Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 32

Sicily: Arrival

At the gate, leaving Heathrow.

The plane from London dropped down over the dark sea, and barely before we saw any lights at all, we were on the ground at Punta Raisi, about twenty kilometres west of Palermo. I peered out the window, across my husband, as the plane taxied in. A Ryanair jet, and one from Alitalia stood outside the small airport, but that was about all: not a surprise, since we had taken one of just two weekly flights offered by British Airways. Sunday or Wednesday, that was the choice. As we disembarked we could see the small group of passengers who were finishing their stay in Sicily, waiting to take the same plane back to London.

The Italian customs official held up my Canadian passport, compared my face to the photograph, and with a heavy flourish stamped the visa on a blank page. We picked up our checked bags -- already far too heavy, I thought -- and headed to the car rental desk, where a dark-haired young woman greeted us with a smile. "Could you please explain about the insurance?" my husband asked. As we had thought, we were covered for injury, but there was a deductible for any damage to the car up to a certain point. "I would advise you to buy the extra insurance to cover the deductible," she offered. "Driving in Sicily is, well, you know, the roads are narrow, there's a lot of traffic in the cities, it's easy to get a scratch or a dent." Jonathan looked at me; I shrugged. I think you'd feel better if you had the coverage, I said. "All right," he told her, wincing a little at the price. "Good," she said. "Is the Renault OK with you?" "Does it have a covered trunk area?" "Yes." "OK, that's fine then."

We walked out into the parking lot. It was warm, and the air smelled slightly of the sea. Our car was a blue Renault, bigger than we had expected; we muscled our bags into the hatch-back, and J. got behind the wheel. He booted the GPS system on his phone, a new application that he had tried out in Montreal and that was supposed to be better than Google in complicated urban areas, and handed it to me. We looked at each other: it had been a long trip, since leaving Montreal the night before, arriving at Heathrow in the European morning, and passing a long layover before our plane left for Palermo in mid-afternoon. "How do you feel?" I asked. "I'm good," he said. "I got enough sleep on the plane. Are you ok? Good, let's go!"

Some of our friends had sounded alarmed when we told them where we were going. "Aren't you worried about the Mafia!" was the most common comment, followed by "Be careful, I've heard there are lots of pickpockets in Sicily!" I'm not sure if anyone mentioned earthquakes, perhaps a more legitimate cause of concern. Someone else, with actual firsthand knowledge of the island, told us that rental cars were often abandoned on the highway a few miles from the airport, by drivers freaked out by the Italians passing them at high speed on both sides. J. hadn't wanted to drive into Palermo after a sleepless night, and I didn't blame him.

But the traffic on this Sunday evening was no more intense than back home in Montreal. It was a moonless night. We could see lights from the towns we passed, but had no sense of the landscape or the proximity of the sea; tall guardrails on both sides obstructed the eye-level view from the car's windows. "I wish we  could see," said J. "I can just make out the shapes of mountains, off to the right," I said. "They look pretty big. I think we're close to the shore, but I can't see a thing." The traffic picked up as we approached Palermo; we entered a roundabout that we had studied on the map, but the GPS didn't distinguish between the roads stacked on top of each other. We went around twice, and finally figured out the correct exit. Soon we had left the highway and entered the city streets. Many Italian towns and cities have traffic-restricted zones, called ZTLs, posted with closed-circuit cameras, and there is a big fine for entering or leaving them in a car without a permit, except for certain periods, of which Sunday evening was one. Our apartment was located inside the ZTL, in the historic center. We were on a main street; I followed the blue route as we traced it, but the voice-over kept getting confused, and the arrow indicating where we were seemed to lag behind by half a block. I gave instructions, as best I could. "Now turn right," said the GPS, in her pleasant voice. "That's correct," I confirmed." "Where?" said J. "At the next corner," I said. "I can't, it's closed." "Well, go straight then. and take the next right." "That's closed too, all the entrances to the ZTL are closed. We'll have to go around by the harbor, you'll have to tell me manually."

