanized,' why
do most teachers introduce students to Jews only when Jews are headed
for a mass grave? 'There’s a real fear of teaching about Judaism,” she
confided. “Especially if the teacher is Jewish.' . . .</span></span></div><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">'Because the teachers are afraid that the parents are going to say that they’re pushing their religion on the kids.'</span></span></p><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But
Jews don’t do that, I said. Judaism isn’t a proselytizing religion . . . This seemed to be yet another basic fact of Jewish identity
that no one had bothered to teach or learn.</span></span></p><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Klett
shrugged. 'Survivors have told me, "Thank you for teaching this.
They’ll listen to you because you’re not Jewish,"' she said. Which is
weird.'</span></span></p><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">'Weird' is one way to
put it. . . . anti-Semitism is so ingrained in our world that even when
discussing the murders of 6 million Jews, it would be 'pushing an
agenda' to tell people not to hate them, or to tell anyone what it
actually means to be Jewish. . . .. (37-38)<br /></span></span></p></blockquote><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Reading this passage reminded me of the last place I'd encountered such a rejection of Jewishness because it was Jewishness: in the section of <i>The Sabbath World</i>, where Judith Shulevitz explains that many Christian groups dedicated to the idea of observing Sabbath were just as dedicated to having "their" Sabbath bear as little resemblance to the Jewish Sabbath as possible. <br /></span></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Finally, Horn suggests that the fact that a number of Holocaust museums point visitors away from thinking of post-Holocaust Jewish lives and antisemitism in favor of promoting activism and vigilance on behalf of others may itself contribute to the problem:</span></span><br /></p><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span class="smallcaps"></span></p><blockquote><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="smallcaps" style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The Dallas Museum***** </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">was
the only one I visited that opened with an explanation of who Jews are.
Its exhibition began with brief videos about Abraham and Moses—limiting
Jewish identity to a “religion” familiar to non-Jews, but it was better
than nothing. The museum also debunked the false charge that the
Jews—rather than the Romans—killed Jesus, and explained the Jews’
refusal to convert to other faiths. It even had a panel or two about
contemporary Dallas Jewish life. Even so, a docent there told me that
one question students ask is “Are any Jews still alive today?”</span></span></p></blockquote><p class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI"> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxjFeF5M5r07_y3Tp2p_tTYZ5EXm71mZYFhMK-XrRh2zbDoWoVtDsuHZ6Cv034T9XYgCYkWepU2eGzULX_-fM4j53dgXXJsl28kA89CGJCNg_fikJIibmkzLIVEqCMYTLJhCtoNeb5KufWK_4wvMlWFIZ8dG4ffCUC5aHFRhfdM9hWKxg5AMqiBg2Dg/s776/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%202.44.59%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="493" data-original-width="776" height="254" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBxjFeF5M5r07_y3Tp2p_tTYZ5EXm71mZYFhMK-XrRh2zbDoWoVtDsuHZ6Cv034T9XYgCYkWepU2eGzULX_-fM4j53dgXXJsl28kA89CGJCNg_fikJIibmkzLIVEqCMYTLJhCtoNeb5KufWK_4wvMlWFIZ8dG4ffCUC5aHFRhfdM9hWKxg5AMqiBg2Dg/w400-h254/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%202.44.59%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
couldn’t blame the kids for asking. American Holocaust education, in
this museum and nearly everywhere else, never ends with Jews alive
today. Instead it ends by segueing to other genocides, or to other
minorities’ suffering. (In Dallas, these subjects took up most of two
museum wings.) This erasure feels completely normal. Better than normal,
even: noble, humane.</span></blockquote></span><p></p><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But
when one reaches the end of the exhibition on American slavery at the
National Museum of African American History and Culture, in Washington,
D.C., one does not then enter an exhibition highlighting the enslavement
of other groups throughout world history, or a room full of interactive
touchscreens about human trafficking today, asking that visitors become 'upstanders' in fighting it. That approach would be an insult to Black
history, ignoring Black people’s current experiences while turning their
past oppression into nothing but a symbol for something else, something
that actually matters. It is dehumanizing to be treated as a symbol. It
is even more dehumanizing to be treated as a warning. (38)<br /></span></span></div></blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">It always concerns me when I come up against the reality that for some students, the only Jews they've ever "met" are the ones they learned about while studying the Holocaust. Just something I needed to say, a reflection of the very small number of Jews in the USA and world--in large part, of course, because of the Holocaust. It also reminds me of how I bristle when people refer to Israel exclusively as "the holy land"; that characterization suggests a corollary to "the only good Jew is a dead Jew": "the only good Jew is an ancient Jew."<br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But back to what Horn said: I don't agree with her that Holocaust museums go so far as to dehumanize Jews when they shift their attention away from the Holocaust itself. That said, I too am chagrined by "The idea that Holocaust education can somehow serve as a stand-in for public moral education . . .." (32). Jewish lives and antisemitism itself still need our attention and activism; the Holocaust matters in of itself, even if it is useful as a case study.</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeyfH5SnkhAAF-X3yGdQeTT8brXqL1J22QUoxEvddvja-UMQ7Qo1sjPjhwRywEa2Sy2fXq0gLcc60_e42hqlMmIOgF7Ms-OgTDpJEPZSY4Gc_sh9Nozsb1XevPgUkmDPCVzbXOgjChAycd7wcXBSpQidMMuTA4nIVJ2W8-yDqWMLZ53aXWKLCwIv4PA/s534/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%202.36.46%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="399" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNeyfH5SnkhAAF-X3yGdQeTT8brXqL1J22QUoxEvddvja-UMQ7Qo1sjPjhwRywEa2Sy2fXq0gLcc60_e42hqlMmIOgF7Ms-OgTDpJEPZSY4Gc_sh9Nozsb1XevPgUkmDPCVzbXOgjChAycd7wcXBSpQidMMuTA4nIVJ2W8-yDqWMLZ53aXWKLCwIv4PA/w299-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%202.36.46%20PM.png" width="299" /></a></div>Given that, Horn's discussion of the National Museum of African American History****** and Culture seems quite apt to me--and having visited that museum myself*******, I can attest to its power to convey simultaneously painful history and human dignity, resilience, joy, and achievement. But it also gets me thinking about how it's too much to expect any one historical site, any one unit of study, any one guided tour, any one lesson to fulfill <u><i>all</i></u> the possible purposes for teaching about the Holocaust or the history of slavery.</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Nonetheless, I think the comments of many of the tour guides and educators whom Smith encountered spoke to some of those same yearnings Horn had for those who had been exploited and oppressed to be appreciated in more nuanced, multidimensional ways--above and beyond their misfortune.</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">On Texas's Galveston Island, "the birthplace of Juneteenth," Smith met Sue Johnson, founder of the Nia Cultural Center:</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As committed as Sue was to teaching young people in Galveston about the history of slavery and its aftermath, she wanted to go even further back than that. . . . </span></span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">'I didn't want them to think, <i>Oh, we popped up and we became enslaved. </i>No, we were thriving communities and nations and did amazing things before we were ever found by the white man' . . . 'I wanted them to see what they brought to the table, and to try to maintain and preserve who they are, and not think in order to be successful, I have to let go of my cultural stuff and adopt somebody else's.' (199)</span></span></div></blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Eloi Coly, the curator and site manager of Senegal's House of Slaves on </span></span><span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Gorée</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> Island, expressed the same desire to expand the history, emphasizing in his comments the psychological reasons for affirming Senegal's pre-slave-trade history:</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">. . . 'In Senegal, we are rewriting the history on Senegal from the origin until now. But it is something very difficult. They told us Black is nothing.' His voice hovered over the final word. 'They try to forget that things start in Africa,' he said. 'The slave trade or colonization was not the starting point of Africa.' </span></span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">This forgetting, Eloi said, has deleteriously affected the collective self-esteem of African peoples. He noted that Senegal, along with other West African countries, has to make sure that it teaches a history that highlights who Black people were before slavery and who they are in spite of it. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">(250)</span></span></div></blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Smith's own grandmother, across the ocean in America, understood firsthand the "deleterious effect" of this "slave" view of Africans. When Smith asked her to tell him her story, <br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">She spoke regretfully about the way she was taught to think about people on the African continent, how those caricatures specifically were designed to make them think of Africans as less than human, and how it contributed to making Black Americans feel as if slavery had somehow rescued them from the backwardness of their ancestral homeland. . . . </span></span> <br /></div></blockquote><blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">'We just [were taught] that Africans were nasty, bad people,' she said, a wave of shame rising in her eyes. </span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">(284)</span></span></div></blockquote><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But if more history is the answer, is all 'more history" the answer? When Clint Smith talked to Eloi Coly about his visit to some American plantations as part of a trip sponsored by the National Trust for Historic Preservation, Coly explained that</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote>He was struck by what he referred to as the 'continuation of the dehumanization of Africans.' He said, 'The problem that they have in the plantations is that they continue to tell more about the owner of the property, but they didn't focus on what happened to the slaves. That is why it is difficult in the plantations to interest African Americans.' (255)<br /></blockquote></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I can almost envision Horn nodding her head vigorously in appreciation of how a wrong focus can dehumanize and alienate. And I was reminded of why Sue Johnson had founded the Nia Cultural Center: </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote>Living in Galveston, she found there was an enormous preservation effort taking place, but she was concerned that the city seemed interested only in preserving white history. 'There was a lot of preservation of their history, but ours was being torn down,' she said. Her commitment to restoring the awareness and the iconography of her community was solidified. (198)</blockquote></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwvG3hahRiHfMuIwRN1oRsvZVk7qALvU5S2kdsA3-1FXR0wrZwgkHaUTHf3H5ufVOvLfn1yk30lJRzDHrR_QRaJ5hjWUfvZgbCCPAgiSNAhAYiBcIBzNCc7JH0rJOLOcFW5BvNSfy-2eHQg3C2MIh1Du0qE87zp8D74pQiRY6LuyRghpB3AT7dAioBA/s762/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%204.25.39%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="571" data-original-width="762" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdwvG3hahRiHfMuIwRN1oRsvZVk7qALvU5S2kdsA3-1FXR0wrZwgkHaUTHf3H5ufVOvLfn1yk30lJRzDHrR_QRaJ5hjWUfvZgbCCPAgiSNAhAYiBcIBzNCc7JH0rJOLOcFW5BvNSfy-2eHQg3C2MIh1Du0qE87zp8D74pQiRY6LuyRghpB3AT7dAioBA/w400-h300/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-23%20at%204.25.39%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>In many places, the impulse to tell or at least foreground only one story is alive and well. And while the story that's told may not entice the descendants of the formerly enslaved and oppressed to pay a visit, it often helps to explain why their freedom and safety are still incomplete and threatened. Smith's chapter about the Blandford Cemetery******** in Virginia, for example, gave me the best lesson I'd ever had in the durability and power of the myth of the Lost Cause: how do you argue with someone who says, "I don't know if it's true or not, but I like it"? (118)</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Every chapter in <i>How the Word is Passed </i>shocked me into some important new understanding--and kept me reading so I could understand more about history and its repercussions. But I think the chapter that got to me the most was the one about New York City: like so many Americans, I habitually thought of the American South when I thought about the history of slavery. Smith's tour, which began at the New York branch of the National Museum of the American Indian, illuminated the histories of both African-Americans and Lenape Native Americans. </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Early on the tour, Damaras Obi, Smith's tour guide, distinguished American slavery from other slavery: throughout world history, "People would regularly be enslaved because they were prisoners of war or because they owed some sort of debt. Sometimes . . . enslavement would endure only for a specific period of time, and even if you were enslaved for your entire life, your children would not necessarily be enslaved after you" (209).</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">In contrast, "New World enslavement," was "based off a racial caste system, a racial hierarchy, . . . . "so that the only thing that made you eligible for this lifelong sentence was the . . . color of your skin." She then explained that race itself was "'social construct'" rather than a scientific one: "'There has never been any scientific or genetic evidence to back up the concept of race." (209)<br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_vHOyYVs5vbYUR5cLfQa2nlL7ojFAWziy30wMGHPr4riLn8BEdvgoEnDPjnCYHprWUEXUCL_cVMMkfpDMkQ581Z3siUOaovoEVoe3iPLiR2Y4TjYvPzNgBFp7HuLJJs5_chfD78yVCC5bYDa0W6nMD8ANyMXTh_Gnt3XrNScaYODBwfx1RLKZ9xFmg/s445/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2010.24.19%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="444" data-original-width="445" height="399" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhD_vHOyYVs5vbYUR5cLfQa2nlL7ojFAWziy30wMGHPr4riLn8BEdvgoEnDPjnCYHprWUEXUCL_cVMMkfpDMkQ581Z3siUOaovoEVoe3iPLiR2Y4TjYvPzNgBFp7HuLJJs5_chfD78yVCC5bYDa0W6nMD8ANyMXTh_Gnt3XrNScaYODBwfx1RLKZ9xFmg/w400-h399/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2010.24.19%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>None of that was news to Smith personally; but what he came to understand about New York City was news. Obi talked about the mortality rates for Black people in New York and some of the reasons for it, recounted acts of resistance by enslaved New Yorkers, and interpreted the symbolism--and therefore the messages--of four statues in front of the Alexander Hamilton US Custom House. From a plaque on Wall Street, Smith learned that "'By the mid-18th century approximately one in five people living in New York City was enslaved and almost half of Manhattan households included at least one slave'"(219). ********* </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I personally am still thinking about Obi's terse "'Almost all of our country is a burial ground'" and the research she shared about how more than half of the remains in the excavated African Burial Ground in Manhattan belonged to children under twelve years old. (229)<br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Part of what I appreciated in reading this chapter was Smith's description of the effect of this experience on Smith himself:</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81BFIgwkUB8gTWFsUUe4-2xgSzfcxbtz0CA_N_x_4_dDDscIwkauk0CnrF05tUzimFINLliXumAb5XxIMqPzYsT_VgBOhJGrYJYKJKKA6_KF9tsgeQtyxh7uB0cyambDIbiHyRF5vju5D4uL8fJES9TFSekyyEY1HD-8PpwKSOwjNXIXhDPz3vF6CUg/s675/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2012.03.31%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="565" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh81BFIgwkUB8gTWFsUUe4-2xgSzfcxbtz0CA_N_x_4_dDDscIwkauk0CnrF05tUzimFINLliXumAb5XxIMqPzYsT_VgBOhJGrYJYKJKKA6_KF9tsgeQtyxh7uB0cyambDIbiHyRF5vju5D4uL8fJES9TFSekyyEY1HD-8PpwKSOwjNXIXhDPz3vF6CUg/w335-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2012.03.31%20PM.png" width="335" /></a></div>I walked through the park back to the street, teeming with the familiar sounds of the city. I had walked across the city so many times before, but now its untold history was unraveling all around me. Every corner cast a shadow of what it had once been. New York was unique in that, like Damaras [Obi] had shared, it presented itself to me as a place ahead of its time. The pretense of cultural pluralism told a story that was only half true. New York economically benefited from slavery, and physical history of enslavement--the blood, the bodies, and the buildings constructed by them--was deeply entrenched in the soil of this city. (234)</blockquote></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">No matter what we've already learned, we always have something else to learn. And when we have to adjust our ways of seeing the world in major ways, we continue to think and feel about those changes and the new understandings they reflect for a long time.<br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">So what am I thinking as I wrap up this very long blog post?</span></span></div><ul style="text-align: left;"><li class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">First, I think that everyone should read Clint Smith's <i>How the Word is Passed.</i> And I rejoice in the fact that its narrative, episodic approach to the history of slavery makes it something that middle-school students and secondary-school students could read or read in part, find additional resources about, further explore in groups, etc.</span></span></li></ul><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><ul style="text-align: left;"><li class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Second, both of these histories--slavery and Holocaust--need to be discussed, and not just read and pondered individually. Discussion, formal and informal, in classrooms, in living rooms, at kitchen tables, in book groups, in community meetings, is a must: In the context of relationship and functioning groups, constructing difficult and even painful new understandings has a better chance of happening authentically and successfully; in such contents, there's less of a chance of participants' being "cancelled" for their missteps along the route to these new understandings.</span></span><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwIEGZF3MkqXI8WwnFDo0c0dhlWhdtIpFJDkIO--DyLwGvOWKFc0-rIYJ2w-6V9uxKVCm5fzSp5LahDv-WOV5rpkij5TDbLxGA7gGwRkX35k-xSCu6eDaLMDyYAWK87bRBy92YbwIEE4TNbSjLMxVZGEcbbEJQwbUacQi4sug_wcSWfi_qln-tNwiSw/s475/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2011.15.02%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="475" data-original-width="474" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFwIEGZF3MkqXI8WwnFDo0c0dhlWhdtIpFJDkIO--DyLwGvOWKFc0-rIYJ2w-6V9uxKVCm5fzSp5LahDv-WOV5rpkij5TDbLxGA7gGwRkX35k-xSCu6eDaLMDyYAWK87bRBy92YbwIEE4TNbSjLMxVZGEcbbEJQwbUacQi4sug_wcSWfi_qln-tNwiSw/w424-h425/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-24%20at%2011.15.02%20AM.png" width="424" /></a></div></li></ul><ul style="text-align: left;"><li class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Finally, if local learning********** of these histories and their legacies is possible, it should be explored for its potential to make the problems these histories seek to address "our problems" and not "other people's problems."<i><br /></i></span></span></li></ul><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Of course, those three bullet points don't really answer the question posed in the title of this blog--of what words exactly should be passed, given the misunderstandings that can occur when some words are passed with the best of intentions. That's something I'm going to have to keep thinking about.</span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="ArticleParagraph_root__wy3UI" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Thanks for reading my very long post if you made it this far!<br /></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">* Smith, C. (2021). <i>How the word is passed: A reckoning with the history of slavery across America. </i>Little, Brown and Company.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">** Horn, D. (2023, May). Is Holocaust education making anti-semitism worse? Using dead Jews as symbols isn't helping living ones. <i>The Atlantic</i>, <i>331</i>(4), 24-39.<i><br /></i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*** "House of Slaves" on Goree Island; image on Atlas Obscura: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/house-of-slaves</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">****
Please note: there are many more good reasons for teaching the
Holocaust history and slavery history. Beneath the line under these
endnotes, I lay out a few very important ones in an </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><i><u>Optional Addendum</u></i></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">***** Photo accompanying article in <i>The Dallas Morning News </i>by Deborah Fleck, September 16, 2019 called</span><span class="dmnc_generic-header-header-module__9jLyO mr-7"> <span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">"Dallas Holocaust and Human Rights Museum opens its doors Sept. 18." https://www.dallasnews.com/arts-entertainment/2019/09/16/dallas-holocaust-and-human-rights-museum-opens-its-doors-sept-18/</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">****** Photo of the NMAAHC taken by Moises Almosny about a month ago: </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-1-d&q=NMAAHC#lpg=cid:CgIgAQ%3D%3D,ik:CAoSLEFGMVFpcE5oUjNwVzRuM3lpZDhRSkowRHRuRG4ybjVfT2hDOWM3MWozSEtH<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*(7) I visited NMAAHC in 2019 and <a href="https://soalready.blogspot.com/2019/05/at-national-museum-of-african-american.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">blogged about it</span></a>: https://soalready.blogspot.com/2019/05/at-national-museum-of-african-american.html</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*(8) Public domain photo of Blandford Cemetery on Wikipedia Site: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blandford_Cemetery#/media/File:BlanfordCemetery.JPG</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">*(9) Photo accompanying WNYC news article entitled "</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Mayor Unveils Marker on Wall Street, Where Slaves Were Sold": https://www.wnyc.org/story/mayor-unveils-historical-marker-where-slaves-were-sold/</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(10) Photo accompanying an article in the Boston Globe:</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> "Protestors reenact slave auction to demand name change for Faneuil Hall" </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span class="label | bold font_primary margin_right_3" style="font-family: Calibri;">by</span><span class="author | align_items_center bold font_primary margin_right_3" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="bold"> Felicia Gans</span><span class="separator | bold"></span></span>, <span class="datetime | container inline_block" style="font-family: Calibri;"><span class="date | font_primary color_gray">November 10, 2018:</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> https://www.bostonglobe.com/metro/2018/11/10/slave-auction-reenactment-held-outside-faneuil-hall-support-move-change-name/BkX5EWHxqywPxuqHMgsFIM/story.html</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;">*(11) Thank you, Peter Lerangis, for this photo of Central Park shared on your Facebook page on April 7, 2023.<br /></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">___________________________________ </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i><u>Optional Addendum:</u></i> </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">So why teach Holocaust and slavery history?</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> <br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Teaching history, especially history that is often denied,
sanitized, revised, or just plain overlooked intentionally or unintentionally, is
central. That the Holocaust happened is denied by some to this day, and slavery is often represented as a relatively harmless, benign institution.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In attempting to explain how both slavery and the Holocaust
could thrive for as long as they did, the histories of both explore the widely accepted notion common to both that the victims
deserved to be exploited, hated, reviled, segregated--or at least "kept
apart," subjected to violence, and murdered because they were inferior
non-Whites and non-Jews respectively, and even less than human.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><i> </i></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Holocaust
history education--at least as I have come to understand it from my own
experiences of it--is designed to combat genocide and to create a world
in which Jews and others can live--thrive--in freedom and without fear
of violence, especially state-sanctioned, -legislated, or -tolerated violence. Ideally, those
encountering Holocaust history come to understand not just what
attitudes, beliefs, conditions, and laws (national and international)
fueled the genocide enacted across the Atlantic in the 1930s and 40s,
but how and when to take action against tyranny and injustice in the
present so such murderous history cannot be repeated.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">Similarly,
and again as I have to come understand it from my own experience,
slavery history education seeks to combat genocide and to create a world
in which African-Americans and others of African descent can
live--thrive--in freedom and without fear of violence, especially
</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">state-sanctioned, -legislated, or -tolerated </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">violence. Ideally, those encountering slavery history
come to understand that discrimination and violence against
African-Americans, past and present, reflects an intentionally
cultivated and still existing "racial caste system" (Smith, 144) that
must be dismantled if African-Americans are to enjoy the justice, peace, and opportunities for prosperity to which they are entitled as Americans.<br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">But
there's a major difference between the two history educations that
derives from the the phenomena they explore:
slavery, in contrast to the Holocaust, played
a central role in American history, economics, and politics over several
centuries: a war was fought over slavery on American soil, and in its
aftermath, organized efforts continued, legal and illegal, to protect
the exploitative status quo of slavery times and to thwart
African-American participation in democracy. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">In addition, the reality of a racial caste system in America is not accepted by all.</span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> Many a conservative politician would
likely dispute Smith's characterization of the United Daughters of the
Confederacy's rationale for raising funds for the building of memorials
to Confederate "heroes":</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfx3mG7JpsCVvHm_kcFO0ehgFbsT7o37w6RglNFYcCi7sXqtA9OTaRoR9fgFUx8UwpDFNluxFRn5MwRcbxPT_OfFsZQ-gUSE4MUpzXTT8RGvzRAy8gHZjkM4O0LZqkwzz5saSa7fvQFxewkvnnF6GEkJDRKm009E5fCrgCRbMNyEdlBF4CLl_2IVwRw/s1433/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-22%20at%2011.04.01%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="803" data-original-width="1433" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJfx3mG7JpsCVvHm_kcFO0ehgFbsT7o37w6RglNFYcCi7sXqtA9OTaRoR9fgFUx8UwpDFNluxFRn5MwRcbxPT_OfFsZQ-gUSE4MUpzXTT8RGvzRAy8gHZjkM4O0LZqkwzz5saSa7fvQFxewkvnnF6GEkJDRKm009E5fCrgCRbMNyEdlBF4CLl_2IVwRw/w400-h224/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-22%20at%2011.04.01%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div>The
goal [of the Daughters' efforts***], in part, was to teach the younger
generations of white Southerners who these men were and that the cause
they had fought for was an honorable one. But there is another reason,
not wholly disconnected from the first. These monuments were also built
in an effort to reinforce white supremacy at a time when Black
communities were being terrorized and Black social and political
mobility impeded. In the late nineteenth century, states began
implementing Jim Crow laws to cement this country's racial caste system.
