The Garden of Words

Sigh. Refugeein' it to Wordpress.

Thu, 30 Dec 2010 22:19:40 GMT

Oh great and glorious Livejournal friends. I miss you. We never talk since that bitch Facebook started monopolizing my time. And then LJ went and started doing weird things with in-page ads and privacy policies. It's official. I've migrated all m.y LJ posts to Wordpress: okelle.wordpress.com. I'm on LJ less and less anyway. At some point, I suppose I'll have to up and delete my account here all together, but I'm in no hurry.

If you want to keep in touch, please email me -- it's my LJ username at gmail. Or look me up on Facebook. Or, better yet, join me ~~in the land of milk and honey~~ at Wordpress. I really am an immigrant over there, with no friends and no one to talk to!

[Additional Note:] As of March 2011, I allowing only current LJ friends to comment on this journal. Some hackers from Russia keep trying to nose their way in with spam and malware! Comment over at Wordpress if you would like to start a conversation.

A Gangster Wedding In Riga, by Elena Fanailova (tr Genya Tuovskaya)

Thu, 09 Dec 2010 20:49:42 GMT

A Gangster Wedding In Riga
Elena Fanailova

The sun was bright at the end of June.
I was walking with Lenny and the pianist Vadim Sakharov,
Nicknamed "Bird," taking a stroll
Behind Cathedral Square before going to a concert
(They were putting on Piazzolla's
Maria de Buenos Aires)

Coming toward us
Was a slow-moving group of heavy-set guys
In black suits, white shirts and sunglasses
With colored frames: red, yellow and green
Like clowns.
In the heat,
They wore heavy black suits
Well-made, single- and double-breasted.

And the bride
Was properly attired in a frothy white dress and a veil,
And next to her was the groom, one of those guys in black suits,
But he was set apart by one peculiar detail:
His right pant leg was rolled up
Exposing a white, nearly white freshly caved wooden leg,

He was walking
On a lime-wood crutch, hobble-hobble,
Like a fairy tale bear
In the bright, bright sun
Just like something out of a film by Fellini
Or Takeshi Kitano,
They moved toward us

And passed like a mirage,
Smiling,
Like sun stroke.

We walked a few hundred feet
And found ourselves by the river, we were looking
At the dusky river water,
It flowed so slowly and gently

There was a drowned woman
Floating face down

Two locals found her,
They weren't sure
About calling the police
And they didn't have a cell phone,
So they used mine

The police arrived almost immediately
But we had time
To get a good look at her black shoes
And her colorful A-line
Knee-length skirt
Only her face wasn't visible

She was lying face down
Rocking on the waves, like something out of a terrifying Russian
Fairy tale or the song
About cornflowers and Olya
Who perished from love

--tr. Genya Tuovskaya, The Russian Version (Ugly Duckling Presse)

Poem a day November - day 4

Wed, 10 Nov 2010 18:47:30 GMT

fate or concertinas - does it matter?
god or neurological - the miracle remains
can you hold the deep stillness
that observes and opens its heart
even as you return to the dance?

Poem a day November - day 3

Wed, 10 Nov 2010 18:44:00 GMT

in praise of the still, small voice
that does not speak with grasps
you at the crux of your bones
and moves you into the day
when moments ago you thought you'd
spend all day afloat
on the ocean-bob of the couch

in praise of cupcakes and clarinets
in praise of the white pines
looming curved and sap-dripping
pinned by the wings of Aphrodite
to the world

11/9/2010

Poem a day November - day 2

Mon, 08 Nov 2010 16:03:24 GMT

for Lee Ann

clothed in ink and wreathed in shadow
alien life pushing through the thread of your own
offer up a cup of parcels: poems, carrots, shrimp heads
-- chomp! -- it accepts
or expresses displeasure in endless nausea,
jolting you through the interior as you travel
the two worlds, inside and out

what witch's power lets you let it pass through you
without death but transformation?

Poem a day November -- day 1

Sun, 07 Nov 2010 09:43:29 GMT

Yes, I know I'm late. All I have to say about that is "fuck you, November." Although October was more of a bitch this year than November so far.

I'm more of a poet than a novelist, so I'm doing what some poets have started to do, which is write a poem a day in November instead of the insane marathon of a 10,000 word sustained narrative.