After twenty minutes we had entered the ZTL by a different route, and found ourselves in a warren of tiny deserted streets. Most were one-way; motorcycles sometimes zoomed past us, and we couldn't see any street signs. From the map, it looked like the apartment was nearby, but we couldn't figure out how to get there. A block ahead, we saw a fire, and as we approached we saw that it was a pile of garbage burning on the sidewalk, flames starting to lick up the side of a building. A crowd of young black men stood around, hands in their pockets, but otherwise the streets seemed empty. We drove past, and glanced at each other. Then we were in what seemed to be an empty market, with make-shift wooden stalls roofed with canvas tarps standing on a wet cobblestone pavement. "Try this way," I suggested, pointing left. The streets of the medieval city wound around in circles and arcs, bordered by ancient four-and-five-story buildings, and in a moment we passed the fire again, in the other direction; now a crowd had gathered, and we heard sirens in the distance. We entered the market area again, but exited a different way, through a street barely wide enough for our car. I breathed deeply; there was no point in panicking. "There are some carabinieri over there, I'm going to stop," said J., pulling off the street to park in a tight spot behind a police car. He took the phone, got out, and approached two of the policemen who were just standing and talking to each other; a young couple sharing a sandwich stood near them. I saw him show the screen to the policemen; they looked at each other, shrugged, then all of them laughed. J. came back to the car. "One guy is going to walk in front of us and show us how to go; he's not quite sure where the apartment is but he's going to point us in the right direction." I looked at my watch; nearly 10:00 pm. The owner had been planning to meet us at 9:00, but we weren't able to call or receive texts or calls because we didn't yet have an Italian SIM chip. "OK, sounds good." The officer walked down the alley to the right, motioning us to follow, and then pointed down an even narrower, curving passage, indicating we should go left at the end. The market area ended, and we came out into a small piazza paved with broad rounded stones -- yes, there was the church we had seen in the photographs of the apartment. We pulled over, and a young man immediately got out of a car parked nearby. "Jonathan?" he asked, giving us a broad grin.

After we apologized ("no, no problem," he assured us, "I figured you'd get lost, I've just been waiting here with my girlfriend") he led us to a tall, very old building that had been restored, and helped us carry our bags up four flights of marble stairs ("sorry, the elevator is broken, it will be fixed tomorrow") to a white apartment with 14-foot ceilings, a good kitchen and bath, a big bed. He answered our questions about buying a SIM, neighborhood restaurants, markets, and said to call or text him anytime. His footsteps echoed on as he went down the stairwell, and we heard the heavy wooden door shut behind him.

We went out on the balcony and looked out over tiled roofs to the church's facade, and the winding streets we had followed to finally arrive there. We couldn't see much, and all we wanted was something to eat and then bed; there would be time to orient ourselves the next day.

 

 

Thoughts on Travel

We've just come back to Montreal from an intense, eye-opening, two-week trip to Sicily. I'll be writing more about our experiences over the next couple of weeks, but first I wanted to say a few things about travel in general, because I've been thinking about that a lot during this trip.

I feel extremely fortunate to be able to travel. It was always a goal for J. and me, but with a few exceptions, we put it off: as self-employed people it was hard for us to get away for extended periods of time, and travel requiring airfare has always been expensive. We lived frugally for many years in order to be able to put money aside for later in life, and I'm grateful that we're still in good enough shape to be able to enjoy the kind of adventuresome travel we like to do. Nevertheless, I know I'm lucky, and that there are lots of reasons why many people never get to go far away, or choose not to.

Unlike my husband, who had traveled in Europe and the Middle East when he was young, I grew up in a family and among people who didn't travel much at all, and though I longed to go to faraway places, I was afraid. Not of flying, which I've always found exciting, but like my mother and other family members I had fears of getting sick or lost or being unable to sleep, and there was no one to give me the confidence to prepare well, then just go, see it as an adventure, and deal with whatever happens. You have to learn to travel, and it wasn't until I met J. that I had someone to trust and confide in who helped me overcome those fears. I loved big cities, but was nervous about them, especially getting round on my own, but eventually I got over that, too. I can still remember the thrill of accomplishment the first time I went off on my own in London, and found my way without trouble: it's given me a lifelong affection for that city. People who meet me now may see me as worldly, urban, confident and sophisticated, but there was a time when I certainly wasn't any of those things, and I have a lot of empathy for people who find travel daunting. Those fears still live inside me, and once in a while they still surface.

Travel, for me, is a privilege and a responsibility. If I'm lucky enough to go somewhere, I try to learn as much as I can, and to absorb that experience deeply so that I can share it in some way, do something with it that isn't just for myself. Some people travel inside their own bubble, like the loud, inconsiderate, demading tourists we all sometimes encounter. Some people seem like they aren't really seeing anything, just capturing each sight -- or themselves in front of it -- on their phone or iPad so they can show their friends they were there. I guess I see travel more as extra-ordinary time: an opportunity to leave normal comforts and routines aside, be vulnerable to experience, to suspend judgement, and to be open to the potential for internal change. I love the feeling of heightened sensory awareness, of having to figure complex things out and make quick decisions, of trying to communicate in unfamiliar languages and make connections simply as one human being to another. I like projecting myself less, and listening and seeing more.

