Elizabeth Adams's Blog, page 36

Rome VI: St. Valentine

The Tiber Island, looking east: Trastevere would be on the right, and Rome on the left.

We often crossed the Tiber from Trastevere to Rome at the eastern end of its island via the Ponte Fabricio, the oldest surviving Roman bridge across the river, which was constructed in the year 62, when Cicero was consul of Rome. A Latin inscription on the bridge still reads "Lucius Fabricius, Son of Gaius, Superintendent of the roads, took care and likewise approved that it be built." From this bridge I always noticed the umbrella pines crowning the top of the Palatine Hill, in the distance, and closer, a tall medieval bell tower.

There are two Roman temples just beyond the end of the bridge, and beyond them on the corner, an old church beneath that bell tower. Every time we walked past, there was a line of tourists waiting to take a picture of themselves with their hand inside the mouth of a giant, circular, stone face in the church's portico - the Bocca della Verita, or Mouth of Truth - which, according to legend, will snap shut on the hand of a liar. Because of our aversion to the hoards of selfie-stick-toting tourists, we were well into our second week before we entered the church, at a time when the portico was closed.

There are so many churches in Rome, and almost all are so Baroque, that we became used to bracing ourselves for a visual onslaught. So it was impossible not to sigh when we entered the utterly simple interior of Santa Maria in Cosmedin, a Byzantine church built in the 8th century on top of an ancient temple of Hercules and decorated by Greek monks who were escaping the iconoclastic persecutions that were prevalent in the Eastern Church at that time. The church was badly damaged by the Norman invasion in 1084 and the medieval bell tower - the tallest in Rome - was added when restorations were made.

This is a portion of Santa Maria in Cosmedin's Cosmati pavement, a mosaic technique named after the Cosmati family who pioneered this style of work in Rome in the 12th century; it is similar to some kinds of Byzantine mosaic, but instead of using stones all the same size, Cosmati work uses varying sizes framed by white marble. This sort of inlay spread in Europe; the most northern example is the Cosmatesque pavement of the high altar at Westminster Abbey, unusual because the stones are set into a dark surrounding substrate. My quilter's eyes were dazzled by the variety of patterns here, and the colors of the stones, which art historians think were mostly sliced-up bits of broken, ruined Roman monuments scattered around the city, recycled into these floors during the middle ages.

 

Although the church is no longer used by a congregation, it felt holier than many of the others we visited. We returned several times to absorb its quiet atmosphere and sit for a while in the beauty of the plaster walls and astonishing floor.

 

There are few visitors: most of the tourists have followed their guidebook's list of Romans "must-see"s to the Bocca della Verite, and afterwards merely stick their heads in the church door, see nothing of interest, and then leave.

A recording of Orthodox chants plays at all times, contributing to the calm and quiet. The music carries faintly into the stone crypt below the main altar, hollowed out from volcanic blocks that formed the central podium of the much earlier Roman temple. In this crypt are a small marble altar and candle-lit niches that once held the relics of early Christians, removed from the catacombs by Pope Hadrian in the 8th century.

Inlaid wall decorations above the entrance to the crypt.

I was wandering around upstairs when I found myself in front of a chapel where a flower-crowned skull rested on the altar, and was rather shocked to see that it was labeled "St. Valentine."

Reliquary with St. Valentine's skull (Wikipedia)

There are conflicting hagiographies and several different martyrs by the name "Valentine," but the story I like best says that he was a Roman priest in the 3rd century; this Valentine secretly married couples, in defiance of Emperor Claudius, so that the husbands would be able to escape military service and going off to war. The priest was arrested. The Emperor met the prisoner and came to like him, but when Valentine tried to convert him to Christianity -- or, alternately, when Valentine refused to sacrifice to the pagan gods - Claudius changed his mind and had him beaten with clubs and then beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate, and buried in an unmarked grave, from which his followers later removed his body. Churches as widely separated as Dublin, Madrid, and Prague claim to house St. Valentine's burial site or relics, but I think I will just decide to believe that the skull of the patron saint of lovers, whose Feast Day is February 14, is this one.

Re-centering

Here it is, the second week in February already, and because of political events I haven't accomplished half of what I had hoped so far this year. Maybe you're the same. At first I was merely depressed by the prospect of the upcoming inauguration, then very quickly derailed by the new administration's first week, the marches, the mosque shooting here in Quebec, and my own need to focus upon and write about these things, as well as touching in with a wide circle of friends and family. Phoenicia brought out Dave Bonta's new book, and there's been quite a bit of work associated with that. I've been singing, seeing people, reading, making meals...but it has all felt like I'm distracted, not only from what is going on, but from myself. What happened to drawing, printmaking, painting? What happened to my own writing? I've been off-center, and needed to get back home.

