J. Robin Whitley's Blog, page 7
June 5, 2019
Dark Rabbit Holes
During meditation today, I couldn’t keep my mind from chasing down what my counselor called yesterday, “dark rabbit holes”. His terminology for the dark places my mind tends to go is perfect. Theology and meditation often send me down rabbit holes of light. I love musical rabbit holes. Going to listen to a song on YouTube, there’s always a recommendation of a new artist. One thing leads to another and the hours pass gleefully in song.
Dark rabbit holes start with a pity party because of being sick and unable to DO all I want to do. Then there are all the mistakes I’ve made that haunt me. Then I read the news. Then….well, you get the picture. I don’t want to fall into that Alice’s Adventure in Nightmareland (a better title for Lewis Carroll’s book I think). Dark rabbit holes tend to foster nightmares in my dreams as well.
“You know how you let yourself think that everything will be all right if you can only get to a certain place or do a certain thing. But when you get there you find it’s not that simple.”
~Richard Adams, Watership Down
One may wonder why I’m telling you, the reader, of dark rabbit holes when it’s a bit personal. Or is it? Talking with my mom yesterday about being down, she talked about her own challenges as an older woman going blind. My mom has always been active. It’s a family trait. Being unable to “do” as when we were younger, the challenge for all disabled people is to find a way to feel worthwhile in a world that values long work hours and busy-ness. Even when a person is disabled, one’s mind is often just fine but the body can’t keep up. Taking care of one’s health can give some of us too much time to think and if we aren’t careful, well, dark rabbit holes suck us into a surreal and hopeless place.
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Morning light in the Southern Appalachians.
All these things kept taunting me during my meditation time this morning. Most mornings, the birds, the green of the trees, sacred words and solitude empower me to stop the tyrant who lives in my mind. Not today though. Sacred words seemed garbled. Prayer took all my concentration. Finally, I decided it was better to move my meditation to another time and at least clean my kitchen and sweep the porch. Perhaps doing a chore would help me redirect my mind.
As soon as I washed the breakfast dishes, I decided to sweep the porch and wash the glass door. More light always helps diffuse the darkness. As I swept, my eyes fell on the fallen rhododendron blooms at the[image error] bottom of the stairs. Yesterday the sun made the fallen blossoms shine a neon pink. While waiting for the dog to sniff chipmunk tracks, I noticed a pattern to the pinkness. A pattern that complemented the rock border I’ve started for a path. It was easier to see yesterday, but perhaps you can see the pattern in the picture I took on this gray day.
Seeing the beauty of the pattern reminded me of the trillium leaves that waved at us yesterday. Though my mind had gone down a dark rabbit hole, I had to smile as that plant happily waved at me. While I remember nature’s wonders of the past twenty-four hours, the local downy woodpecker pecks out a hello. I can’t see him this morning, but the sound reminds me of his beauty that I’ve seen before.
Some of the fear that chases me down the dark rabbit holes has to do with it being Pride Month. We had come so far in loving one another under the Obama Administration that it gave me hope. As rights are removed, denied, and stricken from states’ records, we are going back farther than ever.
I told my friends from undergrad that I’m just tired of the battle. But aren’t we all in some way or another tired? Yet, we must never stop going forward. In order to participate in continued justice for my LGBTQIA community, I will be writing letters to newspapers in rural communities where I have lived in my life. I encourage you to do the same. Make your voice heard. Look for the tunnels of light and go there. An excerpt of my letter is as follows:
Some of you will know this and others won’t, but June is considered Pride Month for the LGBTQIA community. It’s a time where those of us who are lesbian, or gay are encouraged to come out and be visible to our family, friends, neighbors, and enemies. It’s not that any of us want enemies, but those who would do us harm are many. We simply want to live a life that is authentic to who we were created to be.
I am more fortunate than many because my family does still talk to me although they wish things were different. There are those who are ostracized, teens thrown out of their parents’ homes, or are treated in other violent ways. Although I have been out as a lesbian for several decades, I cannot truly say that I am “proud” to let you know this. Mostly, because it makes me afraid. Yet, I want that fear to change to trust in the goodness of humanity. More importantly, I want our world to change where all people know of their value as a loved human being.
My letter is a call to love. Let us love one another as in working for each other’s well-being. We can disagree about the way life happens or another person’s choice, but there is no need for violence or condemnation. Who are we to judge? In this society where mass shootings are a norm, why would we judge a person for merely loving one another.
Scripture is often used to demean and belittle so many, but especially the LGBTQIA community. Yet, when we look at Jesus’ words, the one who we claim to follow as Christians, what does Jesus have to say about it? Nothing. Yet, Jesus repeatedly talked about the importance of loving one another, feeding the hungry, being humble. Jesus had the harshest words for the religious establishment of his time. He was most often ostracized and condemned for loving and spending time with the outcast.
There are many who will read this letter and only get angry or afraid. There is no need for anger because I cannot harm you or take anything from you. Fear happens when we don’t understand something. Perhaps we don’t understand what happens to our daughter, son, mother, father, child, and perhaps it is something we fear inside of one’s self. In truth, it takes courage to accept who you are when you are different from what is considered norm. That doesn’t mean the person is dangerous, only different.