J. and I have chosen not to stay in fancy hotels or eat out a lot. Because we are sometimes in locations where there is poverty, we keep a low profile, dress down, and try to blend in, even though it's obvious we aren't locals. Usually we stay in apartments or small b&bs where we can cook meals from food bought in local markets and do our own laundry; we try to bike or walk as much as we can, and to take care of ourselves rather than expecting to be served. I'm concerned about the carbon cost of air travel, but also realize that the money we spend in local economies like Mexico is helpful for the people there. I don't feel guilty about traveling, but I think we need to be aware of what we're doing and the impact it has.

I also realize that we are seen as immensely privileged by many of the people we meet: I am able to come into their place and go away again; I have money and freedom and opportunities that many people, both here and there, will never have. Being sensitive to these emotional complications is a significant part of travel for me, and I hope it informs what I write and what I draw or photograph -- or choose not to.

The more places I go, and the more our world becomes divided between haves and have-nots, the more I find myself thinking about these issues. Sicily is surrounded by the Mediterranean; its proximity to Africa and the Middle East has affected its entire history as well as the present. Refugees are not a theoretical concept to be debated, but an everyday reality. Mexico City has been hit by devastating earthquakes; its people live with corrupt government, injustice, grinding poverty, and constant violence.

I've been deeply affected and changed by what I've seen, not just as a witness to the present but to the layers of human history that travel reveals. I'm never sure what to do with it, but I don't want to merely collect beauty and ignore the awfulness. I need to find ways to hold and express both, because our world is, and has always been, made of both darkness and light.

Hattie

I was sad to learn today of the death of Marianna Schaeffer, author of the blog "Hattie's Web," and a longtime commenter and friend of mine at The Cassandra Pages. Over the past months, she faced her terminal illness as she did everything else: with courage, honesty, and no nonsense. I'll miss her intelligent, straight-forward opinions and comments on contemporary affairs, especially politics, and I'll miss her friendship and companionship online. May she rest in peace.

Thinking with Merton about America's Predicament

The Orange Line has fancy new cars, and whenever I get on one of these shiny trains, I feel like I must be one of the first passengers. That's why when I sat down early yesterday morning, it was a surprise that the empty seat was warm. I hadn't seen anyone exit, so they must have gotten off at a previous station. Of course, I told myself, thousands of people have already taken this train, it is no longer brand new. But the strange feeling of someone else's presence persisted, along with my musings about the places our bodies temporarily occupy in an urban environment, only to be replaced by another anonymous body, and another.

When I am on the train, I'm often going downtown to sing, or returning from singing, and though I seldom wear earphones or use my phone, bits of music play repetitively in my head. Yesterday I was going to the cathedral to sing a complex modern Mass in the morning, and later, music by Orlando Lassus, and I have noticed that this awareness sometimes makes me feel special. But the warmth of the empty seat, and the presence of the other passengers, reminded me that no one is any more special than anyone else, or, rather, that we are all equally special, even though I may have been the only person on the train who was thinking that.

The Montreal metro platforms aren't crowded on Sunday mornings, but as the trains arrive, they make me think of Mexico City, where the opening and closing mouths of each train disgorge and swallow up vast quantities of human beings. There, too, I often remember Thomas Merton's words: "What if everyone knew that they were going around shining like the sun?"

Merton wrote those words after having a spiritual experience -- a revelation of oneness -- on a street corner in Louisville, Kentucky, one day when he had left his monastery of Gethsemanii for a medical appointment or some similar reason. I had a similar revelation while waiting at a deli counter in a grocery store in Hanover, New Hampshire, nearly twenty-five years ago, and from that point on I have known that I am connected to every other being; that we all possess, at our core, the same divine spark (Merton called it "the eternal diamond"); and at the same time, that we are each entirely unique, special, precious, beloved. It's not explainable in words, and so I will not try; it's better (while still being impossible) to try to live out of that awareness in all of one's relationships. But it is also clear to me, as it was to Merton, that most of humanity goes around unaware of who they actually are, and of the potential for love, compassion, harmony, beauty and joy for which we are made. Babies come into the world open and trusting and full of potential -- but then other people and the world begin to impinge, and the separation, alienation, and undermining begin, accompanied by a gnawing hunger for love and for something ineffable that we sense is out there. All our lives, we remember the grandmother or father, the teacher, the friend who saw the spark within us when we were young, who saw us as we really were, who recognized and tried to nurture the best in us. And all our lives we suffer because of those who did, and do, the opposite. Under good circumstances, or sometimes against all odds, some people find their way and manage to live lovingly toward others and toward themselves, in spite of setbacks. Most struggle. And a few slip into the darkness and become capable of terrible things.