(Smith, 144) </blockquote>My own belief is that presented with
demographic and courthouse records, photographs, first-hand accounts of
events, examples of legislation and its enforcement, history students of
all ages, be they in classrooms, museums, or cemeteries, can draw their own evidence-based conclusions about the degree
to which a caste system did exist, still exists, and continues to
affect African-Americans' access to social, economic, and political
opportunities routinely embraced by many other Americans. Some may
conclude that amends should be made for the disparities they identify
and the cost of those disparities over time.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">***
Screenshot of a photo included in a Youtube video entitled "How
Southern socialites rewrote Civil War history":
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dOkFXPblLpU </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"> </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-10205766952197558262023-04-16T12:09:00.000-04:002023-04-16T12:09:47.244-04:00The Conch Explains: With Thanks to Emily Dickinson<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDnwGvq0DnXzfvodf9rgqmRZz0VkEdoGHxcbcgK4UHyNfnierGtiu97LTH1ITodLshOIbwf3aSLz-FTjJlXd53lyBzHyHP9bDPvuK8zDQ2STBgFxplCpI1YeWEiQQ2MyM4jd3YopxI5vNKLSJMUQ4mF3REm4yLz3gOUuhfMB_wYogsagPDP51zfiA7g/s255/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.29.27%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="173" data-original-width="255" height="241" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvDnwGvq0DnXzfvodf9rgqmRZz0VkEdoGHxcbcgK4UHyNfnierGtiu97LTH1ITodLshOIbwf3aSLz-FTjJlXd53lyBzHyHP9bDPvuK8zDQ2STBgFxplCpI1YeWEiQQ2MyM4jd3YopxI5vNKLSJMUQ4mF3REm4yLz3gOUuhfMB_wYogsagPDP51zfiA7g/w356-h241/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.29.27%20AM.png" width="356" /></a></div>So already, consider it the confluence of two events--National Poetry Month, and an anticipated visit to the Mead Art Museum,* located at Amherst College in Emily Dickinson's Massachusetts hometown. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">A while back, my poetry writing group did what we do periodically: wrote about a common prompt. Our writing task this time around was to write a poem about an animal that has the capacity to regenerate a body part.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">One of the members of my group immediately said she's be writing about a starfish. I, in contrast, had no sudden animal inspiration, and hit the internet in search of one. That's when I learned that conchs can grow new eyes if necessary. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkr8-nUeIMawZkl9YAj_S6V7AV3weobH7MaV0AuoHGKNR2cyjibnF1R_5TK8TUbDgZ9jDtBeVEc0PgXZxYrzP6Fo3nf37efiO2QBkTmd6LISR5N-vTxE8CtajNcGgf3F4yj81BUHupkXLjBfRWyfVJxJlDvNgbvRYfWfTJ4jb4IymaDoNPSHomrrJQ6w/s513/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.23.51%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="382" data-original-width="513" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkr8-nUeIMawZkl9YAj_S6V7AV3weobH7MaV0AuoHGKNR2cyjibnF1R_5TK8TUbDgZ9jDtBeVEc0PgXZxYrzP6Fo3nf37efiO2QBkTmd6LISR5N-vTxE8CtajNcGgf3F4yj81BUHupkXLjBfRWyfVJxJlDvNgbvRYfWfTJ4jb4IymaDoNPSHomrrJQ6w/w400-h297/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-16%20at%2011.23.51%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The ideas began knitting together as I considered this animal that carries its home with it** and can regenerate new eyes. Was it similar to anyone I knew or had heard of? </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Enter my mind Emily Dickinson, who reputedly seldom left home ("reputedly" is a very deliberate qualifier here) and who seems to have preferred vision to sight, at least sometimes. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The result was the following poem. I post it here, followed by the Dickinson poems that informed it:</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
Conch Explains<br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">
Emily was my inspiration—</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">For if and how we ventured</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">From our celebrated shells,</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">No one ever knew—</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Though we were both entreated
to.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Perennially at home,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">We thwarted those who
sought</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">To coax us out to hear the
sea.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">So we watched the world</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">More than moved much in it,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">She, peering from her
window</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Across her Amherst lawn,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">And I, eyes extended</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">On the tips of swaying stalks,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Fastening on what flickered</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">In the waving sea light--</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Until we both lost eyes. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Then our paths diverged,</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As might have been
expected,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Given nature and our
natures.</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">When her eye was put out,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">She quieted fears that
sight regained</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Might overwhelm and shatter
her</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">By choosing to see only
with her soul—</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Whereas I, who could grow
replacement eyes,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Cursed the wait for my brand
new one.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Emily understood, well
aware that</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Life inside had been chosen
for me.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">One night, while counting
down to full sight,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I dreamed I was a photographer</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Who, inching down a
thinning branch</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">To capture something
wondrous,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Crashed hard on the ground
below—and</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Realizing just my camera
was smashed,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Dashed back to camp to grab
another,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">So I could see and shoot.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">________________________________________ <br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;">
<h1><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12pt;">Much Madness is divinest Sense - (620)*** </span></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Much Madness is divinest Sense -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">To a discerning Eye -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Much Sense - the starkest Madness -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">’Tis the Majority</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">In this, as all, prevail -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Assent - and you are sane -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Demur - you’re straightway dangerous -</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">And handled with a Chain –</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: -12.0pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p>
<h1><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12pt;">I never saw a moor (248)****</span></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
never saw a moor,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
never saw the sea;</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Yet
know I how the heather looks,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">And
what a wave must be. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
never spoke with God,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Nor
visited in heaven;</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Yet
certain am I of the spot</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As if
the chart were given. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p>
<h1><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 12pt;">Before I got my eye put out – (336)***** </span></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Before
I got my eye put out –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
liked as well to see</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As
other creatures, that have eyes –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">And
know no other way –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">But
were it told to me, Today,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">That I
might have the Sky</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">For
mine, I tell you that my Heart</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Would
split, for size of me –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
Meadows – mine –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
Mountains – mine –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">All
Forests – Stintless stars –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As
much of noon, as I could take –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Between
my finite eyes –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
Motions of the Dipping Birds –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The Morning’s
Amber Road –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">For
mine – to look at when I liked,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The
news would strike me dead –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"> </span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">So
safer – guess – with just my soul</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Upon the
window pane</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Where
other creatures put their eyes –</span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left; text-indent: -12pt;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Incautious
– of the Sun –</span></p>
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{page:WordSecti</span></style><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">* https://www.amherst.edu/arts <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">** https://wildernessclassroom.org/wilderness-library/queen-conch/</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">*** https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/51612/much-madness-is-divinest-sense-620</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">**** https://www.infoplease.com/primary-sources/poetry/emily-dickinson/poems-248</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">***** https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/52135/before-i-got-my-eye-put-out-336<br /></span></span></span></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-59706099268516735112023-04-03T20:58:00.007-04:002023-04-05T13:28:28.105-04:00Fiddler in the Afternoon: A Poem<p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl15jKIpj3z4K10YRTBA-J6h0zajXVVefIv2FrLdsuce7Z-yrnN6QOxlBXIjSO0HgtwTicDZ9UCiS7vF6iaLhi3e-o4MFo4h9v-hnWYEKNzgTW6NxsBT9k0fB82D8RHWC1ZmXun0rh1rVlaONvHROvBq1GF-ag9ACQLORNa337Hi6UcAOGU_yByRCJQ/s670/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%2012.39.21%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="670" data-original-width="526" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMl15jKIpj3z4K10YRTBA-J6h0zajXVVefIv2FrLdsuce7Z-yrnN6QOxlBXIjSO0HgtwTicDZ9UCiS7vF6iaLhi3e-o4MFo4h9v-hnWYEKNzgTW6NxsBT9k0fB82D8RHWC1ZmXun0rh1rVlaONvHROvBq1GF-ag9ACQLORNa337Hi6UcAOGU_yByRCJQ/w375-h478/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%2012.39.21%20PM.png" width="375" /></a></span></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So already, April may be the cruelest month, but that's <i>not</i> because it's National Poetry Month. In the spirit of this month, I'd like to post a poem I wrote last fall. It's flawed but important to me. We all get to write poems, not just those of us who write them really well. And if we have a blog, we get to post them.<br /></span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">What I present to you today is the revised first section of what was originally a three-part poem, the second two parts of which I've since deleted, though they conveyed so much of my thinking. Which is to say that in its earlier incarnations, this poem was even more flawed. But as I said, it's important to me.<br /></span></p><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So some background for the very prosy, narrative poem that follows. As some of you know, I spend a lot of time at my mother's nursing home--really the Skilled Nursing section of her senior living community. Since the community is part of Hebrew Senior Life, many of the residents are Jewish, and the community's "life enhancement" programs often reflect this.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Last fall, I happened to visit my mother on an afternoon on which a presentation about <i>Fiddler on the Roof </i>as international musical theater was just about to get underway. <br /></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKB_RXO0ALbQCiKnI3C3dlYaie_AdYdj7vXXCONjGSpWx2FF4TZiRzl7s3bkUHL2KUA-cqhPPdZDvH4VSGM2m-Gvl3m4RpDOC6iXCdTnh8Uu9V1sQ1ukCJD4jJTk3fNOZQ_Ak0AnJrORuHNICiZtylQrBPBq5nn6rakv_N943BrxH_jMPfgC93Hl5EzQ/s550/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%2012.53.46%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="370" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKB_RXO0ALbQCiKnI3C3dlYaie_AdYdj7vXXCONjGSpWx2FF4TZiRzl7s3bkUHL2KUA-cqhPPdZDvH4VSGM2m-Gvl3m4RpDOC6iXCdTnh8Uu9V1sQ1ukCJD4jJTk3fNOZQ_Ak0AnJrORuHNICiZtylQrBPBq5nn6rakv_N943BrxH_jMPfgC93Hl5EzQ/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%2012.53.46%20PM.png" width="215" /></a></div><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">That presentation just happened to be taking place while the Ken Burns' <i>The U.S. and the Holocaust </i>documentary was airing over several nights. Until I watched the series, I hadn't understood how many Jews had tried desperately and unsuccessfully to leave eastern and western Europe in the 1930s and 1940s in order to avoid annihilation. The degree to which their pleas, their letters, and their applications were denied or simply ignored floored me.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">I had, however, understood who generally was killed first: the very young, the ill and infirm, the very old--like the people on Skilled Nursing. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But here those Skilled Nursing residents were, ready for the afternoon's entertainment, most of them having called America home since before World War II. My own </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">ancestors
had left Lithuania, Russia, and Poland in the early 1900s for "a better
life." They couldn't have imagined what a decision to stay would have meant thirty or forty years later, even though they were no
strangers to antisemitism and acts of violence against Jews.</span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2409-Wz8Tg2m9tG3R4_vcxKz-xpVYkFCxY2OWk_d7zevP04j7F6UedItIzavZUNZWFFpySWMZZIUtcFpNQsi1f0zs5wKidoE3D1oU69GPu2U1byU8uD2cOjQHMNq7B6ZYqwRRTIkzQ6Mw1DMyF1tyV1UFZW9x3IKHRd1RBprUfBXz_zWjyxg4RjLww/s438/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%207.27.39%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="429" height="357" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhz2409-Wz8Tg2m9tG3R4_vcxKz-xpVYkFCxY2OWk_d7zevP04j7F6UedItIzavZUNZWFFpySWMZZIUtcFpNQsi1f0zs5wKidoE3D1oU69GPu2U1byU8uD2cOjQHMNq7B6ZYqwRRTIkzQ6Mw1DMyF1tyV1UFZW9x3IKHRd1RBprUfBXz_zWjyxg4RjLww/w349-h357/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%207.27.39%20PM.png" width="349" /></a></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">The problem with my poem was that it wanted to be about all of this in addition to my first experience of listening to <i>Fiddler in the Roof</i> in 1966. As an eleven-year-old crying inconsolably during the album's final songs, I could see no blessing in Tevye's family leaving Anatevka. But as a sixty-seven-year-old, could I ever! That's where my poem really came from.<br /></span><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">With Passover beginning in just two nights--and no doubt it will be marked on on the Skilled Nursing floor at Orchard Cove--it seems fitting to be sharing a poem/story related to <i>Fiddler on the Roof.</i> This is the season in which the story is told of another group of people who made a harrowing journey into the new, not at all certain of what they would find, what it would ask of them, who they would become, whether the life they found or made would be better than what they were leaving. </span></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">It's possible my mother and a number of her fellow residents won't notice the holiday, though it will no doubt be marked on her floor. And on the other hand, some things stir memory. With that, I present to you "Fiddler in the Afternoon." </span></p><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">The October afternoon program: “<i>Fiddler on the Roof</i> Around the World.”</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 4em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7cLjAin8CaW9qFYUUJqjKlAwKSrYTI4AEK8r1QP6NXpNRT5-pWs1MyVIMm7FrbLKJXn9uwQZdUlfidS4yvYmy0D1eRQCr9CNrhBWEQ2y_Bpku9ix5evtetrEOXFwZflX4d7-ztDWSRkc3OXuD5568dkGJk9TtA5FGTXt8zb6PwOP9EMiVSqr9ls3qw/s473/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%207.25.49%20PM.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="331" data-original-width="473" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ7cLjAin8CaW9qFYUUJqjKlAwKSrYTI4AEK8r1QP6NXpNRT5-pWs1MyVIMm7FrbLKJXn9uwQZdUlfidS4yvYmy0D1eRQCr9CNrhBWEQ2y_Bpku9ix5evtetrEOXFwZflX4d7-ztDWSRkc3OXuD5568dkGJk9TtA5FGTXt8zb6PwOP9EMiVSqr9ls3qw/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-04-03%20at%207.25.49%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">One View of Orchard Cove<br /></span></td></tr></tbody></table><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Slanted sunlight streamed into
the living room on Skilled Nursing. My mother and I sat in the outer
semi-circle facing the wall-mounted screen. </span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“Every day, <i>“Fiddler on the Roof </i>is performed somewhere,” the presenter
explained. Her fingertips hovered over the keyboard of the laptop tethered to
the screen.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“It’s performed in different
languages”— double-click: Tzeitel pleading with Tevye in Yiddish to let her
marry for love—</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“And in different countries”—
double-click: Tevye singing “If I Were a Rich Man” in Japanese on a Tokyo
stage.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Smiles and nodding in the
audience, and some dozing. “I saw it in Yiddish once,” someone said.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“Why do you think <i>Fiddler</i> stays so popular?” the presenter
asked.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Momentary silence, then a voice:
“It reminds us of childhood. I’m thinking of my grandmother right now, of
holidays at her house.” Happy memories beatified this woman who often tongue-lashed
aides and nurses.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">Another voice: “It’s about
leaving home—so many people have to do that.” <i>Everyone in that room</i>, I thought to myself.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">“It’s about family and changing
times,” a third resident volunteered.</span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">After affirming other responses, the presenter asked, “Are there parts or songs you’d like me to play? That you’d like to
sing along with? <span> </span></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">As we watched and listened, hummed
and softly sang, she gave discreet cutoffs to an imagined orchestra. <i>A former community theater music director</i>,
I thought to myself. <br /></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">During “Sabbath Prayer,” listening
gradually replaced the singing and humming.</span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><i style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">May
the Lord protect and defend you, </span></i><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;">I
thought to myself, knowing, for them, the prayer was being answered every day.<br /></span></span></p><p>
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{page:WordSection1;}</span></font></style></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-83688327201550333172023-03-30T15:22:00.003-04:002023-04-02T08:55:06.411-04:00A Month of Sabbaths<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIIs1T-yHQ1k92vnuGhHJVV1Si8Wj8F2CjX8Vcqx7g7i7Saessopd_GFRByaAzLS_md8Y4oqsCRrCw06lr84l0_tf35vaMNznDy6HoG57zUcagTjSV_hvrzfUJc77yx6rwMvDYxnI-5eCIAi_hWmfVQdxgALLd2VFlGn42eK_WDaWUY1XObgrzsH2c-Q/s485/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-26%20at%203.16.06%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="485" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIIs1T-yHQ1k92vnuGhHJVV1Si8Wj8F2CjX8Vcqx7g7i7Saessopd_GFRByaAzLS_md8Y4oqsCRrCw06lr84l0_tf35vaMNznDy6HoG57zUcagTjSV_hvrzfUJc77yx6rwMvDYxnI-5eCIAi_hWmfVQdxgALLd2VFlGn42eK_WDaWUY1XObgrzsH2c-Q/w400-h309/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-26%20at%203.16.06%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>So already, in a recent</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> <a href="https://soalready.blogspot.com/2023/02/paradoxes-of-late-february-sabbath.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">post</span></a> </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">about the </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Sabbath, I promised</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> to write again once I'd finished reading Judith Shulevitz's <i><a href="https://www.judithshulevitz.com/book/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time</span></a>.* </i> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Today, having finished this book, I am fulfilling that promise. As you can imagine, I've been thinking a great deal about Sabbath historically, religiously, and personally in these last weeks</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I encountered Shulevitz courtesy of a show hosted by Ezra Klein: Shulevitz was Klein's guest in January, and at a friend's suggestion, I listened to it--well, actually, downloaded and read the <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/03/podcasts/ezra-klein-show-transcript-judith-shulevitz.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">interview transcript</span></a>. That interview led me to a rereading of Abraham Joshua Heschel's <i>The Sabbath, </i>a first reading of Shulevitz's book, and then a rereading of the interview transcript. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Why the rereading of the interview? Because I sensed that something had changed in Shulevitz's own "Sabbath life" between 2010 </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">when she'd written the book in </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> and 2023 when she was talking about it with Ezra Klein. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Just to be clear, more than a spiritual autobiography, <i>The Sabbath World </i>is a cross-cultural, cross-religious history of the concept of Sabbath and the practices and requirements associated with it. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">As a result of reading it, </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