As a native of a rural community, I encourage you to love. Not only to love those who are like you, but to work for the well-being of those who are different. Sometimes it’s as easy as not saying anything harmful. Othertimes it’s as hard as writing a letter. Often, it’s as difficult as coming out to a parent or friend. If someone comes out to you this month, it is because you are loved, and you matter to that person. I encourage you to be brave enough to love in return.
A lesbian friend shared this song this morning and it helped me get out of a dark place. Each time I’ve heard it, this song gives me hope. You are good, holy, and worthy of love. Believe in your own goodness. I know I do.
“Pain and joy, love of life, and fear of death know no boundaries of us and them. We can all wake up to realize that our happiness depends on the happiness of our neighbors and vice versa, and our real safety is in togetherness, not intractable conflict.”
~Stephen Fulder, “Do We Really ‘Have No Choice’?
The post Dark Rabbit Holes appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
May 21, 2019
Begin Again
Each day is a new day to begin again. The morning light grows brighter and energizes me. As I sweep the porch, I think my love of G+d, the Holy of Holies. Thinking on the task before me as another year passes, questions arise. What does it mean to be an artist who is untrained, but called by G+d to be a …an artist? A sound of glass tinkles on the floor and I see a disk of mirror lost from its strand of chimes.
The glass reminds me of the story of a woman creating a stained-glass window. Each time she wrought[image error] the thing to perfection, something broke it and the word of G+d told her to begin again. The first fifty times I read that story it made no sense. Then one day, after I had been broken enough myself, I finished the story and said “Ahhh.” I understood and in that understanding, did not want to begin again.
When one has been broken so many times, a tiredness and a dread seep in along with the question, “Why am I still here?” The only answer? “Begin again.” So, I have and now I do yet again. One day at a time, one breath at a time, I begin again…and again. One step in front of the other to a place without a name.
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Flower Festival by Diego Rivera
I take leave of the painting in the bathroom. It is a mural I am working on to cover up the previous owner’s scribbling in brown. Though pleased with what has come out so far, I don’t know where the painting is going? Meant to be “whimsical” I find that I crave the realism of botanists or the expressionism of Diego Rivera. When it veers into the surrealism of Dali, I quickly paint over the nightmare of errors.
Gathering up newspapers that protect the floor, I think of how the painting process is similar to the process of life. Trial and error. Learn by doing. There are times one must simply tidy up and wait for inspiration or direction to show the next step. As I put the broom into the closet, I am aware of a painting started on the death of my marriage. The painting is staring at me from the easel. I am damn tired of painting that one. There’s no way to express the pain of being cut out of someone’s life. At least not until more distance occurs between the subject and the object. I need a different perspective and don’t have it now. Maybe I need to put it in the closet with the broom although I swore never to return to a closet again.
Several times have thought of destroying the painting. Yet, what good would that do really? An expression of violence doesn’t heal or repair the wound of the heart, mind, and soul. As a result, I’ve continued to struggle with the painting just as I’ve struggled with grief. None are immune to grief, loss, pain. Though not alone in humanity’s struggle with grief, each person’s experience is unique and that sometimes isolates us.
It doesn’t have to be that way…or does it? My cousin grieves over the loss of her husband. Sudden death is traumatic to any who are confronted with it. Writing that she doesn’t have to bear it alone it’s also clear that I am unsure how to shoulder any of her pain. The same goes for the grief carried by my own sister who grieves a grandchild who lived for only an hour. How do we help each other bear the weight of grief?[image error]
In my own experience, I can only say that the cards, the notes helped. Though the weight of grief could not truly be shouldered by another, words are a comfort to me. Touch was too personal. A promise of presence required too much of my trust. But words, words reminded me of who I was and the strength I have inside. Songs reminded me that the power of singing heals. Worship always reminds me of something greater than myself or humanity.
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Holy Cross Episcopal Church, Valle Crucis, NC
The sunlight shifts in the forest to brighter light. Yet, the shifting of the light also casts shadows in different places. Sometimes I want to burn with the fire of the holy in my life. Other times, it is good to rest in the shade and listen to the birds. I have no songs today, but the birds sing for me. There is movement sounding from the road below me; a reminder that humanity moves on down the road. I know I can too. Then, I laugh at the universe as it sends me a message via email.
“A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.”
~Lao Tzu
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Morning light in the Southern Appalachians.
The post Begin Again appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
May 8, 2019
A New Poet to Consider – Jordan Vinditelli
Over the weekend, I met a wonderful new friend, Jordan Vinditelli. I hope you will take time to read their blog! I was especially moved by the poem Staying Safe which is reprinted here with permission.
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Image by Omar González from Pixabay
Staying Safe
Kiss your partner before you open the door.
Make sure the blinds are closed.
Once you step into the harsh outside world,
don’t show affection and don’t look back.
Walk.
Fast.
With your keys poised between your fingers,
like your life depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Double check the lock.