I fully expect this month's poems to be mediocre in quality. As Julia Cameron said, "rest on the page." A single haiku is better than silence -- at least in this scenario. If you want the good stuff, buy the chapbook. Assuming it's ever actually published.

still waters of the pond
turn the eye inward
leaves a carpet of yellow--
sun on the ground
turn the eye outward

Meditation Challenge: Day 8 of 28

Mon, 04 Oct 2010 14:47:22 GMT

Once a day and twice on Sundays. Yesterday I sat for 20 minutes in the morning and then 20 minutes after I got home from a visit with Mom. It was the first time I've done a meditation at night in this go-round. Very interesting to see the differences in the state of the mind between morning and evening. Took me longer to settle down -- actually longer to sit. Part of the evening meditation was also about re-settling after a day that involved lots of driving. Re-settling myself into my home and re-sanctifying it.

This morning I began Week Two of the program, which focuses on the body. Specifically, the teaching suggests that I focus on areas of discomfort or pain within my body. Relating how I approach discomfort, pain, not getting what I what, to how I relate to my own body's pain. It's a very powerful association but definitely a more challenging kind of meditation. Luckily, the teaching -- and my own mind and experience -- remind me to continue to be gentle and open. I move back and forth between focusing on my breath and returning to the area of discomfort. First the general area, then gradually honing in on the spot that has the most intensity of pain. Or sensation. This kind of meditation can be exhausting. So I begin, again and again. Return to the breath. Return to the sensation. The teaching even suggests focusing on pleasurable sensations as well -- but warns that it is easier to get lost in pleasurable sensations.

I do not think that attempting this challenge by myself would be a good idea if I did not already have some experience practicing meditation with others. It is so easy to become overwhelmed and lost in the mind. But also wonderfully rewarding to peel away the layers and find, finally, the Centered Self. The End of Desire. The bottom of the tackle box.

(Re)Commit to sit

Wed, 29 Sep 2010 19:43:07 GMT

Right around the solstice I started the Tricycle 28-day meditation challenge. Other friends of mine might do weight-loss challenges, but this is definitely more my speed. So to speak.

As the word "challenge" might imply, the course set out by the hard-core Buddhists over at Tricycle magazine was a little too rigorous for me. But I figured it was a good opportunity to deepen my on-again off-again sort-of daily practice of mindful movement and seated meditation into something a little, um, deeper. I may not be able to commit to 20 minutes a day of sitting still for the rest of my life, but at least I could commit to 28 days.

Tricycle's staff wanted me to sit for TWO 20-minute periods, morning and evening, and then dedicate two hours over the weekend to more sitting. Maybe that makes sense for a farmer or a delivery person, but I ALREADY spend far too much time with my butt planted in a chair. 20 minutes of doing it mindfully sounded possible, though, especially since seated meditation always inspires me to a more frequent yoga and/or tai chi practice too.

The first few days went pretty well. Then, on day 3, I started feeling like crap. Some passing physical symptoms kicked up the chronic illness and before I knew it a week had passed.

I got back to it last night. I was pretty emotionally raw and noticed that the practiced helped calm me -- but not just because of the practice itself but because of all the little bits and pieces I've learned about mindfulness practice over the years. This morning I sat again, and for the first time I saw the sitting as a gift I was giving myself rather than something I was taking away from more meaningful pursuits.

There is a difference, after all, between focusing all of my consciousness into the screen whilst typing madly with my fingers and hunching my shoulders... and sitting quietly listening to my body.

In terms of how to count the days, I decided to consider myself pretty much at the same place I left off last week. The 28 days are divided into four weeks of practice, with a focus that shifts from breath to body to mind to etc -- I'm trying not to peek ahead. So I'm still on the breath week.

We'll see whether I want to give myself the gift of 20 minutes of seated meditation tonight, or some other gift instead. Like a hot bath. Or another form of relaxation.

For right now, at least, I'm glad to be back on the beam.

Review: Wife of the Gods

Fri, 10 Sep 2010 20:16:09 GMT

Wife of the Gods: A Novel by Kwei Quartey

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

I found Quartey's description of the divide between city and country culture in Ghana eerily similar to the same divide that exists in the USA. At times lyrical in description, with excellence characterization. A story about real people in Africa, not just the latest political or natural disaster.