--

We can blame society, parents, religious institutions, educational and justice systems, the economic situation into which we were born, racism, homophobia, misogyny: all are part of the systems that maim and destroy people. Today I read a number or articles about guns in America that sought to prove that gun control was the answer to that country's epidemic of violence. But until a society looks beyond the gun to the hand that holds it, into the mind that picked it up and felt the need to buy it, and beyond that mind into the forces that not only made the gun easily available but created the desire to be prepared to shoot and kill, there is absolutely no hope for change.

Let's be clear. This is a country that fought a devastating, bloody, and still unresolved civil war war over the right of certain human beings to own and enslave other human beings. It is a country that committed genocide on the native peoples. It is a country that has treated all its "enemies" who were not white and European as sub-human and unequal, and still does -- and steadfastly refuses to discuss any of this history or to acknowledge the legacy of violence, injustice, and inequality that is interwoven and perpetuated in its national narrative. America definitely needs gun control. But what it needs more is a gigantic mirror.

Thomas Merton's life and thinking were profoundly influenced by the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the nuclear arms race, which he saw as potentially the most terrible development in human history, not just because of its ability to create Armageddon, but because of what the existence of such weapons does to the human psyche. Merton was born in 1915 and died, accidentally, at age 53 in 1968. I was a teenager then, certainly influenced by growing up just after WWII, by the Cuban Missile crisis and the continuation of the nuclear arms race, then by the Vietnam War and the social upheaval of those times. My life has already been a decade longer than Merton's. I've seen the failure of the anti-war movement to significantly endure past the mid 1970s, and have been dismayed by the rise of corporate power, the increasing disparity of wealth and opportunity, the militarization of American society, the persistent threat of nuclear war, and the incredible lack of compassion for immigrants and anyone who is "other", as well as our own poor and disenfranchised. The wrong turn after 9/11 has plunged the world into much greater instability and fear, and gravely altered American society: much of what we are seeing today has felt predictable to me for a very long time.

And yet, the sense persists that humanity evolves on a time frame that I cannot see or comprehend. I've just been reading some ancient history, about Greek and Roman city-states in other parts of the Mediterranean. The cruelty of the tyrants and states in those days was on a scale that we can barely imagine. When a city was conquered, its entire population was often destroyed, or sold into slavery. And these were not uncivilized or unsophisticated people, they were often, as the writer put it, "educated people who spoke Greek and simply ran afoul of the massive inferiority complex of the Romans toward the Greek world." We don't physically enslave entire populations now, or crucify 6,000 slaves along the nation's most prominent highway, as the Romans did after a rebellion. We do other things that, on the surface, at least, seem less devastating and less cruel. 2,000 years of history have not taught a majority of human beings to share, or to lose, or to resolve difficulties without resorting to violence in our words or actions toward others, or by turning that energy against ourselves in destructive ways we don't even recognize.

--

So I am not particularly optimistic about humanity in general in the short term, but individuals can actually live differently if we are willing to keep our eyes and hearts open, and resist the temptation of following the herd. We can do a great deal for one another to make these times more bearable, especially if our relationships go deeper than the general discourse on social media. We can find strength as well as solace in the arts, in our work, in the natural world, in learning, in openness to difference and ways and people we do not know. We can learn to see and refuse the violence in our own selves, nipping it before it flowers into malevolence that affects our own spirit and those around us. We can try to be the people who see the best in each other, and encourage that, especially in the young.

There is so much work to do. Please, let's get on with it.

Comfort and Discomfort in the Business of Art

Last month I had a pastel selected for an international juried exhibition here in Montreal, sponsored by the Pastel Society of Eastern Canada, an organization I joined earlier in the year. The opening was last night, and I had to do quite a bit of work to get ready for it. Framing the piece, of course, but also doing a number of tasks I've neglected because I have not exhibited at live exhibitions for a long time, in favor of sharing my work online here and on social media. For instance, I didn't have business cards for my studio, or a website specifically for my art to list on them, or on my artist's profile with this or other organizations.

Since closing my Etsy shop, I've been mulling over what I wanted to do about offering my work for sale, and decided that it was a question of respecting myself and my work: it should be priced properly, and presented and offered in a way that reflects me honestly and clearly.  That meant creating a new website from scratch. I completed it a few days ago, and it's ready to view on computers or phones.

