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September 2011

Madelyn’s mail is being forwarded to our house from Bedford. One errant piece was delivered to a neighbor. He brought it down the hill waving it over his head, “I have a letter for Madelyn!” he called. I felt a momentary jolt. Had I forgotten something? Had I only imagined that she had died three months ago? Then I realized that he had received one of the many envelopes with the yellow sticker slapped over the address, the forwarding label.

Sitting at my desk, I sort through the growing pile of papers. The postcard from the Cos Cob Library announces a show of bird prints. Madelyn used to give poetry readings there. It’s been eight years since she left her home in Connecticut to move to a retirement community in Massachusetts but I now see that she had kept up with the events happening in her home of sixty years.

A flier from the Wenham Museum arrives with an order form for the 2012 Phillips Brooks Calendar, the one with the days of the week shown vertically rather than horizontally. For decades, Madelyn marked future events on these calendars. She saved every one as a record of her life. When a question arose about what year we vacationed in Small Point or the date of someone’s wedding, she’d say, “I’ll have to check my calendar.” Our vacations were recorded here: June 15, B and D away; June 23, B and D back. The events of the day she died are recorded in a shakey hand, an appointment with the eye doctor, a visit from her daughter. Brochures arrive from the organizations she supported: Trust for Public Land, The Greenwich Arts Council, The Humane Society.

I pick up the telephone and tell a voice on the other end of the line to take her off the mailing list. Madelyn O’Neil has died I say, that’s O apostrophe N-E-I-L.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” the person often answers. There’s a pause. Trying to make her feel better, I assure her, Well, she was ninety-eight. She had a good long life. But as I say these words it almost feels worse that she was that old; that there were so many years to grow to love her, to realize how she was woven into the fabric of my life. I’d known Madelyn for thirty-two years, the loss felt deeper because of that.

Back to the phone calls. I dial a number, press two for customer service. I say it again as if each time I say it, I am learning the hard fact myself. “My mother-in-law has died,” I say. “Please remove her name from the mailing list.”

Letter by letter, card by card, a life ends. Strings are cut and soon she will float free of any earthly connection. No mail in the box, no jolly pleas for donations, no statements from the bank.

For now I am kind of enjoying looking through the clothing catalogs that also find their way to our house with her name on them. I sit at the table with a cup of tea beside me and leaf through each one, looking at what is new for fall. Madelyn had a simple elegance that I always admired. “What would she have chosen?” I wonder. I realize that from now on I will often ask myself this question at the most unexpected times.

zinnias

There was a threat of frost last night. It's been chilly here. I considered rushing out to our garden to pick the rest of the swiss chard, the basil and the eggplant but what I really cared about were the zinnias. I risked leaving them there, knowing we are on a hill and frost usually gives us a break in the early days of fall, preferring the low lying areas.

My batch of zinnias made it through the high winds of Hurricane Irene a few weeks ago. A friend glanced over at them, "you'd better pick them before the storm." she warned. I did not.

Last night brought a freak cold spell surely to be followed by long, lazy, warm September days. How happy I was to see stems reaching to the sky this morning, undaunted by a little cold.

Zinnias represent summer to me. They can't be reproduced in a green house to my satisfaction. They look fake, the bright colors garish. But coming from a fall garden, the colors are electric next to each other. They have the heat of salsa, New Mexico, adobe, fire. They are hearty, lasting forever in a vase on the table, unlike other flowers that drop all their leaves and droop after a few days.

I will fill a vase with zinnias to take to my writing class on Monday. My elderly students at the retirement community look forward to the colorful flowers and lament along with me the week I come without them due to frost. They all had zinnias in their own gardens at one time and some still do.

And Madelyn loved them. I planted them for her. I made sure her room had that bright dash of color until the very last one gave in to the cold. This summer I have given bunches of them away to others in her memory. It's made me feel a little better.

