In the Sun’s hand

If I want to keep something or someone at arm’s length, all I have to do is analyze, intellectualize, rationalize.  But if I want to know it or her or him then I follow the advice of Hafiz.

You need to become a pen
In the Sun´s hand.

We need for the earth to sing
Through our pores and eyes.

The body will again become restless
Until your soul paints all its beauty
Upon the sky.

Don´t tell me, dear ones,
That what Hafiz says is not true,

For when the heart tastes its glorious destiny
And you awake to our constant need
for your love

God´s lute will beg
For your hands.

~ Hafiz

While in Savannah this last time, I was enamored with the sun.  Dappled light, clear light, magic evening light.  Here’s what I saw.

Walking a labyrinth

A St. Francis statue overlooks the labyrinth at Sacred Heart Monastery in Cullman, AL

Part of my celebratory mini-retreat last week included walking the labyrinth.  I discovered labyrinths over a decade ago at a workshop, and I was hooked.

Labyrinths aren’t mazes.  You simply follow the path in and then follow it back out.  For me, walking a labyrinth is moving meditation.  It’s a way to let go of thoughts and become more present to the now, to what is.  I’ve shared in this blog that I practice centering prayer.  That is a practice that has been very transformative for me.  The labyrinth fits under that “transformative” category, too.

I find that for people who say that they can’t sit still, walking a labyrinth is more attractive than sitting meditation.  It’s certainly in the meditative tradition and is a way to center, just as sitting meditation is.

This particular labyrinth is a Cretan labyrinth.  It is the most ancient design.  The other design you see is the Chartres Cathedral design.  The first labyrinth I walked was the Chartres design, and I found myself trying to figure out the pattern, how the quadrants were connected, and how it led you to the center by what seemed misdirection.  I had to walk the labyrinth many times before I could get away from trying to “figure it out.”  The Cretan pattern is less intricate with fewer turns.  But whichever pattern labyrinth you walk, the meditative effect is the same.

The entrance to the labyrinth

There is no “right” way to walk a labyrinth.  I feel that you’ll get what you need during the process.  But it’s helpful to focus and be present to the experience.  Some say you can use the walk in to the center as a letting go, a shedding.  Then you use your time in the center as just that, centering.  And finally you reemerge into the world on the path out, a kind of birth back into the world.  Some say you receive a gift in the center and bring it back into the world when you follow the path back out.

My experience has been that each walk is different, and that each one gives me what I need.  Sometimes I walk with an intention for someone.  Last summer I walked this labyrinth once with particular people in mind and their healing as my focus.  Sometimes I walk with gratitude as my focus.  Most often, though, I don’t have anything particular in mind.  I just try to be open to what the experience brings.

I find that lots of retreat centers have labyrinths.  And some churches do as well.  Some cities have them in public places.  But as this article and video explain, labyrinth walks can be valuable no matter your beliefs.  I find a labyrinth walk to be a calming, centering, contemplative experience.  If you’ve never walked one, keep an eye out and see where one shows up for you.

Then seriously consider talking a walk.  It may be just what you’re looking for.

Second Time Around: Cold Mountain

Cold Mountain is more than a second-time-around book for me.  It’s more like a 10th-or-11th-time-around one.  Yeah, some people think the book is boring.  One person even told me that “nothing happens” in it.

I wondered if he’d actually read it.

Because lots happens in it.  Like Odysseus, Inman is trying to get home from war.  In Inman’s case, it’s home from the Civil War – as a deserter.  He has no pretensions of being a hero.  He wonders if he is even human after seeing all he’s seen, doing what he’s done.  And getting home is indeed an odyssey, a series of life-threatening situations with a few little oases of rest and peace.  The oases are my favorite parts.  Inman’s time of enough food and deep rest with the goat woman, the evening of providing comfort to the young mother, and finally, his view of the blue ridges stretching into infinity as he nears home.

Inman is traveling to see Ada, who has her own hero’s journey after her father’s death.  Unprepared for a useful life, Ada needs Ruby’s wise ways to run a farm with no male help.  Ada is educated in art, music, literature but has no idea how to grow a crop or kill a chicken.  Ruby is uneducated in the arts but a scholar in subsistence.  The two teach each other.  Ada learns the most, how to listen to and read nature, to appreciate it as more than a still-life study.  And she ultimately embraces the mountains that Inman so loves, the mountains he is coming home to as much as he is coming home to her.