View all my reviews

Recipe for Drizzling - poem by Katrina Kostro

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 19:00:13 GMT

Recipe for Drizzling

Pick three dying daisies whose petals are still attached
Detach the petals and lay them
   on an olive green clay plate
Sprinkle powdered sugar over the daisy petals
   and tell them just because they have exceeded
   their time of living, they are not powerless
The poel is to lift up their self-esteem
Play old Bruce Springsteen; make it loud enough for them to hear
    so it's not as if he has died as well, but
    don't blast it, because the dead daisy petals are delicate
Have a cry
Collect your tears in a tall dark blue glass
Stop crying now
Sing along to a couple of Bruce lines, so the petals
    know you're listening too
Get an eye dropper
Dip it into the dark sea in the blue glass
Fill up the dropper
And drip a few tear-drops over the petals
    so it's as if they have been drizzled on
Turn off Bruce
The daisies will be angry
Tell them to treat others as they are treated
And it will start to drizzle outside

- Katrina Kostro
From Letters to the World: Poems from the Wom-Po LISTSERV
Richards, Starace, Wheeler, eds.

More about the WOM-PO LISTSERV:
http://usm.maine.edu/wompo/

Best answer to tensions between Muslims and Christians ever

Sat, 21 Aug 2010 18:57:25 GMT

I declare that I do not give a damn about sheep or fish, Arabs or Christians, the East or the West, Carthage or Rome, [...] Jerusalem or Sodom, Cairo or Saint Petersburg, Saint John or Judas, foreskin or anus, virgins or whore, [...] Apollinaire or Moutannabi, Nostradramus or Diop the Marabout.

For I, Badra, proclaim to be certain of one thing only: I am the one with the most beautiful cunt on earth, the best designed, the best developed, the deepest, warmest, wettest, noisiest, most fragrant and singing, the one most fond of cocks when they rise up like harpoons.

- The Almond, by Nedjma, p. 4

Also, an excellent and thoughtful review of the book that challenges some of its premises, by Moroccan writer and University of California professor Laila Lalami:
http://lailalalami.com/2005/nedjmas-the-almond/

August Moon Waxing

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 14:07:35 GMT

green acorns
pink slips into night
clouds take cover--seven pm

blessed cool
swim through the still-languid air
sweat graces the back

apples at the farmer's market

- Frances Donovan
8/19/2010

Then -- poem by Lesley Wheeler

Thu, 19 Aug 2010 14:05:53 GMT

Then

If my son is a lantern spilling light and warmth
throug the rose panes of his skin

if combustion is a chemical reaction involving oxygen
and if its byproducts are heat and carbon dioxide

if we also exhale heat and carbon dioxide
if we are fire, converting the molecules around us

if the flames banked all day leap in me at night
and if I am too tired to rise and write

if I carry the spark in me, conserving it,
but its bright engine keeps changing the fuel of my life

into ashes, ashes--if the first conflagration is over
and the long deep burn is underway

if I feed with my breath, if I burn hotter,
if I smother it, if I keep changing air into spirit

-- Lesley Wheeler
from Heathen

Note: Interview with the poet coming soon.

Return of the prodigal

Wed, 14 Jul 2010 15:00:45 GMT

Facebook has ruined my blogging habit. But there's more than that going on, of course. I find myself for the first time in years actually submitting my work for review by other publishers. Since self-publishing (without the stigma of its print predecessor) was what first lured me down the path that eventually led to a career in web development, this is a pretty major shift.

When I say that Facebook ruined my blogging habit, I mean it it more ways than one. Facebook, Twitter, and the whole social media phenomenon, made it easier to push out short blasts of speech -- snippets that might have formerly gone into the stew of a whole blog post prior. But even more than that is the sense that the Intartubes are a much more crowded place than they used to be. It was easy to sound a barbaric yawp over the empty moorlands of the Web in 1995. The actual chances of it being heard by someone I knew in real life were pretty limited; I was lonely anyhow and needed to find kindred souls -- and for some reason, while there were fewer souls on the Web back then, more of them were kindred. And finally, I was in my early 20s with a lot less to lose.

The older one gets, the more twisted and tangled and just... long one's story becomes, the more one wishes to exercise some control over which portions of it are available to the general public.

All that leads up to less blogging in the public sphere and more writing on paper.

I feel as though I've finally begun to make some headway in my recovery as a writer as well. It's been years in the making and it's been a slow and unsteady process, but it's happening. And I'm beginning to see how it dovetails with the other types of healing I've had to do. There's a bit about that here (Facebook link). Perhaps more about that later. Many thanks to Ren Jender, Toni Amato, Jen Hemenway, and Debbie Shore for the parts they've all played in this ongoing journey. There are others, but those are the names that come to mind right now.

And it's time to stop this particular bit of writing and move on to other things.

The practice of receiving

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 17:16:40 GMT

Receiving is a powerful—-and intimate-—practice, for we are actually inviting another person into ourselves. Rather than focusing on our own practice, or on our own virtue, we can focus on providing an opportunity for someone else to develop generosity. In spite of its complexities and entanglements, the moment of exchange is one of simple connection and opening. That moment itself is unsullied. For that reason it is said that generosity is the discipline that produces peace.

