women's lives

As Women's History Month winds down, it's worth remembering Elsie Robinson again, whom I first met in Allison Gilbert's "Listen, World!", chronicling her largely forgotten life and story.

I can't help wondering how many other remarkable (by any standard) if unheralded women remain largely invisible, unrecorded, and unheard in the past and the present. Educated and un-. Public figures and private. Must women rise to prominence and fame in order to be recognized and celebrated? Those who have certainly deserve the accolades -- sometimes bestowed reluctantly.

Women have also long drawn upon deeply rich inner lives as well as their own and others' experiences of the world. We find records and expressions of these in boxes, discarded in thrift stores, in the everyday. We find them on our walls, in drawers and on our shelves.

Women's lives are reflected in their fine and folk art, rough and refined crafts, needlework and samplers, textiles and both family and art quilts. Recipes passed from one generation to the next. Beloved stories requested nightly or at holiday gatherings. (Tell us about....) Encoded in the folds of a fan. Found scribbled in the margins.

As curious observers, we find women's lives captured in old photos. Who took them? Who's in them? Where were they taken? When? Who is prominent? Who is absent? Are there gaps in the photographic record? What are these silent historical images telling us?

This is one reason I loved facilitating workshops and groups for women -- and men -- to have their say. While they had the chance. Many arrived thinking they had little of interest to share, to put down in writing. I'd set the table...and stand back.

Women make history every day but, for now, the privilege and responsibility may lie solely with us women to recognize and elevate one another's stories, to support and encourage different voices. To listen. To invite them to the table...and stand back.

Allison Gilbert reflects on Robinson and women's places throughout our history here: https://www.cnn.com/2023/08/14/opinions/women-history-smithsonian-archives-elsie-robinson-gilbert/index.html

the eyes have it

Question: How do you mark the passage of time?

Answer: Check the font size.

I hadn't realized just how long it had been since regularly dropping by here let alone adding something to the conversation. Until I noticed not the date but the sudden, surprising enlargement of the type I was selecting. However, that wasn't evident to me until I took the long view back where teeny tiny type once filled the page. This time around I hadn't thought twice before clicking Medium to suit myself.

The last time I noticed a change was decades ago when I accused book publishers of shoddy printing and poor quality control. How else to explain the blurry text? Enter reading glasses.

No, I take that back. It was this past year when I cracked open a paperback bought at a library book sale a couple of years prior and couldn't comfortably read it...or any in the stack it came from, even wearing glasses. Enter an e-reader with font control.

I give. Put me down for medium.

time changes...what, exactly?

 

I've just re-discovered this draft...three-plus years after the fact. I trust that no one had been waiting for it to land, but I offer it today for whatever one gains from looking back. Perhaps some perspective. Other than that, I'll let it speak for itself...and wish you exactly what you most need and want as this year unfolds. It's 2024, by the way.

Spoiler Alert: We survived.

+++ 

sun's setting on 2020

I consider it a good sign if I've had a good laugh before 7:30 in the morning.

Case in point: Caught the end of this morning's local news program with some mention of an asteroid...missed the story but one of the anchors commented that given 2020, the prospect of an asteroid might give us something to look forward to. I hear ya, sister.

It's been that sort of year, hasn't it? Our individual lives might be different in many ways (and places), but we've undoubtedly shared 2020's turmoil if only by association. For instance, I don't know anyone who's had to deal directly with Covid 19 but my heart's been with the millions who've been affected by its pernicious reach. It's been a year of extremes, stark contrasts, deep divisions, and yet moments of kindness, grit and grace...enough to give this well-worn heart hope. Hope and perseverance.

I certainly do not minimize anyone else's pain, loss, and personal experience, but I've been temperamentally suited to the pandemic restrictions which have only encouraged my introverted nature. I've also largely been spared the wrenching losses and separations so many have and are still experiencing. Writing, Zooming and texting all suit me. (Phone calls not so much since I much prefer to see people's faces -- unmasked, unfiltered, if only on my screen.) And I've felt enough anger, outrage and sadness these many months to last me a lifetime. Still, this homebody by nature has done okay. For someone who considers herself to be impatient though, I think I've also tapped an inner reserve of patience and expect to keep drawing on that for the next several months at least. Yoga helps. Hope you all have whatever reserves you need as well...in the broadest sense.

For me, it's also been a time for learning as so much has gone remote and easily accessible (to those who have the ability). I gave a Zoom poetry workshop a try. It didn't take, or maybe I didn't give it as much of a try as I might have. Been reading like mad -- fiction for escape and non-fiction to explore my many blind spots. That's been humbling. Lots of public talks/presentations/events via Zoom -- me listening, not doing the talking for a change. Lots of writing, however sporadically. I've also just finished what has become a ritual or tradition of creating a photo calendar for close friends and some others I know could use some TLC each year. There's plenty of need to go around this time but I've identified a few who are coping with some truly life-altering situations. I can't do much but I can do this. 