 

It was an illuminating process: in choosing the work for the site, I realized for the first time, really, that I have actually created a cohesive body of work over the past several decades, even though I haven't been able to devote myself to it with sustained focus until recently -- which has been a frustration throughout my adult life. I think the person behind the work comes through, too, and that was a surprise and a happiness; I was also able to see new directions, which I think is often the result of various kinds of retrospectives or collections.

I do need to participate in exhibitions, and perhaps look for gallery representation, but I have mixed feelings about both, as many of us do who are online a lot. Exhibitions are still prestigious, but they're also expensive and time-consuming, and yield limited results. Sharing work online makes so much sense for me, not just because it is easy, but because the connections and the community are an integral part of what art-making means to me. Watching a body of work develop over time - your own and other people's - is rewarding, fascinating, and a privilege. I love being in touch with younger artists and encouraging them, while also being pushed into new places, and included where I would not otherwise be. And in turn, I'm encouraged by artists of my own age and especially by older friends who continue to do excellent work and challenge themselves: I want to be just like them, as long as I possibly can. I have found more kindred spirits online than I ever did in real life, even in a big city like this one, and it doesn't matter at all where we are.

Here in Quebec, language issues continue to be somewhat of an obstacle, or at least a stumbling-block, for me. There were very few anglophone artists represented in last night's exhibition, and when I went down to the Old City a few days ago to help with hanging the show, I was the only anglophone among a number of people not just from Montreal (where we are all used to dealing with not just two but many languages) but from provincial Quebec where French is spoken almost exclusively. I can manage in French, but my lack of complete fluency limits me; my name-tag gave me away as English before I even opened my mouth. So I felt awkward, the odd person out among many people who already knew each other well and had a cultural connection; I tried my best to be extroverted and friendly, but by the time I came home I was exhausted and a bit discouraged.

At last night's opening.

This is an ongoing issue of living in a bilingual culture that is not my own. In the choir, we are a mixed group of French and English speakers, but unified by sharing the common language of music, and working hard, like a team, toward a common goal. I have never felt excluded or unaccepted there in any way. But at my community garden over the past years, and in this group of artists, I have felt a subtle sense of being on the outside, and even of exclusion. I'm not looking for that, as some people do, but I've been here long enough to know that prejudice does exist and that it has nothing to do with me, personally: like all racism, it stems from systems of superiority and power that are actually rooted in fear and insecurity. Here, they reflect a history of injustice and inferiority where the positions were once reversed. Many anglophones deal with these issues by living in English-speaking areas and joining English-language artist groups, but we live on the French side of the city, and have tried to find our way within it.

Being truly fluent in French would help, but it would not change the underlying dynamic: prejudice and closed doors are a fact of life here for almost all immigrants, except the French-from-France who are alternately resented and fawned over. As an American, I am actually less subject to prejudice than the English Canadians who once ruled and dominated Quebec. Neither the French nor the Americans wanted to remain subjects of the British; we had our "revolutions" at different times, but I think we often feel we have more in common.

For the most part, I try to ignore the prejudice: to be friendly, and assume I will be liked and accepted for myself. For the most part, that's been true. It would have been a lot harder if I had come when younger and tried to find employment or start a business. As it is, I love Montreal for its multi-culturalism; I feel at home now. But when I come up against these subtle walls, it reminds me how vastly worse it is for so many, and confirms my empathy for immigrants and refugees, for people of color, for other women and LGBT people around the world. I actually have a lot of empathy for the Quebecois who were repressed by the Church and by the English. Of course they want and deserve their own language and culture -- but at what price? Prior to the upcoming elections, the Liberal provincial government passed a law banning face coverings for those in public jobs or receiving public services -- which includes using public transit. The law is aimed squarely at the tiny minority of Muslim women who wear the niqab or burka, and its purpose was to woo the most conservative, pro-separatist, racist voters who normally don't vote Liberal. It's a stupid, wrong-headed, misguided law that won't stand up in court, but it is an indication of the racism that persists, particularly outside Montreal. Fortunately, a majority of people strongly disagree, and will continue to fight for inclusion and fairness.

Last weekend, we were in the U.S. visiting friends and family, and my heart broke for the difficulties many of them are facing -- from fear of nuclear missiles to soaring healthcare premiums -- and the daily political climate in which they're forced to exist. Coming up against this darkness in daily life reinforces the openness and diversity of my online life, and how much it matters to me. I have friends all over the world, united by shared humanistic values, and by the desire to express ourselves artistically through various media. I often have no idea, nor do I care, about my friends' color, sexual orientation, or religion. I care about their lives; I care that they are open to me and in turn I try to be open to them.