have new and deepened understandings of Sabbath's "development" and differentiation over time. For example, while I always understood that "Remember the Sabbath
day, to keep it holy" urged the distinct separation between the first six
days of Creation and the seventh, I now understand that various religious and
political leaders over many centuries urged the distinct separation between Jewish and non-Jewish--though not necessarily Christian--Sabbath observance.</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> The book also reminded me that Sabbath observance, like virtually everything else Jewish, varies for different Jewish individuals and groups.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOL18BXRSVJm4HTQKjujBCtmoUckG9Dy6NoiZFS4g1sHDH3Nu35E_kOih6-LqbFdVHgcbEOjdWHfo_T9pU5WrlFfuiMn0yH7YZEv9P01Ii7pU5srWWI4yml47gOCJOVB4PSfz_sNmTohOmkE9bd8PkJHs3oKfRzlBQhKlu5lwCHSeNsS7mjzIHpUaaA/s573/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-27%20at%209.49.30%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="334" data-original-width="573" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilOL18BXRSVJm4HTQKjujBCtmoUckG9Dy6NoiZFS4g1sHDH3Nu35E_kOih6-LqbFdVHgcbEOjdWHfo_T9pU5WrlFfuiMn0yH7YZEv9P01Ii7pU5srWWI4yml47gOCJOVB4PSfz_sNmTohOmkE9bd8PkJHs3oKfRzlBQhKlu5lwCHSeNsS7mjzIHpUaaA/w373-h218/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-27%20at%209.49.30%20PM.png" width="373" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thanks to Shulevitz, I also now know more about Transylvanian Unitarians, Anabaptists, and Puritans than I ever did before, and I understand that the original rationale for today's abundant Sunday afternoon concerts and other artistic performances was much more about improving "other people" than profiting off the general population's interest in entertainment, distraction, and enrichment.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But despite its offering plentiful historical and sociological nuggets<i>, The Sabbath World </i> is still in part a spiritual autobiography, as Shulevitz reminds us in the opening sentences of the book's final section (211).** Anticipating her readers' wanting to know how she keeps the Sabbath "now," she explains, </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">"I
have not changed all that much [in how I keep the Sabbath], and
everything has changed for me" (211). What I couldn't tell was what that "changed everything" was beyond her much enlarged understanding of Sabbath's development and differentiation. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I got excited when in that same paragraph she admitted that "I still like the idea of the fully observed Sabbath more than I like observing it," since I could recognize similar feelings in myself. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNWXm5ivoGSAAh5l2axaax-NdyLUDiWLyv4lCLlWhdz9GH3Ma27qcwGNgIXsUuiGP1yeyTQ75cBVdQMnBQFAM7yRdgfva99lxHxsQ-IiFCJ0YHZylbKXIoXbSsbbPMIPkF6YKzVPZcqAFeuI6fvJmdet8kHWw2LMjCZXNcwoyibSjlPPJb18wvwsqOA/s587/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-27%20at%2010.58.21%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="452" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixNWXm5ivoGSAAh5l2axaax-NdyLUDiWLyv4lCLlWhdz9GH3Ma27qcwGNgIXsUuiGP1yeyTQ75cBVdQMnBQFAM7yRdgfva99lxHxsQ-IiFCJ0YHZylbKXIoXbSsbbPMIPkF6YKzVPZcqAFeuI6fvJmdet8kHWw2LMjCZXNcwoyibSjlPPJb18wvwsqOA/w308-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-27%20at%2010.58.21%20PM.png" width="308" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But two pages later when she defined </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">God as "the ungovernable reality commemorated by ritual" (213), I felt her retreating back into brainy historian mode, and I was disappointed that most the book's final pages were devoted to a dispassionate analysis of the costs and benefits of ritual.*** On the basis of that analysis, she seemed just a little too ready to distance herself from her longing for Sabbath ritual and observance. The mind and the heart don't always walk hand-in-hand.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">What I had liked about her Ezra Klein interview--and maybe it was because he was particularly interested in the whole question of how a Jewish person observes the Sabbath</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> while the other inhabitants of dominantly culturally Christian America go about their busy Saturdays</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">--was that Shulevitz seemed to know just <i><u>when</u></i> to apply her vast knowledge of the Sabbath to his question. Maybe I was finally seeing the "everything changed for me" aspect of her experience that I hadn't grasped while reading her book.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUB9EFaloNIkIPOfJqWdgcIqEl3qFU3r4ogObZnEhRi0Lmvkfd3WnJ3WIIL2cvS_XAXWyr8XfgUi7RE4Pbe3gBQdsjrGikLkidUS3lIDUbypPsPTwmdW07GFaZMjbX_-ujfer5D-iKgaso1U2niDWGhgtWDXNFYYmMjWrI4wj21MyNikQV8cVJMIs89w/s764/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-29%20at%202.58.01%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="249" data-original-width="764" height="181" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUB9EFaloNIkIPOfJqWdgcIqEl3qFU3r4ogObZnEhRi0Lmvkfd3WnJ3WIIL2cvS_XAXWyr8XfgUi7RE4Pbe3gBQdsjrGikLkidUS3lIDUbypPsPTwmdW07GFaZMjbX_-ujfer5D-iKgaso1U2niDWGhgtWDXNFYYmMjWrI4wj21MyNikQV8cVJMIs89w/w557-h181/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-29%20at%202.58.01%20PM.png" width="557" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The best way I can think of to tell you how this interview helped me approach Sabbath observance is simply to quote from it and offer an occasional comment****: </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• In response to Klein's question "'What are the Sabbath rules attempting to
create?" Shulevitz explains, </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote>"'I would argue that they're trying to create
meaning. I think of all the rules around the Sabbath . . . as creating a
kind of frame, . . . you could think of it as a proscenium around a
stage, or you could think of it as a break after a line of poetry.'" *****</blockquote></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Because I like to read and write poems, I was taken by her line break
metaphor: a line break separates what would otherwise remain connected and undifferentiated, slows things down, creates a space for breathing, for envisioning, for making meaning.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">• Shulevitz's discussion about Sabbath puts at its center God and the created world, not the individual person's--or even the group's--merits and shortcomings. Its focus is not repairing the individual's strained or broken relationship with God and/or other people, though it may have that effect. It's about how "good" Creation, which includes us, is, not how "good" the individual is, can be, should be. It's a day about peace.<br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>"' . . . Sabbath is the time you're supposed to stop acting on the world. . . . You're supposed to let the world rest, as well as you. . . . </span></span></div></blockquote><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuiIIRtgUS_zlB1JiEuyabAAa1Eaqb-ztSv2slrq5Tb0XE92AZpXeSrOVNknogOYcEa6aAw0aRl7XQhB0jwmF833KtR--Rl_OI7pGgmSls1hMhB83J4Ma-52jFr1ch-Rlp_nvyZQqLog6Rk5Rs1B7jx-pnMHJC8me57BkpJXZQWHSX3CCanSBue4ewKg/s3381/fullsizeoutput_2471.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2536" data-original-width="3381" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuiIIRtgUS_zlB1JiEuyabAAa1Eaqb-ztSv2slrq5Tb0XE92AZpXeSrOVNknogOYcEa6aAw0aRl7XQhB0jwmF833KtR--Rl_OI7pGgmSls1hMhB83J4Ma-52jFr1ch-Rlp_nvyZQqLog6Rk5Rs1B7jx-pnMHJC8me57BkpJXZQWHSX3CCanSBue4ewKg/s320/fullsizeoutput_2471.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span> </span>"'And then on seventh day, God rests. But God doesn't just rest. He makes rest. . . . God was creating this system of meaning, which is based on stopping and looking back over what God had created to say, is that good? And it turns out it was good.'"</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">In this context, rest is a state of being, an orientation toward the created world, rather than a primarily self-referential not-doing or not-working. As Klein explains, quoting Heschel, </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote>“'Menuha, which we usually render with
rest, means here much more than withdrawal from labor and exertion.' He [Heschel] goes on
to say it’s something closer to, quote, 'tranquillity, serenity, peace and
repose.' And I want to get at the distinction between rest, as defined by
something you’re not doing — rest is I’m not working — versus rest as a kind of
state I’m achieving."</blockquote></span></span>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Shulevitz has come to understand that at least for her, this "state of being" rest cannot be achieved in isolation: </span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><blockquote>"'And the great lesson I learned from writing this book was, I don't have to yell at myself for not doing it. I can't do it until I become part of a community that does it, that makes rest something pleasurable, that makes it festive.'"</blockquote></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Shulevitz's lesson learned, with its emphasis on the joyful aspect of the communal Sabbath, coupled with her permission to fall short when observing Sabbath in isolation, reminded me of a stanza from the poem "<a href="https://poets.org/poem/let-them-not-say" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Let Them Not Say</span></a>" that Jane Hirshfield read on another Ezra Klein show: </span></span>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">Let
them not say: they did nothing.<br />
We did not-enough.</span></blockquote><p></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">With Shulevitz's and Hirshfield's words in mind, I can aim and aspire wholeheartedly to observe Sabbath without chastising myself for falling short of achieving and maintaining a state of rest--and how much can rest really be rest when it's coupled with the word "achieve"? </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">• Later in the interview, Shulevitz further developed this idea of the welcoming aspirational Sabbath when she talked about the Jewish idea of holiness (I'm just not sure if her discussion of holiness holds for other religious traditions):</span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></p><blockquote><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"'One thing I would say about holiness is
it means setting apart and perceiving as special. Certainly in the Jewish
tradition, it is literally conceived as that, which is set apart. So we’ve
already talked about creating these boundaries around time and setting it
apart.</span></span></blockquote><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></p><blockquote><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHc8bIq43hi_plSPgNhR02Fm1vxyrZOqR-_bJzM0ORvdWCktvciBdqDkb6EZjMhcXdnxewLN8b9FAq-jmFDda75JYAx9ubo10h5P449jkl2ph55a4ddJ4sKgSTEW-6MpBeJ5B1zsb84sMzfV6rxMa8Zi83WnCz_8nPlHuCfWKxphHyXtnRbhT8oYc58Q/s468/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%209.37.58%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="303" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHc8bIq43hi_plSPgNhR02Fm1vxyrZOqR-_bJzM0ORvdWCktvciBdqDkb6EZjMhcXdnxewLN8b9FAq-jmFDda75JYAx9ubo10h5P449jkl2ph55a4ddJ4sKgSTEW-6MpBeJ5B1zsb84sMzfV6rxMa8Zi83WnCz_8nPlHuCfWKxphHyXtnRbhT8oYc58Q/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%209.37.58%20AM.png" width="207" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"'One of the things that fascinates me,
and in a way it’s why I called the book “The Sabbath World,” is that it’s a
sort of enclosed world that we can never reach. And holiness is a little bit
like that. It’s this thing that’s beyond us. It partakes of a different order
of being. It’s God’s order of being. We’re never going to get there.</span></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">"'The Sabbath sort of has nostalgia for
the pure Sabbath we can never achieve built into it. And this is constant
throughout — the rabbinical legends. There’s a wonderful legend about a Sabbath
river that lies beyond our world. It’s always going to be just beyond our
reach. The perfect Shabbat, the perfect Sabbath — we’re never going to attain
it.'" </span></span></p></blockquote><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">This wonderful Sabbath that none of us can really attain, but that we can sense sometimes, that we catch a glimpse of out of the corner of our spiritual eye, </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> that we can experience for fleeting peaceful moments, that we can rest toward (as opposed to work toward) in the company of others or by ourselves</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">--this is the idea I keep in mind that keeps me aspiring. </span></span></p><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">An important benefit of reading <i>The Sabbath World </i>for me was that </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">it also allowed me push aside the theories and uses of Sabbath that weren't a good fit for me. The book carefully delineates</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> the many theories and uses of Sabbath across times, national boundaries, and religious traditions, some of which were deliberately designed to diverge from anything strongly or remotely Jewish. Consequently, I could recognize a number of non-Jewish Sabbath ideas that are and have been so mainstream in America that they shaped my ideas about Sabbath, even though they conflicted with the ideas of Sabbath I encountered in my Jewish education. Before I read Shulevitz's book, for example, the idea of resting on Sabbath for the sake of recharging, refocusing, and re-inspiring myself in preparation for "the work" of next week or next month completely overshadowed any notion I had of resting for God and in appreciation of Creation.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Essentially, what interests me now is trying to fulfill the commandment "Remember the Sabbath Day, to keep it holy." But unpacking the meaning of that commandment isn't easy. </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbmaJn4-EIJwbNPbbWahppczWDDr2MsHUvQPki4rWDHLFaDsc9I4ej2wBixMjrl5aW0L6fR6ffFuGMZXuf4GTZDvFu_k9UigjK966w4ImdaaNHfqdfg6n4Am7yc_DL0-BYdEh3aoA_uSG0IRLLYUYtAXrWLQHMsYJ17VZ_eorX-CZoyYepcmUJEPs8g/s655/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-29%20at%204.50.34%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="655" data-original-width="494" height="477" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixbmaJn4-EIJwbNPbbWahppczWDDr2MsHUvQPki4rWDHLFaDsc9I4ej2wBixMjrl5aW0L6fR6ffFuGMZXuf4GTZDvFu_k9UigjK966w4ImdaaNHfqdfg6n4Am7yc_DL0-BYdEh3aoA_uSG0IRLLYUYtAXrWLQHMsYJ17VZ_eorX-CZoyYepcmUJEPs8g/w359-h477/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-29%20at%204.50.34%20PM.png" width="359" /></a><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I have always known that "holy" had many different meanings and criteria for different people. But in these last weeks, I've also been thinking a lot about the word "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of-the-word/keep.html" target="_blank">keep</a></span>"******--reading its many definitions, exploring its <a href="https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=keep" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">etymology</span></a>. It can denote observe, but also mean to preserve and maintain, even to safeguard that which might be dismissed, tainted, or destroyed. Shulevitz talks about a revered German rabbi who raised the question of "what is there to safeguard the world from man" and then answered it with "the Sabbath." In this case is that it's the world, not the Sabbath, that needs safeguarding. But maybe both need safeguarding.</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In conjunction with the idea of respectfully "keeping" valuable "things," the idea of covenant has been coming into my mind again and again. To my surprise, I find myself wanting to keep the Sabbath out of my sense that I'm part of a mutual promise and relationship between God and the Jewish people, and in solidarity with other Jewish people also trying to rest in order to keep the Sabbath Day holy. </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trying to keep the Sabbath is getting easier for me. Notice that I said that it's the trying, not necessarily the keeping, that's getting easier. But, as my earlier blog post explained, I can feel myself resting in different places and ways. <br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP9TPfQ3D1v1O4GPwqp07Uuf1QlxwWX2GQrhHxeTloPchXYp4sNKrZraqQuQOPgEfbv_m4Wsbq_Lkt05RDmlsFu1xmoaRz1c5qpW_AuZh2xIb6mzHDTN_OunH6hxwcng178HSL4pjJOk4-rRfkJH_7UVoQWoUAOaAqegSc-RO5cZb_jxRy4SArPFH2g/s485/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-26%20at%203.16.06%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="485" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjrP9TPfQ3D1v1O4GPwqp07Uuf1QlxwWX2GQrhHxeTloPchXYp4sNKrZraqQuQOPgEfbv_m4Wsbq_Lkt05RDmlsFu1xmoaRz1c5qpW_AuZh2xIb6mzHDTN_OunH6hxwcng178HSL4pjJOk4-rRfkJH_7UVoQWoUAOaAqegSc-RO5cZb_jxRy4SArPFH2g/w400-h309/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-26%20at%203.16.06%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></div>That's why I love the photo of<i> The Sabbath World</i> as it appears on Shulevitz's website--so much so that I'm posting it here again. Its cover photo is more lively and colorful than the one on the book that I purchased; not only does it present a slice of Creation, but it locates in it two companions strolling and being, suggesting that they're experiencing and appreciating both Sabbath's and Creation's peacefulness. Furthermore, the book sits atop a copy of the cover photo, emphasizing both Sabbath's connection to and separateness from Creation. It looks like a good Sabbath to me--a time set apart; an experience of Creation, relationship and rest; and maybe even the opportunity to experience a momentary sense of that Sabbath ever beyond our reach.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily8kIHS3WSq6cmREtZybuFwZiWf_6ulG3JgZgFM7VmAxf8B1XtcULXp_xneqlEJHUtriKeOrUV1giXmI8Nse6_0yRFbmQf9F-yBWYsVsh_7exGD5HNcpBTYoMfMwlLhwdFHEH47bey3Q2tpJmwv1woQ-VU7E_tQVK0zZIXe-loXdYWhnM81hULXUfrg/s868/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-30%20at%209.26.14%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="710" data-original-width="868" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEily8kIHS3WSq6cmREtZybuFwZiWf_6ulG3JgZgFM7VmAxf8B1XtcULXp_xneqlEJHUtriKeOrUV1giXmI8Nse6_0yRFbmQf9F-yBWYsVsh_7exGD5HNcpBTYoMfMwlLhwdFHEH47bey3Q2tpJmwv1woQ-VU7E_tQVK0zZIXe-loXdYWhnM81hULXUfrg/s320/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-30%20at%209.26.14%20AM.png" width="320" /></a><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All of this brings me back to a poem I met at the end of my junior year of high school and fell in love with immediately, "<a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43281/the-lake-isle-of-innisfree" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Lake Isle of Innisfree</span></a>" by William Butler Yeats</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">*******</span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">:</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><blockquote><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,</span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;</span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,</span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> And live alone in the bee-loud glade.</span></span></div></blockquote><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-align: left; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><blockquote><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;">
<span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
I will arise and go now, for always night and day<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;<br /></span></span></div><div style="padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,<br /></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.</span></span></blockquote><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">You can't clutch at peace, commandeer it, insert it on demand into your busy self- and world-centered life. You can only prepare yourself for it in hopes that when it "comes dropping slow," you can perceive and receive it, and then commune with the gift of it as it reminds you of your inclusion in the transcendent, unified scheme of things. And then, if you're lucky, you'll be able to remember it, to "hear it in the deep heart's core" even when life demands that you traipse the "pavements grey." </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm trying to give Sabbath the chance to come dropping slow. And I'm hopeful about the prospects of that since I'm thinking about Sabbath more as an opportunity than as a challenge I will probably screw up. I thank Shulevitz for helping me think about how best to create the space-in-time that might let me embrace that opportunity.<br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="margin-left: 0.0866in; text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span> <br /></span></span></span></span></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><span>* This photo appears on Judith Shulevitz's website on the "Book" link: https://www.judithshulevitz.com/book/.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><span>** </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Shulevitz, Judith. <i>The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time</i>. Random House Trade Paperback, 2011. </span><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">*** Multimedia Artist from Montreal | Valeriya's Art: </span></span><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Multimedia
Artist from Montreal | Valeriya's Art Valeriya Khomar artist in
Montreal creates abstract, contempo acrylics, mixed media paintings.