An Afghan teenager's perspective on 9/11

Hi everyone! I thought something interesting to post around 9/11 is a speech by two of my favorite teenagers, Sajia and Sahra, who are both in high school at the Ethel Walker School in CT and were participants in Seeds of Peace three years ago, and in my dialogue group. They are there with generous scholarships, and are some of the only international students, and both felt like it was really important to speak at the school assembly on 9/11 and not just stand by. So here is their speech.

Love to family!

Speech on 9/11 from 15 year old Afghan, Sajia:

I am Sajia Darwish from Afghanistan. Me and my compatriot Sahra Ibrahimi want to offer our genuine condolences to the people of the world, especially people of USA who lost their beloved ones on September 11^th 2001. We all know this was a dreadful and horrifying attack on the World Trade Center where people from 115 different nations were working.

I also want to recognize that there were not only people from USA but also all around the world, so we can say this attack has been shocking and has left many people with broken hearts all around the globe and I know how it feels like because I have seen lots of events similar to this in Afghanistan, all the time. Thousands of my people have died there since the wars began. I would not be here if the US had not invaded Afghanistan, I might not even be in school. It is so complicated, and we are where we are, and I think we all need to start with love and curiosity, not hatred and fear.

I feel offended when people make stereotypes about Muslims after 9/11 and when they introduce Muslims as terrorists. These inhumane attacks had its effects on the people of the world beside USA and Afghanistan. I just wanted to clarify that Muslims are not terrorists and that Islam is not a religion based on war and terrorism but it is a religion that invites people to brotherhood. Osama bin Laden was not a Muslim. He was an extremist who changed the meanings of the holy texts. Afghans want peace, and our religion is a peaceful one. I am a Muslim but I am not a terrorist and we should know that there are extremists from every religion around the world and they can do every thing unless we stop them, unless we be united and work hard to keep the world a safe place for the human beings to live. So today let’s remember how complicated the world is, and the importance of compassion.

Seas of Peace part deux (aka this blog has been idle for too long!)

Noor and I, quite sunburned!



Staff of Seas of Peace at the helm of the Spirit of South Carolina

Hello! This blog has been inactive for far too long so I thought I would post some pictures from our adventure with our Middle East program this summer. It is secretly just an excuse to look at the pictures again, as you can smell fall in the air today, it makes me a little bit nostalgic for the hot summer sun. It also makes me excited for all of those going back to school, the ranks of which I am not for the first time in years! I love school because it allows us to be aspirational and to romp around and learn about whatever you want. Everyone should go back to school! But for now I am actually happy to not be, and am quite content with the work I am doing (and getting paid for a change!) for two conflict resolution organizations, one in Boston and one in DC. I've included the websites below if anyone wants to check them out.

Institute for Inclusive Security works on women's rights and increasing women's participation in peace processes worldwide
http://www.huntalternatives.org/pages/20_about_inclusive_security.cfm

CDA is a conflict resolution think tank that gathers research and makes recommendations to peace building organizations about how to improve their work
http://www.cdainc.com/cdawww/project_profile.php?pid=RPP pname=Reflecting%20on%20Peace%20Practice

And now pictures! Love to everyone!


Noa, Husny and May out on the headrig of the Spirit of South Carolina


Being on a boat is pretty much like having a group challenge during every moment of the day- bringing up the anchor, old school style included


Salma, Yarden, Melana and Husny hanging out on a deck box


Posing in our pretty blue t shirts in Portland Maine before we get on the boat

David (founder of the program) Carrie and Tim in stylish sun hats


Spirit of South Carolina coming into the dock in Boston after our voyage at sea!


No wind, so time for some pictures!

The Roof of Africa

Reaching Gilman’s Point on the Kibo crater rim didn’t feel like much of an accomplishment at all. Hands frozen and trying to grip the mug of tea the guides prepared for us, I squinted at the rickety sign indicating that I had reached the rim of Africa’s highest mountain, and Congratulations.

But without skipping a beat, my eyes turned westward across the giant crater rim. Along the narrow spine of a dinosaur’s back I spotted hikers slowly making their way. Pole pole - slowly - now more than ever as air was dry and painfully thin. I traced the tiny hikers around the rim until I spotted a cluster of them, and then a precipitous drop-off: the summit, I thought. There it is.

