I'M TRYING AGAIN

 It appears I haven't written a blog for three years.  Did I run out of things to say?  Me?  Never.  Instead, my spirit ran out of motivation to share my thoughts.  Here I am, a 78 year old woman, unable to walk alone, spending much of my life in a lounge chair.  I felt useless, used up, with little to offer to anyone.  

 I am blessed with a beloved partner who watches over and encourages me; a very special daughter who does the same.  Though their love and concern is deeply appreciated, being waited on and worried about, also results in feelings of being an invalid. Does that mean I'm now in-valid? I had been used to being capable, independent, a spiritual leader.  Now I don't drive, I can't walk, I sit and sit and sit.  I don't pursue hobbies.  I read; write emails and post on Facebook.  The political, social, and environmental issues swirling around feel overwhelming and despair is frequently close to the surface.  Well, as with my frequent falls, though I'm full of fear, I get up and keep on trying.  And so I will try to write, fearful though I am.

Recently I've been increasingly aware of white privilege, my privilege. Living in Santa Fe the past few years, where at least 3 classes and cultures co-exist--Native American, Spanish, and Anglo, I have felt it often. Each time we need something repaired at our house, the workers are Mexican or from further South. Spanish is spoken perhaps more than English in this community.   The workers speak little English and I know almost no Spanish.  I sit in my lovely home watching, as they work and sweat.  I feel guilty.  Can they afford to hire help?  Do "anglos" come to fix their refrigerator? 

 I attend a church which proclaims its inclusivity, which is sincere.  Almost no non-white people attend.  We use Spanish in some of the rituals anyway.  There is a small number of Native Americans, no black people.  Actually, there is a very small black population in Santa Fe.  Of course, people from other cultures have their own ways of worship.  Why should they want to attend a white protestant liberal church, anyway?  Do we attend their churches or houses of faith?  So no matter how well-meaning our efforts, white people remain at the top, intending to be "helpful", instead of examining within ourselves how we have participated in creating and perpetuating our own superiority.  Racism is not a black or brown problem, it is a white problem and only we, if we humbly examine our assumptions and attitudes, can make things better.  I'm sure I'll be writing more on this topic.

Thank you for listening!

Carol, Song of Joy

GOD IN THE DARKNESS

“Out of the depths have I cried unto you, O Lord!” Psalm 130:1

“Life is difficult”is the first line of Scott Peck’s classic book “The Road Less Traveled”. The acceptance of this reality is one of the great challenges of western culture.  The pervasive assault of advertising and marketing add to this challenge.  From birth to death it is nearly impossible to avoid messages persuading us of just the opposite.  Of course you can have “the good life”.  All you need do is: buy our product,  pay for the right school, drive a late model car, buy a large house in an upper class part of town, join clubs (including church) for maximum social exposure, dress for success, shop till you drop.  The messages that life is fun, sexy, beautiful, and easy seem ubiquitous.

Yet, life is difficult.  We slip-slide into this world from the safe and cozy womb, crashing smack dab into garish lights, irritating noise, cold air, and the first of countless stuffy noses.  And it doesn’t get a whole lot easier, in spite of the awesome wonder and joy of it all.  We bump our heads, we get nose bleeds, we cry in fear, want, loneliness, pain.  And even when life seems to be going pretty well, there are no guarantees.  Something will happen—a death, an illness, a fight, a misunderstanding, a job loss, a betrayal.  I was about  50 when I finally realized: this is the way life is.  Period.  There is no magic wand, though I have desperately wished for one countless times. No amount of wishing will change it. Perhaps my most significant experience of that occurred some years ago.

It was the fall of 1993.  My husband, Norris and I had gone to Michigan’s Upper Peninsula for a few days. We were reveling in the exquisite fall colors.  Then one evening our daughter called to say doctors had discovered cancer throughout most of my sister Ann’s body.  We were stunned.  I visited her in the hospital as soon as we got home.  Her face looked haggard and colorless.  She hugged me tight.  It seemed she would never let go.   She said she loved me.  She was afraid and so was I.  And our mother was afraid.  When we talked, she didn’t say much, but I could hear the strain in her voice.  I called our other sister Sandra, Ann’s twin, in Wisconsin and suggested she come.  She did.