Suffer through the heat at night
because it’s safer than
opening the balcony door.
Check your pronouns before you open the door.
Make sure your clothes are cis.
Once you step into that office suite,
don’t lower your voice and don’t reveal yourself.
Work.
Hard.
With your body on display for all to verify,
like your livelihood depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Triple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat of day
because it’s safer than
revealing yourself.
Take off your binder before you get to the door.
Make sure you look like the girl they raised.
Once you step into that house,
don’t even think about coming out.
Laugh.
Loud.
With soprano voice singing femininity,
like your stability depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Quadruple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat during visits
because it’s safer than
coming out to your family.
Secure your Pride gear before you open the door.
Make sure it’s tucked away on the way to the parade.
Once you step into the rainbow sea,
don’t stop scanning the crowds for guns and familiar faces.
Stay
Alert.
With your partner held tight in your arms
like your love depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Quintuple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat in the closet
because it’s safer than
losing all you’ve ever known.
Put on your clothes before you open the door.
Make sure you’re comfortable.
Once you step into the harsh outside world,
don’t return the stares and don’t react.
Live.
Normally.
With your head held high
like your sanity depends on it.
When you get home,
ignore the lock on the door.
Don’t check out the window —
there’s probably moving figures.
Again, ignore the lock.
They would just find another way in.
Get used to the suffering heat
because it’ll become your home
amidst the fires you’ll walk through.
Your body
doesn’t get
safety
in this world.
______________________________________________
“They are Fierce” is a collection of poetic and prose musings that work to explore a wide range of topics including love, faith, and politics. With the site based loosely on Shakespeare’s “Although she be but little, she is fierce” (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), this site encourages marginalized individuals of all identities to stand up and be seen and heard in a world which forces them into an identity of timidity and silence.
The posts contained in this blog are the poetic and narrative ramblings of my mind in written form. Enjoy!
The post A New Poet to Consider – Jordan Vinditelli appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
A New Poet to Consider
Over the weekend, I met a wonderful new friend. I hope you will take time to read their blog! I was especially moved by the poem Staying Safe which is reprinted here with permission.
[image error]
Image by Omar González from Pixabay
Staying Safe
Kiss your partner before you open the door.
Make sure the blinds are closed.
Once you step into the harsh outside world,
don’t show affection and don’t look back.
Walk.
Fast.
With your keys poised between your fingers,
like your life depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Double check the lock.
Suffer through the heat at night
because it’s safer than
opening the balcony door.
Check your pronouns before you open the door.
Make sure your clothes are cis.
Once you step into that office suite,
don’t lower your voice and don’t reveal yourself.
Work.
Hard.
With your body on display for all to verify,
like your livelihood depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Triple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat of day
because it’s safer than
revealing yourself.
Take off your binder before you get to the door.
Make sure you look like the girl they raised.
Once you step into that house,
don’t even think about coming out.
Laugh.
Loud.
With soprano voice singing femininity,
like your stability depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Quadruple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat during visits
because it’s safer than
coming out to your family.
Secure your Pride gear before you open the door.
Make sure it’s tucked away on the way to the parade.
Once you step into the rainbow sea,
don’t stop scanning the crowds for guns and familiar faces.
Stay
Alert.
With your partner held tight in your arms
like your love depends on it.
When you get home,
lock the door.
Check out the window for moving figures.
Quintuple check the lock.
Suffer through the heat in the closet
because it’s safer than
losing all you’ve ever known.
Put on your clothes before you open the door.
Make sure you’re comfortable.
Once you step into the harsh outside world,
don’t return the stares and don’t react.
Live.
Normally.
With your head held high
like your sanity depends on it.
When you get home,
ignore the lock on the door.
Don’t check out the window —
there’s probably moving figures.
Again, ignore the lock.
They would just find another way in.
Get used to the suffering heat
because it’ll become your home
amidst the fires you’ll walk through.
Your body
doesn’t get
safety
in this world.
______________________________________________
“They are Fierce” is a collection of poetic and prose musings that work to explore a wide range of topics including love, faith, and politics. With the site based loosely on Shakespeare’s “Although she be but little, she is fierce” (A Midsummer Night’s Dream), this site encourages marginalized individuals of all identities to stand up and be seen and heard in a world which forces them into an identity of timidity and silence.
The posts contained in this blog are the poetic and narrative ramblings of my mind in written form. Enjoy!
The post A New Poet to Consider appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
May 6, 2019
A Community of Love
On May 5th I was honored to speak at a community of love called High Country United Church of Christ (UCC) in Boone, NC. The pastor, The Rev. Tamara Franks, was out of town and gave me the opportunity to preach last year and again this year. The congregation is one filled with loving people who are talented as well as socially engaged. Needless to say, because they are an open congregation with other gays and lesbians, each time I visit, I feel like I’m visiting homefolk.
“We can find harmful tendencies in ourselves, begin to free ourselves from our conditioned responses, guilt, and grief. Individuals do this; communities do this; religions and nations can do this.”