Custom orders are welcome. Giclee prints are available. </span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">https://www.pinterest.com/pin/109001253472030797/</span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">**** Illustration by Sefira Lightstone accompanying Chabad.com article entitled "Shabbat: An Island in Time": https://www.chabad.org/library/article_cdo/aid/253215/jewish/Shabbat.htm <br /></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">***** </span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Klein, Ezra. “Sabbath and the Art of Rest: Judith Shulevitz Shares the Wisdom of the Sabbath and Its Offering to a Modern World That Struggles to Umplug.” <i>The New York Times</i>, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/03/podcasts/ezra-klein-show-transcript-judith-shulevitz.html. Accessed 3 Jan. 2023. </span></div><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">*(6) WordHippo definition of "keep": https://www.wordhippo.com/what-is/the-meaning-of-the-word/keep.html </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;"></span></div><div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">*(7) Photo included in the March 29, 2011 post in the blog <i>A Mountain Hearth: Tale of Modern Homesteading and Modern Adventure: </i> https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjB3tOzhh0eBI2iLCRjExSz5ojF8I5ujvkBKtTRP_2qxTCiFxkc_ODPS6kzIsoqwwtZSVG1PRpSg3t0ITxy-aJtoilAagWRSvBBAPPgZK6ll2yuGHX5fETvd-V93OpVIg-8qeghltZAUKY/s1600/Innisfree+2.JPG<br /></span><span><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span></span></span></div></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-85546603055960986612023-03-18T13:34:00.004-04:002023-03-23T18:26:23.999-04:00Morning After Getting Good News: A Poem<p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB6SBbwvCA43fcpgZudBU7a8Lfw7ipNniVp0ntNQ-bk42JGtoap_m0J2ogswE3Y33rnVgX-oi1bsxlxmHaJawbZa8YXHtGfcQsRlAvM5o9nmlKk8U-uK-XJ5Ib0VLBTUE7yjwb_oZ4VKFzsgSq6UV3AMgAEGTN4bhOqMxhWZRsZ4PFg9gKG_GeXe-Mw/s596/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-18%20at%201.15.18%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="596" data-original-width="442" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjB6SBbwvCA43fcpgZudBU7a8Lfw7ipNniVp0ntNQ-bk42JGtoap_m0J2ogswE3Y33rnVgX-oi1bsxlxmHaJawbZa8YXHtGfcQsRlAvM5o9nmlKk8U-uK-XJ5Ib0VLBTUE7yjwb_oZ4VKFzsgSq6UV3AMgAEGTN4bhOqMxhWZRsZ4PFg9gKG_GeXe-Mw/w296-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-03-18%20at%201.15.18%20PM.png" width="296" /></a></span></span></div><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">So
already, sometimes there's good news. Even in these harrowing times. A
medical procedure that yields the hoped-for results. A lower estimate on
your replacement windows. A car that can be repaired with one simple,
inexpensive part while you wait. The clearing of your name. The job
offer you got after the two you didn't get. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">A law that passes. A crucial election result. A vaccination that works. A jury's verdict that means justice. </span></span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">A bank error in your
favor--not something to be sneezed at this week in the USA. </span></span><p></p><p><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">But serious good news doesn't always sink in right away. </span><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: medium;">"Morning After Getting Good News" is about that.</span></p><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Waking to
belief in the good news,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The bedroom
changed. The bed, hunkered</span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> weeks</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Against the alcove’s shielding walls, dared to<br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Migrate to
a central spot from which</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The
paintings, portals into farther rooms,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Could be fully
seen, as could the window</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">With its still-drawn
shade outlined by sun</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">That blazed in affirmation of the tidings.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The ceiling,
pressing less, buckled upward,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So that the
room became a vaulted space.</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">From the
bed, the sleeper’s upturned eye,</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Trust
restored in light and sky, beheld</span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Hovering just beneath the new-formed arch<br /></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">A loose-tied
bunch of white balloons.</span></span></div>
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{page:WordSection1;}</style></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-36223337390227812172023-02-28T13:57:00.000-05:002023-02-28T13:57:02.068-05:00Paradoxes of a Late February Sabbath<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeZh4MRYGxAQ93gQnZ1_ctN-rZn9LW8mka7E5hpQQfpm_qXdcWpG9K_n6KjTvVXeQWvBiw4NnldUrXfvXG4XJvtlFfO3wGs_SK0L0D3Nzr8T2eSwKkIzbB2btnRSSD0hJRZPFL_pWS5nua1OVcH78d87a40soF44ntT19vBMDK2NsbzR8uIn86GJaSA/s1440/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-27%20at%208.32.36%20PM.png" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1440" height="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbeZh4MRYGxAQ93gQnZ1_ctN-rZn9LW8mka7E5hpQQfpm_qXdcWpG9K_n6KjTvVXeQWvBiw4NnldUrXfvXG4XJvtlFfO3wGs_SK0L0D3Nzr8T2eSwKkIzbB2btnRSSD0hJRZPFL_pWS5nua1OVcH78d87a40soF44ntT19vBMDK2NsbzR8uIn86GJaSA/w400-h250/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-27%20at%208.32.36%20PM.png" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; font-size: x-small;">Not My Synagogue, But Someone Else's in Greater Boston</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So already, last Saturday morning I was en route to Sabbath services when a voice on my car radio reminded me that it was the National Day of Hate, the effort organized by an Iowa-based neo-Nazi to disrespect and intimidate Jewish people and institutions </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">across the United States</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">As I got closer to my synagogue, I hoped a police cruiser would be stationed outside of it. I also hoped a police cruiser wouldn't be stationed outside of it. Sabbath is supposed to be a day of peace, an intimation of eternity. Police cars just aren't a good fit with my mental images of either.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7R8CnqNwUuEhuyqTLAm0qHb_i2m2D8XmPs4y6y66JVUiHVG5NCROMgvQ9uaLkidyRC9vibh7yc3U-UZh7l--mCi_zt8U8Sdz3pazHw8-M5AA58J0kvqcQkHIiFDUcPSpyDw_pTVN9vnNqHCvzFIc-KdnT3yCUC4MMufGAt0CT1rwjDfM3tySkjcFyg/s468/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%209.37.58%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="303" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz7R8CnqNwUuEhuyqTLAm0qHb_i2m2D8XmPs4y6y66JVUiHVG5NCROMgvQ9uaLkidyRC9vibh7yc3U-UZh7l--mCi_zt8U8Sdz3pazHw8-M5AA58J0kvqcQkHIiFDUcPSpyDw_pTVN9vnNqHCvzFIc-KdnT3yCUC4MMufGAt0CT1rwjDfM3tySkjcFyg/w259-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%209.37.58%20AM.png" width="259" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Not that I've ever had clear mental images of what an intimation of eternity would look like or feel like. But for the first time, I was considering a conception of Sabbath as something other than a day of rest--another concept I'd always found elusive--thanks to an <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2023/01/03/podcasts/ezra-klein-show-transcript-judith-shulevitz.html" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><i>Ezra Klein Show</i> </span></a> podcast shared with me by a college classmate who recently became a friend. Since we "talk Judaism" from time to time, he thought I might enjoy listening to Klein's conversation with Judith Shulevitz, author of <i><a href="https://www.jewishbookcouncil.org/book/the-sabbath-world-glimpses-of-a-different-order-of-time" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Sabbath World: Glimpses of a Different Order of Time</span></a>.</i> </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I was fascinated by it, and even more important, I was encouraged by it. So often when I try to observe Sabbath, I experience myself as "doing Sabbath": in other words, working very hard at not working. Technology-facilitated communication is as unrelenting on the day of rest as it is the rest of the week, and with an elderly mother in the equivalent of a nursing home, I don't dare ignore ringing phones. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Furthermore, when I'm not at home, the day can easily become too much about coming and going, about watching the clock to be on time--for services at my synagogue, for meeting up with my sister for our afternoon visit with our mother, for meeting up with some friend or other whom I haven't seen in a while, and who does not "do" the Jewish Sabbath. Not that I do all of these things every Saturday. But last Saturday, I did do all of those things.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And the truth is that some of my "busy Saturdays" are among my most peaceful and restful, despite their complicated logistics. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYR4PfN6jwzUtWQYThHYz2XhZv_L5ivpalWmbWqlgj6cLx-zmB60hsa1ZSfjR5G7PLFfTyq0IirptkzBEFL08wfHh_MWCuInjtlM3k1v6KzyVxAOEmoaTb4MKPJiSsjRVvjSe60VBT4ASHz87tGv1lA7uFZVsWtVpLNuCDkNvR9reRoCFZJu5IYLs1Sg/s1101/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-27%20at%207.43.03%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="438" data-original-width="1101" height="159" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYR4PfN6jwzUtWQYThHYz2XhZv_L5ivpalWmbWqlgj6cLx-zmB60hsa1ZSfjR5G7PLFfTyq0IirptkzBEFL08wfHh_MWCuInjtlM3k1v6KzyVxAOEmoaTb4MKPJiSsjRVvjSe60VBT4ASHz87tGv1lA7uFZVsWtVpLNuCDkNvR9reRoCFZJu5IYLs1Sg/w400-h159/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-27%20at%207.43.03%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><u><b>First of all</b></u>, I always feel anxiety-free, warm (though the sanctuary did not exactly warm up on this past Saturday!), and accepted when I'm at <a href="https://bostonsynagogue.org/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">my synagogue</span></a>. Even on the days when none of the prayers particularly resonate with me, I am glad that my presence contributes to there being <a href="https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/minyan-the-congregational-quorum/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">enough people for public communal prayer</span></a>.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgliio86H47idLhy8aI6EkXYhY4K090GIxKnAcUCS7gnZGXZ4gE43W7gRy-LbOGEn-XHlWYXOaTvDWGs26O1YWDoduk2JmdS6tG-Dnm6plO9_3hzNnxy8M-7epsYtpXVIPl7tTJAnfZcXUhGF5IeHOTp32CwHrN3W1kJXj2Ra8pcagQxmoCAgRM8jD6A/s599/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2012.12.59%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="198" height="455" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgliio86H47idLhy8aI6EkXYhY4K090GIxKnAcUCS7gnZGXZ4gE43W7gRy-LbOGEn-XHlWYXOaTvDWGs26O1YWDoduk2JmdS6tG-Dnm6plO9_3hzNnxy8M-7epsYtpXVIPl7tTJAnfZcXUhGF5IeHOTp32CwHrN3W1kJXj2Ra8pcagQxmoCAgRM8jD6A/w151-h455/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2012.12.59%20PM.png" width="151" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> One of the things I appreciate when I'm at synagogue is the <i>Lev Shalem Siddur </i>that we use. It offers not only Hebrew translations, but additional readings in the book's wide margins that seem to anticipate the range of prayer experiences, comfortable and uncomfortable, that worshipers might be having. For example, the words on p. 202 of the prayer book, seen in the adjacent photograph and addressing the very common human experience of ceasing to focus on the prayer at hand, offer </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">a sage's reassurance to the person praying</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> by emphasizing God's omnipresence, even in the wanderings of a human mind during prayer. Similarly, four pages earlier, next to the blessing recited at the beginning of a new month, a Marge Piercy poem, "A New Moon: Rosh Hodesh," offers another route into the spiritual possibilities suggested by the concealment of the moon at the new month's start.<br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><u><b>Second of all</b></u>, I love the relaxation of driving to my mother's place while listening to "<a href="https://wumb.org/programs/guest-mix/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Guest Mix</span></a>" or "<a href="https://wumb.org/programs/mountain-stage/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Mountain Stage</span></a>" (on WUMB, UMass Boston's public radio station), and of heading away from it while listening to "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.wgbh.org/music/celtic/a-celtic-sojourn" target="_blank">A Celtic Sojourn</a></span>" (on WGBH, Boston public radio). Those shows have become old, reliable friends over the years.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9vElUjDrkWBWQpHGoqde3ZJspbeWzHamn82ojZhMn0Vbo1qvYTo2V5vgn9Z69aeEEfYNjUgJrv37y952WCHhjO23k5X7go3HhpxwqUjna9c_yPcdMs2Bw9AVqZP4T7Foo7oreJ46Epe6RTpd_96ZYyrwz2GDuDwAXuIsZWa_ZFiKORG3Rtq-rrQdbg/s3264/IMG_3529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn9vElUjDrkWBWQpHGoqde3ZJspbeWzHamn82ojZhMn0Vbo1qvYTo2V5vgn9Z69aeEEfYNjUgJrv37y952WCHhjO23k5X7go3HhpxwqUjna9c_yPcdMs2Bw9AVqZP4T7Foo7oreJ46Epe6RTpd_96ZYyrwz2GDuDwAXuIsZWa_ZFiKORG3Rtq-rrQdbg/w300-h400/IMG_3529.JPG" width="300" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><u><b>Third of all</b></u>, there's the peacefulness of my younger sister's and my Saturday afternoon visits with our mother. Our times with her are necessarily in the moment because, as someone in the late stages of Alzheimer's, she is either alert and communicative, sleepy and quiet, or a combination during our visit. Happily, she knows us, knows we're there, and seems </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">to enjoy listening to us talk to each other</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">. Visiting her is generally about being, not doing. My sister and I "be" together in her presence.</span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So this is all to say that even when I'm putting lots of miles on my car and running a little late, there's something "different" and calmer about Saturdays these days, something definitely good.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But does that mean my Saturdays are holy? Because that's what the commandment prescribes: "Remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy." I'm not sure when restful and peaceful are holy and when they're not, but I have to think that intentionality and understanding must play important roles in keeping things and making things holy. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH351cRmE98XRswpyA4gIl8GqXdMdCCShMQFZewe66xSya-9ms5sZl-c5SgJi7Qf7CRW0UENNuoV04CxBsxk_JyVVpqQvIQWy4IAWBoqegSVEplbZROD9gxUf7naxlTD5qfg_P69HhHbRm6UU-Ty9tRIiG1u9Ggx46ZwhlpBOkzbT1RnVlguFvyzFyYg/s511/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2010.33.48%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="511" data-original-width="330" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH351cRmE98XRswpyA4gIl8GqXdMdCCShMQFZewe66xSya-9ms5sZl-c5SgJi7Qf7CRW0UENNuoV04CxBsxk_JyVVpqQvIQWy4IAWBoqegSVEplbZROD9gxUf7naxlTD5qfg_P69HhHbRm6UU-Ty9tRIiG1u9Ggx46ZwhlpBOkzbT1RnVlguFvyzFyYg/w259-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2010.33.48%20AM.png" width="259" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Since both Ezra Klein and Judith Shulevitz referred often to Abraham Joshua Heschel's book <i>The Sabbath,*</i> I decided I should start by reading it. Fortunately, I already owned it--it had been sitting on my bookshelf untouched for years. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So I was surprised when I I picked it up to realize that I had read it before--and could recall none of it: the underlinings and notes in the margins were definitely my own! <br /></span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Now, however, I had a different purpose for reading (I think!), mainly, to read Heschel's own words about our human tendency to engage almost exclusively with space and things, as opposed to with time. As Heschel explains in his book's prologue,</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><blockquote>"Our intention here is not to deprecate the world of space. To disparage space and the blessing of things of space, is to disparage the works of creation, the works which God beheld and saw 'it was good.' . . . Time and space are interrelated. To overlook either of them is to be partially blind. What we plead against is man's unconditional surrender to space, his enslavement to things. We must not forget that it is not a thing that lends significance to a moment; it is the moment that lends significance to things" (6).</blockquote></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I was glad he talked about not disparaging and thus dismissing space and things as lesser or inherently polluting because of my own tendency, upon confronting juxtaposed concepts, objects, or ideas, to assume that one of them must be inherently "better" and more desirable than the other. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In light of this, Sabbath is simply different and to be set apart. As Heschel explains a few pages later, </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><blockquote>"It is, indeed, a unique occasion at which the distinguished word <i>qadosh </i>is used for the first time: in the Book of Genesis at the end of the story of creation. How extremely significant is the fact that it is applied to time: 'And God blessed the seventh <i>day</i> and made it <i>holy</i>.' There is no reference in the record of creations to any object in space that would be endowed with the quality of holiness" (9).</blockquote><p>How interesting to consider when the terms "good" and "holy" are assigned, to begin to contemplate the situations in which they're not interchangeable! <br /></p></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4uy6X27-hlOfYpqp7t1exILYK-U03lqCvzNevB0TVam1q3QI3WUCnA9CTGOj5PR8dv95I3hlZCUBHDwdeUDpKc4uHPoj5pnPB7cbw2LPHvKsoUuR89Wki9wVHNo2pn5x2CWitOAo8Reta1fbaw70EfzBDtXV2cKPCNfgpb56LYiJAVvulnFOVQJEoA/s458/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2011.35.43%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="458" data-original-width="369" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia4uy6X27-hlOfYpqp7t1exILYK-U03lqCvzNevB0TVam1q3QI3WUCnA9CTGOj5PR8dv95I3hlZCUBHDwdeUDpKc4uHPoj5pnPB7cbw2LPHvKsoUuR89Wki9wVHNo2pn5x2CWitOAo8Reta1fbaw70EfzBDtXV2cKPCNfgpb56LYiJAVvulnFOVQJEoA/w323-h400/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-28%20at%2011.35.43%20AM.png" width="323" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Ilya Schor Wood Engraving Before Heschel Prologue**</span></span><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>And how interesting to encounter the paradoxes and ironies to be found in what Heschel himself said. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">How ironic it seemed to me that Heschel was trying to get us to understand hallowed time by comparing it to hallowed space. Furthermore, how ironic it seemed to me that the kind of hallowed space he chose was a </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">significant kind of Christian hallowed space: "The Sabbaths are our great cathedrals; . . . (8) </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Related more indirectly to what Heschel said was the irony connected to the fact that the National Day of Hate was scheduled for Shabbat: my congregation's communal attempt to hallow time by </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>safely</i> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">attending Shabbat services required the protection of our physical synagogue space by a police detail.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Obviously, there is no way to separate time and space completely, to sever completely the ties between our daily lives and Shabbat lives, to live on any day completely beyond the reference points that orient us most days. But how much do these challenges and ironies matter when it comes to "keeping" the Sabbath holy? How much of a challenge should it be to keep the Sabbath day holy, even if holiness does require effort? At what point does the challenge of holiness banish joy and further distance us from holiness?</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIHyYdlp21SErJaQou97THWP8BKmreDv-w0s3J-6PEXUnh-UUtJytj9h6jWaaOiU3T1lWUyJM5zCx1BDs-57XF5-luFNxLAkG7EitzFE8D1SVXGT-Yqm4G5jGW-UU7M8A4DjkNN7zWvy4BHRIYJzZeXxZBNlhQYS-oqOXo73tYwXPb8WlWvN3BvMUMw/s3264/IMG_3525.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3264" data-original-width="2448" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeIHyYdlp21SErJaQou97THWP8BKmreDv-w0s3J-6PEXUnh-UUtJytj9h6jWaaOiU3T1lWUyJM5zCx1BDs-57XF5-luFNxLAkG7EitzFE8D1SVXGT-Yqm4G5jGW-UU7M8A4DjkNN7zWvy4BHRIYJzZeXxZBNlhQYS-oqOXo73tYwXPb8WlWvN3BvMUMw/w300-h400/IMG_3525.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>Last Saturday was a bitterly cold day. I left my house early and returned late, having gone from synagogue to my mother's (with a hot coffee stop beforehand to warm my still-chilled hands), and from my mother's to the home of a friend and former colleague who drove us to restaurant for a reunion dinner with other friends/colleagues. By the time I got home, I was exhausted--and very peaceful and happy. It had been a great day, even though it had begun with the radio announcement of the National Day of Hate. But had I managed to keep the Sabbath holy? <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I will write again once I finish reading Shulevitz's book. Maybe I'll understand more by then. From paradoxes may arise possibilities.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 1cm; text-align: left; text-indent: -1cm;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">* Heschel, Abraham Joshua. <i>The Sabbath, Its Meaning for the Modern Man</i>. Noonday Press Paperback Edition ed., Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997. </span></div><div style="margin-left: 1cm; text-align: left; text-indent: -1cm;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">** The Siddur Lev Shalem Committee. <i>Siddur Lev Shalem for Shabbat & Festivals</i>. Rabbinical Assembly, Inc., 2016.