The stories of Inman and Ada alternate chapters until the characters come together in both person and narration.  I never tire of this novel because Charles Frazier writes poetic sentences of vivid description and realistic dialogue.  His observations are plumb and level.  Rereading Cold Mountain is a homecoming for me because I’ve read it so many times.  Like my childhood house, I can go into any room of it and know exactly where I am.  I can pick up a chapter like a favorite ceramic piece on my childhood bedroom dresser and turn it over, feel its smoothness, remember its past in my life.  Each chapter resonates because I see Inman, Ada, Ruby in myself.  They help me think more deeply, look more carefully, live more simply.

I never tire of them.  Each August, I feel the urge to pull out Cold Mountain once again and start my journey home with Inman.

I can’t say that about any other book.  That’s why I’ve chosen to respond to this Second Time Around prompt.  To tell you that Cold Mountain is the one book I can read again and again.  And have.

8 Things I Learned from Having Cancer

Today marks one year since I completed treatments for breast cancer.  I had my last radiation treatment on April 24, 2012.

So today is a day of celebration, as well as a day of reflection about what I’ve learned.

Here’s my list of learnings:

1.  I’m not as big of a coward as I thought.  When I got my breast cancer diagnosis in September 2011, I told a friend that I was scared.  She asked, “Of what?  Needles, pain, illness, or death?”  Well, yes, all of the above.  After eight months of treatments with a lumpectomy in the middle, I confronted, sat with, was present to my fears of all four.  And I survived.  I still have fears of all four, but they’re not as strong.  And I know that, after having been through treatments and surgeries and lots of stickings, I can endure the first three.  Death still daunts me.  But not as much as it did.

2.  We are all connected.  Well, I already pretty much knew that, but my cancer journey gave me examples.  I was on prayer lists all over the world.  The Iona Community in Scotland prayed for me individually and in the healing service at The Abbey.  Friends and family and former students from all over prayed for me, sent good vibes, helped in my healing through positive energy.  The Internet and social media and blog sites kept me easily in contact with folks.  And folks supported me with messages and in person.

3.  Health care is essential but its professionals are not infallible.  I had the illusion that people in the medical field were all very knowledgeable and caring.  The truth is, as in every other field, some are and some aren’t.  I’m grateful for the ones who are – and especially the ones who are both.

4.  I can ask for help.  I’m a person who is pretty independent.  I like to do things myself.  Asking for help doesn’t come easily, but I found that during treatments, I needed to ask for help from others.  Yes, sometimes I felt like a burden, but I found that people generally like to help.  And I sure appreciated the many ways people found to help me.  They got me through a tough time.

5.  The unknown may be good or bad, and worrying won’t help.  I used to be a big worrier.  Not that I’ve completely quit, but I worry much less than I did pre-cancer.  I often looked at the future with trepidation.  “What might go wrong?   How can I avoid that?”   Now I know that sometimes things go wrong, sometimes they go swimmingly.  Worry won’t change that.  My being in the Now and not worrying about the unknown is the best path.  And actually, “good” and “bad” are just words.  They don’t really mean anything.  Good can ultimately be bad.  And vice versa.

6.  I can let go more and more.  I tend to want to hang on – to things, to people, to ideas, to the way things are, to the way I want life to be.  Cancer told me that is the wrong approach.  Hanging on can make me miserable.  Cancer made me let go of the idea that I was healthy and pretty invincible.  It made me let go of my ideas about illness and recovery.  It made me let go of dread.  It’s making me let go of time frames.  Though I still find myself grasping, my grip is looser.

7.  We really don’t understand healing.  Why do some people heal and others don’t?  We don’t know.  Doctors know a lot, but they don’t know, either.  Attitude may be a part of it, but there are wonderful people with good attitudes who don’t heal.  Or at least don’t heal in the way we typically  think healing should work.  Perhaps we’re all on the road to healing – in myriad different ways.  I trust a higher power and bigger picture in that.

8.  Gratitude is essential.  Life on this earth is a gift.  I didn’t earn it.  So many things are beautiful, and each day is full of them.  I appreciate that much more now.

So today I reflect and nurse this stomach bug I have (a reminder of how bad I felt during the treatments?), and tomorrow I make a little retreat trip to one of my favorite spiritual places (if I feel well enough).  I have with me these eight learnings in this celebratory, contemplative time.  Namaste.

(Photos from my trip to The Pocket in Walker County, GA about 10 days ago).

Middle Georgia Tour: Central State Hospital

From down the hill, the Walker Building was pretty.