This week I've felt like I'm finally regaining some ability to focus. I haven't done any particularly good drawings, but at least I've taken up my pen. And I'm working hard on a writing project that is now going well.

Unfortunately, these times reminds me of what it feels like when we, or someone close to us, gets an unwelcome diagnosis. For a while, you can't think about much else. But eventually, you see that life goes on, even though you have to deal with the new situation, and it remains in the back of your mind. A life that, for a while, felt simpler just got more complicated. But the clarity of passing time shows us that we not only need to multi-task, we can do it. I'm glad to see that most people who have decided to resist have not lost their determination, but we've also settled down into the mindset where we realize this is going to be a long haul. So I'm taking action, staying informed, and trying to take good care of myself and those around me -- but I'm also doing my own things, because they're also important. I hope you are too.

So, I'm curious -- how are you coping with the reality of the moment in which we find ourselves? Have you been able to find a balance? And what role does social media play in your day -- have you been using it more, or less? Do you think it's helpful, or not?

Cold Hands, Warm Heart (or: "Swim Nerds Meet for Coffee and Then Freeze Their Tails Off")

This morning I met a friend for breakfast at one of Montreal's little neighborhood cafes: the sort of place where you can have excellent coffee - we both had bowls of latte - and a fresh croissant or chocolatine or muffin, and sit at a pleasant table in the sunlight for a long chat. She and I met through singing, but now we're both swimmers too, and we spent a good part of our time together today being swimming nerds, talking about goggles and suits and stroke mechanics, and alternate-side-breathing vs one side, and how our necks aren't symmetrical. You would have loved it. No? Well, that's why we needed to get together.

We caught up on family stuff and singing and talked a little about politics, but agreed not to dwell on it. It turns out that we're both thinking about studying another language, or taking up a new instrument. It was a great way to start a day, and reminded me of the importance of seeing the people you love, and continuing to do the things that you're passionate about, regardless of what's going on in the world, as much as you can, for as long as you can.

Then we bundled up, and she walked back to her place, and I walked back to the studio, and, I swear by the leaping polar bears, was it ever cold! There's a storm system approaching from the south and it's damp as well as cold; I was OK in my body and head underneath layers of down and fleece, but my legs felt the way they used to when I was a kid walking home from school - first cold, then almost numb. I had on leather gloves and woolen mitts over the gloves, and even so I kept having to stick my hands in my pockets. For long walks on days like this, I told myself, I need to wear tights under my jeans, or an even longer coat.

I ducked into the sheltered entryway of this flowershop, to warm up.

I stopped at the market and bought a couple of cans of tunafish, to warm up.

I stopped at the artisanal bakery and bought a loaf of bread, to warm up.

You've really got to be crazy to live up here, I thought, as the wind howled down the alley. But there's something so exhilarating about it, too: the extremes, the survival, the memories you accumulate of adventures in winters past, and the delight of going into the warmth of an interior after being out in it, as you thaw out and the feeling returns to your skin and something warm to drink spirals down your throat.

On the street, I watched a young mother and her child as they approached me and went past. The mother, bubbling with enthusiasm, carried a bright orange plastic sled, and had a small dog on a leash; they must have been going off to the park. The little boy, only 2 or 3, trudged behind her, all bundled in his puffy snowsuit and boots, and wearing a red hat with an animal face on the brim and little floppy ears. He looked up at me and grinned, his cheeks so red from the cold, but without a hint of complaint, and I thought, yep, he's already Canadian.

Pool

The competition pool at Montreal's Stade Olympique

A couple of weeks ago, I started swimming laps again after a hiatus of nearly twenty years. There's a neighborhood indoor pool in easy walking distance of our studio, run by the borough of the city in which we live, and it's free, so I started out there. I was surprised to discover that, after six or seven sessions, I'm approaching the same distance I used to swim, which probably has more to do with general conditioning than anything else -- I've been in much better shape in the past ten years, since moving to the city and having to walk or cycle to get places.

Last week I discovered that the Centre Sportif at Montreal's Stade Olympique was running a special offer - a free week for those who'd like to try the facilities, and a significant discount on a yearly pass. The Olympic Park is not too far from us - a twenty minute bike ride in good weather, about the same distance as downtown, in the other direction. So I decided to try it out: how often does anyone have a chance to swim in an olympic pool? I felt a little intimidated, but toted my red gym bag of gear, including new prescription goggles (who knew you could buy these now, inexpensively, in off-the-shelf diopter measurements?) over to the iconic stadium, got my temporary pass, changed in the very nice locker rooms, and plunged in.