<br /></span></div><div style="margin-left: 1cm; text-align: left; text-indent: -1cm;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-family: Calibri; font-size: small;">*** Ilya Schor woodengraving screen shot from https://www.invaluable.com/auction-lot/ilya-schor-the-sabbath-58-c-c4145a8a33</span></div><div></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-86597054726105676402023-02-07T13:09:00.013-05:002024-01-07T14:43:32.294-05:00The Teaching-Indoctrination Confusion<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5nPePMH2UaK_8ctcydV-1NfBL27ON2tn27xtYer40mdYBrh62fswzSkxqCYMUCquC2p96j0TRbBfFo3_58NS3V4Utu9UoyOJbd_12mo7MQbX4fLL1JicXi4rEmySXKlwLoTq4HhX8pJE4UtnbqzquA7OUuwlaM9LcQzYO08OmoqY-nY6HHZvJw-STg/s508/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-07%20at%209.34.50%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="495" data-original-width="508" height="370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5nPePMH2UaK_8ctcydV-1NfBL27ON2tn27xtYer40mdYBrh62fswzSkxqCYMUCquC2p96j0TRbBfFo3_58NS3V4Utu9UoyOJbd_12mo7MQbX4fLL1JicXi4rEmySXKlwLoTq4HhX8pJE4UtnbqzquA7OUuwlaM9LcQzYO08OmoqY-nY6HHZvJw-STg/w380-h370/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-07%20at%209.34.50%20AM.png" width="380" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So already, when did teaching become synonymous with indoctrinating? And when did teaching history to students become synonymous with indoctrinating them with "the lesson to be learned" from it? Finally, when did withholding historical facts and artifacts from students become the antidote to indoctrination?</span></span></span><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">These questions all re-entered my mind this morning when I saw the headline of the "Political Notebook" feature in today's <i>Boston Globe</i>: "Education issues top GOP's presidential race." According to this feature, Republicans are especially targeting race- and gender-related curriculum and instruction.<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Oh, how we fear facts because of the conclusions students might draw from them!</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I have a theory about why the "teaching=indoctrinating" belief is so robust among many Americans whose goals are <u>not</u> obfuscation and political power. It's less about their psychologies and sociological needs than "the articles" say. </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">My non-research-based belief is that their own educations were more indoctrination-centered</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">--or at least, interpretation-centered</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">--than inquiry-centered. In other words, as students, more often than not, they were handed conclusions rather than asked to draw them. So they fear that students today are being similarly told what to think, and even what to believe.<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Certainly my own my eighth-grade US history class was centered on the interpretations drawn by my teacher. She taught that the Civil War was fought about states rights, not slavery; we, her students, weren't asked, based on our considerations of various speeches and events, what we thought the Civil War was fought about.</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Interestingly, that I had been taught an interpretation of American history was not something I understood until well into my teaching career, which emphasized inquiry and critical thinking with awareness of perspectives. But my teacher wore a Confederate uniform to teach the Civil War and wrote "Save your Confederate money, boys--the South will rise again" at the bottom of our tests and quizzes--and this was in late 1968, just months after Martin Luther King, Jr.s assassination. I can't say she didn't have an agenda in sharing her interpretation.<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I know: you may be thinking that I'm confusing indoctrinating with interpreting. And I do understand there's a difference. Indoctrination</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> is a deliberate practice aimed at shaping beliefs about--as opposed to
understandings of--how the world works, has worked, and should work, often for the purpose of </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">keeping people in the fold or winning them over to a side or a cause. </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In contrast, interpretation, even when it's too passionately communicated or unsuccessfully hidden, doesn't have that aim. What alarms me is when students aren't given the chance to draw and honor their own conclusions, even if those conclusions are tentative works-in-progress. And especially if those conclusions might rock the boat.<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7E6njE3YwNK2pyruAWQQYcr6jkD97uBBr4f5ziqgX0WtEWb_qc9JKVvNMzHGIxpUXUfqQ6QHfRFnWZ0-O3Y5uX_xgOT-qsQmgi_-UT-Mr7-Rf5cRg1F78txXESJ5N50M7Q1haYPFqodsqRVct3YgSTX7lIV1urDlgtjVlDYOftMHEn6J48zi0gzZGQ/s572/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-07%20at%2011.38.19%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="131" data-original-width="572" height="91" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-7E6njE3YwNK2pyruAWQQYcr6jkD97uBBr4f5ziqgX0WtEWb_qc9JKVvNMzHGIxpUXUfqQ6QHfRFnWZ0-O3Y5uX_xgOT-qsQmgi_-UT-Mr7-Rf5cRg1F78txXESJ5N50M7Q1haYPFqodsqRVct3YgSTX7lIV1urDlgtjVlDYOftMHEn6J48zi0gzZGQ/w400-h91/Screen%20Shot%202023-02-07%20at%2011.38.19%20AM.png" width="400" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In addition, I get disturbed when opinions are presented as indisputable truths. I feel pretty confident that students in inquiry-centered classrooms, on encountering Nikki Haley's recent pronouncement on Twitter that "CRT [Critical Race Theory] is un-American," would immediately ask, "From whose perspective? According to what criteria?"<br /></span></span></span><p style="text-align: left;"></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I do appreciate that teachers have always wielded a lot of power and still wield a lot of it today. After all, they grade kids. And I also know that many teachers are themselves products of educational systems in which the teacher's interpretation was gospel and had to be learned--essentially memorized and parroted back. Furthermore, I believe some teachers may not realize the degree to which they are communicating if not necessarily imposing their interpretations and beliefs.</span></span></span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUdBKAqvWu5r_MPs2_4xot3gF76RLtC6RpMWCkA8Vvub4pdUjUDWe8ocqP91gPY0FQCsdVO2EwxrIhqX_HOnVVNL5UuJmOYTy6shsXFQaq-eMrIpl1pjcwAM5I7BwishtylZSWRyScVLOL3PDnrPG-YzWyHLa2M6GJyF7EqpU4cZ6Mz5u3xpmsYO41A/s2048/IMG_4524.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbUdBKAqvWu5r_MPs2_4xot3gF76RLtC6RpMWCkA8Vvub4pdUjUDWe8ocqP91gPY0FQCsdVO2EwxrIhqX_HOnVVNL5UuJmOYTy6shsXFQaq-eMrIpl1pjcwAM5I7BwishtylZSWRyScVLOL3PDnrPG-YzWyHLa2M6GJyF7EqpU4cZ6Mz5u3xpmsYO41A/w300-h400/IMG_4524.jpg" width="300" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I remember thinking this some years ago when I was a teacher at Cambridge Rindge and Latin School. When several students arrived late to study hall one day and I asked why they were late, they explained that they'd been studying with other students for their test in the Advanced Placement English class the next day. "We were agreeing on what Mrs. <u>______ (</u>name withheld) thinks about ____________ (title of book withheld) so we could give it back to her on tomorrow's test," said one boy.</span></span></span><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Their teacher, my colleague, loved literature and loved students. Thanks to her focus and dedication, her students could skillfully detect evolving literary motifs, identify significant narrative structures, and perceive subtle variations in tone. But despite their having gained great meaning-making tools from her, they still believed that she expected them to interpret literature as she did--and would grade them in accordance with her expectation.</span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vKI7zk-td32rBpS-Wg596zZN-oD3Fta-lOMS0sq8sEVRsCQMzD2v8OKkabDPhHsT4jSgR0CEgfuvJfVcP_Yo8OE7EJ_QLHVdx0XSd6-Chef-_-lmJH8lzdMSjaYDNI6_XkgMGguXWIdF5nG3_0ueBcdAD-KoROgiBB4kKbZs2wsQ6F5IoSB0gAJ62Q/s4032/j2uAbdS8QMOWjHTyln+YZw.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4vKI7zk-td32rBpS-Wg596zZN-oD3Fta-lOMS0sq8sEVRsCQMzD2v8OKkabDPhHsT4jSgR0CEgfuvJfVcP_Yo8OE7EJ_QLHVdx0XSd6-Chef-_-lmJH8lzdMSjaYDNI6_XkgMGguXWIdF5nG3_0ueBcdAD-KoROgiBB4kKbZs2wsQ6F5IoSB0gAJ62Q/w342-h257/j2uAbdS8QMOWjHTyln+YZw.jpg" width="342" /></a></span></span></span></div><p></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Frankly, I don't believe any of them would have accused her of indoctrination. But I do wonder if expressed zealous interpretation can be a precursor to indoctrination in some instances. </span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">That's all the more reason inquiry-centered teaching is essential. The solution to the education-as-indoctrination slippery slope is always to make central students and the facts, information, artifacts, and arguments that, ideally, compel them to apply their developing critical thinking abilities. Students can be taught and trusted to draw their own conclusions about "what happened and why," the way the world works, and causes and effects, even those that cross borders and decades. <br /></span></span></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">If the solution to the teaching and learning problems that Republicans identify is to hide historical reports, events, and artifacts, then they must be very afraid of what students might conclude on the basis of them. In the best cases, teaching leads to learning, whether or not we like what students learn.<br /></span></span></span></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-37120684748343944022023-01-31T20:14:00.001-05:002023-02-01T09:30:51.279-05:00A January Post in the Nick of Time<p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;">So already, when I began writing this blog in 2013, I promised myself that I would post something at least monthly. With fewer than ten hours left--actually about four right now--in what has been a strangely beautiful, conveniently ice-free, disarmingly mild January, I am determined to post something by midnight tonight. But it's possible I shouldn't be posting anything right now.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O7xTl4RwYcO2WqVk-b2NBbNjbo1-8JtHUrjIYUuSmU4hWpow9kKxV38d6FtCBSOMPUbwWKqYTWOEWgEHuE-Ov4SXrUmiEB7yy5vGVcPAxYJXdhM6rwgSScAhGSPShs6wWnC0Usy_95tftk1Rxu7yyF83HVbA5FlPQEjAjkR0mWUD8UYZhMB56riqbQ/s11978/rensZphYSpKaJVyvUt%25PEA.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3766" data-original-width="11978" height="162" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4O7xTl4RwYcO2WqVk-b2NBbNjbo1-8JtHUrjIYUuSmU4hWpow9kKxV38d6FtCBSOMPUbwWKqYTWOEWgEHuE-Ov4SXrUmiEB7yy5vGVcPAxYJXdhM6rwgSScAhGSPShs6wWnC0Usy_95tftk1Rxu7yyF83HVbA5FlPQEjAjkR0mWUD8UYZhMB56riqbQ/w513-h162/rensZphYSpKaJVyvUt%25PEA.jpg" width="513" /></a></span></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;">A few days ago, I began writing a post--but to no avail. In it, I included the main reason for my apparent blog neglect: the fact that I've been writing more poems than usual this month--works-in-progress not yet ready to be shared in this blog or elsewhere.<br /></span></span></span><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdNyHnKNSHsQMV50ySqV8JYyrrIYUcJMuIWnEaXiQLWpc3rkKFtekxEGjYOz_6XNo1pn5jRbCxQZpe_S1TqUVBCX6y6LLi9dFs1Lyz7G9v35StP1Q62HOIKJ-FnPn4umyj58_6l9DwD_LjPEPs49wboC98iUn7gs9mySpQy50LmoF4EBwJ5SRCjY94Q/s3912/fullsizeoutput_29d3.heic" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2936" data-original-width="3912" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwdNyHnKNSHsQMV50ySqV8JYyrrIYUcJMuIWnEaXiQLWpc3rkKFtekxEGjYOz_6XNo1pn5jRbCxQZpe_S1TqUVBCX6y6LLi9dFs1Lyz7G9v35StP1Q62HOIKJ-FnPn4umyj58_6l9DwD_LjPEPs49wboC98iUn7gs9mySpQy50LmoF4EBwJ5SRCjY94Q/w400-h300/fullsizeoutput_29d3.heic" width="400" /></a></div>Then I explained what I'd been reading that had been claiming a lot of my time and energy: essays* by Karl Kirchwey--some including poetry--in part about </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;">the war-hero uncle for whom he is named; </span></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle">the novel </span></span></span></span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle">Hidden Figures: The American Dream and the Untold Story of the Black Women Mathematicians Who Helped Win the Space Race </span></span></span></span></span></i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle">by
Margot Lee Shetterly, which answered so many questions that the movie "Hidden Figures" had raised for me; and</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> recent poem collections by Sandra Cisneros (<i><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/707448/woman-without-shame-by-sandra-cisneros/" target="_blank">Woman Without Shame</a></span>)</i> and Louise </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Glück (<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><span><a href="https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374604103/winterrecipesfromthecollective" target="_blank"><i>Winter Recipes from the Collective</i></a>)</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle">.</span></span></span></span></span><i><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle"></span></span></span></span></span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Initially, I thought I'd write a post about how those two poem collections, whose authors, like me, are </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>over the age of sixty-five, had gotten me thinking about the role of senior citizen poets in American society. When the poem "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54897/the-layers" target="_blank">The Layers</a></span>," written by Stanley Kunitz when he was a senior citizen, serendipitously fell into my lap, courtesy of one of the women in my poetry writing group, I was sure it was a sign I had a good idea.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_BqHaFWR6UNn1HP5LCabanJq1_D7aqj2qaPtumzVMK5Bx-6iza5niPDLNAKsZ_EU-i8VyNd10OhXw9SrWEJxQMjGC2PVb4-bMD4mJqPsD8P86d024zzAsxQI9pYVbS_23WaAOEHFWbonNjz0t-qaZOuIaH-kWj6LTH17igXO99DFyTTAkhApA8jeYaQ/s468/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-31%20at%204.14.58%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="468" data-original-width="312" height="273" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_BqHaFWR6UNn1HP5LCabanJq1_D7aqj2qaPtumzVMK5Bx-6iza5niPDLNAKsZ_EU-i8VyNd10OhXw9SrWEJxQMjGC2PVb4-bMD4mJqPsD8P86d024zzAsxQI9pYVbS_23WaAOEHFWbonNjz0t-qaZOuIaH-kWj6LTH17igXO99DFyTTAkhApA8jeYaQ/w181-h273/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-31%20at%204.14.58%20PM.png" width="181" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>But the insights didn't come, either into the topic or into myself. Yes, it was true that when I shared Kunitz's poem with some of my same-age college classmates, they felt--gratefully, they said--that something they'd been feeling and struggling to express had been put into words to which they could return later. But I wondered if </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Glück's last lines in "The Denial of Death" better captured the feelings of others of them:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span> . . . I felt</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>something true had been spoken</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>and though I would have preferred to have spoken it myself</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>I was glad at least to have heard it (7).**</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Why I suspected some of them would feel that way I wasn't sure; nor was I sure what it would mean if they did.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMH8Xn9i9ox6koiLMHppJ4xvUZV1iNbwOCzF7ReASJ91bKIL6ICgy5jkWYO6HYJs05cD-6okO1PvH8ER50vDFJ7B_OVVvgDasT1gXH3Y-HVpQ80dNiyJ8p90e5zZLtDGdBcz_FLZsrBRzChcQKIfWt4pmN2tcu-r7S2iUdXGLt5_57qz5PSiCjLYDCjg/s1052/fullsizeoutput_29d4.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="675" data-original-width="1052" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMH8Xn9i9ox6koiLMHppJ4xvUZV1iNbwOCzF7ReASJ91bKIL6ICgy5jkWYO6HYJs05cD-6okO1PvH8ER50vDFJ7B_OVVvgDasT1gXH3Y-HVpQ80dNiyJ8p90e5zZLtDGdBcz_FLZsrBRzChcQKIfWt4pmN2tcu-r7S2iUdXGLt5_57qz5PSiCjLYDCjg/w400-h256/fullsizeoutput_29d4.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>But I also knew that I wasn't going to have much time to think about that because I was going to be spending the weekend ahead at</span></span></span></span> the <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.bobmosesconference.com/" target="_blank">Bob Moses Conference</a></span>. Wanting to fill in the big gaps in my understanding of the history and consequences of mass incarceration in America, particularly the incarceration of Black men, I'd signed up for it weeks earlier.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWViZc9iiWrRPESTQ4BARsDal3QJN61NisRj8yI4tsUnvX7N6PhwyYLdv4YkPc1uUCp29FVFMMkpLvk5bniTjifDKP_HFuTL7csfehPJsnRfGDbS5Skq3UShlW18by2jI_kSbwzzffbBTk7ERPpxPKJUz4lczwJIDP62JP67cUNnl2uak8EbmidQnkjA/s586/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%209.57.37%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="586" data-original-width="389" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWViZc9iiWrRPESTQ4BARsDal3QJN61NisRj8yI4tsUnvX7N6PhwyYLdv4YkPc1uUCp29FVFMMkpLvk5bniTjifDKP_HFuTL7csfehPJsnRfGDbS5Skq3UShlW18by2jI_kSbwzzffbBTk7ERPpxPKJUz4lczwJIDP62JP67cUNnl2uak8EbmidQnkjA/w132-h200/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%209.57.37%20PM.png" width="132" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The conference did not disappoint; it educated and galvanized. It was especially meaningful--and poignant--to be able to listen to scholars and activists talk about racial criminalization, policing, and punishment on the same weekend that the videotape of Tyre Nichols' brutal beating was released to the public. </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were many </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">answers to the question of "How could this happen?"<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69BYtZVjSxjlAmiE7KFNV0DMiMXgi3uXhunQ7_weA2KgsmnzC2kmh9mn6q6e7saDkg0h6pQklGv5dLSG3WagTKoc312fZCgLERFimUgpsOtQU3qwrKcO81OGxC68YRsO2bw2f66nH5yDNjh2oLIuNOxFkNsbq0cIBlbCcYpM4C0JsqU87bbZVDe8wqA/s449/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%203.34.56%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="449" data-original-width="296" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh69BYtZVjSxjlAmiE7KFNV0DMiMXgi3uXhunQ7_weA2KgsmnzC2kmh9mn6q6e7saDkg0h6pQklGv5dLSG3WagTKoc312fZCgLERFimUgpsOtQU3qwrKcO81OGxC68YRsO2bw2f66nH5yDNjh2oLIuNOxFkNsbq0cIBlbCcYpM4C0JsqU87bbZVDe8wqA/w132-h200/Screen%20Shot%202023-01-30%20at%203.34.56%20PM.png" width="132" /></a></div>When I left Cambridge late Sunday afternoon, I was awash in new understandings that I wanted to solidify so I could use them. So when I got home, I turned on my computer not to blog, but to buy two books: </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;">William A. Darity and A. Kirsten Mullen's </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Here-Equality-Second-Reparations-Twenty-First/dp/1469671204/ref=sr_1_1?crid=VL4EAVHR8U3W&keywords=william+darity+from+here+to+equality&qid=1675110786&sprefix=Wiliiam+Dar%2Caps%2C101&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><span class="a-size-extra-large" id="productTitle">From Here to Equality: Reparations for Black Americans in the Twenty-First Century</span></a></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"> and Khalil Gibran Muhammad's </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a class="a-link-normal" href="https://www.amazon.com/Condemnation-Blackness-Making-America-Preface/dp/0674238141/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1SK8UYDSGAJ00&keywords=the+condemnation+of+blackness+by+khalil+muhammad&qid=1675112130&s=books&sprefix=The+Condemnation+of+%2Cstripbooks%2C83&sr=1-1" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">The Condemnation of Blackness: Race, Crime, and the Making of Modern Urban America</span></a>.<span class="a-size-small"> </span></span></span></span><br /></div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="a-row"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="a-size-small"> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span class="a-size-small">Then Monday came, along with its usual obligations, the most important one being going to visit my mother in the Skilled Nursing section of her senior living community. While my mother took a post-breakfast nap, I picked up <i>Winter Recipes from the Collective</i> and began rereading it. </span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Glück's poems, sometimes allegorical, sometimes surreal, sometimes stripped down to their barest essentials, </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>catapulted
me into a narrative set at the porous membrane between life and death.
While I usually don't
live alongside </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Glück
in that existential border town, I have to admit that sometimes Skilled Nursing feels like such a place.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>What was even stranger, though, was suddenly to be exploring death as an existential inevitability, and an unavoidable source of individual grief and loss, when all weekend long, my fellow conference attendees and I had been exploring it as a social reality, a means of strengthening and perpetuating a society ordered around a white supremacist racial hierarchy, and an unavoidable source of <i>collective</i> grief and loss. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfvyA7xUYGHegkiScVBUaLul0GQiPAPo47x_VEp-iXGrfDJoIaY-mGCktZY7k4CuG4jUXwMD2jCD_FkFAgIGqRJLTZgfWfOhHEp9fY3jg4tShSqb7SrDxLCUC2s8Gl_mlwIaswX_JB917x5E3PGc2CF5ZKGTmOcgqsuV44xSOSbNbO9t9INNJg9u-Vg/s640/DSCN2690.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="640" height="262" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipfvyA7xUYGHegkiScVBUaLul0GQiPAPo47x_VEp-iXGrfDJoIaY-mGCktZY7k4CuG4jUXwMD2jCD_FkFAgIGqRJLTZgfWfOhHEp9fY3jg4tShSqb7SrDxLCUC2s8Gl_mlwIaswX_JB917x5E3PGc2CF5ZKGTmOcgqsuV44xSOSbNbO9t9INNJg9u-Vg/w349-h262/DSCN2690.JPG" width="349" /></a></div><span>I wrap up this blog feeling split between--or maybe caught between--these two very different perspectives on and explorations of death. I also end it very much hoping to have something much more "figured out" to say about <i>something</i> next month, now only four hours away. May February be a good month for all of us, a month that offers us clarity and hope.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>* These essays appear in recent issues of </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Agni, Arion, </i>and <i>The American Scholar. </i></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="a-row"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>** </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="ILfuVd NA6bn" lang="en"><span class="hgKElc"><span><span>Glück, L. (2021). <i>Winter recipes from the collective. </i>Farrar, Straus and Giroux.
