None Forbidden, None Compelled

A STREET WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS
Liverpool Cathedrals ~ both on Hope Street ~ painted by Ken Storey
Left: Cathedral Church of the Risen Christ ~ Anglican
Right: Metropolitan Cathedral of Christ the King ~ Catholic

For starters, I would like to share some inspiring, inclusive words that I have been fortunate enough to hear spoken before communion a few times, inviting all -- not just some -- to the table. I am nearly moved to tears by such unexpected generosity of spirit:

"None forbidden, none compelled"

and

"All who seek the truth are welcome here."

These kindhearted and introspective invitations stand in stark contrast to the many excluding, forbidding messages that I have heard proclaimed at various churches over the long years. "None forbidden, none compelled," is so much more respectful than the typical agenda of restrictions and requirements. And how refreshing to welcome "All who seek the truth" rather than only those who tread the exact same path. I have taken these two pre - communion blessings as personal mantras -- along with my favorite "it's not supposed to be any way" -- and continually strive to internalize the inherent value they assign to individual integrity and personal quest.

As a follow up to my two preceding Fortnightlies ("Born Only Once" & "O Ya - Ya of Little Faith"), I offer this third installment in my unholy trinity of somewhat skeptical, somewhat irreverent, somewhat rambling religious reflections.

Ironically, many people here in the States assume that Gerry and I attend the Episcopal Church (being the Anglican Church of the USA) because Gerry is from England. Actually the opposite is true: Gerry didn't become Anglican until moving to America. In England, he was raised in the eight - ish per cent of the population who are British Catholics, with their long history of persecution, going back to Henry VIII. However, the Liverpool area, with lots of southern Irish immigrants over the years, is more Catholic than most other parts of England.

My religious background, as explained more fully in previous posts: raised in the Church of the Nazarene (fundamentalist Protestant), always felt like an outsider, like a goat instead of a sheep, hated the cruel judgmentalism and the wacky emotionalism, yet stuck with it all through college in an off and on kind of way, out of loyalty to my mother (e.g. my first marriage, a misstep of my confused, early youth, took place in the Church of the Nazarene). After that, I attended for one more semester in grad school but finally resolved not to do that anymore; tried a couple of academic Unitarian services on campus, in biking distance; and visited a big impersonal Methodist church once or twice because it was just a few blocks from my house and easy to walk to.

Next came Notre Dame during the Hesburgh years, where, not surprisingly, I met many Catholics, including Gerry (who had served as a Christian Brother in England and Liberia, from age 14 - 21). While at ND, I attended various masses with friends of mine around the campus from time to time (some fancy in the Basilica, others in dormitory lounges or at the Grotto). I never really felt that Catholicism was for me -- too exclusive and sexist and every bit as judgmental as the Nazarenes, but I liked the liturgical nature of the ceremony, which was new for me after all those years of touchy - feely protestantism.

When Gerry and I decided to marry, I was willing to join the Catholic church, despite my misgivings, just so that we could have a one - church family (my father had never gone with my mom and us kids to the Church of the Nazarene; he went on his own to the Reorganized Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, a Mormon off-shoot, in which he had been raised). I always felt that my parents had both been too stubborn on this issue, that one of them should have yielded to the other so that us kids could experience a unified version of religious family life. But then, for me -- not being a person of great faith -- personal faith is not the real issue, so I could easily set that aside (maybe my parents couldn't) in favor of the activity itself.

I recently read Hector Abad's memoir Oblivion, and was struck by his way of making peace with the various inconsistencies of his conflicted religious upbringing:

"There is no sense in feeling regret at something that depended so little on one's own will and so much on the circumstance of having been born at a particular historical moment, in a particular corner of the world, and into a particular home. . . . Ultimately, faith or the lack of it does not depend on our will, or on any mysterious grace received from on high but on those lessons we learn early on, one way or another, and which are almost impossible to unlearn" (83 - 84).

I can remember seeing all those Sunday school pictures of the ideal 1960's American family skipping up the sidewalk to the classic white church, mother and father wearing hats and holding hands, the kids--one boy, one girl, or maybe two of each, maybe an extra baby --cute as buttons, sometimes a puppy running along beside; and I'd think, "Why aren't we like that? What's wrong with our family?"
Something along these lines:

That saccharine little vision and, more importantly, the lack of its reality in my own childhood, is what informed my concept of why a married couple should go to the same church. That's why I was willing to do something as drastic and unpalatable to my politics as join the Catholic Church. But I was saved!