The Centre Sportif is a complete fitness facility offering many classes - the weight room is under the walkway in this picture, to the left of the pool.

It's a beautiful pool. To my surprise, the lanes were less crowded than at the neighborhood pool: one day I had a lane entirely to myself. Competitive divers were practicing on the 10m platform, and swimmers honed their strokes in a closed-off section of the competition pool, accompanied by their coaches. After my laps, I sat on a bench and just watched for a while, fascinated. Then I went back to the locker room and took a shower and sauna before going home.

The famous tower, like most of the rest of our fair city, is currently under repair, and the worksite means access is closed off - after parking on a nearby street, I ended up walking twenty minutes and finally sliding down a snowbank just to get to an entrance!

The problem for me is that this new activity takes a big chunk of time out of my working week. On the other hand, it has made me feel ten times better. I love swimming, always have, and the moment of slipping into the water and pushing off, weightless, always feels like a return to a natural element. But there's more to it.

When I'm in a worried or agitated state of mind, as has been the case since the U.S. election, and even before, I gravitate toward repetitive, meditative activities, often without really even thinking about it: quilting, knitting, drawing, practicing the piano. I've been knitting a good deal lately, and I walk a lot, but it's been hard to draw or do art, and hard to write. I hadn't thought of swimming seriously again, though my recent swims in Iceland and in the cold Cascade Lake in the Adirondacks filled me with longing. This Christmas, though, J. gave me a new swimsuit - a sleek black fitness suit with wide criss-cross straps in the back - and, as he had suspected, that was all it took. I researched the goggles online, bought two new silicone caps - one blue and one orange - and a couple of days after the order showed up, I was in the water.

Of course, my body hurts! I'm getting older. I have some slight lower back issues, and my shoulder and neck are protesting a bit, but the discomfort is manageable and not getting worse, so I think I can keep at it. I certainly hope so, because besides the cardio benefit, the mental and emotional benefits are huge.

The time in the water is time apart. My breathing and strokes settle into a pattern that slows my mind and suspends time into a series of present moments; for me, it is definitely a form of meditation -- and walking or moving meditation has often worked better for me than sitting still on a cushion. Swimming has allowed me to regain some equilibrium, and with it my focus for work; my mood is better, and it's easier both to accept certain aspects of the world as they are, and find the emotional space to tackle what I can try to change, without the two being constantly all mixed up.

Fr. Richard Rohr, whose reflections from his Center for Action and Contemplation I usually read each morning, always stresses the distinction between the dualistic mind -- which categorizes everything as good/bad, right/wrong, black/white -- and the nondualistic mind, in which, as he says,

"mind, heart, soul, and senses are open and receptive to the moment just as it is, which allows you to love things in themselves and as themselves. The broad rediscovery of nondual, contemplative consciousness gives me hope for the maturing of religion and is probably the only way we can move beyond partisan politics."

It is impossible for most of us to exist in our daily lives without dualistic thinking. But it is equally impossible for us to abandon that dualistic mindset without some actual, lived experience of nondualistic consciousness, which is why meditation/contemplation is so important and so helpful for seeing past the polarization that entraps present-day society. You can't "will" it to happen, however; you just have to do the practice(s) and open yourself, as this quote from James Finlay expresses so perfectly:

“I cannot make moments of nondual consciousness happen. I can only assume the inner stance that offers the least resistance to being overtaken by grace.”

Water: less resistance. We come into this world from a watery place, and I have often wondered if my attraction to water is partly a deep memory. My most significant dreams usually involve water, and in those dreams water is never a source of fear, but a place that represents hidden, deep knowledge, whether as a symbol of the subconscious itself, or a source of wisdom beyond this earthly world.

Sorrow, Solidarity, and Soul-Searching in Quebec

Vigil in Montreal last night. Photographs by Jonathan Sa'adah.

The news of Sunday's attack on the mosque in Quebec City, and the deaths of six people, hit us very hard. Coming on top of Trump's travel ban, last weekend, I had to wonder if the timing was coincidental, or if the young perpetrator had been pushed over some personal edge into action by the anti-Muslim rhetoric from a U.S. administration. His political identity, however, had been in place for some time; he was a sympathizer of Martine le Pen, of the French far-right, and had expressed anti-Muslim, anti-women sentiments on the web.