A few nights later, at 4 a.m., our phone rang. It was my mother’s neighbor.  She had found Mother on the bathroom floor.  She’d had a stroke and was being taken to the hospital, the one where I worked as a chaplain.  

I staggered around trying to put on my clothes, but was soon lying on the bed, shaking and hyperventilating.  I couldn’t move.  I can not do this, I heard in my mind.  Norris asked how he could help.  I didn’t know.  Suddenly a voice within told me to eat a banana.  He brought it, I ate it, and soon  was revived enough to finish dressing.  Where did that knowing, that voice, come from?  Somehow I was not alone in the dark.

We drove to the hospital and found her in the ER, an unfamiliar image of her usual self.  Her voice was weak and wobbly, bloody abrasions covering one side of her face.  How could this shriveled up old woman  be my mother?  I remember asking Norris, quite sincerely, “Are you sure this is Mom?”

She had suffered a stroke affecting the left side of her body.  Mother was 84, had been a well adjusted widow for several years.  Again we were stunned.  Sandra, still in town,  arrived. Over the next few days we took turns visiting Mother in one hospital and Ann in another.  Mother couldn’t swallow at first and an NG tube through her nose and throat was threatened, followed ultimately by a feeding tube if the swallow didn’t return.  She adamantly refused both and within days began swallowing.  Her speech was clear, though she had difficulty expressing herself.  She could read only from the middle of a line to the right edge of the page.  Still, it looked like she would survive and perhaps have some quality of life ahead. 

The stroke was on Sunday.  Early Friday morning the phone rang again.  This time is was my brother-in-law.  He simply said, “Ann just died.”  WHAT!!!  They had already decided the cancer was too advanced to treat and she would go home with Hospice.  Again Norris and I drove in stunned disbelief to the hospital.  I looked at her body. It didn’t seem real.  She was only 56 years old.  I haltingly gave her a blessing, something I had done countless times before as a hospital chaplain.  But this was different.  This was *my* sister.  How could she be dead?  After a time of weeping with her family, we headed for the other hospital, stopping to phone a friend, an Episcopal priest, who agreed to meet us there.

How was I going to tell my mother that her precious daughter was dead?  Where would I find the strength, the words, to give her news that would break her heart?  I participated in this sort of experience with others frequently as a chaplain.  It was never easy.  But this was different.  This was *my* mother and a debilitated mother, at that.   As I sat beside the bed, my friend behind me, her hands on my shoulders, Norris beside me.  Somehow the words came out and then I laid my head on her body and sobbed.  Mother patted my head with her one useable hand.  Typical of her, she presented little overt emotion.  She, too of course, was in shock.  Later in my office we called others,  first reaching my remaining sister who had just returned home to Wisconsin.  Again, I had to give the news that would change her life forever.

Sandra returned immediately and somehow the words were said; somehow we lived through the days; somehow we had Ann’s funeral, a funeral our mother could not attend; and somehow the day after the funeral we sorrowfully admitted Mother to a nursing home—a place where she would be “incarcerated” for the next five and a half  years.  We’d had the presence of mind to add my name to Ann’s as Mother’s Durable Power days before Ann’s death.  And so in less than a month I lost a dear sister and was given full responsibility for my mother.

Where did I find the wherewithal to go through this?  Where do any of us find it when the dark times of life come?  And they do come!  Some of us don’t make it, can’t find that inner strength, and through no fault of our own, are broken by life’s tragedies.  

Still others, somehow find what is necessary to go on.  Such is the story of our friends, Joyce and John.  Joyce  was heavy with her first pregnancy when tests showed the baby had Down Syndrome.  She and her husband, John,  struggled with this awareness, but came to some measure of peace and acceptance prior to his birth.  When Bud was born, however, he had three heart deficiencies too serious for him to survive any corrective measures.  His parents brought him home with Hospice, aware that he could die at any moment.  Their hearts were broken.  How could they bear this agony?  What could they do other than sit and hold their precious son until he took his last breath? Months passed and Buddy still lived.  Finally, Joyce and John began to realize they could make a life with this child and they plunged into it full force.  Buddy couldn’t have been more cared for, more doted upon, given more access to resources to help him grow, more encouraged, more enjoyed.  He spread joy everywhere he went with his clear blue eyes and sweet smile.  All of us who knew him were thrilled at each new breakthrough in his development.  Buddy took a lot of work and effort.  Joyce and John made tough decisions.  Joyce would not return to work.  They would make do with John’s income.  Somehow they found the strength and courage to do it.  They also found a whole new community of friends, people who had children with DS.  They became involved in fund-raising for DS research and gave of themselves for the cause they passionately believed in.