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-27842416546298355692022-12-11T17:16:00.001-05:002022-12-11T17:17:42.251-05:00Holiday Greetings, But Not Holiday Cards<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8fky5m2fmKG0i1XXoTntG4-LUWKNtRHy9CWRuZzZfBvYnPLv4ffrpSdIqKTNCVm2VosfzEdQw7k38F8mnroPOjR0eXlGoxHxsO_HqR4dTBfRG_YSxZxveX2FR02PIHRHNvYJ3-R-oHb2mlnaQhdTZqNk07lOd2lWtVhhphmgeHhBHOA_j2Br9RmpyA/s672/Chanukah%20Village%20Photo.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="672" data-original-width="484" height="582" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjy8fky5m2fmKG0i1XXoTntG4-LUWKNtRHy9CWRuZzZfBvYnPLv4ffrpSdIqKTNCVm2VosfzEdQw7k38F8mnroPOjR0eXlGoxHxsO_HqR4dTBfRG_YSxZxveX2FR02PIHRHNvYJ3-R-oHb2mlnaQhdTZqNk07lOd2lWtVhhphmgeHhBHOA_j2Br9RmpyA/w419-h582/Chanukah%20Village%20Photo.jpeg" width="419" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So already, 'tis the season--at least it has been over the years in my life--for mailing Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year's cards near and far. But this year, for the most part, I'll be depending on email and Facebook to extend my holiday greetings. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I'm not 100% comfortable with my decision. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">In part, it's about money. In the last couple of months, a broken living room window and a broken tooth have unexpectedly broken the bank. Well, I'm exaggerating--couldn't resist the third "broken." But, in truth, once I was done paying for first two brokens, it made the most sense to send the dollars I had left to organizations that aid people needing food, clothing, and housing during these inflationary times, and not to spend them on holiday cards and postage stamps.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">And in part, my decision is about time. With the arrival of our first </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">nearly </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">post-pandemic holiday season, so many people, understandably, are determined to revive the holiday traditions that pandemic protocols had forbidden. For me, that's meant more face-to-face singing and visiting with people, both of which need to be coordinated around visits to my mother on the skilled nursing floor (SNF) of her senior living facility. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fkvN1wNcHNZn0YakQcJx0ilw1Mlue8VDoV7JzQHyMf5ETYhnRlTnSnICUKUJjerSlFj3J_aIEGjO19yDc0fothR4m2kOmeZGQEKbzIZbz3cJ7zFdDCSMyU9PyLfK8AHB7t73rI1ZsbxegeB_G__HXpa00O6nf_EVdSbPAIIP-z2G1kk_yDASHIi2fA/s637/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-09%20at%202.05.33%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="479" data-original-width="637" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6fkvN1wNcHNZn0YakQcJx0ilw1Mlue8VDoV7JzQHyMf5ETYhnRlTnSnICUKUJjerSlFj3J_aIEGjO19yDc0fothR4m2kOmeZGQEKbzIZbz3cJ7zFdDCSMyU9PyLfK8AHB7t73rI1ZsbxegeB_G__HXpa00O6nf_EVdSbPAIIP-z2G1kk_yDASHIi2fA/w385-h290/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-09%20at%202.05.33%20PM.png" width="385" /></a></div>At the same time, I haven't wanted to give up those pursuits that kept me balanced and afloat during the last two years. And often, I just need to do nothing at the end of a day that's been plenty long enough. So when I tried to envision adding card-writing to my December plate, I felt dispirited and overwhelmed. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The thing is, when I have time and the right kind of head space, I love writing Christmas cards. When there's time to respond to some piece of news that's arrived in a Christmas card just received or to otherwise personalize* my message to an old or new friend, I feel like I'm affirming or reaffirming a relationship that matters to both me and that friend. The idea of not doing that bothers me.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ME-c8YyZ8kq7b5iFoYy95D2g72n-NhNkNDweSzBV8Q7CUr2yxMhhzb_W0OstvAWrmfnpihuFN5pxfLwkAg6V9wEU5HERlLPIy9fivM_DdGKE3flHWlzUp4tsfwbeNj3LAeQNRB7BGGJTUF6PGlpv7fyoRlHs5m_jNc3o6fzbAG3MXu2BIju2XuT6rA/s3601/fullsizeoutput_29ba.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3601" data-original-width="2639" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3ME-c8YyZ8kq7b5iFoYy95D2g72n-NhNkNDweSzBV8Q7CUr2yxMhhzb_W0OstvAWrmfnpihuFN5pxfLwkAg6V9wEU5HERlLPIy9fivM_DdGKE3flHWlzUp4tsfwbeNj3LAeQNRB7BGGJTUF6PGlpv7fyoRlHs5m_jNc3o6fzbAG3MXu2BIju2XuT6rA/w294-h400/fullsizeoutput_29ba.heic" width="294" /></a></div>I also love getting holiday cards and being on the receiving end of the good feeling that they always engender. The greeting card I picked up the other day at my local CVS--see the adjacent photograph--reminded me of that feeling. I love December in part because chances are good that when I go to my mailbox, I'll find one or more pieces of mail that are personal, lovely or fun to look at, and cheering. The holiday season makes me <i>want</i> to go to my mailbox.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQO4ULvJjOczphZya1Xc_BzZB3WT3bjViLeC4-V2a76lundbWqDMrWMo0IlMNf0TJz8XLhXSo0WFT8tFdxP4zycOcgO1fV8vwSKp8E2xDeTnheKM3LolA9GHOefIOuSIM98C6MgAz1Qi9vBVgU-rjUYllrFXZNWFTzNMGl7flOOyxFJL5yd3QQ1Rfplg/s597/Urban%20Village%20Photo.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="597" data-original-width="455" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQO4ULvJjOczphZya1Xc_BzZB3WT3bjViLeC4-V2a76lundbWqDMrWMo0IlMNf0TJz8XLhXSo0WFT8tFdxP4zycOcgO1fV8vwSKp8E2xDeTnheKM3LolA9GHOefIOuSIM98C6MgAz1Qi9vBVgU-rjUYllrFXZNWFTzNMGl7flOOyxFJL5yd3QQ1Rfplg/w305-h400/Urban%20Village%20Photo.jpeg" width="305" /></a></div>I have so many memories of returning home after a school day that felt like two, opening my mailbox in my apartment building's foyer--two different foyers since I was thirty-two--and grinning as I recognized the greeting cards among the bills and fundraising requests. The shape of their envelopes alerted me to the possibility of their being personal mail; handwritten addresses and familiar return addresses I identified as belonging to homes, not businesses and organizations, also clued me in.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Whatever else needed to get done that afternoon, I found the time to sit on my sofa and pore over the cards, letters, and photos those envelopes variously contained, and to think about the friends and relatives who'd sent them. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So how can I not send cards when I know how wonderful it is receive cards? I remind myself that this is a decision for this year, not forever.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiIeFRRncogz0ILOh8oOsX8XK5nZmwGEIOZOWJ6H-ZoTOqT9PY96Sq4DpMDuSBKJIeRadx5CyrPKJ7f2iCRSmx1P1ZUw1FS4ZTSxUkPBBdPE6mJsOtdPQ9ul8TX9kpXtH5vPTVbVPIX3YeL04zSpxKufqJmRz1o0RUiUSin3NdZuf1EXb_CAscpIrRw/s981/Androscoggin%20Bank%20Photo.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="981" data-original-width="783" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPiIeFRRncogz0ILOh8oOsX8XK5nZmwGEIOZOWJ6H-ZoTOqT9PY96Sq4DpMDuSBKJIeRadx5CyrPKJ7f2iCRSmx1P1ZUw1FS4ZTSxUkPBBdPE6mJsOtdPQ9ul8TX9kpXtH5vPTVbVPIX3YeL04zSpxKufqJmRz1o0RUiUSin3NdZuf1EXb_CAscpIrRw/w319-h400/Androscoggin%20Bank%20Photo.jpeg" width="319" /></a></div>There is another reason for my decision. Holiday greetings, when they do more than convey good wishes and good cheer, tend to report what people have been doing, what's been filling their hours or what's stood out as the year's highlights. I enjoy reading about these. What's generally rarer, though, are the holiday cards that share what's been going on in their writers' brains and hearts, especially those thoughts and feelings that have been much in control of the year's narrative. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">2022 was basically a good year for me--not entirely without its dark days, but with many bright spots. But were I to list its highlights, they wouldn't tell you what's mattered most to me this year, namely my regular visits to my mother, who's in the late stages of Alzheimer's, and her fellow residents on the part of the SNF at her senior living facility that's particular designated for those with advanced cognitive and memory impairments. During this past year, I've spent so much time wondering what it's like to be her and them.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXPFZj0Ko17Sz7Sc_13Y-5ZatummCiiqqgH9uq6SaaeZxAX8sV7P-SZ9asKfCaRDTfG_Txkn2rI1QdPB4w_Ury1cw6DCtUsFbaS2Qy_J6h29huCby8WaJdo_7IHCapY5LSpu1IYRTIz_QpRG4b3Q6yu2eHf7RYWwLyJrmFLDCPsY4mzqkjHSU-QtUIg/s866/Skilled%20Nursing%20Tree.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="866" data-original-width="824" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAXPFZj0Ko17Sz7Sc_13Y-5ZatummCiiqqgH9uq6SaaeZxAX8sV7P-SZ9asKfCaRDTfG_Txkn2rI1QdPB4w_Ury1cw6DCtUsFbaS2Qy_J6h29huCby8WaJdo_7IHCapY5LSpu1IYRTIz_QpRG4b3Q6yu2eHf7RYWwLyJrmFLDCPsY4mzqkjHSU-QtUIg/w380-h400/Skilled%20Nursing%20Tree.jpeg" width="380" /></a></div><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I began wondering this seriously around Thanksgiving 2021 when one of the activity leaders helped all the SNF residents to create a large tree wall-hanging. Attached to the tree's branches were leaves, one per resident, stating what each was particularly grateful for.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There were some common responses, such as gratitude for family and gratitude for being cared for kindly and well in such a nice place. But what surprised me were the number of explicit expressions of gratitude for being alive. All SNF residents face one or more serious challenges and limitations that require them to receive considerable care and support; hence their presence on the floor. And despite these challenges and limitations, they treasure life, and their own lives in particular. My able-bodied, able-minded self was humbled by this.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So much of daily SNF life is communal, and that fact has made my regular presence there both lovely and sad. There's always someone new to the floor whom I remember from her more active, self-sufficient days in the independent living and assisted living parts of the community. And there's always someone dying, most recently the very quiet woman who for several months sat across the table from my mother at mealtime, and whom I remembered as a very dedicated, energetic congregant at Temple Ohabei Shalom twenty-five years ago.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSXUmSD4mnm0ThOUXENA9YxcVETlUEzCwLPgLdk2i5szirkTCSXd9W2KRFb4lrmpDmGxoUFIZ6LciqxY_rXJl_I3jm3za6jg1naUbZ98wmR8m3FYCfyrZpox6zeBnJ-IOxsJI9uQ6qtOYKErt5VIPBq2zATJmLkEq5zb9NgoZY3jMHHyeiKi919OtNg/s525/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-10%20at%209.32.33%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="406" data-original-width="525" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLSXUmSD4mnm0ThOUXENA9YxcVETlUEzCwLPgLdk2i5szirkTCSXd9W2KRFb4lrmpDmGxoUFIZ6LciqxY_rXJl_I3jm3za6jg1naUbZ98wmR8m3FYCfyrZpox6zeBnJ-IOxsJI9uQ6qtOYKErt5VIPBq2zATJmLkEq5zb9NgoZY3jMHHyeiKi919OtNg/w200-h154/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-10%20at%209.32.33%20AM.png" width="200" /></a></div>And then there are those wonderful shared activities that engage everyone in happy ways that I think are meaningful to the residents, though I'm not exactly sure how. For example, last Thursday, while a group of us sat around a long table on my mother's part of the floor waiting for some cookies to finish baking, we listened to one of the the activity coordinators read a story about a young woman who feared the worst</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">--unnecessarily--</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">because her boss had asked to speak to her. As the activity coordinator served the just-cooled cookies, she asked the residents what their first jobs had been and what memories they had of their bosses. Everyone spoke, although perhaps not always truthfully: a few of the other family members present were surprised by what they heard. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">One
thing I've noticed during such activities is that the residents
generally don't interact with one another yet seem to be much aware that
the others are present. So, for example, when I ask my mother, who
sleeps a lot and tends to speak little, whether she wants to take a walk
or to stay with the group, she usually wants to stay with the group. I
don't know what it means to her to be part of it, but
it is what she chooses. I've also noticed that whoever is in charge always speaks to her as if any
minute she might decide to say more. I think she's glad to be alive,
though I don't think she could think and say that in any coherent way. I
do know that when I ask her if she's having a good day, her "yes" answers are always very emphatic.</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMin3JJBuGKZ-qiXsNa52-G59HttaKWNHVhWq7Z0kuXJfOiv9CZyRTcxnd6gGdOLn-KFgsCVv8KJxlD8pnzrQa67P_ft0xX8MEEvrLwj4VTpHcFamyIb6ti3ADIkqZnzJht2evLD3hgmQeXshIKz_R62THttNah1T-nt7ErHyyg0Kpqu9cth0q5CzV2g/s801/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-10%20at%205.49.10%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="595" data-original-width="801" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMin3JJBuGKZ-qiXsNa52-G59HttaKWNHVhWq7Z0kuXJfOiv9CZyRTcxnd6gGdOLn-KFgsCVv8KJxlD8pnzrQa67P_ft0xX8MEEvrLwj4VTpHcFamyIb6ti3ADIkqZnzJht2evLD3hgmQeXshIKz_R62THttNah1T-nt7ErHyyg0Kpqu9cth0q5CzV2g/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-10%20at%205.49.10%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div>I often think of my mother and her cohort as flowers that thrive in the shade.** That said, for someone such as myself who's frequently taught <i>The Odyssey </i>and James Joyce's "The Dead,"*** the word "shade" invariably conjures thoughts of the dead. Homer refers to the dead whom Odysseus encounters when he visits the underworld </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">to consult with the prophet Teiresias</span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> as shades. And speculating that his aunt's death will occur in the not-so-distant future, Gabriel muses to himself, " Poor Aunt Julia! She, too, would soon be a shade . . .. He had caught the haggard look upon her face for a moment when she was singing <i>Arrayed for the Bridal"</i> (224).<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">If I've been thinking about mortality a lot this year, I suspect it's because of my age and my mother's situation. When I learned from her obituary that the woman whom I recognized from Temple Ohabei Shalom had no children, I, also childless, wondered how she'd come to be on the SNF, who'd visited her, who'd looked out for her, who'd helped her make difficult decisions when she'd needed help, and even made them for her when she no longer could. I've been wondering who will be there to look out for me and Scott, should we both live to old age, once we're not there to look out for each other. Scott, in contrast to me, and in part because his own ninety-seven-year-old father still manages to live quite independently, isn't worried about this. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgFbbBkqvR04MijNigvNgM-9tiK9WK5Kofd_i8qXvgCbZfkzgiZGWg_nalU7EvLizuhs62XzcI0DLIMdeHWbovcYYbcUrY658404iRjWld7xsMzU2be7klzYTmLYHQGzqztPSDTIKDwexxiESxDQJZGMY7ReklrxStsTmK4x9XUilRBaNbD9XHc3qTg/s988/Desk%20photo.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="988" data-original-width="797" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgFbbBkqvR04MijNigvNgM-9tiK9WK5Kofd_i8qXvgCbZfkzgiZGWg_nalU7EvLizuhs62XzcI0DLIMdeHWbovcYYbcUrY658404iRjWld7xsMzU2be7klzYTmLYHQGzqztPSDTIKDwexxiESxDQJZGMY7ReklrxStsTmK4x9XUilRBaNbD9XHc3qTg/w323-h400/Desk%20photo.jpeg" width="323" /></a></div></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Please don't worry that I'm dwelling on this too much. If anything, my consciousness of it has been leading me to make better use of the life and time that I have and that I am healthy and independent enough to be able to enjoy. It's certainly contributed to my decision not to write my usual two hundred holiday cards this year and to walk in the salt marsh instead.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">It's also made me feel privileged to be part of the world of my mother and her co-residents. The SNF staff recognizes and treats them as individual people rather than as incarnations of old age and dementia waiting at death's door. Regardless of the amount of care they need and others' beliefs about the quality and meaning of their days, the living are the living until they cease to breathe and become the dead, period. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Somehow, I just couldn't imagine writing those last sentences in a Christmas card, but they're very important to me. Still, I've wanted to be in touch with the many people who matter so much to me; hence this blog, among other things. <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUhTAbmXfDffgeks2OGX4KyMbEpvoGLfO6p09JTbHAv3xb7-pW9Bd2rGNuKo-I4YyBXvJJnvEcDN8BQUBAprSs-qFAAVPBSb9IVXErUskqBAppV96KC1anYGOdXdQq28M6J2JBy4Mo7vQvWynMCRQVSB6IUWZY7o6wgetIz-Ik-e8lYyzsCXPKcPX9Q/s590/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-09%20at%201.18.13%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="418" data-original-width="590" height="304" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhUhTAbmXfDffgeks2OGX4KyMbEpvoGLfO6p09JTbHAv3xb7-pW9Bd2rGNuKo-I4YyBXvJJnvEcDN8BQUBAprSs-qFAAVPBSb9IVXErUskqBAppV96KC1anYGOdXdQq28M6J2JBy4Mo7vQvWynMCRQVSB6IUWZY7o6wgetIz-Ik-e8lYyzsCXPKcPX9Q/w428-h304/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-09%20at%201.18.13%20PM.png" width="428" /></a></div>Next year, I hope that many of you will go to your mailboxes on some distinctly seasonal December day and discover a holiday card from me. As for now, though, I close by sending you warm wishes for happy holidays, whichever one(s) you celebrate, and for a bright, fulfilling new year. Love and joy come to you.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>* Yes, I split the infinitive. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>** Screen shot of photo on Wikipedia Shade Garden entry: on https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shade_garden <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"><span>*** Joyce, J. (1993). "The Dead". In <i>Dubliners</i>. New York, NY: Penguin Books. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span> </span></span></span></span></span> </div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-39592764287503335932022-12-07T14:26:00.001-05:002022-12-07T14:27:05.734-05:00"The Vanished House": A Poem<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So already, I first met Margaret Atwood's poem "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://exceptindreams.livejournal.com/69761.html?" target="_blank">Shapechangers in Winter</a></span>" </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">last year around the time of the winter solstice, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">and I actually wrote about it in <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://soalready.blogspot.com/2021/12/reading-to-exhale.html" target="_blank">a blog</a></span> I posted on New Year's Eve day 2021. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I thought of that poem today as I listened to the <a href="https://www.facebook.com/people/Broad-Cove-Chorale/100054430392811/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Broad Cove Chorale</span></a>, the Hingham-based women's choral group I sang with before the COVID19 pandemic. Among the pieces they sang in their holiday concert were musical settings of poems by Christina Rossetti, William Blake, and Robert Lowell.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXaYlaVEG7XoKY2OOWownzHew5Qr0TPG7WxKW5dq34C10Hf-g2PIL24L867A3mHayRiU2PKQ7a1eXb4VEot3XrEscRX2eXoKrxZcO92E0yjI0BPjI3po1iH58Dr_dqakms0ooK2DMxLqWWRsfyDlYYlP3gKBe2qYllaXcoBlsXXH5V9Egbv2-8AXlJQ/s542/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-07%20at%202.08.27%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="403" data-original-width="542" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjXaYlaVEG7XoKY2OOWownzHew5Qr0TPG7WxKW5dq34C10Hf-g2PIL24L867A3mHayRiU2PKQ7a1eXb4VEot3XrEscRX2eXoKrxZcO92E0yjI0BPjI3po1iH58Dr_dqakms0ooK2DMxLqWWRsfyDlYYlP3gKBe2qYllaXcoBlsXXH5V9Egbv2-8AXlJQ/w400-h297/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-07%20at%202.08.27%20PM.png" width="400" /></a></span></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Thinking of all of these poems reminded me that last December, I wrote a poem in gratitude to three winter poets: Margaret Atwood, Wallace Stevens, and Robert Frost. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">The image* that most inspired it was that of the vanished house in the third section of Atwood's poem. Musing on it, I had recalled Wallace Stevens' poem "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45235/the-snow-man-56d224a6d4e90" target="_blank">The Snow Man</a></span>," which added to the haunting idea and image collection I was beginning to build. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Sensing a need to pin my gathering impressions and ideas to something familiar, something already in my bones, I thought of a Robert Frost poem that I think you'll be able to identify without my revealing its name. It's one of those "great American poems" that so many of us encountered as middle school or high school students learning to read and hopefully love poetry. It may be the poem's meter and rhyme scheme that most help you identify the Frost poem, so let its music wash over you or carry you. </span></span></span></p><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">So here it is: my very allusive poem, "</span><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The Vanished House." </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuR2ffFZlVOY7qO-ZnJo5oOGqrCGhRBqkDVMadkJCdoMSoVPwOODao5HvFkfvWHq5EFxXRNSuuu8vAkzSgH4BYNjpATHqZuGNJGYBT5gW-VaQ_ZiIuJ47k329bgWr54dhi_kZGpS31DWJj3YBFFb9jlieDusGhrCf9XDYHDQIBIxNdZAZ_gtepbioDg/s4032/fullsizeoutput_29b9.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="2584" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRuR2ffFZlVOY7qO-ZnJo5oOGqrCGhRBqkDVMadkJCdoMSoVPwOODao5HvFkfvWHq5EFxXRNSuuu8vAkzSgH4BYNjpATHqZuGNJGYBT5gW-VaQ_ZiIuJ47k329bgWr54dhi_kZGpS31DWJj3YBFFb9jlieDusGhrCf9XDYHDQIBIxNdZAZ_gtepbioDg/s320/fullsizeoutput_29b9.jpeg" width="205" /></a></div>The man who owned these woods, it’s said,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Lived on this spot, but now is dead.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The village folk, they think it queer</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">That his fine house should disappear.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">But others theorize otherwise,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Themselves compelled by winter skies</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">When snow and evening jointly fall</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Erasing home, erasing all.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In a state of winter mind,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They think he left his house behind,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Found a strong will buried deep,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A promise to himself to keep.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And when he from that house self-banished--</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">That was when it up and vanished.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">The neighbor’s mare, who must have seen,</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">Shook her bells once and stayed serene.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A vanished house no secrets keeps,</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">No view obscures of woodland deeps,</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">No varnished truths perpetuates--<span> </span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">So, over time, it liberates.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">