Art, seen in this way, is much more a language than a business. And so I've reached this conclusion: that my art feels right when it is priced to fairly reflect the work that has gone into it -- and also when it is given away.

Les Peupliers / Poplars: painting trees in Champlain's footsteps

I don't think any of us quite expected either the outpouring of #MeToo posts, the sadness and anger engendered by hearing stories from other people we care about, or the after-effect of being plunged back into memories we've suppressed for a long time. But, as I said, women are resilient, and most of us have always found ways to take care of ourselves. I've noticed a number of people saying they were crocheting or knitting or doing some similar project. I've been working on my Brora shawl in the evenings -- it's complicated and I'm not an experienced lace knitter, so I have to pay close attention -- which is just the right thing. During the days, I revisited and finished this small pastel of poplars in Cap-a-l'Aigle, the same town I painted a few weeks ago; it's in the Charlevoix region of Quebec, on the edge of the estuary where the St. Lawrence River really begins to look like the sea.

Working on this pastel, I remembered the morning when I walked on this street, which is pretty much the only street in the village. I was up earlier than my husband or the two friends we were traveling with. Wanting to be near the water, I set out from the small bed-and-breakfast where we were staying and walked down to the village pier, past hedge roses in bloom. This row of poplars caught my eye; they're a testament to the French heritage of Quebec, and although they struggle in our harsher climate, you often see planted rows like this along the river and in towns. It's no wonder French painters have always liked them!

Here's another take on poplars: a watercolor I painted a few years ago. This is not far from the Vermont border, in southern Quebec at the top end of Lake Champlain. But cross the border into the U.S., and you almost never see these trees unless you're at looking at the homestead of a transplanted Quebeçois.

Back at the time, I wrote that I "liked to imagine Samuel Chaplain with his pockets full of seeds, planting the trees that reminded him of his native France." The Charlevoix is full of historic sites where Champlain explored and the first French colonists did settle, so it's certainly possible that some of these trees are descendants of ones they planted. We can always be romantic!
 

#MeToo, no disclaimer needed

Last night, a phenomenon unfolded on Facebook and Twitter, as one woman after another changed her status to "Me Too" or #MeToo, announcing publicly that she had at one time been sexually harassed or assaulted. I posted my own "Me Too" around 8:00 pm, and watched as friend after friend followed suit. Dave Bonta called it "a harrowing evening." Yes, but I was not as surprised as some of the few men to comment have been. Neither were the other women. Why? Because we've all known, or at least suspected, how endemic this is, and how difficult and futile it has been to speak out about it in our own lives. Even so, as I saw the status updates from women I've known and cared about, online or in person, my primary emotion was sorrow. I could handle the fact that it had happened to me, not once but several times. But seeing that it had also happened to so many dear female friends made me weep. "It's practically all of us," I wrote to a friend in Nova Scotia. "I am so sorry. Me too," I wrote to many others, and many wrote the same to me.

It has been painful, but freeing, to see this groundswell of courage and solidarity. If the revelations about Harvey Weinstein and the American Groper-in-Chief have contributed to women's solidarity on this issue, that is at least one good thing.

Then came the predictable push-backs: that we need to point out that most men are good, or that really the hash tag should be "all of us" because many men have been abused too, or that feminism has caused a lot of anger which has been directed at men and is a form of harassment.

One writer who thinks hard about these things said she was uncomfortable because "this puts the onus of speaking out / creating change on the women who've experienced harassment or assault instead of on the men who did the harassing or assaulting."

On the first points, yes, of course most men are not perpetrators. I've always had good men in my life who have loved and treated me gently. But we don't need to say that right now, and we don't need to apologize or add disclaimers: this is not about them. Why can't we hear people speaking out about a specific abuse or oppression and simply put ourselves aside for a moment and empathize with the victim and what she is saying, at significant cost to herself, and the effect it has had on her life?" Black Lives do Matter. Indigenous Lives Matter. Women's Lives Matter. Each of these should be a very simple concept. It is not about "Your Life Matters" or "All Lives Matter;" it is about acknowledging racism, sexism, misogyny, homophobia and other abuses for what they are, and sitting with that, and with those who have suffered. Period. I don't expect black or indigenous people to offer me a disclaimer, nor should they. I will write a post about empathy in the future, it's something I've been wanting to do.