There has been a racist, anti-immigrant, anti-Muslim element in Quebec for a long time. Here in the larger and very diverse city of Montreal, some tend to cast blame on Quebec City and the rural areas of the province, which tend to be more mono-chromatically French-Canadian, and where separatist sentiment maintains a stronger foothold. In Montreal, significant numbers of non-white people run for office and are elected from their districts; this is another way in which change is slowly happening. Another is that the fluently-bilingual younger generations seem to have less interest in division of any kind, and I find it heartening to know and talk to these progressive, globally-concerned young people, for whom travel -- even on a shoestring -- is a priority. But plenty of racism occurs here as well.

In spite of liberal immigration policies, nearly every one of my immigrant friends has faced discrimination and considerable difficulty when trying to settle in Montreal, too, particularly when trying to find employment, but also in more subtle and insidious ways. Racism against the indigenous population is not merely an historical national disgrace, but a severe ongoing problem. However, perhaps because violent crime and incidents of mass murder are much less common here than in the U.S., we have failed to extrapolate from racist attacks on women with headscarves, or vandalism at mosques, that sooner or later something like the Quebec City attack might happen.

Hate crime has risen in Canada and across the province of Quebec; an article in the Montreal Gazette from November 2016 titled "The Trump effect and the normalization of hate in Quebec" contains analysis and statistics, as well as this prediction, so uncomfortable to read in hindsight:

A study of the terrorism and extremism incident database... calculated that five people had been killed in 49 white supremacist incidents in Canada between 2001 and 2015, at least seven of them in Quebec.

“One officer told us ‘we know they’re here but until something happens we won’t do anything,’ ” Perry said. “They’re waiting for someone to be hurt or a mosque to be burned down.”

Daniel Gallant, a former white supremacist who spent ten years with Neo-Nazi groups in Alberta, is now getting his law degree and dedicating his life to anti-radicalization efforts. He says his job "just got a lot harder" with the election of Donald Trump.

Gallant...says another factor that may explain the increase in hate crimes is how “normal” the ideology has become. It was normal for him, growing up in Alberta. There is still Canadian legislation in force — like the Indian Act, for example — that is reflective of white supremacist ideology, he says.

The Soldiers of Odin, for example — founded in Finland with the express motive of creating fear in the Muslim community — have set up at least 12 new chapters in Western Canada in the last eight months, Gallant said. The Quebec chapter, les Soldats d’Odin, were among several anti-immigrant groups who marched in Quebec City last month.

“They are garnering huge public support by watering down the message and casting a wide net to allow as many people as possible into the organization.”

The study noted that white supremacist groups had been emboldened by an "enabling climate" such as the "divisive discourse of the Charter of Values in Quebec," proposed by the Parti Quebecois and defeated in the last election, and nationally with some of the policies of former Prime Minister Stephen Harper. The study's authors conclude:

“In a word, hate is increasingly 'mainstream,' and thus increasingly legitimate. In part, this has been accomplished by toning down the rhetoric, and doing away with the white robes and brown shirts. But it has also been accomplished by forging links with the ultimate authority: the state.”

I was sorry to see a blaming mindset at work on Sunday, when the news media released the names of two suspects, one of which was a Muslim name, and speculated -- against all common sense, but of course picked up by Fox News -- that there might be a link to Islamic terrorism. The second suspect was released after a night in jail and identified instead as a witness. Upon entering the mosque and discovering dead and wounded victims, he had run when he mistook an armed police officer for the shooter. Yesterday it became clear that the actual terrorist was neither Muslim nor Middle Eastern, but a home-grown white-supremacist armed with an assault rifle, completely illegal here. This, not Muslim fundamentalism, is the true face of terror in North America, and it's high time we admitted it.

Today, the great majority of the people in this province are appalled, grieving, and doing some necessary soul searching about racism and the rise of the far-right in Canadian society and in Quebec specifically. The photographs in this post are from a vigil in Montreal last night, attended by thousands of people who came out in the freezing cold to stand together in solidarity and love.

Personally, I am reeling from the pile-up of recent events. It's been difficult to sleep, and difficult to ignore the news and my own thoughts enough to work. However, I'm trying to take my own advice to heart; on Sunday I spent the day singing, and yesterday afternoon I managed to do some research and writing, and I've continued that today; soon I'll go off to the pool and swim my laps.

What we're witnessing, however, is unprecedented in North American democracy. The feeling is that we've embarked on a voyage through unknown waters, where Sirens and Cyclops, Scylla and Charybdis lie in wait, and only our collective wits, determination, and love can save us.