</span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">It let him choose fresh-fallen snow,</span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">A wood instead of house to go.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And now, he breathes the cold in deep</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"> </span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And smiles inside, and wants no sleep.<span> </span></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span> </span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">In town the neighbors still seek clues--</span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">
</span></span><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">They stare at wood chips, frosted screws--</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"></span></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">And looking back, and at, and near,</span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">See not the house set to appear.</span></span></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-family: Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">* Adjacent photo is a screenshot of Pixneo photo:https://pixnio.com/nature-landscapes/winter/forest-snow-winter-wood-tree-frost-cold-landscape-branch</span> <br /></span></span></span></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-31840291388446721132022-12-01T15:46:00.002-05:002022-12-02T17:11:17.476-05:00Journeying to the Springhouse: Joyce Wilson's Most Recent Poetry Collection<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span></span></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PTmyGxbQuyGCBCoA5OBxymbGZLM-GMD0lBhVaJq0_gaB1JRIWG3-IcRbQdgG2ELT_IAHhh-YgCzGLOOjfN-Dij5RLe-OcgocMrvMxWtz1f1REj1sWzcfHtxPxXqDJ-N3MQf-H2mc5jEfPf_FxD2gNSmUNZn7Zh4WglsPeDr0xy1crCknqW8bBUpLcw/s3841/fullsizeoutput_2983.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3841" data-original-width="2603" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6PTmyGxbQuyGCBCoA5OBxymbGZLM-GMD0lBhVaJq0_gaB1JRIWG3-IcRbQdgG2ELT_IAHhh-YgCzGLOOjfN-Dij5RLe-OcgocMrvMxWtz1f1REj1sWzcfHtxPxXqDJ-N3MQf-H2mc5jEfPf_FxD2gNSmUNZn7Zh4WglsPeDr0xy1crCknqW8bBUpLcw/w294-h434/fullsizeoutput_2983.jpeg" width="294" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So already, sometimes we know what we know and have always known. Sometimes, we suddenly know again what we once knew. And sometimes, we know what we didn't know in the past and still may not know. Our recollected experiences of knowing, not knowing, and yearning to know may compel us return to the places, moments, and people we associate with those experiences. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">In her collection of poems <i>To the Springhouse, </i></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Joyce Wilson
returns to Chadds Ford, Pennsylvania, where she grew up, and encounters
again the landmarks, events, and phenomena that both held fast and set free
her younger self, significantly shaping her adult self. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The poems are not arranged chronologically, although clusters of them are. As readers, we encounter a two-part array in which renderings of the poet's/speaker's experiences as a daughter and sister growing from childhood to young womanhood intertwine with her observant, imaginative immersion in the abundant natural world that surrounds her. Repeatedly, nature and language work together to illuminate.</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtSjJFEA8YiBVqJe-DhkFYXz5sePOVokmyxSmAP_dVI6bxVbSzpvgc9-Yrz3CAnFOof2CGQG9ejdhBq0yajjbPN3Opu-58T_jbDSLce5htI4eTfFTFUAdY7WYNc4Y2W7Mc9YNuh7qaUqGck6VrnIlI8vRlOq0DNKPaD7uCIfF-ISokL9qR8nQEtUI-qQ/s354/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%206.21.41%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="354" data-original-width="299" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtSjJFEA8YiBVqJe-DhkFYXz5sePOVokmyxSmAP_dVI6bxVbSzpvgc9-Yrz3CAnFOof2CGQG9ejdhBq0yajjbPN3Opu-58T_jbDSLce5htI4eTfFTFUAdY7WYNc4Y2W7Mc9YNuh7qaUqGck6VrnIlI8vRlOq0DNKPaD7uCIfF-ISokL9qR8nQEtUI-qQ/w338-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%206.21.41%20AM.png" width="338" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Three poems, including the collection's final one, recount visits to a springhouse close to the speaker's childhood home. Clearly, springhouses, </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">built above springs to protect them from plants, animals, and other potential contaminants</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">, matter. But why and how? I wondered this as I set off with the poet on her pilgrimage, sometimes guided by her, sometimes left to wander on my own, and often provided with the glimpses of the developing sensibilities of the future poet and current editor of the online
literary magazine <i><a href="https://www.poetryporch.com/" target="_blank"><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;">Poetry Porch</span></a>.</i></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> <br /></span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I knew I wanted to make the journey as soon as I read the collection's first poem. In "Field Trip," the speaker--from now on, I will refer to the "I" in most of these poems as the speaker, though it may well always be Wilson--returns to a remembered farm and creek, the waters of which are "like the rivers in my dreams." Clearly, she has been returning to this place long before her actual return visit to it (11), for reasons not yet disclosed or even suggested. <br /></span></span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLIn8peBMP2R36J_Tj0swIMuNbYeOuIft1YPMOKdKSyqFUMSUsWMdu6WD-04t2riYnhH6cPPYkPtYsNJNVJxmrz1USjwHKA4880cvxR-TBUUjVuFQhWSCYGJcskyKvxYhHNuXDg8XMgvtXde-woW3nmtN9TizwZpIYz_Fa4p7c2lWW_99rqVVEqyqGw/s578/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-28%20at%203.30.30%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="481" data-original-width="578" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBLIn8peBMP2R36J_Tj0swIMuNbYeOuIft1YPMOKdKSyqFUMSUsWMdu6WD-04t2riYnhH6cPPYkPtYsNJNVJxmrz1USjwHKA4880cvxR-TBUUjVuFQhWSCYGJcskyKvxYhHNuXDg8XMgvtXde-woW3nmtN9TizwZpIYz_Fa4p7c2lWW_99rqVVEqyqGw/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-28%20at%203.30.30%20PM.png" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Once actually there, she carries with her the guidebook her parents used to nurture her budding naturalist self. In truth, she's been so well guided by it and them that she doesn't need the book to identify the Bluecurls** she comes upon. </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But there's more going on here than just classification of the natural world, as rich as it is: a humble pilgrim "bending close" to examine the flower she's plucked, the speaker becomes swept up in "Imagined waves" (11). Of water? of emotion? And has she surrendered to the power of the waves with resignation? relief? joy?<br /></span></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">She expresses gratitude to her parents in the next-to-last stanza: ". . . through them I had learned/ To see and sound, identify and name,/ Forgotten till today when I returned"--and in part because of their naturalist legacy, Wilson regularly and imaginatively explores the names of natural things in her poems*** (12). </span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But her thankfulness is tempered in the final stanza. The lines "The lessons that they fostered festered in/My memory," both delight and trouble us: at the same moment that we relish the playful juxtaposition of the similarly sounding "fostered" and "festered," we confront the negative connotation of "festered." There's something toxic in at least some of what the speaker has learned from her parents (12). Her </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">own home hasn't been fully effective as a springhouse: it hasn't completely protected the clear, pure waters of her early life from everything that might fester in them. But probably no childhood home ever does.</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Whatever the balance of time and toxicity that renders her parents' lessons "as good as dispossessed," I as her reader am now forewarned: during her Chadds Ford visit, she may well come upon other phenomena that resurrect what has been "Forgotten till today." Thanks to the poem's terse suggestiveness, I am prepared for what the speaker and I might encounter.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWkmKZq9HqabNZUlaZAGbmeRmrK_HUnzc8fa3sGhcSYlH_Egh5cEfaxfckvBnhW1i07DuNGma0HWDi4yTlpThjcYRq3xrM6UIJ4da9NRW_INomml4imE2SofwRUY-kdQeXdNKiOV51ren5k1DAdwJ76C-dltk-ZXEBbv-jwiNSdZhPnOmCPejOzvjIg/s400/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%2011.17.32%20AM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="264" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJWkmKZq9HqabNZUlaZAGbmeRmrK_HUnzc8fa3sGhcSYlH_Egh5cEfaxfckvBnhW1i07DuNGma0HWDi4yTlpThjcYRq3xrM6UIJ4da9NRW_INomml4imE2SofwRUY-kdQeXdNKiOV51ren5k1DAdwJ76C-dltk-ZXEBbv-jwiNSdZhPnOmCPejOzvjIg/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%2011.17.32%20AM.png" width="211" /></a></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">This is the moment that I make full disclosure: as a longtime high school English teacher, I taught<i> The Odyssey</i> dozens of times and often perceive its themes and motifs in other literature. So the minute "Field Trip" forewarned, submerged its protagonist in "Imagined waves," and offered guides and protectors who couldn't be completely trusted, I felt that I was on an epic journey as well as a pilgrimage. Immediately, I surmised--and hoped--that by the end of the book, reconciliation, wisdom, and metaphorical homecoming would all be achieved. But I also anticipated trouble along the way, and perhaps even an enlightening visit to the realms of the dead--and wasn't surprised that the next three poems developed some of these motifs while suggesting the speaker's challenges and providing some lessons for successfully navigating them: </span></span></span><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">• In "Egret," a seemingly displaced yet regal waterbird--a suitable symbol for the speaker, though she casts herself as the observer in this poem--"Found its catch while no one looked/ Beneath the surface of the brook (13)." The lesson: careful looking is a prerequisite for seeing, seeking, and finding, and the answers may be under water.<br /></span></span></span></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">• In "To the Springhouse," an authoritative </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">museum guide wrongfully explains to the speaker's adult self that the primary function of springhouses is and always has been
to refrigerate the items stored in them. The speaker dismisses his pronounced knowledge:</span></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><blockquote style="margin-left: 80px; text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But what did he know? Such a pragmatic mind</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Might never pause to comprehend the source</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Of mystery, where springs will come and go. (14)<br /></span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The lesson: poor guides are everywhere and must be exposed, and mystery may be trustworthy.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvN0Yv47nNM1MgTVjGyGJTc9cDO8zJe5f3b6-QQD8AdNeiL1CcJ9FBoD4-CdtLUOH2RCQWnNcdO9vsw8UNq2Dc1Q8GJs9IiLVOkA0hxvrQ4q_mrnaWQA-FUitCEM4PlAxF_8qcUIa0iobNUjfKNX74ewR1ojGEDySqG7H9rals8B0y8WOxi_VcwWK2EA/s4000/IMG_3829.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4000" data-original-width="3000" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvN0Yv47nNM1MgTVjGyGJTc9cDO8zJe5f3b6-QQD8AdNeiL1CcJ9FBoD4-CdtLUOH2RCQWnNcdO9vsw8UNq2Dc1Q8GJs9IiLVOkA0hxvrQ4q_mrnaWQA-FUitCEM4PlAxF_8qcUIa0iobNUjfKNX74ewR1ojGEDySqG7H9rals8B0y8WOxi_VcwWK2EA/s320/IMG_3829.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>• In "Changing Surfaces," </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">the speaker, watching stones arrange and rearrange themselves at the tidal water's edge, explains, "I seek treasures, origins, what I first/ / Thought, or what I
thought I might have meant." A stone "glimmers" momentarily until a wave sweeps it out of view. The lesson: water reveals, but also mirrors and distorts, and treasures that suddenly shine bright may just as suddenly disappear. Meanwhile, when the speaker muses, "How close the words: treasure and erasure," the reader recognizes the speaker's love of language and her sense of its power (15).</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> <br /></span></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The heroes of epic poems learn the hard way, and perhaps pilgrims do too as they walk the path to enlightenment and transformation. The road may be even more fraught for female heroes and pilgrims, whose learning may be discouraged, especially if it refuses to bow to male authority. "The Mushroom Barn" blends scenes of home with encounters with nature in the context of rumor and legend. As such, it presents a dilemma for smart girls like the speaker and her sister: though they "feared what we did not know, " they dared not act to remedy the situation because of the story they'd heard about "the local girl/ who walked through fields at night, . . . ,/ . . . because she had learned too much" (21). <br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Interestingly, right after "The Mushroom Barn," we accompany the speaker to the realm of the dead. In "Our Father's Death," as its title suggests, she recollects the death of her father, the knowledge of which </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"came abstractly/ like a concept without color or odor</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">" (22). In "Aftermath," the following poem, she laments that "Only our father would have known"--her father who is "now so thoroughly gone"--how to respond to her mother's angry, unanticipated questions about a favorite play (23)<i>. </i>Like the archetypal epic hero, the speaker is now thoroughly and sadly on her own.</span></span></span></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And then, things somehow move forward, although almost imperceptibly, as they often do when people, including pilgrims and heroes, wander in confusion, pain, and grief. In "The Brook," the first poem in the second part of the collection, the speaker**** asks directly for knowledge of the natural world-- <br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntfbLqP9KN141oApUw7Pa8oLGv0P9Tml4PDiV8Q1llOrFOYDAApUcpX4F0dl2kdrktdKsbKBaEmBXHLQAB50B7pgyBO-Q8KJqY7NKJzc3qCG_VrKMNVg1AuM96hq3RG6_NTA7QufUB47t-_FGtUf8veR8Uh3Zkh3FTgPGmKbrkUxqbQH_juu8Z5T-Og/s2882/fullsizeoutput_2986.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2484" data-original-width="2882" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntfbLqP9KN141oApUw7Pa8oLGv0P9Tml4PDiV8Q1llOrFOYDAApUcpX4F0dl2kdrktdKsbKBaEmBXHLQAB50B7pgyBO-Q8KJqY7NKJzc3qCG_VrKMNVg1AuM96hq3RG6_NTA7QufUB47t-_FGtUf8veR8Uh3Zkh3FTgPGmKbrkUxqbQH_juu8Z5T-Og/w200-h173/fullsizeoutput_2986.jpeg" width="200" /></a></div>I asked the brook to show</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">its knowledge of the world;</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">it raised the image of my face</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">but never said a word. (35)</span></span></span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">-- and receives a silent but useful answer that elevates her as a source of knowledge in the world--which doesn't mean she no longer needs guidance. When "My heart took flight," she again "lost my way," but only "until I saw the brook emerge/ and lead me on again" (35). She has both the brook and herself to guide her.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">That disappearing but reappearing brook again brings to mind the springhouse that is so central to Wilson's collection. Like the land in "The Brook," springhouses temporarily conceal from view the life-giving waters that run beneath them. As such, they are both impediments and godsends.</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPcYNuTw9BTHkYDoiaR1pMjJ9nAcQRiSSZjV-YG_pc_q0u9Ac-nVDWtdp3x1IHb2AVYXGa8RuE5_nOIL9wKYZdJgDCknLFO_HCxhO8JnX1WugSN_EMMzKRmjGEfD2pyNABeqngHCPA8nglC69NqOi9okN9KzNNmtCmQqa2fbwRRwtOHwMBOKnFVgsJg/s535/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%2011.10.42%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="352" data-original-width="535" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMPcYNuTw9BTHkYDoiaR1pMjJ9nAcQRiSSZjV-YG_pc_q0u9Ac-nVDWtdp3x1IHb2AVYXGa8RuE5_nOIL9wKYZdJgDCknLFO_HCxhO8JnX1WugSN_EMMzKRmjGEfD2pyNABeqngHCPA8nglC69NqOi9okN9KzNNmtCmQqa2fbwRRwtOHwMBOKnFVgsJg/s320/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-30%20at%2011.10.42%20AM.png" width="320" /></a></div>In "The Springhouse," the second of the collection's three springhouse poems, recounts a visit to the springhouse***** by the speaker and her sister. Though "Our father" has warned them not to enter it so as not to dislodge the settled, accumulated particles that might pollute the water flowing beneath it, he leaves it unlocked, more evidence of the contradictory world the two sisters inhabit. Initially, the sisters do no more than peer in fearfully. But eventually, summoning their shared developing emotional and intellectual independence, they venture inside to "look into the nature of our dreams" and to grow in understanding of their deepest selves. Daring to disobey, they risk with some confidence that "what the stillness kept/ Would tolerate the echoes of our screams," trust that their liberating screams will not loose destruction and corruption upon the world (39). </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">"The Springhouse in Winter," the collection's final poem, is one of my favorites. Elegiac, optimistic, and deeply musical, it provides the reconciliation, liberation, and peace that I had hoped for when I began walking the path with the speaker. The rhythmic and sonic regularity of its four quatrains, each composed of lines written in iambic pentameter with alternating rhyme, propels the reader forward with a sense that harmony has been restored, that all is at least well enough. The speaker speaks for a "we" that I think is her sister and herself, though it might also denote her own reconciled adult and childhood selves. A combination of "healing solar forces" and "centuries of rain" creates the perpetual water, and the sisters' "rages dissipate inside this house" (60): history has not changed, but the sisters' perspectives have, making "The Springhouse in Winter" </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">a poem of forgiveness and gratitude that does not erase the complex memories explored elsewhere in the collection. The poem ends with a beautiful offering that I leave you to discover when you read the poem. I want you to have the experience of coming upon it as I did.<br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLHvnPmEbVe72DYdjHedVJnAqV0-yV7umftmpwhCkcWFXSX27pGaGLZIhNgWPqR-5MKPwEFXmY_otegXvqB00Ad1Ew8japO_IIrIuYlW7JDIKkHMxacU7ONKss0ksbVNmw2Tgvn1a0-UGMzJTxl4AJi_PmytOYK4HzZgiQFJ2zqohNFmzOQ-nG8uW0Q/s649/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-01%20at%203.21.11%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="649" data-original-width="470" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLHvnPmEbVe72DYdjHedVJnAqV0-yV7umftmpwhCkcWFXSX27pGaGLZIhNgWPqR-5MKPwEFXmY_otegXvqB00Ad1Ew8japO_IIrIuYlW7JDIKkHMxacU7ONKss0ksbVNmw2Tgvn1a0-UGMzJTxl4AJi_PmytOYK4HzZgiQFJ2zqohNFmzOQ-nG8uW0Q/w290-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-12-01%20at%203.21.11%20PM.png" width="290" /></a></div>I love this brave, beautiful book, admire the many layers of each of its poems. In fact, reading the poems reminds me of looking through water******: various ones of them reveal, conceal, magnify, reflect, clarify, and distort. But together, they become an enlightening if always shifting mosaic, a reminder of the power of poetry--the act of writing it, the act of reading it--to make life more comprehensible, bearable, and meaningful. If you wish to purchase <i>To the Springhouse, </i>please visit the home page of <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.poetryporch.com/" target="_blank"><i>The Poetry Porch</i></a></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">; there you will find a link that will enable you to contact the magazine to buy a copy. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><u>Addendum on December 2:</u> A friend who read this blog left the following comment about it on my Facebook page, and it really got me thinking</span></span></span>:</div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en"><blockquote>Thank
you for sharing this! The poems sounded so thoughtful and had so many
layers even from just the small samples in your blog. Each layer just
pulled me in a little more until I felt as though I would totally