From "The Practice of Giving" by Judy Lief, Summer 2003
Tricycle's Daily Dharma

I finally got what this was about while learning qi gong. Receiving is always going to be difficult for a trauma survivor. The important thing is recognizing that and honoring that.

My natural tendency is to try to control situations by giving -- by pushing energy out. What I'm learning is how to protect my boundaries without overextending myself. And I've even learned how to discern situations where it is safe to receive. Army Guy's quiet generosity, the love and support of my friends, my mother's visits in times of need -- these are all things I've learned how to let into my life.

The notion that receiving gives someone else an opportunity to practice generosity is a powerful revelation. Relationships are a complex dance of giving and receiving. I can't always control the movements of my partner, or it ceases to be a dance.

Feed the hungry heart in Boston, Feb. 22

Tue, 09 Feb 2010 20:17:54 GMT

Reasons you should come to Feeding the Hungry Heart at Prose on Feb. 22 at 7pm:

1) It's all about the food. $15 gets you a vegetarian buffet of fresh, local food that will rock your socks off. Prose is one of the best restaurants in Boston, and $15 is an amazing deal. Dinner at Prose usually runs more like $40 a person

2) It's all about the writing. Our featured readers will rock the socks off of anyone who still has them on after sampling the buffet.

3) It's all about the community. Reaching Productions creates spaces that celebrate and support artists no matter what their level of experience. If you sign up for the open mic, you can expect people to applaud you. And that applause will rock your socks off.

4) It's all about me! I'm organizing this event solo. As the date gets closer, I get the "what if I throw a party and nobody comes?" jitters. Be a pal and show up just for me. And for the food, writing, and community.

It's also right on the 77 bus line out of Harvard Square and there's ample parking nearby.

RSVP on Facebook by clicking this link

Or, comment below.

Mother Lil's Jesus

Mon, 01 Feb 2010 14:29:28 GMT

"Try my Jesus," she said. "My Jesus is your Jesus."

She had the warm, rounded curves of a mature Jamaican woman. She wore white -- white tunic, white pants, a white head wrap. Her name was Mother Lil.

When I arrived at the store, the woman at the counter gave me a slim, hardcover book bound in green. "Have her read Psalm 23," I heard Mother Lil tell the woman.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want

I'd been raised on Bible verses. The Franciscans sang the entire mass, in a chapel suffused with Sunday morning sunshine. But what I remembered was Paul's Letters to the Corinthians. What I remembered was the dingy gray Cathedral where a fat Archbishop in a gaudy dress rubbed oil on my forehead and told me to go forth and be a soldier of the Lord.

The Franciscans were kind, but they weren't the ones who confirmed me. That fell to St. John's Parish. Sister Christine ran the Religious Education program at St. John's, and to this day I think she honestly believed every one of her little charges was going to grow up to be a drug dealer. She wouldn't let the girls enter the church without a skirt on. Once, she dragged me down to the thrift store in the basement, picked out some moldy old thing, and forced me to put it on over my jeans. The word "genuflect" still makes me think of her.

They still used the Baltimore Catechism in my CCD classes -- and that was in the 1980s. "What is the nature of God?" it asked me. And then gave me the answer in one paragraph. Even at the age of 12, I knew humans had been asking and answering that question since the dawn of time.

The Roman Catholics told me my body was dirty and bad. They told me I should be silent in church. They told me to marry a nice man who would take care of me if I submitted to him, but I knew how well that had worked out for my mother. And I loved my body. I loved other women's bodies. There was no place for me in that church.

Here, in the Hope and Love Botanica, on Main Street in Poughkeepsie, New York, I hoped to find the secrets of that other church. I wanted to unlock the faces of High John the Conquerer, of Yemaya and Obatala.

"What goes on here?" I asked the woman at the counter when I first came in.

"What goes on here?" she echoed. She raised her eyebrows at me, this young white girl in the cheap blazer and the high heels. With my Vassar education and my computer skills, I thought I could cut into the secret practices of a religion born of the slave trade like you cut into a stick of butter.

"Yes, what sort of tradition do you practice?" I asked.

"Well, we are affiliated wit' the church," she replied. And I had to ask her to repeat that, because the Jamaican accent, and the notion of the Catholic Church tangled up in this, this thing I wanted so pure and sacred and separate... I couldn't wrap my head around it.