One Week Later: Report from Washington DC

This is a guest post by my friend Vivian Lewin, who went to the Women's March in Washington last weekend, traveling from Montreal to a friend's house in Pennsylvania by car and then to D.C. Vivian and I met more than ten years ago through Christ Church Cathedral, and quickly realized we had much in common - being American, being writers and readers, loving textiles and sewing for just a few. She is a veteran of many marches, and we both wanted to share her experience and perspective here.

At 5:30 a.m. on January 21, 2017, the parking lot of Harrisburg Area Community College was already filling up when we arrived: Five people—two living nearby, two from Poughkeepsie, one from Montreal. We had all slept in Camp Hill, gotten up at four, eaten breakfast, and brought our lunches and charged-up phones/cameras to board a chartered bus and go to DC. A local woman who uses a walker joined us; the six of us managed to keep together all day.

 Holly, Candice, Tom (wearing a hat made by Vivian), Bonnie, and Samantha

People kept arriving, forming a long line in the dark. It was chilly, but that’s not what gave me goosebumps. I’m a dual US Canadian citizen and a Florida voter. After having watched the US election by myself on November 20, and having listened to the Inauguration Day coverage in the car alone on my drive from Montreal the day before, it seemed like a miracle to be in the company of like-minded women and men. I thrilled to think how many other parking lots were filling, how many other groups of people were converging on Washington. How many buses rolling through the night—some from Canada. How many friends and relations had sent us off with pink pussyhats (thank you, cassandrabeth!) or prayers or sandwiches. “Take a few steps for me,” one friend wrote, and other emails arrived too. “Be safe.” “My thoughts are with you.” I was there for others, not just anonymous others but carrying the hopes of people I know.

I felt we all shared a resolve that this day be as deeply meaningful as we could make it. Knitting hats, making posters by hand, meditating, praying, reserving hotel rooms or arranging car shares takes forethought and a resolute determination.

We reached DC around 9:30. To get to the actual march we six walked through the enormous parking lot of RFK Stadium—full to capacity with tour buses— to the metro entrance with an elevator. People made way for Bonnie and her walker. The cars were filled with marchers—they applauded Bonnie—and our train took us near the Mall.

Bonnie and her walker: "“I bought this especially for today. It’s supposed to be good for rough terrain and only weighs 13 pounds.”  

A woman in our metro car...

We emerged to find the street already filled with people. You’ve seen the photos. We only got that overview from the giant screens along the way. Gloria Steinem was talking. We walked towards the unseen stage until the crowd was too thick, then planted ourselves where we could watch a screen, and stood in front of it for hours under a leaden sky. The crowd—each person in it—was as inspiring as the speeches. We photographed each other—friends and strangers alike. The memorable speeches began to blur together.

I was tired. My feet hurt. Cell service was limited and nobody knew whether we would march, or where. One network said the march was cancelled but a security guy said it would go towards the Washington Monument. Slowly, we threaded our way in that direction, single file through the crowd. Eventually, the actual march crawled in that direction, too. I was pretty numb; the day became an endurance exercise. When an officer in a police car said we were over a million, I told my friends and one of them started to cry. Yes indeed, it was all worth it! I told random strangers (not really strangers any more) as they passed, just to see the joy on their faces. We sat on the curb to rest as the crowd poured past on their way to the Ellipse. “What does democracy look like?” one fellow called and the crowd bellowed back “THIS is what democracy looks like.” Nobody wanted to stop that chant.

My decision, early on, to go to Washington felt personal, stubborn, even helpless. What I could write or do that would be more useful? Was it a kind of pilgrimage? I’d say, in retrospect, that I went to witness my resolve. There’s a prophetic tradition of doing acts that seem absurd—that put the lie to worldly power. Amazing to experience such an act manifested in the sea of people who had, together, come.

There is much work to do. I’ve marched in other “protests” that felt angry, or giddy, or triumphant. I didn’t feel that way on Saturday. This is one for the long haul. As James Louder wrote this morning, “The enormities of Trump’s first week are so enormous and so diverse, so wantonly and widely destructive that the mind boggles before any attempt of analysis…”. So it’s good to hold on to the memory of this day. I know that my experience will keep me keeping on. (See also “Activism 101, and Regular Life” in the Cassandra Pages)

Vivian Lewin is a Montreal writer who grew up in Pennsylvania. She attended Oberlin (AB honors English) and the University of Florida (MFA creative writing). She is a dual citizen of Canada and the US, and is a Florida voter. Vivian has made poems and quilts during the course of her life and has taught quilting; now she is a spiritual director and Lay Reader in the Anglican church and also works with a Healing Pathway group.