submerge if I read the whole poem. It would be a pleasant submersion, I think.</blockquote></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span class="x193iq5w xeuugli x13faqbe x1vvkbs xlh3980 xvmahel x1n0sxbx x1lliihq x1s928wv xhkezso x1gmr53x x1cpjm7i x1fgarty x1943h6x xudqn12 x3x7a5m x6prxxf xvq8zen xo1l8bm xzsf02u" dir="auto" lang="en">Her experience of the poems' layers made me realize that for me, reading Wilson's poems was an experience of being in the stream not because its waters were covering me, but because I was walking in it on stepping stones, each of the poems being one of them. Some of the stones were slippery, some wiggled under my feet, and sometimes my feet got wet, but the great thing was that I could always look straight down into the water.<br /></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">* Wilson, J. (2022). <i>To the springhouse: Poems by Joyce Wilson</i>. Massachusetts: The Poetry Porch. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">** Image of </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: small;">Trichostema dichotomum L.</span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"> from Lady Bird Johnson Wildflower Center: https://www.wildflower.org/gallery/result.php?id_image=88498 <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">*** Wilson's poem "The Etymology of Spruce," published in <i><span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.graysonbooks.com/tree-lines.html" target="_blank">Tree Lines: 21st Century American Poems</a></span>, </i>is a great example of a poem that reveals the power of named natural things to inspire Wilson's poetic imagination. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">**** Photograph of the photograph of the poet by John Goldie on the back cover of <i>To the Springhouse.</i> I love how the poet is reflected in the window through which she looks.<br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">***** Screen shot of photo on the Maguire Farm web site: https://www.maguirefarm.com/s/springhouse.htm</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text">******"Flume" by Scott Ketcham: https://www.scottketcham.com/image/96303927162<i><br /></i></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span><span face=""arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif"><span class="citation_text"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><p></p>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3714709754261276888.post-36685073988018512992022-11-03T13:13:00.002-04:002022-11-10T19:46:33.648-05:00The Eyes Have It (Perhaps): Scott Ketcham's Latest Paintings<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30YrkJ6VI2S78Ci-Zr2UnYLNVHw83C3csDqyfXH_vJAOUWf0bmVlYg9DWa5u0PtAZWBrtn70ayOk4p3FWRQgYpy31BdTdoya5fJld3yMINOT4viLMUtDneNuBkAU7Y_OPZW2aP0H66DCOzBIqmyy5wjVdJ3zU6RAVMkQJry4OFbBCxFlG-YLfDUJVtQ/s1933/IMG_4799.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1933" data-original-width="1370" height="424" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh30YrkJ6VI2S78Ci-Zr2UnYLNVHw83C3csDqyfXH_vJAOUWf0bmVlYg9DWa5u0PtAZWBrtn70ayOk4p3FWRQgYpy31BdTdoya5fJld3yMINOT4viLMUtDneNuBkAU7Y_OPZW2aP0H66DCOzBIqmyy5wjVdJ3zU6RAVMkQJry4OFbBCxFlG-YLfDUJVtQ/w301-h424/IMG_4799.jpeg" width="301" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">So already, a couple of Saturdays ago when I walked into my husband Scott Ketcham's studio in Rockland, Massachusetts, I fell in love with the first painting I saw. Was it the figure's benign facial expression and gentle, self-effacing, down-tilted gaze? Was it the humble way she seemed to be bearing or even offering a bird's nest, a place of natural protection and birth? Or was it the painting's palate--the vivid yet shadowy magentas and periwinkles that made her flesh and the space behind her distinguishable but inseparable?</span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">When I suggested to Scott that I saw a bird's nest, he made no reply: from his perspective, the authority for what is seen in a painting always resides in its individual viewer. But if you're someone who knows that I usually publish a blog about his most recent work just weeks before his <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.4thfloorartists.com/" target="_blank">annual open studios</a></span>--scheduled this year for Saturday, November 19 and Sunday, November 20--you also know that I can't resist identifying, interpreting, seeking patterns, and highlighting moments of comfort and understanding as I confront so much that disturbs or baffles me, as beautiful as I can see that it is.<br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC-75IfDZNcwITbYfJuLo1g1k22MbmJ7ZSiyLoVs1Zg82z6hPdma7ga_IbdAJ5b0DNZp5J26nNKCuxVgOng8Zq4PdiFRVJQmhKa38-l1qZDHQ2HqNMIGaRHo7cBQODDZytosWiaxsUTNGIjesfKpFm7_Fo7DuQZGvaYb-dxkJXOgGADJGlUtLvWU9_A/s568/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-31%20at%204.34.11%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="568" data-original-width="401" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBC-75IfDZNcwITbYfJuLo1g1k22MbmJ7ZSiyLoVs1Zg82z6hPdma7ga_IbdAJ5b0DNZp5J26nNKCuxVgOng8Zq4PdiFRVJQmhKa38-l1qZDHQ2HqNMIGaRHo7cBQODDZytosWiaxsUTNGIjesfKpFm7_Fo7DuQZGvaYb-dxkJXOgGADJGlUtLvWU9_A/w226-h320/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-31%20at%204.34.11%20PM.png" width="226" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">What famous painting--maybe with subject matter from Greek mythology?--did this mesmerizing painting recall, given the figure's peaceful affect and the bow in her hair? When "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2RDrvUql1Gg" target="_blank">Flora Gave Me Fairest Flowers</a></span>"* ran through my head, I went Flora hunting--and found Botticelli's "<span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://news.artnet.com/art-world/sandro-botticelli-primavera-4-things-to-know-1937013" target="_blank">Primavera</a></span>." There was Flora--the adjacent image** is a detail from that painting--her face framed by her accessorized hair, her neck encircled by a wreath reminiscent of the aforementioned bird's nest, her placid gaze more inward-focused than outward-directed. </span></span></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdnZ3K-uuDNNDKMfpdVncVhnlvYtxj1awxmklJRcxrtfeUebBRxqEBwMXB2ATJFsiHHaO8zz_hCltdP9kwpKpb-6hMRksmk8-iGTwmvfCQsZlDgmkZ3x3C7stsdnWvUoqx_SndRQYKc5ix4-HROqSDlaSHpj4VZaVL2e2I9XJtw7v-esh0RUUm5b8DQ/s3621/Woman%20with%20Sunflowers.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3621" data-original-width="2500" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvdnZ3K-uuDNNDKMfpdVncVhnlvYtxj1awxmklJRcxrtfeUebBRxqEBwMXB2ATJFsiHHaO8zz_hCltdP9kwpKpb-6hMRksmk8-iGTwmvfCQsZlDgmkZ3x3C7stsdnWvUoqx_SndRQYKc5ix4-HROqSDlaSHpj4VZaVL2e2I9XJtw7v-esh0RUUm5b8DQ/w276-h400/Woman%20with%20Sunflowers.jpeg" width="276" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">With Flora in mind, I thought of a recent Scott painting full of fairest flowers. The figure in it gazes somewhat vaguely, perhaps oblivious to the sunflowers that frame her, or perhaps fully immersed in their summer glory. If she is musing on something else or on nothing-</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">-which would distinguish her from the woman in the first painting who holds the bird's nest</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> tenderly--what transpired shortly before the moment of the painting? What untold backstories explain why various figures in Scott's paintings seem to have withdrawn at least somewhat into their own private worlds?</span></span></span></p><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">This kind of mystery and ambiguity, which I enjoy encountering when I look at many of Scott's works, contrasts with at least two varieties of mystery and ambiguity:</span></span></span></div><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">• It contrasts with </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-bNKEp5BxbyZOJ8-xvcKVPZ6u97L-OwwQKxQS1dYWextnW3R5KbQHCEVBu2DETzfs3Nb6ciHrAN9-Tr34X310wfXhGHvAecvHFIk533JM9lgROl9IY6i-6fEfPfPl7oQClvZJ-pVfMb0L25JK1PEKQM7RC0uvC5IDVxtWTXbRcWBdTNk6R49HHBAUQ/s901/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-31%20at%205.01.15%20PM.png" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="594" data-original-width="901" height="211" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-bNKEp5BxbyZOJ8-xvcKVPZ6u97L-OwwQKxQS1dYWextnW3R5KbQHCEVBu2DETzfs3Nb6ciHrAN9-Tr34X310wfXhGHvAecvHFIk533JM9lgROl9IY6i-6fEfPfPl7oQClvZJ-pVfMb0L25JK1PEKQM7RC0uvC5IDVxtWTXbRcWBdTNk6R49HHBAUQ/w320-h211/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-31%20at%205.01.15%20PM.png" width="320" /></a>the resolvable mystery initially created by "Primavera." Who are the people gathered in this painting, created to a be a prominent Italian groom's wedding present to his wife, and why are they here together?</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">***</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> So the scholars asked, and learned. Flora and the scantily clad, aggressively pursued figure to her left are actually the same person: the goddess-nymph Chloris, whom we see here in the process of being abducted and raped by Zephyrus, eventually marries him and becomes</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> known </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">by her Roman name, Flora. According to Ovid, she is happy in her marriage. Hmmm . . . </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCmiN_SDPMztugZnpyslJjz5oxn-jBQn6uf6Wos2yX21XCKYndpEv4HN-Rr8x2AM1OiJC0zGsy_XKsitcLm0qiQi28Cd2qXV1bjZRFdh7riiSTvgv-GJyT5UwajksJRi2uNF3JV9OVl2imzHwoWkBCsgWQNG8pk1VlsYMIwnvPlEpcUSCIKEXX-XFVw/s1825/fullsizeoutput_290f.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1825" data-original-width="1441" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigCmiN_SDPMztugZnpyslJjz5oxn-jBQn6uf6Wos2yX21XCKYndpEv4HN-Rr8x2AM1OiJC0zGsy_XKsitcLm0qiQi28Cd2qXV1bjZRFdh7riiSTvgv-GJyT5UwajksJRi2uNF3JV9OVl2imzHwoWkBCsgWQNG8pk1VlsYMIwnvPlEpcUSCIKEXX-XFVw/w316-h400/fullsizeoutput_290f.jpeg" width="316" /></a></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><p></p><p style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">• It also
contrasts with the bizarre mystery conjured by some of Scott's more
abstract, less traditionally portrait-like paintings. One of Scott's shock-and-awe
painting depicts a female figure emerging from the head of a bull. The
bull's horns are menacing. The eyes we can see clearly are the bull's, and they
shine blank and bright--or are they a little sad and spent? The bull's head seems shaped like a mermaid's
tail. <br /></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 40px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Is the figure destined to be part-human/part-animal? </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Or is she emerging into full humanness? With her body
stretched upward and her crossed arms framing her head, she seems
triumphant, despite those horns that are perilously close to her breasts. We can't see her eyes, but the stern concentration of her gaze
suggests she's completely engaged in the process of emerging. But what
will happen to her next? While some of Scott's paintings raise
questions of what happened before, others make us
wonder what will happen next.</span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span><br /></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But truthfully, if there are stories that Scott's paintings tell, they're more existential than individual. Though there's action in some of them that suggests chronology and cause and effect, I believe they pose broader questions of meaning more than they raise circumstantial, painting-specific questions. As I looked at three very different paintings, all dominated by the color red, I found myself thinking of the title (translated from the French) of Gauguin's huge famous painting in Boston's Museum of Fine Arts: </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i>Where Do We Come From? What Are We? Where Are We Going?</i></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i> </i></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><i><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNAq2bgEbHIMZX0Ss8kEgJWRHynjlNMOT3X3RE9ZTvQK95-TnsLtbFNCxE3t11yPC1_rzWbT3DYUQzyA5kmwh_lbXIroM3Dr2bWBDpJIWxrpbGcI-_UTPX2f1Vci05rMPLn-NpiQLVzmV7Zis1kYX8j9o2vXPjdMdXil8v6ZRyr1Uk9hmj8I8Y966BQ/s2048/fullsizeoutput_2919.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeNAq2bgEbHIMZX0Ss8kEgJWRHynjlNMOT3X3RE9ZTvQK95-TnsLtbFNCxE3t11yPC1_rzWbT3DYUQzyA5kmwh_lbXIroM3Dr2bWBDpJIWxrpbGcI-_UTPX2f1Vci05rMPLn-NpiQLVzmV7Zis1kYX8j9o2vXPjdMdXil8v6ZRyr1Uk9hmj8I8Y966BQ/w300-h400/fullsizeoutput_2919.jpeg" width="300" /></a></div></i>The first of them terrified me: was this crouching creature human? Was it perching on something courtesy of an outsized talon? Or growing tree-like out of a bulbous clump of roots? Was it in an early or late stage of development, pre-natal or post-natal, or even post-mortem? Could it think? feel? Was it free? In pain? And were those black sockets seeing eyes? If so, did they want to see? Whatever was Scott thinking as he painted this </span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">rorschach-esque creature</span></span></span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">--or did <i>its</i> consciousness or unconsciousness guide him?</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRbG5jOU-EteKdUyfdx0pgpY4Xx2ovJ2DTw1EuLxNCPNvAVZoC53TTOheTU_DUymld_qfPy-YTG_zG6mnf4R2Gpx1Ekj2Uk3mrV36L3czKFiZPwlocZrJ5qNChnklLMAGRdDtrL165xkXOyYaPYG7RvXycke0caqmA09PhnKGusnzqTqX5wZSXE938A/s1878/fullsizeoutput_291b.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1878" data-original-width="1415" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIRbG5jOU-EteKdUyfdx0pgpY4Xx2ovJ2DTw1EuLxNCPNvAVZoC53TTOheTU_DUymld_qfPy-YTG_zG6mnf4R2Gpx1Ekj2Uk3mrV36L3czKFiZPwlocZrJ5qNChnklLMAGRdDtrL165xkXOyYaPYG7RvXycke0caqmA09PhnKGusnzqTqX5wZSXE938A/w301-h400/fullsizeoutput_291b.jpeg" width="301" /></a></div>The second one I loved immediately because of the serene face of the woman and her obvious love of the sphere in her hands, which I immediately understood as the head of someone she loved deeply. Even when I realized that I actually didn't know what she was holding, her tender and exclusive focus on it soothed me. And my positive feelings stayed intact even when I realized that the sphere seemed to be an outgrowth of the innards of her body. Despite this very strange possibility, her loving gaze kept me loving this painting.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonVieHrR7ZwYwK4QPfB_wORehe6ggIAwua89qVOhxU1MOUdk2cnxgGEZ0xqy1wd8kjug0KGAPty6U7MQqIcJGXX9L_-elZ13lLuU90tUALDVl6Os4B61P5H44MBxFbyX8HqCtg_8m3tqw3gJcZqg1KgNhFO-Q54AVC5zIM96oH4jXJLUKs2rYBFfPug/s1717/fullsizeoutput_2913.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1717" data-original-width="1267" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjonVieHrR7ZwYwK4QPfB_wORehe6ggIAwua89qVOhxU1MOUdk2cnxgGEZ0xqy1wd8kjug0KGAPty6U7MQqIcJGXX9L_-elZ13lLuU90tUALDVl6Os4B61P5H44MBxFbyX8HqCtg_8m3tqw3gJcZqg1KgNhFO-Q54AVC5zIM96oH4jXJLUKs2rYBFfPug/w295-h400/fullsizeoutput_2913.jpeg" width="295" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">The third one made me laugh, though it distinctly disturbed me. Was this figure with her Mickey Mouse-ear hairdo crazy or feigning crazy? Her eyes were open, I was sure, but was her gaze directed or blank? This painting more than the previous one seemed to have a story behind it: where was she--in some Bedlam-like institution? And what had brought her to this place and state? Whatever the case, she looked like she was about to spring, and I didn't want her to spring toward me.****<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKwndqwetxk0V9epSk3lEfXXjjvu0bAHNz6SJqISIFij_rzcaADakqjcICyXhuoP4WuUnU0pByzJk2uUfu8qBNhT393O1XAQnFnBT7ljXOFTdku7p1uGc9SSYucO7GRXopirSLQOnOVnJKGpszIfRM3razIMhcmzVeDoz-C8kseFPkCF9WDzRiA6Q8A/s1787/fullsizeoutput_2917.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1787" data-original-width="1341" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoKwndqwetxk0V9epSk3lEfXXjjvu0bAHNz6SJqISIFij_rzcaADakqjcICyXhuoP4WuUnU0pByzJk2uUfu8qBNhT393O1XAQnFnBT7ljXOFTdku7p1uGc9SSYucO7GRXopirSLQOnOVnJKGpszIfRM3razIMhcmzVeDoz-C8kseFPkCF9WDzRiA6Q8A/w240-h320/fullsizeoutput_2917.jpeg" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">Interestingly,
the model in this third painting is also featured in a much more representational painting
that Scott will also be showing in a couple of weeks. In it, she extends a confident, provocative sexual invitation--I love the forward slope of her right shoulder and the easy way her hand rests suggestively in
the black crevice in the foreground. She's one of the few figures in Scott's new work who gazes directly at the painting's viewer, perhaps because she is clearly seeking a reaction and connection, though she's sure to control whatever interaction follows it.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">But where are these figures, and where do they come from? Do they live primarily in Scott's imagination and then in our own after we encounter them? And if they emanate from inside us, or summon that which does, what answers to Gauguin's three questions do they suggest? </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85ZoAzqNfZ856qk3NuitJKLaz5YlLUknsoaC7J59NfE30zqenrkfpzmedQoWKlSoIwGYjoNDGwQSSSyDYDEwyar03KmRCSoekhQVM_jZZzQpE-Jvksr357-KKAAwVWuerEfJCZH0tqPABCuB4SMhBWkYUy1lgdsTpiUM9abFhZJCEodgL_XId9njK2g/s1957/fullsizeoutput_2934.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1957" data-original-width="1455" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh85ZoAzqNfZ856qk3NuitJKLaz5YlLUknsoaC7J59NfE30zqenrkfpzmedQoWKlSoIwGYjoNDGwQSSSyDYDEwyar03KmRCSoekhQVM_jZZzQpE-Jvksr357-KKAAwVWuerEfJCZH0tqPABCuB4SMhBWkYUy1lgdsTpiUM9abFhZJCEodgL_XId9njK2g/w298-h400/fullsizeoutput_2934.jpeg" width="298" /></a></div>I don't know, but in a number of instances, even when the central figure has no eyes at all, the painting's mysteriousness is soothing and familiar, shadowy rather than monstrous. One of my favorite of such paintings is monochromatic, soft, and gentle, somewhat domestic if abstract. I don't know what the figure is tenderly looking down on, tending gently, cherishing connection to, but the relationship between her and it seems real, intentional, and loving.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQMLvegAgHYhnXR_mMWRqD5j1PCXi_f20vQcvuolLLDLmdhZUecyxjv5_qp-xvqp_exx6ffwsw_Q9E2rHecJu1n70gLbgNoQYv-ckWSnI1XISMTyUsGI7HGb62NVaWoIikxN_zSWnlrFVs6oedZsYtDfMbbbEiBzfaW3BZ2DY-T__nfsgBg7ZE2BKzQ/s1750/fullsizeoutput_2915.jpeg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1750" data-original-width="1251" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVQMLvegAgHYhnXR_mMWRqD5j1PCXi_f20vQcvuolLLDLmdhZUecyxjv5_qp-xvqp_exx6ffwsw_Q9E2rHecJu1n70gLbgNoQYv-ckWSnI1XISMTyUsGI7HGb62NVaWoIikxN_zSWnlrFVs6oedZsYtDfMbbbEiBzfaW3BZ2DY-T__nfsgBg7ZE2BKzQ/w286-h400/fullsizeoutput_2915.jpeg" width="286" /></a></div>Similarly in this next painting, arresting with its vibrant red and blues, the Rapunzel-like figure--her black hair gleams red and then whirls around to become the glossy, swirling bowl-- seems to be relishing the evolving, circular presence taking shape against her smoothing hands and forearms. What exactly is it? It gleams like a bowl of glossy, sweet red frosting--which is perhaps the most naive way I might describe this highly inviting red hollow that conveys both fullness and a waiting to be filled. She and it together invite, despite--or maybe because of--her downcast gaze.</span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqvCk8g5MXvtkq-uttOD6PRRQ-qa-RZIYUVeuxrUrlHabIu-DQuM8fclERiXTkIWts-P6xqSItekp39L_slLHxVaCJaqUYLp6WnJd-Bf15TU5GCvV7W1Ftvk6F89CjMKqQz7kq9nxq8JU0Hzye3jy1WCVL_8riv3tYNRSYlr73p7wtYBtsTgSB2zXCA/s462/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-03%20at%2010.39.05%20AM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="462" data-original-width="328" height="145" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEqvCk8g5MXvtkq-uttOD6PRRQ-qa-RZIYUVeuxrUrlHabIu-DQuM8fclERiXTkIWts-P6xqSItekp39L_slLHxVaCJaqUYLp6WnJd-Bf15TU5GCvV7W1Ftvk6F89CjMKqQz7kq9nxq8JU0Hzye3jy1WCVL_8riv3tYNRSYlr73p7wtYBtsTgSB2zXCA/w103-h145/Screen%20Shot%202022-11-03%20at%2010.39.05%20AM.png" width="103" /></a></div></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">I'm also fascinated by her crossed arms: not only do they chastely </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">cover her breasts</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">, conveying a modesty that partners naturally with her voluptuous sexuality and fertility, but in terms of form, they suggest the eternal and the infinite, echoing the symbol for infinity. What is going on in this painting has always gone on and always will go on, in the world, and in painting. It's in Scott's paintings, and in Botticelli's.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbevetTipqP_rfteKca2CDZ3-sOqV95oVD0WjSdgjtymVKXt5NbpoiHrM2O-PGQffMY15-lKfFts7bPvqna_rmV2Sl3LLsM3yV0MrFtrNZWYJYqV-QtilycEM7X1lEU8X37KAH_mlZC1gH-bDJSynOgAlH6BV-urD9yN-ArtmsTke05sXMgpXho3OCvw/s3814/fullsizeoutput_293b.heic" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2965" data-original-width="3814" height="311" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbevetTipqP_rfteKca2CDZ3-sOqV95oVD0WjSdgjtymVKXt5NbpoiHrM2O-PGQffMY15-lKfFts7bPvqna_rmV2Sl3LLsM3yV0MrFtrNZWYJYqV-QtilycEM7X1lEU8X37KAH_mlZC1gH-bDJSynOgAlH6BV-urD9yN-ArtmsTke05sXMgpXho3OCvw/w400-h311/fullsizeoutput_293b.heic" width="400" /></a></div>And what's eternal, ongoing, and infinite is not just a content thing. On October 25 while reading the <i>Boston Globe</i>, I came upon a photo**** related to the celebration on Diwali, a national holiday in India, the day before. There was a beautiful, serene young woman, her headscarf gracefully extending along her arm, which lovingly curled around a flat, round dish holding many candles upon which her eyes gazed with so much pleasure. There was that same form, the product of the graceful circling, that I'd seen in various ones of Scott's paintings. </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">And do eyes <i>ever</i> not matter in terms of conveying emotion and thought, in terms of pushing the inner outward? Our human natures predispose us across time and space to </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">engage</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> with our own experiences and Gauguin's questions as we seek meaning. As we wonder and wrestle, others' eyes sometimes entreat us, sometimes inform us, sometimes excite us, sometimes dismiss us, sometimes baffle us. In response, our own eyes often reveal us, whether or not we want to be revealed.<br /></span></span></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamEsUhCQLC1VT6ssGjD0kZZ0mlu5tCqrIgn3ESwZmWXUaF6fgEhj7Ot9CzHthRQxoxFXKcAINgHE3ScMeYc8ULq4qQUIAlZuPB1Swu2fqGL_HshgpLNiW94enm9_rOTTz7gIW3DF2bH_ntQE1SkXyMMbYhn3Kac5X-AuLzhYDLuFpvXZyN1Tfq4FuIw/s533/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-24%20at%209.11.55%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="533" data-original-width="506" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjamEsUhCQLC1VT6ssGjD0kZZ0mlu5tCqrIgn3ESwZmWXUaF6fgEhj7Ot9CzHthRQxoxFXKcAINgHE3ScMeYc8ULq4qQUIAlZuPB1Swu2fqGL_HshgpLNiW94enm9_rOTTz7gIW3DF2bH_ntQE1SkXyMMbYhn3Kac5X-AuLzhYDLuFpvXZyN1Tfq4FuIw/w380-h400/Screen%20Shot%202022-10-24%20at%209.11.55%20PM.png" width="380" /></a></div><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">There's a lot to wonder about, and Scott's paintings, with their abundant light, darkness, beauty, and love </span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">served up with compelling ambiguity, fuel that wondering. Come see with your own eyes at</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;"> Scott's open studios***** (part of the <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.4thfloorartists.com/" target="_blank">4th Floor Artists Open Studios</a></span>).</span></span></span><br /><p></p><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;">* A madrigal composed by John Wilbye. </span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;"> </span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;">** Spring (Primavera). Detail: Flora on Arthive https://arthive.com/sandrobotticelli/works/536246~Spring_Primavera_Detail_Flora <br /></span></span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span><span><span style="color: #0b5394;">*** File on WikiMedia Commons. https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Botticelli-primavera.jpg from </span></span></span><span style="color: #0b5394;">http://www.googleartproject.com/collection/uffizi-gallery/artwork/la-primavera-spring-botticelli-filipepi/331460/</span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">**** The Boston Globe attributed this photo in its print edition (p. A4) to Biju Boro affiliated with Getty Images. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="color: #0b5394;">***** Scott's studio is located on the fourth floor of the Sandpaper Factory at 83 E. Water Street in Rockland, MA. Scott's web site is <span style="background-color: #cfe2f3;"><a href="https://www.scottketcham.com/">https://www.scottketcham.com/</a></span>. It should be updated with his newest work by Monday, November 7.<br /></span></span></span></div><p></p></div>Joan Soblehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01428565769358582476noreply@blogger.com5