 

I toyed with a different visual theme this year but came back to what I can uniquely offer. My coastal setting here boasts lovely vistas, spaces to breathe, and beauty -- both quiet and tempestuous, so I keep returning to it. My hope is that each month's image might provide a scenic respite for the mind and soul, if not the body. (Although I'll bet that contemplating beauty in any form affects the body as well.) Oh, and I learned to cut my own hair! (Good enough for now, but no photos.) Ain't YouTube great?

It might be apparent that my interests have long included grief and loss, transition, and change, but it's not all serious here, folks. I can still laugh at myself...probably will when I re-read this (Taking yourself a bit seriously, Karen?). However, this is my December 2, 2020 morning take, fueled by only two cups of tea. Be glad I haven't had more...

I hope your holiday season, however different if not difficult this year, is filled with a deep appreciation for what all we still have, for what we're getting through together, and a celebration of the direction and promise that light in the darkness gives us. (Yeah, guess I do take myself seriously...)

 

Wishing you the people (pets too), places and purposes that sustain you...and remember, there's always that asteroid to look forward to.

silence

I've made attempts to pick up again, even if only to determine why I haven't been back. These are bits and pieces for a post that never came together. Nothing stuck, and three years later...

2017 musings: working draft that ended up published

There's white space. There's absence. There's breathing room. Then there's silence.

How to account for the years passing without comment here? There's no accounting...thus no account. Sometimes years pass without noticing or at least without noting.

2011, hmm? Six years and change. Right, six years and a lot of change. None of which made it to these pages.

No excuses, no false promises, no particular expectations...maybe a toe in the water today?
_ _ _

I once changed jobs, extending my commute to about two hours a day. That quickly became tiresome but the only two places I'd consider moving to were the city or near the ocean. Both would have been reasonable commutes but not affordable. Instead I found a quiet, old apartment -- with a deliciously deep tub and a fireplace -- accessible to the city by subway and two miles from a beachfront promenade. I settled in for years of a blissfully short commute, but after too many years on the road, no visits to that beachfront, and some major upheavals, life got ahead of me.

Time passed.

I moved here five years ago -- a few decades, various homes and what feels like many incarnations since that initial dwelling -- and only recently did I remember my long ago desire to live by the ocean. Can it really be that all things come to those who wait? Who knows, but today I live in a beach town, three minutes' walk to the sandy shore and a never-ending ebb and flow.
_ _ _

...then life took over and this thread remained unfinished. Maybe.

March 2020: And now a new forum has emerged. Same voice. Different place. Different take? Perhaps. We'll see. Come on over to the slow lane.

hemming

One of my least favorite chores is hemming. I was going to call it a pastime, but that is reserved for pleasurable occupations. Not so for me if it involves needle and thread, much less measuring and accuracy.

I decided to finally hem a pair of uber comfortable pants this afternoon. I've generally rolled them at the waistband to clear the floor and my shoes because I only wear them at home, but that makeshift arrangement has worn thin over time. It's become a hassle so it seemed that a one-time effort to correct the problem would save me aggravation down the line. With that I gave in despite my general dislike for the task and pulled my minimal sewing kit off the shelf. I grabbed my mom's sewing supplies as well.

I don't think I've opened her collection of threads, needles, pins and assorted paraphernalia since I brought it all back with me when I closed up her apartment nearly six years ago. Still, I've kept it all.

She sewed, mended, repaired, and quilted. She seemed happiest when her hands were occupied, especially doing something worthwhile. I never knew how she could do more than one thing at a time, but somehow she was able to follow a TV show while deftly negotiating the intricate patterns or straight lines of her needlework.

Maybe it was handling the mundane tools that my mother used so often. Maybe it was the music in the background as I dutifully measured and pinned. Maybe it was the in-and-out repetition of the needle followed by a long drawn out pull of the thread to make each stitch. Maybe it was the quieting of the day as the sun set ever so slowly until dark. Maybe it was my hands resembling my mother's working at that simple chore. Maybe it was suddenly noticing that I was enjoying myself.

Imagine my surprise when I realized that this had been the best part of my day.

missed

I wanted to capture a moment the other day.

A blizzard had begun overnight and the view at 7 a.m. was ethereal. No sunlight had made it through the quiet cover of dawn and the wildly spiraling flakes. It was as though a fog had fallen, creating a muted dove-toned world ~ surfaces and shadows in shades of white and gray.