But for now, I want to address just the last point. As for being uncomfortable with placing women in the position of speaking out, I think we don't need to worry. Women have already shown how strong and resilient we are; we have survived millennia of being treated as property, used, harassed, and assaulted -- and then shamed and blamed. We have endured unequal opportunity, unequal pay, unequal education, glass ceilings -- and verbal abuse for being strong, smart, accomplished, and capable. We have borne children, kept food on the table and home life together while also working jobs; we've nursed the sick and dying, and cared for the elderly and the weak in the face of wars and famines and refugee crises. I think we can handle speaking out, and furthermore, we have to seize this moment and do so.

It is a delusion to expect the people, whether male or female, who hold, benefit from, and use sexual power to be the ones to correct the system: that has never worked in the history of the world. What works is when sufficient numbers of an oppressed or victimized group finally have enough courage to speak out about what has happened to them, and to stand up together for openness, transparency, and change.

In this moment of revelation, courage, and solidarity among ordinary women -- like me, and like your own sister, wife, mother, daughter, colleagues and friends --  there are just a few appropriate responses for men and women alike: "I am so sorry that happened to you. I applaud your courage. We need to do better as we raise our children." Down the road, we need to change a great deal about our society, but it starts with telling the truth about what has happened to us so that the magnitude of the problem can be revealed.

Focus

Like everyone else, I've been dismayed, sad, and disturbed about the entire string of recent events, from the natural disasters in Mexico City and the Caribbean to the shooting in Las Vegas. I've started several posts here, only to abandon them, not wanting to add to the river of words already flooding our lives. Besides, I feel that a lot of the discourse misses the point, and until I find the right way to express my own feelings, I'm better off keeping quiet.

So I've returned to painting, and specifically, to this particular painting that I put away a while back, not quite satisfied with it at the time. In the past two days I've finished it, and was happy to be able to see what needed to be done. Painting, writing, music, dance, gardening, knitting, walking in the woods: we need to do whatever it is that brings us back to our center and allows us to continue in the face of loss, grief, anger, and lack of hope. There is always hope, and the spirit is always deeper and stronger than we think. Here is a good post on taking care of oneself, from my dear friend Rabbi Rachel Barenblat. And I hope you will consider sending some funds to the areas hardest hit by hurricanes and earthquakes. Our help is needed, and that is something we can all do.

 

Susan Elbe

Yesterday the news came that we had lost Susan Elbe, one of the best poets I have known, a good friend, and a kind, loving, and deeply concerned person. Dave Bonta and I first met her through qarrtsiluni, published a number of her poems, and worked with her as a guest editor of the "Health" issue; that mutually-supportive relationship has continued through the years. I was looking forward to publishing a book of hers one of these days, and am very sorry that this won't happen.


 


I wanted to share a link to Susan reading one of her poems at qarrtsiluni, from November 2011, titled "Between Us and the Slow Fall." The kind of person she was comes across clearly through both her voice and her words. We shared September birthdays, political views, and a genuine friendship though we had never met in person. I will miss her.


 

Persistence

Knitting, while listening to music, has been my relaxation in the evenings after long days of writing and editing. I finished my green Gansey sweater a week ago, and started knitting a Brora shawl (it's a Brooklyn Tweed pattern) from a lovely fingering-weight wool. It's been going pretty well, or so I thought, until I looked closely under the light last night and saw a fairly significant mistake, oh, maybe 18 rows back. (I took the picture above several nights ago-- the mistake was already there but I didn't see it.) Dammit. I put the work away for an hour, read a book, and then, before bed, ripped out the last two nights-worth of knitting, back to the problem row, corrected it, and went to sleep.

Yesterday I had felt like I was nearly done with the manuscript, but after lying in bed for a while this morning, thinking about it, I've realized I need to make some additional changes, and they may take quite a while. I was ok with that, in fact, anxious to come up to the studio and get going.

This wasn't always the case. I've changed from a more slap-dash person to the way I am now, not in a flurry of flying yarn, but over time. Maybe it's often that way in people who have a certain innate facility: people who can "get by" without a lot of studying, or practicing, or editing, or wiping out the paint from the day before, and still end up with a pretty good result. But at some point, you either stay that way, or you realize you have to ramp it up, with a combination of patience, determination, self-observation and self-discipline.