The Deus ex machina? The two Catholic priests Gerry and I talked to (one at Notre Dame, one at Purdue) were both very unsympathetic to our situation. First, we had already had our civil wedding in February 1989 before we approached the church to plan our religious ceremony for that September. The priests were cross that we had done this. And then, I had to tell about my divorce. They insisted that even though it had not been a Catholic wedding, it required a Catholic annulment (wait time, three years) and extensive counselling. I pointed out that I had just had three years of excellent counselling at a premier Catholic institution, didn't that count? No, it didn't count. How about if the counselor had been a nun? Nope. I started to cry, and the clueless priest said, "It seems that you still have unresolved issues." At that point, Gerry, my hero, stood up and said, "Our issue is with your lack of common decency." We sighed and went home. I knew then in my heart that becoming a Catholic was not for me and never would be. I had been willing, but they had just lost a convert.

However, it was not my place to tell Gerry whether or not he should leave Catholicism, after his long history with it. When, he said, "What do you think we should do?" I said, "Well, at Notre Dame, I knew a number of dissatisfied Catholics who had moved over to the Episcopal Church." So we decided to try St. John's, Lafayette, the following Sunday and immediately felt welcome. There were our neighbors from across street, who we did not know attended there! There was the couple from Gerry's work who often hosted the book group that we had recently joined -- we didn't know we'd see them there. As you can see, it seemed like a perfect fit, even before the fact. Then the Purdue Episcopal Campus Ministry advertised for an office administrator, so I took that job, and the Episcopal Church became the center of our life at Purdue (we sometimes attended the campus services, other times the more formal services at St. John's). We had a couple of months of pre-marital counselling with one of the Episcopal priests, who just happened to be a former Catholic priest! Gerry still likes to say that even though he changed church affiliation, he always knew he'd be married by a Catholic priest!

In preparation for marriage, Gerry and I completed some personality profile questionnaires to help us understand our relational issues, compatibility levels, and marital readiness. When I scored in the range of "Inordinately Realistic," I felt vindicated: at least I had learned something from my mistakes, and my counselling at Notre Dame had paid off. Peter, our ex-Catholic priest, said that women usually registered a much more romantic view of marriage, but I was even a notch above Gerry on the realism scale.

When we told my mom that we were both going to officially join the Episcopal Church, she said (in the good old spirit of Henry VIII), "Well now, isn't that the branch of the Catholic church that condones divorce?" And I said, "Well now, that's the branch we want." Ha. Still, she finally accepted that I was never going back to the Church of the Nazarene; and Gerry's parents, though they themselves are unquestioningly loyal Catholics, have been supportive of our decision.

Anyway, Reader, I married him. We joined The Episcopal Church, have been attending ever since, and have had the good fortune to regularly meet people with similar interests, values, and notions of humor. One semester, Gerry participated in a discussion group for current Episcopalians who had been raised on Catholicism, and everyone laughed at his suggestion that the group call itself "Catholics for Jesus." Ben and Sam were christened as Episcopalians and served their time as choristers. I love the literary liturgy, though I still find the patriarchal language very hard to cope with. I try to stay focused on the strengths but sometimes wonder if Christianity has been so badly poisoned by centuries of sexism that it can never be salvaged. Maybe we need to toss the whole thing out and start over again? There is plenty of room for change and it is certainly time.

Meanwhile, the spiritual quest of a lifetime continues, and surprising literary connections never cease to present themselves, decade after decade. Most recently were the thoughtful recollections of Hector Abad, as mentioned above; twenty years ago the novels of Rebecca Wells; thirty years ago the personal testimony of Langston Hughes; forty years ago the poetry Naomi Shihab -- in the following poem (and so many more) that you can find in the right - hand column on my Quotidian Blog:

SPIRITUAL JOURNEY

"Where are you on
your spiritual journey?"
you ask, your sharp eyes
thumbtacking the question
on my heart.

What can I say?
I am somewhere beyond "go"
I have not stopped.

Years have shown me
the idea of travelling
is a game we play with ourselves
to pretend we're not home.