~Sallie Tisdale, “Lost Stories ”
[image error]High Country UCC, Boone, NC
Home
The topic Rev. Franks, in fact, asked me to address was home. I told her I already had a sermon prepared for when I was to preach at Advent Lutheran in Charlotte but couldn’t due to illness. It excited me to be able to use my work from January and also to adapt it to the conversations they had been having at the church about home and family. Of course, as is often the case when working on such things, the task was much harder than I imagined.
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Altar at High Country UCC – May 5, 2019
The church was set up beautifully. They had paintings on a table just inside the front door that reminded people of home. Once inside, someone had set up a table that was beautifully decorated. It made me think of Christmas at my Grandma Poplin’s house although the theme wasn’t that of Christmas. The altar had lovely fresh flowers that are blooming in our area as well as a gorgeous tree photo.
As soon as I walked in, the choir invited me to sing along. Since one of the members was playing guitar, I asked that I might also play with them. They were gracious and said yes. Anytime I’m invited to play or sing along with a group, I feel more at home. Later, as I and two other guitarists stood around the piano to go over the opening hymn, I was suddenly at home even more.
Growing up, especially at Grandma Poplin’s house, we always were singing around the piano. At home, mom was the youth choir director, so my sister and I were always singing with her to go over new pieces. Or, sometimes we were singing a trio around the piano with me playing the guitar. Music is my home in a way that place is not.
Though that being said, the drive to and from the church was so glorious, I also know that I belong here. I belong to the forest, fields, and the mountains of the Appalachians. Even as a child, when we visited the mountains, I always told my family I wanted to live here. Now that I do, I never want to leave. My home on Beech Mountain is especially peaceful and quiet.
This blog about yesterday’s experience changed even as I write. Anytime we talk about home or family, those topics are hard for most everyone because they are so layered. Not only are the topics layered with challenges, but they are also deeply layered with meaning.
A Community of Love
One of the things I had hoped to do in my sermon (or presentation really) was to talk to the people about what it means to live as a beloved person. Basing my talk on Henri Nouwen’s book, Life of the Beloved, made it seem like it was going to be easy to preach the sermon to such a loving community.
Instead, working on a sermon that talked about being a beloved person of G-d as well as how that related to home and family at first caused me to feel vulnerable and exposed. As a lesbian, family is hard because they believe so differently than me. Also, their idea of home is in the Piedmont and most of my family never moves far from that area.
I wish I could say here at the end of the blog that I have some answers for you or words of wisdom. Instead, I find my own sermon topic preaching to me. Reminding me of my chosenness where G-d shows great love to me through the communities of love I have found in this area. Both High Country UCC and Holy Cross Episcopal feel like home in ways unimaginable.
Blessings abound in my community here on Beech Mountain. In addition to discovering wonderful faith communities nearby, my yoga class is a loving community in a different way. I know the people at Fred’s and their faces are a comfort when I can’t get down the mountain. The trees, birds, deer, and many beautiful paths are loving community and friends in a different way.
When I moved here, I was going through the brokenness of divorce. That is something that many of us face in this broken world. Yet, great healing has been given to me through this loving community. I don’t see them as separate communities although they rarely overlap. Why? Because these wonderful people have become my family and home. That doesn’t mean I don’t love my biological family or homeplace, only that in my broken-hearted move, these people were there for me in ways they never knew. All they did was to be themselves.
By being themselves, these loving communities of people gave healing balm to me. When we learn to embrace our own natures and broken places, we can find ways to live toward wholeness. As we live towards a life that is in tune with who we were created to be, in addition to giving us healing, it also frees us to give to others who need to know that even though they are broken, they too are chosen and blessed.
“When we begin to believe that there is greater joy in working with and for others, rather than just for ourselves, then our society will truly become a place of celebration.”
~Jean Vanier
Yesterday, I ended my sermon with a direct quote from Nouwen’s book. I want to share that with you now. Share your lives with others. It’s what is needed in this hurting broken world. Love is working for the well-being of another even if it means leaving those who don’t get you alone. We can’t change the other, we can only change ourselves. What does it mean to be YOU in this world? What is ‘home’ to you? Find your place in the world by BEING you.
“Speak from that place in your heart where you are most yourself. Speak directly, simply, lovingly, gently, and without any apologies. Tell us what you see and want us to see; tell us what you hear and want us to hear….Trust your own heart. The worlds will come. There is nothing to fear. Those who need you most will help you most. You can be sure that I will.”
[image error]Be a community of love wherever you are.
______________________________________________
Notes from May 5th Sermon:
Living as Beloved – Sermon at High Country UCC
May 5, 2019 Based upon Henri Nouwen’s book, Life of the Beloved.
Scripture John 21:1-19
Intro: family and friendship “…is giving to each other the gift of belovedness.”
Chosen – self-rejection is the darkness of feeling unwelcome anywhere
“The eyes of love have seen you as precious, as of infinite beauty, as of eternal value. When love chooses, it chooses with a perfect sensitivity for the unique beauty of the chosen one, and it chooses without making anyone feel excluded….To be chosen does not mean others are rejected.”