My stomach, devoid of any traces of appetite for five days now, turned inside of me. I stumbled around the people resting on the rocky stopping point to check in with each of my eleven students. None of them were doing very well, some unable to even respond to me, but still strongly indicating that they wanted to keep going. I briefly spoke with Makekei, our chief guide. Would it be a bad idea to take Jake even higher in his compromised condition? Would some of my students’ determination for the summit get the best of them?

“No,” Makekei reassured me. “Let’s go on, pole pole.”

I trusted him greatly. In broken English, he had mentioned cavalierly that this would be his 213^th time reaching the summit of Mt Kilimanjaro. He knows his stuff.

So I rallied the kids to push on. Some needed help getting up, most could no longer carry their daypacks and had to give them to our guides, a few couldn't speak clearly, but all had a glimmer in their eye indicating the unshakeable conviction that they could reach the top.

We stumbled our way around the rim. To our right, ash plunged down to the bottom of the crater, forever away below us. To our left was the last evidence of snow on Kilimanjaro – a dramatic cluster of ice skyscrapers.

“You bring your children, no more snow then,” Makekei warns me. Global warming is not disputable in Tanzania – it is right before their eyes.

As we get closer, the summit sign is no longer in view. Hikers descending – Germans, Australians, Japanese, and British – remind us that we are close and to keep going! One guide shakes my hand. “You are ten minutes – not ten minutes – from the sign! Kazi nzuri, dada, kazi nzuri!” Good job, sister, good job.

As we crest over one last small hump, there it is. A crowd of Kenyans are posing in front of it and shrieking. We did it. “You did it!” I remind students breathlessly, but most remain silent. We try to arrange ourselves in front of the sign and silently wait while the guides fumble with our fancy cameras. Most photos are off-center, blurry, and tilted. Forced smiles.

A quick glance around before we descend, and the reassuring feeling that there’s nowhere but down all around me. Altitude symptoms will only get better from here. Deep breaths await us at the bottom. A lumpy blanket of clouds covers the land below and Mt Meru pokes through to the west. Aside from that, it’s light blue sky all around. Quiet. The sound of my labored breathing fills my ears.

eat or be eaten

A woodchuck found our garden while we were vacationing in Italy. While we dined on Bruschetta and drank white wine from the Ligurian coast, it ate organic broccoli plants, swiss chard and parsley right in our front yard. Up and over the fence, no problem.

On return, Calley sensed its presence immediately. Every morning she tracked its scent, criss crossing the lawn and heading down to the stonewall. From her bed in the front hall looking out to the garden she watched with full attention, ears cocked, hour after hour.

Then it happened. This morning at eight am I heard a clatter of scratchy paws on oak floor and then the slam of the screen door. Like a flash she went from prone to vertical and was standing in the front yard with the woodchuck in her mouth. Hearing the commotion, I looked out the window to see this scene. I could barely stand to watch and finally decided not to. She was doing what we wanted her to do, but I didn’t really want her to do it. There was my lap dog, the companion who licks my hands and feet, who rolls over to have her tummy rubbed every morning. A killer.

A short bark at the door and she is back from the hunt. The dead woodchuck is slumped in a furry pile on the grass. I fill Calley’s bowl with fresh water and put it down for her. Isn’t that what anyone would want after having a mouthful of fur? Then I hand her a dry, dreary dog biscuit as if that is the proper reward for the real life prey/predator encounter she has just had. I don’t even make her sit before giving it to her. She seems above those little dog tricks now.

After crunching on her biscuit, she sighs and curls up on the kitchen floor watching as I cut carrots and celery and tender basil leaves for a vegetarian soup.

Thanks to Calley, the parsley, swiss chard and eggplant are safe for another day. Who says a dog doesn’t earn her keep?

directions

iPhone..........

or map?

I just enjoyed the view of Florence from our terrace in Fiesole.

Can you see the Duomo?