The Red Sox aren’t as dear to my heart as those Bums were, but if you live around Boston you gotta care. Last night’s game was miserable from start to finish. As the Sox were losing, I was reading Sonia Sotomayor’s marvelous autobiography, My Beloved World. Tonight’s game starts at 8:30, too late for me to stick with until the end. I’m slowly creating distance and getting back into silence, solitude and simplicity.
It’s hard to get back into silence, solitude and simplicity when everyone I see is wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap. How can I ignore Major League Baseball in October when I have vivid memories going back to the Brooklyn Dodgers? My grandmother was the most ardent of fans, yelling at Duke Snider through the TV: ‘Duke, you need glasses.’ She was primed in front of our black and white TV, the daily major league standing cut from the NY Times on the table in front of her, waiting to hear ‘play ball!’ She didn’t have a TV in her Brooklyn apartment so she was often with us in Connecticut for important ball games. I remember, however, talking with her on the telephone after the Dodgers finally won in 1955. She and my aunts and uncles were going out to celebrate on the streets of Brooklyn.
The Red Sox aren’t as dear to my heart as those Bums were, but if you live around Boston you gotta care. Last night’s game was miserable from start to finish. As the Sox were losing, I was reading Sonia Sotomayor’s marvelous autobiography, My Beloved World. Tonight’s game starts at 8:30, too late for me to stick with until the end. I’m slowly creating distance and getting back into silence, solitude and simplicity.
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A few days ago I posted about Assisi but I have more to say because today, October 4th is the Feast Day of St. Francis and this year Pope Francis, the first pope to have chosen that name, is there to celebrate. The citizens of Assisi must be particularly elated as plans were made, satisfying hopes and dreams. I was in Assisi in 2004 on the very day that Pope Benedict was elected. It was early evening and my friend and I stepped into a bar to see if the white smoke had risen from the Sistine Chapel. Indeed it had, and the TV was just announcing that Cardinal Ratzinger, a German, was the new pope. The owners of the bar, husband and wife, looked disgusted, turned off the TV, and went about closing up for the night. On the street outside a little nun, all by herself in the middle of the street, clasped her hands in gratitude. She had a ‘papa’. Although my daughter and I only spent twenty-four hours in Assisi, I find that with each visit I feel a closer affinity to this little town on the hill, this hometown of St. Francis, this town that calls out to us to care for the earth, the animals, the poor. I sense that everyone who visits here, everyone who lives here, loves St. Francis. Many are Roman Catholic and of course one sees many Franciscan monks and nuns. But there are also the rest of us who, with our own thoughts about saints, know that St. Francis energy can only benefit us and the world. It’s already affected Pope Francis. I sleep while the city remains awake. That’s the way it’s always been with me, from my earliest memories. This morning at 6:30 I lay in bed deciding that I would walk up to Piazzale Michelangelo, but when I opened the windows and shutters, all I could hear and see was rain. Ah, but I have an umbrella, so off I went on an early field trip in a combination of rain, drizzle, or no precipitation at all. I took these pictures between 7:15 and 8:30. Then I stepped into my neighborhood church, Santa Trinita, for a bit and when I came out, there was sun and blue in the sky and people on the street. But, my longing for silence and solitude had been nourished. The Arno in the drizzle I have discovered an outdoor writing place—I Giardini Boboli. All so simple. The main entrance to the Gardens is via the Pitti Palace and that means long lines, even with my Amici Degli Uffizi pass. But walk past the Pitti and ecco, an entrance just to the gardens. And yes, the attendant accepted my pass. At the moment I am sitting on a little stone bridge along one of the hundreds of paths that make up this labyrinth of a garden. As I mentioned previously, I left my journal at home, so I’m doing all my writing on my MacBook Air—light as air and fits in my backpack. In case you missed it in a previous blog, or who knows, in case I didn’t explain it very well, I have rented an apartment in Florence for a month. I’ll be alone for three weeks before my daughter joins me for last six days here and then three in Rome. This city isn’t new to me. I’ve been here at least twelve times, with my parents, my mom, and alone. My love for Florence started when I spent my junior year of college here way back when such programs hadn’t really started, and when most women age twenty didn’t travel alone. My parents and I wrote letters and on Christmas day they called from the States. Cell phones weren’t even a thought. This was my first extended journey into solitude, and believe me it was immersion. Sure, sometimes I was lonely, but that’s not what I remember. I remember learning to be independent. I remember walking the streets, visiting the museums and churches, reading, living in a pensione, and trying to speak and read Italian. In retrospect I realize that it was here that I developed my love for solitude, a love which I fostered as a child with all my solitary play, but which came into its own that junior year, a year that I am repeating now in some ways during these three weeks. I glad I’m independent, and no, I’m not a bit lonely. No way!! When I was teaching kindergarten, Robert Fulghum came out with his spot-on book, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten.” Now that I’m retired I’m thinking that I might write a sequel entitled, “All I Really Need to Know I Learned on my Daily Walk.” Actually, Fulgrum’s list for kindergarten relates beautifully to what I experience every day. Let’s take the first leaning: Share everything. Yup, sharing is being played out on the front lawn of a house right down the road. On a table, with a big sign that says, “Farm Stand”, is a vase of flowers and an array of tomatoes, all for the taking, no charge. And so yesterday I took: one flower for the patio, and one tomato for our salad. Today when I go by I’ll Play fair and leave a thank you note. This is giving and receiving at its best. It’s all I really need to know. Here’s Fulgrum’s list of all he needs to know. Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life - learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work every day some. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out in the world, watch out for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the Styrofoam cup: the roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the Styrofoam cup - they all die. So do we. And then remember the Dick-and-Jane books and the first word you learned - the biggest word of all - LOOK. Sunday has always been a different kind of day for me. When I was growing up it was a breakfast of boiled eggs and Thomas’ English muffins, church, Sunday dinner with roast beef, lamb or chicken, and then my older sister and I had to do the dishes together!!!. The rest of the day was mine, free with built in solitude. We all had to stay home, no friends over. (When I was in high school I went to youth group at church.) The best part of it all was that we were in charge of our own supper--whatever was available, and whenever we wanted it. My menu never changed: Wheaties, sliced banana, brown sugar (lots), and milk, and an English muffin with butter in every nook and cranny. Although over the years much of the routine has changed, but get-your-own-supper never has. I still love banana and brown sugar, although I’ve switched to Cheerios. This Sunday afternoon of easing off of obligations, be they cooking or suppertime conversations, satisfies my longing for silence, solitude and simplicity. I live in a country-like suburb about twenty-five miles from Boston: farm land during colonial times. Word has it that Sudbury encompasses the largest landmass in the Commonwealth. As I’ve shown on previous blogs, the walks I take from my house are quite idyllic, so you might conclude that they are also quiet. I don’t want to exaggerate the noise but suffice to say, I’ve given up counting the number of lawn-care and garbage (excuse me, waste-removal) trucks that chug past me. Thank goodness, at least for the safety of walkways. A quiet walking spot, however, is the expansive cemetery just beyond the Unitarian Church at the town center. I go there with a friend whose husband is buried close to a tree that the family planted. It is a peaceful place for both of us. While my friend sits and remembers, I walk and remember—friends, spouses of friends, a dear teaching colleague, and a second grade student. Sad for me but seemingly peaceful for those buried there. Strange how that is! Flowers along my cemetery walk I now have my mom’s knitting bag. It’s sitting by my chair, just as it sat by Mom’s chair over the years. Her knitting is still in it, just where she left it the last time she picked up the # 2 needles to work on the blue ‘owl’ baby sweater, size 0 to 3 months. That’s all she knit during the last years of her life. Always for the sewing group, which raised money to give to organizations helping the needy. Up until the last year of her life, Mom would faithfully go to the meetings every Monday afternoon. Someone would pick her up, and although she always took the bag with her, toward the end, she didn’t do much knitting. To celebrate her 100th birthday her knitting group friends planted a tree at her assisted living facility. They loved her just sitting there smiling while they knit away. I’m not certain what I’ll do with the bag. Maybe it will stay by my chair to offer silence, solitude and simplicity. After all, that’s what Mom always gave me. Along with the unfinished owl sweater (including needles, instructions and tape measure) is a folded obituary of one of the sewing group members. She was young, only 79, when she died. Mom had 22 more years being with her knitting friends every Monday. Walking along Goodman Hill Road today got me thinking about the students that I taught over the years. As I photographed some of their houses, it felt like half of them lived on right on that road. Of course that isn’t true. Those teaching years were not silent, solitary or simple. The best I could do was get up early to fit in a little centering time for myself. Now these students are grownups and I have to trust that they are doing what they can to get a little alone time each day before their busy life of job and family begins. I’m hoping that one in particular (not from Goodman Hill) is taking a little centering time. This evening Scott Nix will be sworn in as chief of police in his hometown and mine. I’m mighty proud of him. He was a caring, humble, confident, conscientious second grader, and from all accounts he still has those qualities. In my last blog I wrote about the open-air memorial on Copley Square to the victims of the Boston bombing. When I was there, it felt that it had sprung up from the heart of every visitor and that that love continued to tend it day after day. I now have some more information about this phenomenon. I quote from the First Parish of Sudbury Unitarian Universalist 327 Concord Rd., Sudbury, MA 01776 newsletter. The words are those of Interim Minister Rev. Tracey Robinson-Harris. (For the full text of John Millspaugh’s reflection go to http://www.uuworld.org/life/articles/285333.shtml) “The Rev. John Millspaugh was on Boylston Street recently. He writes, In front of a shuttered storefront, three small white wooden crosses stood with elegant simplicity, each bearing the name and picture of one of the three victims who died on April 15. . .adorned with ribbons and paper hearts, mementos and religious figurines . . . Because the police’s physical investigation was drawing to a close and Boylston Street would soon reopen, DPW workers were relocating the objects from the impromptu shrine to a larger one in Copley Square. At first, we passersby simply watched the DPW men as they loaded . . . items into their white van. Gradually . . . we flowed past barricades to help them with their holy labor. . . Both spectators and DPW workers seemed hesitant to remove the three wooden crosses standing alone on the granite sidewalk. “The DPW official in charge, noticing the clergy garb John was wearing from a Standing on the Side of Love rally supporting immigration reform earlier that day, asked him to say a few words before the crosses were loaded and the shrine dissolved completely. John’s prayer ended with, “May we all be the rebuilders.” John continues. “One of the DPW workers spoke softly to the official, who then turned to me and asked if I would carry Martin Richard’s cross to the van . . . I can’t describe the feelings that surged in me as I lifted the memorial to this 8-year-old boy. Sorrow, humility, and reverence for the sacred privilege come close. The destruction of that day cannot be undone. But it can be answered. Already we are busying ourselves with healing. . . There is much to do on a symbolic level. I’m beginning to ask myself how to move beyond the symbolic. I’ll be searching for ways to answer the destructive acts of these two individuals with actions grounded in my own highest values. I’ll be looking for ways that we, together, might re-consecrate sacred ground. In the midst of our joy and our sorrow may we be (re)builders of the future. In faith, Tracey (For the full text of John’s reflection go to http://www.uuworld.org/life/articles/285333.shtml)” |
Contact me: bobbifisher.mac@mac.com
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