“Every time you feel hurt, offended, or rejected, you have to dare to say to yourself: ‘These feelings, strong as they may be, are not telling me the truth about myself. The truth, even though I cannot feel it right now, is that I am the choses child of God, precious in God’s eyes, called the Beloved from all eternity and held safe in an everlasting embrace.”
“Secondly, keep looking for people and places where your truth is spoken and where you are reminded of your deepest identity as the chosen one.”
Blessed – “Count your blessings name them one by one”
“It is not enough to be chosen. We also need an ongoing blessing that allows us to hear in an ever-new way that we belong to a loving God who will never leave us alone, but will remind us always that we are guided by love on every step of our lives.”
Broken
Given and how do you give as a beloved?
Henri Nouwen’s book, Life of the Beloved, pg. 20
Life of the Beloved pg. 26
Ibid. pg. 28
Ibid, pg. 45
Ibid, pg. 49-50
Ibid. pg. 59
The post A Community of Love appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
April 22, 2019
Simply Music?
In an effort to simplify life and the website here, I am in the process of having just one website. I could call it simply music, but my life is full of creativity. My life moves from painting to a song, to a book, to prayer. Then the dog asks for a walk and we are looking at the creativity in nature.
Now, as I try to simplify and get down to the essence of my life, I see that it’s not only filled with beauty and love, but there’s basically only a few essential things to focus on. Music is one of course. Music will always be essential in my life. Then writing essays and poetry…sometimes books. Painting is one of my favorite ways to meditate. It’s the only way that my mind truly stops thinking.
My hope is in the coming weeks to simplify this website too. I want it to show forth beauty and also encourage others to embrace your own beautiful lives. Feedback is always welcomed.
May your life be seen as art today!
The post Simply Music? appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
April 9, 2019
This Life I Have Been Given
There’s a song that has been coming back to me from long ago. It’s one my mom played on the piano and then my sister and I would take turns singing the verses. The title of the song is, “This Life” and it’s by Evie Tournquist. She was a contemporary gospel singer popular in the 70s when we were in high school.
A couple of weeks ago I asked mom to send me a copy of the music she has. I’ve looked for the Evie songbooks for years just to have copies of the songs I sang with my mom and sister. The music still speaks to me all these years later.
“This life I have been given is but a moment’s time. This life I have received it as a gift from [God’s] hand.”
Written in first person as one singing a song to God it is quiet, respectful, and full of heart. A lot of Evie’s songs were that way. As a trio of short women, we did also love the fun song she did called “I’m Only 4 foot eleven but I’m going to heaven and it makes me feel ten feet tall….” My theology has changed a lot since then so there are some of the contemporary gospel hymns I wouldn’t sing today because my understanding of God is more magnanimous.
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Beech Mountain, NC 2018
©2017 JRobin Whitley
The song moves gently into my mind again today as I look through old pictures taken through the past thirteen years. Since my divorce, I’ve tried moving those thousand pictures of life with my wife to a safe keeping place. It’s been healing in many ways and of course, when I see pictures of our happiness and love it has been hard.
The pictures I am moving to the Flickr account today though, are ones I took on walks in forests. The walks were mostly in various places of the Nantahala Forest because it is so large, and Sylva is dead center of it. That place in the forest is one of the million reasons I loved living in Sylva.
Forests have always been exciting places for me. Exciting for the potential to see wildlife, but also to discover wildflowers, birds, nests, paths, and all the ways that nature changes in the forest. When I was in high school, we took one of those tests that gave you ideas about vocation in life. I always got Forest Ranger. As I look through my photos of today and get excited about new walks on Beech Mountain, I wonder if I missed my calling.
Seeing photo after photo of the wonder of the forest, I can see why I am so happy here. When my ex and I would vacation, we would only go an hour from the house staying in the mountains. The rivers and the trees were too peaceful to leave for the city or a harried trip on the interstate. Even now, when I want to go somewhere, it’s usually to explore this area. This month is dollar days at Grandfather Mountain. I’ve not been there in over twenty years. I can’t wait to see Birdie up on the top of those rocks looking down to the mountains below.
Linville Gorge is nearby and so are the caverns. I’ve truthfully no desire to see the caverns again. The last time I was there I realized being underground freaked me out a bit. Yet, I don’t have any photos of the
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It felt like I was being watched. I looked up and saw this girl hoping Birdie wouldn’t see her. After we walked on, I also saw she had a fawn hidden behind a tree behind her.
trip I took in the 80s. Film cameras were too expensive, and I was one of the musicians singing in the mountains with Resort Area Ministry (R.A.M.) out of Boone. We all had just enough money to buy a ticket into the cavern. With my new digital cameras, would it take my mind off of the damp underground? The freaky bats that I don’t like (even though I know they are beneficial)? The water that could hold the Loch Ness Monster; even if it doesn’t have a water monster? Evidently, my sci-fi imagination goes a bit haywire in underground caverns.