"Do you teach classes?" I asked.

"We do spiritual readings."

So made an appointment for a spiritual reading.

And that is when Mother Lil handed me the Book of Psalms and had me read.

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures
He leadeth me beside cool waters
He restores my soul
He leads me on the paths of rightousness
For His name's sake.

Even if I should walk through the valley of the shadow of death
I shall fear no evil
For Thou art with me
Thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me

You prepare a table for me in the presence of mine enemies
You anoint my head with oil
My cup overflows

Truly, goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life
And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
My whole life long

As soon as I began to read, the tears leaked out. Pipes opened by a vision of a loving God -– a Father, even -- who would care for me like a shepherd.

But I couldn't--I couldn't. Not then, not for 10 years and more, could I open myself to such a Lord. That wasn't the Father I knew. He was a Father of vengeance and hate. He never told us the rules, the rules changed all the time. And the rules that he set for us... they made no sense. You might as well tell the Irish to stop eating potatoes, the things he wanted me to do, and stop doing.

Mother Lil never said I had to take the Father, though. She offered me the Son.

"Try my Jesus," she said, as I wept in the back room next to a table with a white candle and a bottle of fleur de lis. "My Jesus is your Jesus."

She settled into a trance after an opening prayer so filled with lovingkindness it wrenches my heart today to think of it.

"Someone does spiritual work," she said. "You do spiritual work?" And I nodded.

"The answer isn't in the books," she said.

I never paid her. She never asked for money, but I knew I owed it to her. I was living hand to mouth, right out of college, but nothing really prevented me from going back another day and dropping a $20 bill, a $10 bill, something, on the counter. The store is gone now. There's no counter left where I can drop that $20. And interest accrues.

Gifts always come with a price, even if it is not money. My price is ministry. Because I cannot pay her back, I have to pay it forward, all the days of my life. Dwelling in the house of the Goddess, under the eye of Obatala, child of Brigid, child of Athena, child of Yemaya, child of Oya, I pay it forward all the days of my life.

Sometimes the whirlwind follows me, not goodness and mercy. I am not the Lord. I am not the Lady. I am a child of the gods as we all are. Any power given to me is borrowed. It leaks out of an imperfect vessel. Given the chance to lead, I've sometimes led us into deserts, not green pastures. But even deserts have their lessons to teach. And still I pay it forward.

I send thanks to Mother Lil for that first opening, for that first answer that didn't come from books. I send thanks to Mother Lil for her Jesus, who is my Jesus, who is your Jesus.

Wow, Verizon, that's a record even for you

Sun, 31 Jan 2010 13:43:48 GMT

I'm not a big fan of kvetching, so I'll spare you the long, frustrating story about why I am no longer a customer of Verizon (the phone company, not the wireless company -- I still use VZWireless for my mobile service). Suffice it to say that the bartender who was serving me lunch the day that I terminated business dealings with the company was duly impressed. "I'd never want to get on your bad side," he said as he served me my burger.

I'm particularly proud of the fact that I didn't use profanity once during that phone call.

Like the abusive ex-girlfriend who keeps sending flowers, Verizon sends me little love notes all the time begging me to give her another chance. This last offer was almost too good to pass up.

Almost.

What was my price? A free Compaq Mini Netbook with commitment to a year's service of phone and internet, bundled at $69.99 a month. Plus taxes and fees. Plus fine print.

I was willing to consider it, so I called the bitch. Maybe she's really changed her ways. Maybe we could make a fresh start.

After two attempts to speak to a person (do you really want potential NEW customers to sit through three rounds of automated menus before they speak to a person?), a very sleepy-sounding lady in the Phillipines answered my call. And proceeded to ask me question after question. With the voice delay between Boston and the Phillipines, plus whatever medieval computer system they're running over there, I was on the phone with her for a good five minutes and had only been able to wrest the most basic information about the details of the offer.

At which point I repeated my reservations about working with Verizon. Did sleepy Maria wake up and realize she was in danger of losing a sale? Don't be silly. She proceeded to explain to me why it was that I had to submit to a five-minute questionnaire before she could answer MY questions about the service.

"Based on this one customer interaction, I'm having serious reservations about signing up with Verizon again," I said. "Can you give me a reason why I should?"

Sure, demanding. Sure, bitchy. But open to being convinced.

Her response? The free Netbook. Fine. I know how "free" offers work in business. Generally, you don't offer a customer or a sale something that's worth more than 10% of what you'll get in revenue. So I asked her for the specs.

"It's one inch thick," she said.