Last night I thought about my father, who is fond of saying "a thing worth doing at all is worth doing well," my online friend Frances who just frogged thirty rows of a complicated cabled sweater because of a mistake; the top musicians who practice the same passage over and over for days and weeks; the authors I most admire who simply don't stop writing until they are sure they have done the best they possibly can. I don't think what I am talking about here is perfectionism, exactly, because there is no such thing as "perfect" in the arts, and perfection alone is not necessarily what we're after. It's not really obsessive behavior, either -- in the sense of compulsive repetition -- though I'm sure some people see it that way. I admire persistence: people who want to do their best, and don't lie to themselves about what is "good enough" when they know that with more effort, they can do better. You do it more for yourself than for anyone else. It's a quiet, inner feeling, not some sort of ego-centered, outward push -- because after a while you realize that that sort of effort doesn't get you to the same place.

The "Terra" shawl. This has a mistake in the garter rows, too, but I discovered it so late that I decided to forget about it.

I think I learned this lesson of going further in two ways: from having a business, and taking piano lessons as an adult. Somewhere along the line, I accepted as truth the criticism I had defended against: that I wasn't taking my design work as far as it needed to go. It was good enough, but it could be better. Instead of fighting and resisting, I started to just buckle down and listen to the inner voice that said, "It's not quite done," and not stop until I had found a solution or an answer to whatever wasn't fully resolved. Satisfying the client was easier than satisfying myself, and I had to do the latter.

And, in my late thirties, I listened soberly to my wise, older piano teacher who said one day, "When you first came to me, I thought you just wanted to play fast and learn a lot of music, but you didn't want to put in the work to really get all the notes."  I couldn't argue; she was absolutely right, and it had always been the way I had approached music. I liked to practice, because it was fun and relaxing, but I had always worked just enough to be able to fix the difficulties noted in the previous lesson and make a little more progress; when I was young, that was enough, it was pretty easy for me. But now, twenty years later, why was I there? My teacher waited until she thought I'd be receptive to hearing what she had to say, and then she dropped that one sentence in my lap, like a little subversive bomb. She didn't need to say any more. Was it worth it to me to work harder? It turned out that it was. I was never going to become a really excellent pianist, with fantastic technique -- I was too old, and didn't have the time or desire to devote myself to such a goal anyway -- but I became a better musician. I improved a lot, taking the time to figure out exactly what was on the page and how to play it.  With better technique and more accuracy, we could turn to the questions of interpretation that I found more interesting; in other words, it was possible to go both wider and deeper. My teacher held me to a higher standard than before, helping me with greater engagement and interest, and I found much greater satisfaction in my practice and my playing -- but her lesson reverberated far beyond music in my life.

That question, "what am I doing here?" is important. I'm never going to be a master artist-knitter like my friends Alison or Rachel or Judith, capable of creating incredible, intricate lace shawls -- and it's only recently that I got more careful about correcting mistakes and tried to improve my skills by choosing harder patterns. But I have no aspirations or illusions about myself as a knitter, whereas art and writing are the areas to which I'm really dedicated.

I'm the first one to say that everybody has talent, regardless of what we were told as children, and to encourage people who once drew or dreamed of playing an instrument to begin again. Any art form is primarily about creativity, and satisfaction in the doing/making -- if it isn't fun and joyful, then why do it? The thing is, that once you get over the initial hurdles that kept you from starting, and you gain some facility, then you have to decide how serious you're going to be. For an amateur, it may simply be about pleasure and satisfaction in the doing, and knowing you are making progress. As a professional, I've had to ask myself that question, at different levels, all my life, and there doesn't seem to be an end in sight. I don't think I'm going to "retire" as an artist or writer.

People tend to think art is all about talent, but frankly, talent only goes so far. It's like a seed that has been planted; all it represents is potential. Some artists who have early success treat it as a destination, and for the rest of their lives they coast; some become bored. Others, equally talented, never find the same level of success, but they work at their art with dedication and joy all their lives. The best musicians I know, people in their forties and fifties and beyond, still practice for as long as it takes for them to perform confidently, at their peak, and they constantly challenge themselves with new repertoire that stretches their abilities and their understanding. Talent certainly plays a part, but without about a huge amount of hard work, you're balanced on a pinhead -- maybe there's a stretch of days when you dance brilliantly and everybody's dazzled, but sooner or later you're going to fall off. What's required is some sort of crazy combination of stubbornness and passion for the art form itself, driven by an inner search rather than "success" or praise from the outside, that propel you through the painful days of showing up and doing the work, the days when you struggle with doubt, fears and loneliness, the days when you wish you were a "normal" kind of person -- until the work starts to shine with an inner light that you aren't even sure you put there yourself. And when it's finished, you get up and start all over again.