A lot of the photos I uploaded today were photos I took of the forest floor. It is amazing at the life and
growth that occurs on the floor of the forest. First, the mosses begin to green up. Then there are sprigs of other plants. My friends already post pictures of trillium and trout lilies sprouting in Southern Appalachia. We have only a few greens here on Beech. Yet, I can’t wait to discover what they are and where they are.
Each day in a forest is an adventure because things are blooming. The frogs started singing last night. The night before the owls were hooting it up that it’s spring. Birds sing in the morning and the new red squirrel is already trying to tease Birdie. One of my new writer friends in the area posts regularly about the wonders she finds on her hikes. Lisa Creech Bledsoe is a great poet too and she sometimes posts her poetry as well. Check out her site at Appalachian Ground. Wonders await you in your own back yard or back forest. Take the time to look around at the ground around you. You’ll be glad you did.
The post This Life I Have Been Given appeared first on J. Robin Whitley.
April 5, 2019
Spring and coming alive from winter.
2019©Photo by Alicia Randolph. Used with permission.
It’s that time of the year that brings joy to our hearts. Though we joke about the schizophrenic weather, we are really happy to see springs of green coming up through the muck and mire of winter. After the gray, wet, snowy blandness of winter colors, I especially want color. I want sunshine and flowers. Though patient with the process, I am also eager and excited.
Growing things has always been something that excites me. New friendships and old need growth. Gardens are a great place to be in touch with the growing and dying cycles of life inherent in nature. Since moving to Beech Mountain, I no longer have a garden. Though they are hard work, the work is rewarding and I miss it. Luckily for me, my friend Steven is writing about his garden and his greenhouse. This allows me to participate in the excitement of planning the garden as well. If we lived closer I would be over at his house asking to see its process.
The first garden I planted that was my very own (not mom or dad’s or my grandparents’), I was so excited I went out every morning to see if anything sprouted. That didn’t make things grow any faster of course. I decided the same rule applies to gardens that applies with a watched pot waiting to boil. My excitement about seeing the first sprouts of beans or flowers or squash never lessened. It’s just that I found a way to pace my watching. Then one day I would walk up and it was as though the beans had sprouted up overnight.
Our lives are full of cycles. There are times we forget how cyclical everything is in life. Being able to get outside helps. Any growing activity helps. Maybe even mowing grass helps, but I’m not a fan of grass or mowing. Yes, it’s pretty but I won’t get on my soapbox about how our desire to create weed free green grass (that has little helpful purpose) has harmed our beneficial insect population. I am also biased because I’ve always been allergic to grass and with the allergies moving from just being itchy to causing asthma attacks, well, I am not fond of it. Though as I look at articles I am reminded of its benefits too when it comes to run-off areas. Maybe if we learn to step away from the chemicals and move towards a healthy permaculture.
Somewhere I said that I wouldn’t get on my soapbox about the environment. Believe it or not, I haven’t
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Caterpillar from a long-ago garden.
yet. There’s still a part of me that turns to soil and thinking about our birds returning, our beneficial insects that will be returning. How can we prepare a place that’s welcoming so that we can share the bountiful treasure of food which their hard work produces? We cannot do it without them. Our lives depend upon a symbiotic relationship with plant, animal, soil, water, air.
In the Lutheran Church (ELCA), we talked about how this type of living is good stewardship of the land. In our Episcopal congregation the other day, I was pleased to hear of that similar way of looking at the land and our place as caretakers of a big garden rather than being a master of the house who can take anything wanted at any time. That is exploitation.
So maybe I am a little on my soapbox as well as just wishing I could plant something. Planting takes planning and my neighbors have already told me what to avoid unless my sole wish is to feed the deer. We have deer here that are almost tame. It is their land before it was ours, so it doesn’t bother me. There are no predators up here, so nature is off-balance in that way. I can’t say I wish for predators though. Each time I find a deer standing at me and looking through me with her soulful eyes (it’s usually a doe), it feels as those Psalm 42 has come alive into my presence or I have walked into a Psalm.
As a deer longs for flowing streams,
so my soul longs for you, O God.
Until I know where to plant, I also cannot plant. The sun is shy on this north facing porch. Even with morning light, there’s not a lot. There’s foxglove that’s beautiful, but I’ve not found it yet in the area. Fred’s General Store has hanging boxes that have my attention. I keep asking, learning, planning, and in my own way growing into the spring out of winter in this year. Until I know for sure, I will keep waiting, watching, and learning.
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2018 JRobin Whitley, Mother and fawn walking through the neighborhood.
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March 28, 2019
A Wedding and a Divorce – Anniversary
A Wedding and a Divorce
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Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran, Sylva, NC
Sounds like some new movie for Hugh Grant to star in, but it’s not. Don’t get me wrong, there were funerals during this time too. Death waits for no one and cares not about our special occasions. My ex and I had planned our wedding shortly after North Carolina announced it was allowing gay marriages in the state. Paula Offutt and I were giving presentations about our new books at City Lights Bookstore. A friend who loved us interrupted the reading to let us know that the ruling had passed. None of us could believe it.