Activism 101, and Regular Life

As reality begins to settle in, the internet is groaning with collective distress and calls for action. Over the next few weeks and months, it's going to become clearer what for the resistance is going to take, and what paths are likely to be more effective. Right now, I know that I've been deeply affected by events, what people are saying and writing, and my own thoughts. Because I'm in living in Canada now, but am a dual citizen who votes in both countries, friends and acquaintances everywhere I go are asking me "what do you think, what's going to happen, please explain America's system to me., can't something be done?" It's been preoccupying, to say the least.

I'm grateful for the perspective of my threescore years and the various struggles I've been involved with during my life, and after some serious reflection I've made some decisions about this blog: I am not going to give it over to political posting, except on occasion. This is a place where readers tell me they've often come for a break from whatever was going on, not to get more of it. They've found some beauty, perhaps, or some quiet reflections. I want that to continue, and it's the healthier path for me, too.

However, I will still be working to resist what is happening in our world. The big danger in activism is discouragement and burn-out, and I'd like to offer a few suggestions for how to avoid that. This is advice I'll be returning to myself, because even when it's first-hand knowledge, we're dealing with a lot of emotion here, and that for inevitable ups and downs, and it makes us get caught up so that we forget.

1. "I'm so excited, I really want to do something and be involved."  Or, its flip side: "I'm already exhausted - how are we going to do this for four years?"

We each have different capacities for activist work. The euphoria of shared events like marches is great, but it can't last. It's much better to do a little bit on a sustained basis than to do too much, too fast, and get burned out. So think about yourself and your life: do you think you can commit a half-hour a day? An hour a week? One Saturday a month? Four years is a long time. Pick a reasonable and sustainable commitment for you, and stick to it.

2. "I'm actually not sure what to do: I feel overwhelmed by all the issues"

We are all in danger of becoming overwhelmed by too many issues, all of which are vitally important. A wise priest once said to me, "It doesn't really matter where you go in. What matters is that you DO go in, and that you don't scatter your energies too much. So find something that calls to you, and focus there."

If you don't already have a particular issue, such as the environment, or reproductive rights for women, or racism and police brutality, then -- whether you are religious/spiritual or not -- my suggestion is to find a quiet space where you won't be disturbed, and sit for twenty minutes asking that question: "What should I do? Where should I go in?" Ask the universe. Sit still, listen to your breathing, and when your thoughts run away from you, gently bring them back to that question. You may not get an answer right away; you may have to do this over some days or even weeks. But it's actually a very good use of your time, because through this process of discernment you're going to find out some things about yourself. What bothers you the most about what's happening? What makes you feel knotted up inside, or angry, or like crying? Your work is going to be more effective and feel better if it is focused where your own heart is, and through it, you will meet other people who share the same deep concerns and be more effective together.

3. "I don't know what is effective and what isn't."

Be informed. Use some of your time to read up in quality, reliable media on the issues that concern you the most; know the facts, know the players, learn what is being done.
Read at least one non-US publication to get a wider perspective, if you don't already: the Guardian is a good place to start.
Individual action: in less than one hour a week, you can contact all the members of your Congressional delegation about the one or two issues that have most concerned you. Keeping up the pressure, week after week, is extremely important. Don't write a long letter - it won't be read. Use the websites your  senators and representatives have already set up, state the issue or choose it from a list, and write a clear, brief sentence or two. Or send a printable postcard, week after week. The responses will be counted and tallied -- large numbers mean the constituents are very concerned. That's what matters, so make it a habit. The opposition feeds itself on polls and celebrity, and they were very distressed about poor attendance at the inauguration vs the marches. We need to continue to show them that there are more of us and we aren't going away.
Group action: resistance groups will emerge around many of the issues we are all concerned about, and you will be able to link up with them and be stronger together. Events will be planned around individual issues and collective issues: please show up.
Sorry, but posting to social media is NOT effective activism; it's preaching to the  choir, or wallowing in group-think. Yes, sometimes there are good articles to be discovered or shared, and we all need to talk to people. But unless you already have a big following, or are organizing an event, daily life on social media is not how change happens. You need to do the other stuff too, as your priority.
If you can, give some money to places where it really counts. There will be innumerable groups and de-funded organizations that need your support. It's just like your time: figure out what you can spare, and commit to doing that - $5 a week, $10 a month, whatever. I gave a donation this week to International Planned Parenthood, for instance, and will continue to support both the national and international groups, because reproductive health and freedom have been significant issues for me all my life.