 

Our last stop in Milledgeville was Central State Hospital.  I’m going to let the photos speak more than the words in this post.  The link above gives you the history of the place.  At one point, it was the largest mental institution in the country, and it reflected the changes in how our country dealt (and deals) with mental illness -  both good and bad.

 

 

 

 

According to this sign, this building was originally the Male Convalescent Building.  It was built in 1884.  Georgia College, just down the road, was founded in 1889.  Lots going on in Milledgeville in the late 1800s.

 

 

 

The Walker Building

 

 

It’s pretty, right?  Trees blooming, red brick, interesting architecture, a beautiful spring day.

 

 

 

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But look more closely.  Broken windows, vines growing on the building.  It doesn’t show in this photo, but the roof is gone on much of the building.  I could see blue sky through the roof.

 

 

 

When I posted photos of my Middle Georgia trip on Facebook, these photos of Central State got the most comments.  People had memories of Central State or of family members who were sent here.

And I think many of us are fascinated with how “insane” people were treated years ago. 

And now.

 

 

 

 

 

On the building next door, the metal grating on the windows was obvious.

 

 

 

Across the pretty park-like space of the main horseshoe from the Walker Building is The Jones Building, the former hospital where patients (from Central State as well as Milledgeville) were treated.

 

 

The Jones Building

 

 

The “No Trespassing” sign adds “unsafe building and grounds.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Georgia State Seal somehow retains its color.  “Wisdom, Justice, Moderation”

 

 

What does Central State Hospital say to us now?  All of the buildings are not in disrepair.  Some are in use.  Actually many are.  But what about the ones in these photos? 

I don’t have answers. 

But I think pondering is good.

Middle Georgia Tour: Georgia College and Memory Hill Cemetery

Front campus, Georgia College

From Andalusia (yesterday’s post), my pilgrimage continued into downtown Milledgeville to visit the Flannery O’Connor Room at Georgia College.  We parked by the front campus and walked across to cut through the main part of the campus to the library.  There were, of course, lots of students on the lawn and even a class in session.  It was a perfect day, as you can see from the photo, and everyone apparently wanted to be outside enjoying it.  I spent four years on the campus more than 30 years ago, but from this view, it was as if no time had passed.  Front campus looked the same.

I just had to look over to my old dorm, Bell, and get a photo before heading to the library.  I spent lots of time in the rocking chairs on that porch, hanging out with friends, waiting to go to the dining hall, or just watching people come and go.  Spring was always a wonderful time on the campus because as youngsters, we had lots of energy and loved being busy and out and doing something, nearly anything. The porch was a great place to plan, to meet, to set off from.

But Bell was not our destination today.  The O’Connor room was.  I wondered if I could find my way there without having to ask directions.  I spent so much time in the library when I was in college that a kind of homing instinct kicked in.  We walked straight to it.  Well, actually we walked straight to the Georgia College Museum, which is where the library was (and is now right next door).

Bell Dorm, Georgia College

Flannery O’Connor Room

The Flannery O’Connor Room is very different from when I was in school.  It’s much larger and has much more to see.  Back then, it seemed about all that was there were the manuscripts and the self portrait Flannery painted of herself with a pheasant (I think that’s was bird it was).  Now there are photos, yearbooks, first editions of her books, a different painting of Flannery’s, a Barry Moser print of Flannery, her typewriter (the one at Andalusia isn’t the real thing).  And more.

Flannery O’Connor’s grave

From the museum, we went to lunch and then to poke around the cemetery.  Memory Hill Cemetery is at the end of Liberty Street.  I remembered  from my days in Milledgeville that it seemed appropriate that your body made its last trip down “Liberty” Street.  And I remembered where Flannery’s grave is – from the front gate, take the first left, and her grave is next to the front fence.  I didn’t remember that it was by a light pole, but it is.  Just in case you drop by to look for it.

I think every writer’s grave I’ve ever visited has had some memento left on it.  This one was no exception.  There were a scarf and some rocks (a couple with notes) and coins and rosaries.  I don’t leave mementos at writer’s graves, but I do like to stop by and pay my respects for their life’s work.

This cemetery is a pretty place with lots of old graves.  If I’d had more energy, I’d like to have looked around more, but my stamina isn’t great yet after the cancer treatments.  And we still had one more place to visit – the subject of my next post.

Cemetery monument

Middle Georgia Tour: My Flannery O’Connor Pilgrimage to Andalusia

Andalusia

I’ll begin this post with an admission.  When I was in college in Milledgeville, I thought we mainly studied Flannery O’Connor’s work because she was an alumna of the college.  I didn’t completely realize that she was a significant American writer until I taught English and found her work in every American literature textbook, along with any textbook I considered for Advanced Placement English Literature and Composition.  And when I started teaching O’Connor, reading and parsing her stories every year, more than once a year, I could see that she was indeed a master of the craft of the short story.