Now many are trying to take our newly given rights away again. States are creating bills and hoping to make laws that can discriminate against us. Let me tell you this. Now that many of us have had a taste of freedom, those states are not thinking clearly about making us go back in the closet. We have sacrificed too much to get rights that many take for granted. We cherish those rights and we will fight for them. The LGBTQ people are not afraid of hard work, protest, losing family, or physical harm. None of us want that in our lives, but we want to keep our rights.
If I did a timeline summary of all that happened between the time of the book reading, it would look like this:
New Book Release/Reading – Marriage Equality in NC – Wedding plans – my dad’s death – Disability Hearing – Wedding.
In all of that rejoicing, my dad died. There was no rejoicing then mind you. My family had a hard month with my dad on life support machines and with his being 78, we had to make a tough decision. There was tension in the family over a right to die and the meaning of faith. On the day my dad died, my family decided to leave my partner out of the surviving relative list in the obituary. That hurt. It hurt because I knew they loved her, and she loved them. Then, it caused problems because my partner thought I should raise my voice.
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One marriage with many promises.
It wasn’t because I was chicken. I had stood up to my family (and lost) before. My concern was the fact that my mom had just lost her lifelong friend and love. Mom and dad fought all the time. So much so that at times I thought they didn’t like each other. Later in life, I realized that both of them liked to argue to a certain degree and that they had learned to make their peace with each other. In addition to concerns about mom, my sister and I were heartbroken over the loss of our dad. My sister worked alongside of dad, so the loss was deeper for her. In my attempt to minister to my family’s grief, I did not do as my partner asked.
Besides, my dad’s death caused a cyclone of feelings inside of me that I was having a hard time understanding. There was grief and loss, but there was also relief. Not only relief about my dad no longer being on life support machines, but I later realized his death meant one less person to condemn me in my family. Though we had made a kind of peace about me being present with my partner, it was an uneasy peace. After his death, he came to me in dreams to tell me how much he loves me. I write in the present tense because he still comes in my dreams to bring love to mind. Somehow after his death, I knew he could accept me in a way he couldn’t in his life. He was the only one of my family that later felt present at my wedding.
After the funeral, my partner suggested that we postpone our wedding. That really hurt. It hurt because it was the only way I got through the ordeal with the month’s waiting in the hospital. It hurt because I was afraid that my choice to not start a fight in the midst of family grief caused my then-future-wife to have second thoughts about marriage. I believe I even asked her that.
It was true what she said that I was grieving. I couldn’t see how postponing our wedding would make a difference. Though I’ve learned healthy ways to grieve, I am slow at it. Because of my tendency to ponder and analyze my every thought and feeling over events, doing the same with grief makes it seem exponentially longer. At this writing, it’s four years after my dad’s death and I still grieve at odd times. Still miss him when I see his harmonica or run across his guitar slide and the memories of him teaching me guitar make me wish to hear him. Even in 2015, I know that postponing the marriage would have only delayed my grief over the loss of my dad. To postpone would have caused me to stop grieving and wonder what was wrong with my relationship.
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Choose to remember love.
Looking back now, perhaps that’s what I should have done anyway. The married and happily ever after was too enticing. Though I knew that life is always full of ups and downs, I was confident in the us that we were and that we had been. At that time, we had been together for nine years and had already gone through a lot. Hell, I thought the fact that two women went through menopause together was enough to cement our marriage. That wasn’t a fun time I tell you, but we made it and we still loved one another.
There also was the issue of my declining health. Even before dad’s illness, we had been working to get disability in place for me because of how it was impacting my life and ability to work. Though my partner talked about the stress of it, she promised she still loved me for who I was. The thought of being classified as “disabled” was horrible to me and caused a great identity crisis because I like to work. I didn’t know who I would be if I couldn’t work. I didn’t know where I would fit in the world, in my church, in my family if I didn’t work. This was going on before dad died; even when we planned to wed and, in the weeks, before the wedding. It made it even more difficult that the hearing before the disability judge came up to be scheduled on the day of our wedding rehearsal day. We asked the attorney about postponing it. She informed us that the judge could delay it another two years and we both knew I needed more medical help because I had no insurance.
We went to the hearing and the judge made an offer to grant the disability for the future, but it wouldn’t cover all of the bills that had piled up to the date of the final hearing. I can’t remember why the attorney suggested postponing our wedding at a discussion after the judge’s offer. My partner righteously and angrily explained to the attorney that we had waited all our lives for the right to marry. In truth, I think my partner surprised herself at how angry she was that the attorney suggested that. My partner’s standing up and claiming our wedding in such a manner made me even more confident in our wedding. The day before the wedding I was declared by the state as “disabled”.
That label did not affect me though because, at the time, I rejoiced in the fact that I was beloved. I felt loved by my partner, community, church, and even my family at the time. Though they did not know about the wedding. Dad died before we could even tell them about it. I knew they wouldn’t come anyway and did not want messages about my salvation mixed in with the grief, the stress of the disability hearing, and the stress (yet joy) of getting married.