4. "I feel guilty living my regular life."

In a word: Don't. When we allow this crap to seep into every area of our lives, paralyzing us like the venom it is, the bastards have won. Part of the struggle against fascism, extreme negativity, fear and violence is to maintain our true selves, and a belief in all that is good in the world and in our lives. So don't stop creating, don't stop loving, and don't stop living. The formless and pervasive sense of "I should be doing something" will be alleviated by your discernment, your focus, and your commitment to do something concrete each day or each week. So do that, and then get on with your life, wholeheartedly.

Which is what this blog will be doing.

The Vulnerable City: On Weather and the North

The province of Quebec, with Montreal at lower center; image from Google Earth. James Bay and Hudson Bay at top left, Gulf of St Lawrence at far right, center.

A storm is coming.

I walked to work today, knowing it may be the last chance for a few days to walk quickly and easily on bare sidewalks. The sky is grey, low; the temperature just below freezing; the air slightly damp and still. Even without a weather report, northerners like me would be likely to say, "feels like it's going to snow."

Along Avenue Mont-Royal, I passed the jewelry shop where the bare fingers of a white mannequin waited for their ten o'clock adornment; past the bakery, always closed on Mondays, the librairie with its window display of mandala coloring books and blank notebooks covered in Italian papers, and stopped in at the Intermarché to buy a can of tuna for lunch. At the light I turned left and walked up Papineau, a wide boulevard full of commuter traffic, past the earnest early-morning exercisers on their treadmills at EnergieCardio, and through a zone of abandoned buildings, boarded up and pasted with film posters. There was an empty lot filled with snow and faced by a chain-link fence and a tangle of city barricades, the sort that get put up when there's a street closure for a march or a race, each bearing a vertical sign with the city's name and logo. Suddenly - was it that unexpected expanse of snow? the slight but insistent wind that I'd begun to feel after turning north? --  I felt the city not as a self-contained zone of urban activity, but as a vulnerable fortress set in a wild, raw landscape surrounding it on all sides. I immediately thought of the early French settlers, building a literal fortress near the river, the walls of which still remain: while it may have protected them from angry Hurons it certainly didn't do much against the harsh winters, except to give the colonists a place to huddle together with some protection from the wind.

I thought of other cities I love: Reykjavik, with no defense but evacuation, should Katla erupt; Mexico City, surrounded by volcanoes and devastated by the huge earthquake in 1985; New York, deluged by hurricane Sandy and vulnerable to rising ocean levels. Human beings have tried so valiantly to protect themselves from outside threats, all through history, whether it's by making walls or vaccines. Here, in the big cities, there is an illusion, maintained by concrete and glass and steel -- the mountains and valleys of our own construction that we populate and animate by artificial light and constant movement -- that we are in control, that this, not nature, is the true reality. Perhaps it's an illusion easier to perpetuate in more populated areas with gentler climates, where an entire life can be lived without venturing into life-threatening wildness, or even driving through it. Are far-northern cities and societies different, I wondered? Why have Canada and the Scandinavian countries committed themselves to such a high level of social welfare for their citizens? Is it merely wealth, or does something else, perhaps more elemental, contribute to a collectivist mentality? An awareness, chilled into our bones, that beyond this outpost are the vast forest and frozen tundra, the bears and the wolves, the unchecked arctic wind, the iceberg sea?

Women's March, Montreal: Nous Sommes Avec Vous

Photo by Jonathan Sa'adah

That's me, leaving for the demonstration at 10:30 this morning. I didn't sleep well at all last night, so I was tired, but woke up determined to go add my presence and voice to the rally at the Esplanade at Place des Arts in Montreal, in solidarity with the Women's March on Washington. If I'd been in the U.S. I probably would have gone to D.C. Eight years ago, Jonathan and I were there for Obama's inauguration. What a different feeling on that day - never in a million years would I have expected that a far-right candidate could be elected in the U.S. less than a decade later.

I am tired: I feel like I've been doing this all my life; I'm angry, sad, worn-out. But I wanted to be there, taking a physical stand for human rights and diversity, for peace and non-violence, against racism and hate, against the unleashing of police violence, and especially for the younger women I love who should never have to fight these battles that we thought were already won. So I got up, and got going, knowing a lot of you were doing the same thing in your cities.