Just before his 2^nd birthday, Buddy became ill with respiratory problems.  His parents decided against treatment measures that might not work and would be torture for their little boy.  On Valentine’s Day, Buddy breathed his last.  Joyce and John were devastated even as they gave thanks for the two years they had been privileged to be Buddy’s parents.  How did they go on?  Where was God in all this?  Why! The unanswerable and perennial question, why?  

God doesn’t use a magic wand, though we would probably all wish for that.  Yet somehow God seems present and offers guidance and caring even when we aren’t aware of it. God offers a Home in the darkness.

The Theatre and Me 

One of the questions my adult daughter has asked is why I was drawn to theatre. This really makes me think and wonder, looking back over the years--so many remembrances. 

Was it the smell of the grease paint? Or the magical transformation of a bare stage into an intriguing set? Was it the teamwork required in order to bring a production to birth? Or the excitement of sexual temptation? To this day, when I enter a legitimate theatre, the odor takes me back and my heart beats faster. 

I began college, in 1960, having only turned 17 the winter before. I was woefully unsophisticated and unprepared for being away from my parents’ strict control. Raised on the farm, I had never lived in a town, let alone a city. Central Michigan University had 4,000 students, which seemed huge to me. I felt terrified, lost and alone. 

Early on I had to register for classes. There wasn’t time to get my parents’ approval. The mail took too long and I couldn’t afford a long distance call. My decisions about everything had always required their permission. Now I was on my own. 

Unfortunately,my first dorm assignment was with three upper middle class girls from affluent Detroit suburbs--Gail, Barb, and Ann. “Your hair’s not right. Your shoes aren’t right. Your clothes aren’t right.” I felt their disdain from day one. Having no money, I couldn’t change even if I wanted to. All three belonged to Alpha Sigma Tau, an elite campus sorority. One day I heard Gail state, “Of course Carol isn’t AST material”. Well, I never wanted to be part of your snooty sorority anyway, I thought, wishing now I’d had the courage to say it aloud. 

At Elk Rapids High School, a small school in northern Michigan, I had been class salutatorian, earned several academic awards, and won a couple of beauty contests. When I left Elk Rapids, I felt pretty good about myself. But this college situation popped my balloon almost instantly. 

Feeling deflated, lonely and out of my element, at some point I found myself sitting in the back of Warriner Auditorium watching a rehearsal of “You Can’t Go Home Again.” I was transfixed. Later, when Tom, my first college sweetheart, performed in a small play, I knew what I wanted to do. 

Little by little, as I hung around on the edges, the drama students began to notice and befriend me. I felt like I had finally found a place where I belonged.  Most of the kids were more sophisticated and knowledgable than I was, or so I thought. I did a lot of listening, trying to understand what motivated them to be passionate about theatre. 

Before the year was over, I had changed my Major from English to Speech and Drama, much to my parents’ concern. They felt my choice wasn’t practical and they probably worried about the decadent atmosphere, real or imagined, of the theatrical world. There was some truth in their stereotype. Casual sexual liaisons, lots of drinking and partying, accompanied our hard work. 

Because CMU didn’t offer a comprehensive theatre program, I was limited in terms of actual stage work. Feeling I had little talent, I was reluctant to try out for parts in yearly productions. However, I  did perform in the chorus for, “Carousel” and “Finian’s Rainbow”, as well as being prop master for “Kiss Me Kate”. I also learned about costuming, makeup and direction. One of my proudest moments was when I was initiated into Alpha Psi Omega, the honorary drama fraternity just before I graduated. 