Our wedding was simple. We dressed in our best pantsuits. We encouraged everyone to come as they were; casual and fun. The wedding was full of messages of love. From ancient Hebrew scripture to the reading of a Shakespeare ode, love was in the air. Friends played music. All of my partner’s family who lived in town participated. Friends helped. We walked down the aisle to “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” (my favorite Bach piece) and walked out to “Joyful, Joyful We Adore Thee” (a favorite of us both). Our reception was provided by the locale business lesbian. Our photographs by the local and out partner of the business lesbian. We had Christians, atheists, agnostics, and Buddhists at our wedding. The church string band played Celtic music. We danced, ate cupcakes, and rejoiced in the love of family and friendship.
Everyone told us then and later that it was the best wedding they had ever attended. They talked of how much fun it was and that they were free to wear whatever they wanted. Everyone talked about how much love there was in the ceremony and the reception. It’s true too. Though I won’t post a photo of my ex here, you can look at her face and see love. Love for me, for her family, church, and for our friends. We both talked about how blessed we were.
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Fresh flowers at The Balsam Inn, NC.
Our honeymoon wasn’t far away but a few towns over. Just enough to be out of our neighborhood for a mini-break, but also close enough so that if my 96-year-old mother-in-law needed us, we could get there in time. I was proud and honored to be a part of her family. In fact, they were a lot like my family except from Chicago. Okay, so that’s a lot difference. But the love of music and God tied us together.
Today, March 28, 2019, would have been our fourth wedding anniversary. Today is the one-year anniversary of our divorce. Yet, what I tell you now is that I’m going to celebrate the love and not the pain. I am sad that my marriage didn’t make it. That much is true. Yet, it is also true that in those years we had together I had more love than some people have in a lifetime.
My friends remain. I have made new friends in my new community who have brought healing and hope for life again at this age. For now, I’m unwilling to talk about romantic love, for I thought my wife was my “one”…she was the only person I was willing to marry. It doesn’t mean that the loss of her means there’s no such thing as romantic love, but that I still have much to learn about love. I still have the love in my heart after all the hurt. After all the loss, the love I have in my heart and life is greater than what I have lost. That is what I will celebrate today. I pray that you know you are loved too.
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March 8, 2019
Grief and Lent
Grief has a long shelf life, doesn’t it? At least that’s how it seems when you’re wanting the sadness to end. A friend sent me an email about giving up Lent for Lent. Damn wouldn’t I like to be able to give up being sad for lent? Looks like in addition to my goal of giving up plastics (even more than before), I get to give up more hope. Not sure why I kept holding on to the hope that things would work out with my ex. Now, this Mandolin Orange song really expresses it all for me. “There was a time when I called you mine….”*
Sleet and snow fall like a blowing curtain as I listen to sad songs. Seems fitting for Lent too doesn’t it? A dreary season during a dreary time of year. Lent seems like it would be easier in the summer. Winter is dark and we all need more sunshine. Everybody seems to be dying. The world is at odds with everything. It also wasn’t a good time for me to read Steven King’s book, The Stand. Talk about a depressing book.
Believe it or not, in spite of what I write up above, I know I will be okay. I am a strong person and am blessed to be loved by family and friends. We all have hard times. Life is challenging for each of us. I’m just at the angry and hurt place in my cycle of grief. Also at the place of letting go.
“If I showed up to your wedding
wearing black and blue and red
wouldn’t it seem fitting
cause I’m as bruised and angry as I’ve ever been.”
Letting go is its own challenge. We hold on to experiences, people, things we love because love is precious and often fleeting. The one thing that is beautiful in the book, The Stand, is how after everyone has died people realize how much life was taken for granted. The book also points out how guilty each of us are at taking our loved ones for granted in some way or another. I wish it weren’t true, but I know I’ve done it too.
Maybe the beauty of Lent is that it reminds us of the beauty in our lives. No matter when we would celebrate the season, sad things would still happen, people would still die around us. We live in an imperfect world. Each one of us does the best we can, one moment at a time. Maybe that’s all we can hope for in this finite world.
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One marriage with many promises.
“Precious metal and precious memories
slip away, slip away from your finger and your mind.
There was a time when I called you,
There was a time when I called you mine.”
Sara Watkins, Sarah Jarosz, Aoife O’Donovan –
Crossing Muddy Waters
_______________________
* Full Lyrics
There Was a Time
Mandolin Orange
If I showed up to your wedding
wearing black and blue and red
wouldn’t it seem fitting
cause I’m as bruised and angry as I’ve ever been.
There was a time when I called you,
There was a time when I called you mine.
This old house is cold and empty
even these old walls have been.
I laid down.
You’re not with me.
Waking up just seems a sin.
There was a time when I called you,
There was a time when I called you mine.
There’s no gold on either side of the Mississippi,
No silver left in this world to find.
Precious metal and precious memories
slip away, slip away from your finger and your mind.
There was a time when I called you,
There was a time when I called you mine.
Songwriters: MARLIN ANDREW H
There Was a Time lyrics © Seed Soup Songs
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