When I entered the metro, the tv screens were showing footage of angry Montreal women burning and stomping on an effigy of Trump. But when I arrived at the Place des Arts, I saw nothing of the sort; there was a large crowd of women and men and children, it was peaceful, respectful, and attentive to the speakers who spoke in French and English. I even ran into several people I know, which made me feel like I really do belong here in my adoptive city. After a while I began moving around through the crowd, asking permission to take photos and having my own picture taken too. Here are some of those images.

"Solidarity Doesn't Have A Border" - this woman was so kind when I told her I was a dual citizen; her purpose in being there, she said, was to support American women.

This young American woman is a student at McGill.

 

The sign reads: "Yes to: the arts, diversity, compassion, public education, feminism, social justice, electoral reform, climate protection, human rights. No to: hate, fear, homophobia, trans-phobia, xenophobia, misogyny, isolationism, toxic masculinity, and the culture of violence."

 

 

 

How's that for a great slogan?

 "Justin" refers to the Canadian Prime Minister, Justin Trudeau.

I had a really good conversation with this Iranian woman who has lived in Montreal for the past 18 years, and was holding a banner for an association of Iranian women. She was concerned about the fate of the recent treaty with Iran, but mainly upset about intolerance in America, where she has friends and family.

Yes, and the rest of us are with you on that.

And a final word from the late great Montreal son, Leonard Cohen.

--

I'm glad I went. I feel considerably better than yesterday, which was one of the darker days in my life.

But to avoid the problems of protests like the Occupy movement, it's crucial that this is the the first day of an increasingly organized, disciplined resistance, with clear positions and demands, and a coherent leadership. Our next task is to organize. We have a great deal of work to do, and it's going to be a very difficult road, but there are a lot of us, we're strong and fierce, we've have justice on our side, and we're everywhere.

A Fortune, and Two Quotations

 Oh, if only we all could believe that! However, in spite of my fortune cookie form last Saturday, I fear that the current year will bring a very mixed bag of blessings, sorrows, and anxieties. The question is how to deal with it, since we have no choice but to hurtle forward. I am appalled at what is going to happen tomorrow, but it is a fact that none of us can escape. We can march, we can write letters, we can post indignant messages on social media, we can wake up in the middle of the night, we can gnash our teeth, but none of this is going to change the fact that an unfit, erratic, irresponsible and unprepared person whose values are the opposite of mine is about to take office. There will be much to do in the coming months, but it is going to be a question of persuading the people in his own party to stand up for decency, and that he is a liability to them as well as the populace. We can march all we want, but if we are merely talking to ourselves it will really be like blowing into the wind.

Americans are going to have to listen to one another and learn to reclaim their common values: remember what Abraham Lincoln said? "A house divided against itself cannot stand." Lincoln was quoting a statement that would have been recognized by most of his listeners then, though not today, as coming from scripture. Matthew, Mark and Luke all have Jesus saying this, which most authorities consider to be fairly definitive proof that he did. The phrase that precedes it is "a kingdom divided against itself cannot stand." Whether we are talking on a large scale or a smaller one, the point is the same.

So who are you going to listen to? Is it possible for you to initiate a non-confrontational dialogue with someone who voted differently? Because, frankly, that is what it's going to take, all across the board. Both Democrats and Republicans are going to be forced to re-think, re-learn, re-consider; otherwise, the house truly will not stand.

I grew up in a rural part of the country that has always been Republican, and this election was no exception. I understand why. And it makes me ache to think how devastated these voters will be, yet again, when they lose even more as a result of their choice, and discover that this person knew exactly what to say to get elected, but will not deliver on his promises. I know many of them, and though I disagree deeply, I also know they are good people with genuine concerns that have not been met at all by any administration, any politician. This is not an apology, it is just a fact. I've also lived long enough to see people change in their attitudes about women, blacks, LGBT persons, people of other faiths and ethnicity. It takes time and it takes leadership, it takes openness and it takes listening and honesty on both sides, and an awareness that what we stand to lose through our divisions is much worse. Change for the better is actually possible, and it is important to hold onto that as a foundational truth and personal tenet. As the outgoing president is fond of saying - quoting Martin Luther King, Jr. - "The arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice."

In the meantime, I am trying to look closely at the beauty that surrounds us, and to draw strength from that. It's there in so many ways: so much is given to us absolutely for free, beginning with each breath. So I take heart from that awareness, and from the fact that other people have seen this, been sustained by it, and worked with it throughout history even during the darkest times. We can too.

 

 

A plate of persimmons, watercolor, January 2017