"I'd like the model number," I said. "Telling me you're giving me a Compaq is like telling me you're giving me a Honda. I need to know the model, and I need to know what's under the hood."

"It's powered by HP," she said.

"Can you give me the model number?" I repeated.

"It has Windows XP," she said.

Okay. I realize this is just a poor woman with a script in front of her, probably with mouths to feed at home. Maybe she was out a little too late last night and doesn't really want to be here. And she's got Verizon for her employer. I'm sure it's just as painful for her to work for them as it is for me to be a customer.

"Let me speak to your supervisor," I said. Taking her off the hook.

She places me on hold without even asking me to wait.

I begin to count. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand. I tell myself I can wait on hold for 60 more seconds.

And when 60 seconds came and went, I hung up the phone.

Verizon, baby, it's not me. It's you. I don't care how many expensive bouquets you send me, how many cars or computers you want to buy for me. Nothing -- and I mean nothing -- is worth spending the next 12 months dealing with this kind of crap. My time and good mood is worth WAY more than $300.00.

Kthxbai.

Care for the body, care for the soul

Tue, 26 Jan 2010 16:52:44 GMT

This quotation from the Daily Dharma illustrates my belief that the physical and the spiritual are inextricably connected. As we learn to honor the divinity inherent in our bodies and the physical world, the old teachings that denigrate women for their role in bringing us into this world fall away, and we can celebrate the sacred task both men and women play as gateways from the world of ideas to the world of forms.

January 26, 2010
Tricycle's Daily Dharma No Work, No Food

By some accounts, it was routine house and yard work that saved Zen Buddhism from almost certain oblivion. In the eighth and ninth centuries, Chinese Buddhist temples filled with monks who sought escape from military conscription, family problems, tax collectors, and indentured servitude. Sitting on a cushion and occasionally reading a Buddhist text were vastly preferable alternatives to the realities of outside life. As the story goes, it was Ch'an master Pai Chang who single-handedly came to the rescue. With his “no work, no food” edict, he immersed monks and teachers alike in the busyness of growing vegetables and performing routine temple maintenance. In this way, he revitalized life in the temple community and energized Zen practice. The temples bustled with daily activity, and any slackers were asked to leave. The energy created during communal work periods had a direct, dynamic effect on the monks' zazen practice and honed the teachers' skills. Even the quiet periods of the day were imbued with renewed meaning.

In practice centers today, when we sweep cobwebs from the rafters of the meditation hall or wipe spilled water from the kitchen sink, we are experiencing a vital, direct, and immediate connection to Pai Chang and all the teachers who followed him. With a stubborn but kindly persistence, our predecessors eventually reach every corner of our lives.

- Gary Thorp from "The Dust Beyond the Cushion" (Fall 2002)

(The Daily Dharma is a service of Tricycle Magazine. I have no connection to the magazine. I don't even consider myself a Buddhist. I just like the message in their emails.)

Olga's Birthday, by Rose Polenzani

Sun, 10 Jan 2010 09:58:51 GMT

These are song lyrics rather than a "pure" poem, but it's such a haunting song, with a meaning deeply personal to me as a queer woman, that I thought I'd share. Plus, it's been running through my head nonstop for the past hour or so.

Ever since they caught me with the sherrif's girl
My life's been a terror in the marketplace
Full of cussin' and full of screamin' and
Full of spittin' in my face.
My nights are filled with the phone's ring
From the lonely and from the hidden.
My dreams are full of one thing:
Marianna, underneath me.

And when the preacher comes,
Well that's the worst part.
"Oh, girl, you been a-sinnin'
If you want redemption then you'll listen.
Oh, girl, d'you hear the Lord say
He'll bring you Jesus for your birthday."

My old friend Beau's been coming around
Around 'bout three times a week now.
He calls me his baby
And I think I know what he means.
I say it's not that I don't like you
It's just I love Marianna--
Well I don't say that, 'cause I'm scared to
But I wish I wish I wish...

And what he says to me
When he thinks that I'm sleeping
"Oh, girl, hitch up your dress a bit
Come on and we'll have done away with this.
Oh, girl, well if I may,
I'll bring you Jesus for your birthday.

"I've found a way
Jesus will take you
So still you lay
His hand will break you.
And you will say
Halleluja!"

Ever since I've fallen under Jesus
I feel so closed up.
My heart it aches for Marianna
And I miss her, I miss her.
Sometimes I see her in the marketplace,
And I fall down, and they hold me down.
They think I've seen the Saviour's face
But it's only that I'm lonely.