We definitely had some unorthodox relationships as Thespians. For instance, there was a student named Keith, very talented actor, singer, artist, writer, and charmer, who played most of the leading roles. 

Though Keith was married, most of the girls, including me, had crushes on him, which he didn’t hesitate to exploit. Somehow this attribute failed to bother us. While I wanted to be one his groupies, that never materialized. 

However, when he wrote an elaborate pageant about Native American history related to the Europeans’ arrival on the East Coast, he asked me to be his assistant, writing and editing along with him. I was delighted. We developed a real friendship, which lasts to this day. Incidentally, he cleaned up his act and is happily married to his second wife. 

I spent the summer of my junior year (1963) as secretary to the producer at Houghton Lake Playhouse on, what else, Houghton Lake, in north central Michigan. Gene was my professor at Central, I was in love with him and thus was deleriously happy when he asked me to help him start the theatre. Looking back, I realize I had an outstanding talent for attracting and encouraging married men with questionable morals, being flattered that they found me worth pursuing.  

That summer was a revelation to me. I experienced both beauty and kindness, exploitation and cruelty, and witnessed quantities of amoral behavior, sexual and otherwise. 

The theatre had a resident company and a “star” each week, as the plays changed. A play was performed in the evening while next week’s play was rehearsed during the day. This meant that all of us were exhausted most of the time. There were 8 performances a week and Monday was our only day off. 

And then there was our home, the lodge, which was about 3 miles from the playhouse. It sat large and impressive on the shore of Houghton Lake, as though important people had once summered there. I could imagine women having cocktails on the wide screened-in porch and children frolicking in the lake. But now it was abandoned, a weathered gray. Seems like everything about it was gray. Who knows how long it had sat deserted, a haven for mice, bats and all manner of creeping creatures. 

This was just the answer for Gene’s dilemma--where to put twenty-some apprentices, students and other staff like me, the playhouse secretary. And it  was dirt cheap. 

The Lodge had three stories, with bedrooms on the 2nd and 3rd floors, At one end of the main floor was a huge stone fireplace, surrounded by a motley assortment of worn living room furniture. At the other end was the kitchen--not that bad actually. 

Our first task was to clean, clean, clean, removing piles of debris, animal feces, spider webs, and grunge. Then we chose our bedrooms. None was elaborate, but I chose one of the few that was private. It reminded me of a monk’s cell, only not that nice. 

There was a small bathroom down the hall. The tub was so terminally filthy, none of us could bear to clean it let alone bath in it. It was definitely a summer of sponge baths. My mother-in-law used to describe these as washing down as far as possible, up as far as possible and finally washing ‘possible’. 

The lodge was well below road level and driving in at night you could see what seemed like hundreds of bats flying around. It was like something out of a horror movie. “Oh, my God, there are bats everywhere!” we girls screamed. 

Often when entering my bedroom I spotted one hanging somewhere in the room. I was terrified. The guys had told us girls that bats loved long hair and frequently got stuck in it. And we believed them! So I stopped each time I entered the room and checked for bats in every upper corner. Usually none were there! 

One night I went to the bathroom and found one hanging on top of the door jam. I would have to go under it to relieve myself. I froze. What could I do? Finally, nature’s call was so insistent I darted under it into the bathroom. Of course, it being a harmless bat, just hung there. 

In the beginning, we tried to organize our eating in order to have nourishing meals and stretch our meager funds. I made an elaborate chart, so we could share responsibilities. It seemed like a good idea at the time! 

However, being busy and often irresponsible young people, this system lasted about two weeks. After that, we fended for ourselves, meaning lots of fast food, erratic eating, and moldy leftovers in the refrigerator. I can’t remember who cleaned it, most likely me, but I’m sure it didn’t happen until the odor was nauseating. 

Putting 20 hormone-rich young people in the same house with no supervision meant there was lots of bed-sharing. One young man, the youngest of the group, managed to buy a bottle of cheap wine, discover an old candle and drag an ancient mattress into one of the unused 3rd floor bedrooms. He failed to seduce one girl after another, including me, until finally one came along who was impressed. Unlike many of us, those two stayed together the rest of the summer. 