View from the front yard of Andalusia

I’d been to Andalusia, her family dairy farm, when I was in college.  I think it was the Literary Society that got to go to the farm on an outing.  Whatever the group was called, it was a bunch of English majors, and we had a nerdy, English-majory scavenger hunt.  What I remember from the hunt is that glycerin and caramel (we found those under a shed) stood for Glynese and Caramae, and there was a sweatshirt similar to what Joy Hulga wore (was the whole scavenger hunt based on “Good Country People”?  Maybe?).  We didn’t get to go inside the house, though, so this pilgrimage now would let me see the interior of the house for the first time.

The day we visited was a perfect early April day, clear, crisp blue skies, bright green new growth everywhere.  I was excited as we turned at the small sign and went up the drive to the house.  It had to look very similar to what Flannery’s guests would have seen when she was living there.  I could imagine her and her mother, Regina, hearing a car coming up the drive and being happy (or not) to have guests.  Flannery had such a rich assortment of friends who went to Milledgeville to see her.

On the front steps of Andalusia

We followed the signs and parked in the back and then found our way to the front door.  It was such a treat for me to walk up the steps to the porch, knowing that so many people of whom I’ve read had taken that same route and had opened (perhaps) the same screen door.  I’ve visited many authors homes and graves over the years – 30 or 40, I think – and I always find it meaningful to be in the same place that they were, even though years or decades or centuries later.  My friend and I were greeted warmly by the tour guide and foundation director, and we talked about our favorite O’Connor stories and what we each found interesting about Flannery.

The house is much as it was when Flannery lived there with her mother.  A few rooms have been changed to accommodate tours and a selection of items for sale and an office, but most of the house is unchanged, and people visiting Flannery and Regina would have seen much of what we saw.

Flannery’s bedroom

Flannery’s bedroom was the front room downstairs, a living room or sitting room converted to her bedroom because the steep stairs were too difficult for her to negotiate with her crutches.  She had lupus, and that’s what brought her home from Connecticut, where she was living with Robert and Sally Fitzgerald and their brood of children.  This converted bedroom was the room that interested me the most.  I was wanted to see where she did her writing, getting up and working on her stories or novels each morning, crafting them into the well-constructed pieces that they are.  I was surprised to see that she wrote with her back to the front window.  I’d have done the opposite, writing facing the window so I could gaze into the trees and horizon.  But the tour guide said she wrote with her back to the window so as not to be distracted.  I guess it shows in her stories and novels, because they’re full of characters who do not get distracted!

After touring the house, we nosed around the grounds a bit.  There was the water tower, a couple of barns, the Hill House where the farm caretakers used to live.  But where were the peafowl?  Flannery was famous for her love of peafowl and other birds and always had several peafowl (sometimes many) on the farm.  We finally spotted their pen not far from the back of the house.  The tour guide was heading over to feed them, and we hoped that Manley Pointer, the peacock (named for the Bible salesman in “Good Country People) would put on a show.  Alas, he did not.  But he and the peahens, Mary Grace (“Revelation”) and Joy Hulga (“Good Country People”) were still beautiful.

Andalusia also has walking trails, and if we weren’t headed to the college and cemetery for the rest of our O’Connor pilgrimage – and if I had more energy – it would have been fun to walk the property and see the settings for so many of Flannery’s stories.  But we had a full day planned, so we said goodbye to the farm and got back on US 441 for the drive into downtown Milledgeville.  I’ll tell about that part of the pilgrimage in my next post.  But even if we hadn’t gone anywhere else, I was full of O’Connor and happy to see where she’d lived the last years of her short life.

Middle Georgia Tour: Visting Brer Rabbit

Brer Rabbit Statue in front of the Putnam County Courthouse

From Rock Eagle it was on to see Brer Rabbit.  We got back on US 441 and drove south to Eatonton.  Those 30 years ago, I always enjoyed seeing Brer Rabbit out front when I drove by the Putnam County Courthouse.  So I wanted to stop there for a photo opportunity.