And what she says to me
When I am dreaming
"Oh, girl, kick off your boots and shit
Come on and we'll be far away from this.
Oh, girl, well it's okay,
I've brought you heaven for your birthday."

Halleluja, Marianna.

- Rose Polenzani
Olga's Birthday
From the album Anybody
Listen to the song on LaLa

Dear NOW: this is why I'm not giving you any money

Sat, 09 Jan 2010 19:00:51 GMT

Dear NOW:

I wanted to explain to you why I am not sending a contribution in response to your recent U.S. mail solicitation to me. I have three primary reasons for not wishing to send you my dollars:

1) As a queer woman, I am uneasy about supporting an organization that has a history of marginalizing "the lavendar menace" from the feminist movement.

2) The overt fear-mongering tone of your letter ("Do you want animals and clowns teaching your children about sex?) bore a marked resemblance to the emails I get from the Family Research Council. I believe strongly that hope and compassion conquer fear and loathing. Nixon's campaign back in the middle of the last century appears to have had far-reaching consequences in the realm of national and local politics. One of the reasons Obama was so refreshing as a candidate, and why people rejoiced in his election, was because he ran on a platform of positive change rather than the fear and paranoia that marked the Bush administration. I expect the organizations I support to deliver the same sort of message.

3) I find that other organizations seem to be doing a better job of working for goals that I care about.

That being said, I am glad to see that you have joined the Web 2.0 revolution (hahaha) and will be following your actions via Facebook, Twitter, and email. I'm open to persuasion. So persuade me that your organization is still relevant and working toward the type of change that is in line with my own values.

Sincerely,

Frances Donovan

Lovingkindness is as important as transcendence

Thu, 24 Dec 2009 15:44:46 GMT

From the Daily Dharma. Is it possible that my early introduction to Buddhist philosophy was filtered through the lens of these American dharma teachers. As a pagan, I believe that this world, this physical existence, is a gift. I don't long for Nirvana anymore than I long for Heaven. The idea of a rest in the Summerlands between lifetimes does appeal to me, though. And I've experienced myself the suffering that comes from attachment, and the serenity and joy that follows surrender and radical acceptance.

Untie the Boat

When we first brought one of our teachers to the States, we asked him what he thought of the American dharma scene. We had started these different centers and were very proud of what had happened. He said that he thought it was wonderful but that sometimes American practitioners reminded him of people sitting in a boat rowing very strenuously, with great sincerity and effort, but refusing to untie the boat from the dock. He said we reminded him of that in our fixation on transcendental experiences to the neglect of a sweeping view of how we're behaving day to day, how we're speaking to our family members, how we're taking care of one another, or whatever. That's why I think it is tremendously important to continually open and expand our understanding of where freedom is and where the dharma lies.

- Sharon Salzberg, "The Dharma of Liberation," from the Spring 1993 Tricycle. Read the complete article.

http://www.tricycle.com/special-section/the-dharma-liberation-an-interview-with-sharon-salzberg

winter haiku

Wed, 23 Dec 2009 16:55:02 GMT

pale blue ice still soft
cold wind, burning exposed cheeks
alive again

Lone Cypress at Sunset, Dillon Beach

Mon, 21 Dec 2009 16:02:09 GMT

Lone Cypress at Sunset, Dillon Beach
Originally uploaded by momboleum

I've been nostalgic for The Homeland recently, probably because I often go to visit family there this time of year.

Open letter to Garrison Keillor

Sun, 20 Dec 2009 19:05:24 GMT

Dear Mr. Keillor:

I am writing in response to your recent article in Salon.com (http://www.salon.com/news/opinion/garrison_keillor/2009/12/15/cambridge/index.html), which excoriated my home church of First Parish Cambridge (Unitarian Universalist), and the Unitarian Universalist faith in general.

I have been a loyal listener of Prairie Home Companion since you first went on the air in the 1970s. I have always loved listening to the News from Lake Wobegon, the gentle and forgiving and open-eyed way that you described the imperfect and well-meaning individuals from a small town in Minnesota that seems to resemble your own. I listen to the Writer's Almanac every day. In many ways, your soothing voice and gentle words have followed me all the days of my life. I have dwelt in the house of public radio my whole life long. Your work has been a source of comfort and inspiration to me since I was a small child.

That is why your recent article was particularly dismaying and disappointing to me. I am not angry about what you wrote, Mr. Keillor, just very, very hurt.