The birch tree loomed larger and more majestic in its mantel of thick snow; once-bare lawn furniture invited me to sink into frigidly plump cushions, the table in front of them now a gigantic ottoman.

I knew I wanted to take a photo but couldn't postpone going to work, so told myself that I'd come back to it in a couple of hours.

Two hours later the snow pack was breaking down, the air had lightened a bit ~ the gossamer veil lifted. The lawn chairs and benches looked stripped ~ their padding drooping or fallen away. The birch seemed to have shrunk.

The moment had passed.

How many times have I said, Later, only to find that time didn't stand still...later becoming too late?

long time no see

So where have I been? Living life and sharing that with friends and family rather than commenting to the world at large. No judgment there, simply a natural re-direction of energy and attention for a time.

Ending one chapter and beginning another can be satisfying ~ and consuming. The transition between the two is what lies between old postings. Much of life happens in the betweens and so many observations and musings never made it here during that phase, still...

Sometimes simply living the narrative without narrating the living is enough.

I'm sure there will be more to follow. Good to be here again.

porcelain

It has become my Sunday habit to tune into The Curse of the Golden Turnip on WGDR (community radio from Vermont's Goddard College) ~ a gardening show that friends introduced me to a couple of years ago. I discovered New Dimensions, which follows, the first time I listened here at home, and now the two are part of my weekend ritual.

This week I listened to an interview with Susan Moon, author of This is Getting Old: Zen Thoughts on Aging with Humor and Dignity. She made several points in telling about her own life and her mother's as well, but the following particularly caught my attention.

This, no doubt, because I've noticed it as well: Women become invisible as we age. Moon said that gray hair is like a fog, and that others stop taking note of us. My graying pattern is that of my maternal grandfather ~ silver at the temples and framing my face ~ but my wrinkles and jowl line (former jaw line) belie the initial impression of a younger self, and I can see my mother's hands when I look at my own. Still, I'm not sure when I began to notice teens and young adults barreling by me on the street as though I weren't there. Blame it on the self-centeredness of youth occupying whatever space they're in, but I'm like an apparition suddenly appearing in their way. I wonder how much of it is the pressure to fit into the group, however, when I catch the eye of one of their numbers silently acknowledging rather than looking through me. Or does that covert glance mean "Alien life form detected!"? Don't worry, I come in peace, but no deference here: I can take up my own space very nicely, thank you.

But it was another observation by Susan Moon that captured my imagination. She described that invisibility as translucence.

I wasn't much older than those adolescents when I began to collect for what I called my hopeless chest. Others had their eyes on marriage but I was focused on my first apartment and life on my own, so no hope chest for me. I acquired a set of stainless steel pots and pans and I toyed with the notion of real china. It was my mother who schooled me in identifying what she called "porcelain" or "bone china" by its fine, thin shell through which you could see the shadow of your hand. That implied quality but also frailty, and I came to equate translucence with delicacy, fragility so chose a set of dishes that were sturdy, had weight and substance, and that I liked.

My stainless cookware has survived over forty years of erratic use and will likely serve me as long as I need it, but those durable dishes I bought with youthful optimism...unfortunately they broke into large shards when dropped and became heavier to wield over time. It seems that strength endures but appearances and heft don't equate with longevity.

My stoneware shattered, but I've since learned that bone china tends only to chip if treated with care. One turned into trash or remainders passed along to strangers; the other might have gained patina and become a treasured favorite filled with memories. I could have been happy with my first choice: porcelain or bone china, if only in a tea set. It turns out that I've seldom sat at a table for meals but have consistently and quietly had tea every day, so I'd have been well-served by honoring my early impulses toward something both beautiful and unexpectedly long-lasting. (No regrets, but interesting in the long view.)

There are inevitable challenges and physical frailties that emerge as we age, but there is also no denying that we acquire a kind of tensile strength in the process. The stresses and strains that might show in our faces or knees are capable of building an inner resilience not obvious at a glance. Firing strengthens.

The fact is that we all become a bit chipped and worn with good use ~ and bad, of course. We might not command the same attention from strangers, rather appreciating the genuine favor of friends and loved ones. Aging doesn't mean sitting on a shelf and being trotted out on special occasions; our lives are meant to be lived and well-used. Although parts of me display signs of growing older, there are also beauty and refinement in becoming well-worn.

What others often don't recognize in older adults is their strength and resilience, tempered by life itself. We can see it in luminous old faces, chipped and crazed with fine lines...if we look. We can hear it...if we listen. It's their translucence that lets the light shine through.


Read an excerpt from Susan Moon's book at the Shambhala Sun web site.