We parked and went to the statue for some photos, and then we got back in the car to find the Uncle Remus Museum.  It’s a few blocks down 441 from the courthouse in what looks like an old log cabin, which is actually made of two slave cabins.  There is also the Turner wing, which has artifacts from the Turnwold Plantation.  I was pretty tired by the time we arrived at the museum, so I wasn’t as engaged as I would usually be, but I did enjoy the shadow boxes with wood carved figures from the Uncle Remus stories, Brer Fox and Brer Bear and Brer Rabbit and their friends.

There’s a Brer Rabbit Statue there at the museum, too, the same “model” as in front of the courthouse.

After Eatonton, we continued south to Milledgeville for the evening.  And a Flannery O’Connor Day was our next day.  But that’s the next post.

Brer Rabbit and me.

Middle Georgia Tour: Rock Eagle Effigy Mound

Instead of driving straight to Savannah this time, a friend and I took a couple of days for a side trip through Middle Georgia.  Much of this side trip was a return to familiar places from my past, some 30+ years ago.  Back then I’d take US 441 from Athens down to Milledgeville to pick up my sister, who was a student at Georgia College, and she and I would ride home together.

Madison home

So last week, my friend and I got off I-20 and took a little trip into Madison for lunch and to look at the beautiful home theres.  Though I only took this one photo (because this house looks so much like the Federal style homes in New England), Madison is full of historic homes and is worth taking the time to look around.  When I’d drive through 30 years ago, I didn’t venture off the main road.  Well, you certainly need to do that, because there are many beautiful homes that are not on the main drag.  It’s a really pretty town, especially in the spring.

Rock Eagle Effigy Mound

From Madison, we drove down 441 to Rock Eagle, just north of Eatonton.  I grew up hearing stories about Rock Eagle because my mother was a Home Demonstration Agent, and they had many gatherings at Rock Eagle, especially 4-H ones.  It’s still a 4-H center and is home to the Rock Eagle Effigy Mound, which was my interest.  I like to visit sacred places, and this definitely was one.

My hands and the top of my forehead started tingling when we headed around the mound toward the observation tower from the parking lot.  I’m sensitive to energy, and this place sure had it.  There are theories about the mound and its purpose, but honestly, they’re only theories.  My experience says it’s a sacred place which was holy to the Native Americans who built it.  It was a place of energy that I could feel.

Spring view from an observation tower window

The observation tower was built by CCC workers during the Depression and is a pretty as well as a useful structure.  From the top of the three-story tower, you can see the mound and its eagle shape.

The red bud and dogwood trees were blooming, and the stone tower windows made for a nice frame for the early spring scene outside.  Though the eagle effigy is surrounded by an ugly chain link fence and isn’t impressive from the parking lot (my friend said, “That’s it??!” when she first saw it), it’s worth the short trip from 441 to see the effigy mound and observation tower.

Especially if you pick up energy from liminal places.

St. Patrick’s Week in Savannah, GA

St. Patrick’s Day is a big event in Savannah.  Last year the estimate was a quarter of a million people watching the parade on Saturday, and a million enjoying the festivities that night.  I’m going to give you a pictorial taste of the week for me.

All of the fountains were dyed green for St. Patrick’s week.

Green fountain in front of Christ Episcopal Church

River Street fountain with Irish green water

Forsyth Park Fountain with Irish green water

Fountain in LaFayette Square (by the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The red bud trees and azaleas were in full bloom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

People started claiming their spaces the day before the parade.  I took a walk at about noon and realized I’d better claim a spot if I wanted us to be on the front row for parade-watching.  Some folks had their chairs tied together with locked cable.  Others were less secure.  I went with the less secure version. . . . duct tape.

Lots of Irish flags flying in the city

The St. Patrick’s Day Parade – which was on Saturday, March 16th instead of the usual 17th because in Savannah there’s no marching on Sunday – involved mostly groups walking or marching.  Bands, pipe and drum corps, military groups, Shriners, Irish families.  The highlight for me was the Budweiser Clydesdales (this group is based in Merrimack, NH, really close to my sister’s house).  It’s a leisurely parade, and the participants interact a lot with the spectators.  Everyone is laid back and having a good time (at least on the family end of the parade where we were, at Abercorn and Gaston).

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Forsyth Park area calmed down immediately after the parade.  Since I’m not into big crowds with lots of people drinking all night – plus I was tired – I don’t have any photos of the big party down in the River Street and City Market areas.  THAT’S where the party always is.

River Street the next day was still hopping, but there wasn’t a party atmosphere, just folks out enjoying the afternoon.

Savannah is always a special city, but it really puts the green on for St. Patrick’s Day and is an especially friendly, fun place to be.

River Street on actual St. Patrick’s Day, 2013

Forsyth Park