For some reason, maybe to save our sanity, we decided to celebrate “Christmas in the Summer” on July 25. We fashioned some crude decorations, had a roaring fire in the fireplace, and sang Christmas Carols. As the caroling ended, Edward Everett Horton, that week’s star, sat in a rocking chair, wrapped in an old shawl, and told stories of his long career. A number of us sat on the floor at his feet, drinking wine.. He was elderly by then, but he had been an actor in films for years. We knew him as the voice of “Fractured Fairy Tales”, a regular feature of the Rocky and Bullwinkle TV show. Later, as I trudged up the wide staircase to bed, with a record playing “The Party’s Over”, I wept with joy at the beauty of our “Christmas”.

 Down the road was the Family Bar, where we often went for cast parties after performances. In that warm and friendly atmosphere, we ate, drank and played pool till all hours. 

Back to the theatre. It was in the round, bringing the audience close to the stage and to one another. Our first production, “Seven Year Itch” starred Cliff Norton. It was hysterically funny. The first night I laughed constantly. I attended subsequent performances, laughing throughout. Finally the frustrated director took me aside and explained that since I knew the play so well, I was laughing so loudly on the punch lines that they were drowned out for the audience. So embarrassing. From then on, I toned it down. 

Those were some of the good times. 

And then, well, there were other times. I remember when Gene sent me to the motel room of that week’s star, Hugh Marlowe, to help him rehearse his lines. Or so I thought. Hugh soon made it clear he had other expectations, which Gene had encouraged. I cried in embarrassment, explaining I knew nothing of this arrangement. Hugh comforted me, apologized for his behavior, put his shirt back on and took me to a bar for a quiet drink. That drink (which was actually illegal) helped to assuage my humiliation as I sat and talked with a kind and repentant old movie star. Naively, I remained loyal to Gene in spite of his cruelty and continued use of power over me. 

Another star was a “young old” movie star named Charlie Ruggles. I had met him a few years earlier when he crowned me Harbor Day Queen in Elk Rapids. Based on that brief connection, we built a relationship during his two weeks at Houghton Lake. It became clear early on that he would prefer a more intimate liaison, but I saw him as an elderly grandfather figure and we retained those boundaries. 

Finally the summer ended. Amazingly, I came home in one piece, to my parents’ great relief. 

A year later, when I was about to graduate from college, Charlie and I exchanged letters, in which I expressed my desire to move to New York, work as a secretary and hope for a career on Broadway. He wisely counseled me to stay in Michigan, become a teacher, get married and have a family. A little sexist by today’s standards? 

He said I’d be eaten alive in NYC, which was undoubtedly true. I followed his advice and got a teaching job at a Jr. High in Lansing, a city which seemed glamorous to me. My assignment, though, was teaching speech and drama to 9th graders, an appalling thought in my opinion. I reasoned that I could get involved with a local theatre group and that would be my saving grace. 

However, soon after moving to Lansing I fell in love with Norris Ingells, a reporter/photographer who knew the theatre world well. After we married I pledged to him, though he never would have asked, that I would avoid the theatre. Its demands on time and energy were too great. And with my history, I feared I might have an affair and ruin our marriage. 

Hard as it was, it felt like an authentic and appropriate decision. I never regretted it, but I never lost my love for the stage or that rapid heartbeat when I notice the unmistakeable odor of grease paint. 

“Hope is a state of mind, not of the world. Hope, in this deep and powerful sense, is not the same as joy that things are going well, or willingness to invest in enterprises that are obviously heading for success, but rather an ability to work for something because it is good.”
Vaclav Havel quote

I heard this quote yesterday and thought of it after I read a FB quote decrying Trump's dictator-like idea of a military parade. Happened to glance at the comments and was so disheartened. One woman said that was why she never listens to the new anymore. The other one said she pays no attention because there is nothing she can do about it anyway.

Friends, this is exactly the attitude Trump wants from us. Of course there is something you can do. You can send letters, you can speak out where appropriate, you can protest, you can VOTE. But you have to extend yourself a little and not just hide in a world of pretense. You must fulfill your RESPONSIBILITY as a citizen if you care about this country and want this democracy to survive.