In one of your stories, you describe a young man who is a dancer in New York City. In this story, you describe how much easier his life would be if he were desperately attracted to the woman who shared his apartment. But he is not attracted to women. You go on to say, "his life would also have been easier if he were a lawyer." Like that dancer in New York, that young man of whom you spoke with such affection and compassion, I did not choose to be the woman that I am today. I have, however, come to a level of acceptance about it, and to realize that I deserve to be treated with dignity and respect.

As I grew into a young woman, I discovered some things about myself that have been very hard for me -- and many people -- to accept. I am a bisexual woman, and I am a witch. Neither of these things did I choose for myself, anymore than I chose to be born in California and raised on the East Coast. These labels do not define me, but they are a part of my identity, just as much as my blue eyes and my talent for writing and my love for Prairie Home Companion.

After leaving the Catholic Church of my birth, and after many years of practicing my beliefs in private and seeking a spiritual home, I became a member of First Parish Cambridge. I joined a Unitarian Universalist congregation because it was the only church that would take a witch as a member. I discovered for the first time in my life a vibrant, organized, active community of people with deeply held beliefs that I shared. These beliefs and their creed may be different than yours, but they are beliefs nonetheless. They deserve to be treated with the same respect as those of mainstream Christianity, of Judaism, of Islam.

UUs care passionately about things like social justice, the inherent worth and dignity of all people, the interconnected web of existence, and the free and responsible search for truth and meaning. Do not mistake our aversion to written dogma for wishy-washiness. Wishy-washy people do not work for the survival of Jews in Nazi-occupied Germany (http://www.uusc.org/history). They do not face criminal charges to keep people from dying of thirst in the desert (http://www.uuctucson.org/index.php/social-action/no-more-deaths-no-mas-muertes.html). They do not face violence and death in their own houses of worship (http://www.knoxnews.com/news/news/local/knoxville-unitarian-church-shooting/).

You accuse us of having no creed. Our seven principles and six sources are even easier to understand than the Nicene or Apostle's creed. Here they are for your reading pleasure: http://www.uua.org/visitors/6798.shtml

One of the most hurtful things you said in your article, Mr. Keillor, was that Christmas is a Christian holiday, and that if we don't like it, we should go off and celebrate another one. Christmas is a part of my cultural heritage, and I refuse to abandon it to bigots and dogmatists. If you go back and read your history, you will see that most of modern Christmas traditions date back only to the Victorian era. Good Yankee Congregationalists and Calvinists like the Rev. Lyman Beecher refused to celebrate Christmas because there was no Biblical evidence to suggest that Jesus was born around the time of the Winter Solstice. Church reformers also repudiated the pagan origins of most of the Christmas traditions, including the Christmas tree, Christmas caroling, the exchange of gifts, and the Yule log. Modern Christians have similar protestations about Halloween (see here: http://www.christiananswers.net/q-eden/halloween.html)

According to many Biblical scholars, it's much more likely that Jesus was born in the spring. But there's already another big Christian festival at that time of year. Perhaps you've heard of it. It's called Easter (from the German Ostara), a holiday that, like its pagan predecessors, celebrates life, death, and rebirth with the coming of the spring. Easter is also full of traditions that date back to its earlier pagan origins. I, for one, am not going to deny my children the pleasure of an Easter egg hunt in the service of theological purity.

Religion, like all of human experience and culture, is constantly evolving. As a Protestant, you should be well aware of how much your version of Christianity differs from that of Rome. And religious tolerance has always been one of the bedrocks upon which American society has rested. Please don't fall into the same trap that Rev. Fred Phelps did (http://www.godhatesfags.com/). As a Christian who celebrates the birth of your Lord Savior Jesus Christ, you are no doubt aware of these words from the Book of Peter:

Finally, be ye all of one mind, having compassion one of another, love as brethren, be pitiful, be courteous. Do not repay evil for evil or abuse for abuse; but, on the contrary, repay with a blessing.
1 Peter 3:8-9

I will not repay your insult with more insults, but this blessing and this prayer: that you be treated with the same kindness, tolerance, and forbearance that all beings deserve.

Mr. Keillor, I am writing you this letter because I wanted to let you know about the long-standing relationship I have had with your work and your show. I realize that this is a one-sided relationship. You have never met me. We have never been friends. And yet we still have a relationship. I would hate to see that relationship damaged because of a few careless words. I find it difficult to listen to the Writer's Almanac these days. I'm not sure that I will be able to continue my support of Prairie Home Companion. I have done what I can to repair this relationship. I can only hope that you care enough about your fans that you will do what you can to repair it as well.

I wish you a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

In love and compassion,

Frances Donovan