Naomi Shihab Nye
(b 1952)
Palestinian / American Poet

******************
Another View of the Anglican Cathedral, Liverpool

Also by Ken Storey
The Liverpool Merseyside Waterfront
(cathedrals to the right)

SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS ON MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, August 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Post Mother's Day

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Little Gardens: Framed Plant Art
at the Bellagio Conservatory & Botanical Garden
[See also my recent Mother's Day Post: Picture of Home]

***************

I. Mother ~ Father Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye
Every evening
After dinner,
My mother waters the grass
And the little gardens.
She misses nothing.
The squash plants bloom before her eyes;
Peas rise up and offer their tiny envelopes.
My mother waters along the fence,
Parsley and lettuce in billowing rows;
She lets them drink.
My mother always offers everyone food,
"Have you had dinner?"
She waters the petunias.
Her flowers have never been the kind which
Fill up the whole front yard:
Her flowers are subtle
You have to look to see them.
I am looking at my mother,
Watering the grass and the plants;
The sky darkening,
My mother stands quietly, one hand on her hip

~ everything I ever loved.

My Grandmother Mary Rovilla Heidemann Lindsey
and my mother, Mary Elisabeth Lindsey Carriker

*****
When I feel like I will die before I am ready,
I love everything too much.
"How does anyone ever love anything too much?"
says my father out of his dark bed at midnight.
I bang my head against the door because
I cannot tell him.

both poems by Naomi Shihab Nye (b 1952)
Contemporary Palestinian / American Poet

A few more of my Naomi Shihab Nye favorites
from the mid - 1970s appear in previous posts:

1. "Cold Morning Poems"
2."Intellectual Cup of Lyrics"
3. "Quotidian Cat"
4. "Spiritual Journey"
[see right hand column on Quotidian Kit]

***************

II. Whistler's Mother
Arrangement in Grey and Black: The Artist's Mother, 1871
by American / British artist James Whistler, 1834 – July 1903
Study in Orange & White

I knew that James Whistler was part of the Paris scene,
but I was still surprised when I found the painting
of his mother at the Musée d'Orsay
among all the colored dots and mobile brushstrokes
of the French Impressionists.

And I was surprised to notice
after a few minutes of benign staring,
how that woman, stark in profile
and fixed forever in her chair,
began to resemble my own ancient mother
who was now fixed forever in the stars, the air, the earth.

You can understand why he titled the painting
"Arrangement in Gray and Black"
instead of what everyone naturally calls it,
but afterward, as I walked along the river bank,
I imagined how it might have broken
the woman's heart to be demoted from mother
to a mere composition, a study in colorlessness.

As the summer couples leaned into each other
along the quay and the wide, low-slung boats
full of spectators slid up and down the Seine
between the carved stone bridges
and their watery reflections,
I thought: how ridiculous, how off-base.

It would be like Botticelli calling "The Birth of Venus"
"Composition in Blue, Ochre, Green, and Pink,"
or the other way around
like Rothko titling one of his sandwiches of color
"Fishing Boats Leaving Falmouth Harbor at Dawn."

Or, as I scanned the menu at the cafe
where I now had come to rest,
it would be like painting something laughable,
like a chef turning on a spit
over a blazing fire in front of an audience of ducks
and calling it "Study in Orange and White."

But by that time, a waiter had appeared
with my glass of Pernod and a clear pitcher of water,
and I sat there thinking of nothing
but the women and men passing by—
mothers and sons walking their small fragile dogs—
and about myself,
a kind of composition in blue and khaki,
and, now that I had poured
some water into the glass, milky-green.

by American poet Billy Collins, b. 1941
Poet Laureate of the United States, 2001 - 2003

United States Postage Stamp, 1934

Thanks to my brother, Bruce Carriker
for sharing the following Mother's Day sentiment:

‎"When the real history of mankind is finally written, will it feature the crashing echoes of gunfire across centuries, or the sweet song of mothers' lullabies? The great treaties and treatises of our statesmen and generals, or the simple words and acts of peace of women in their homes and neighborhoods? Will what happened in cradles and kitchens prove to be of far greater importance than what happened in councils and congresses?"

Neal A. Maxwell, 1926 – 2004
American Apostle of the
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints

***************

III. Tina Fey's Prayer for a Daughter

Check out www.coolfreeimages.net
Maybe you've seen this touching new age prayer already. I bet everybody is going to be posting it for Mother's Day. I know it's already cropping up on blogs everywhere, so I'm going to jump on the bandwagon and post it here on my blog too:

First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Beauty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.

Amen.

from Bossypants, a book of smart, funny essays
by American comedian and writer Tina Fey, b. 1970

P.S.
This prayer also holds true for mothers of sons!
Just like those hot cross buns --
if you have no daughters, give them to your sons!

An old favorite:
England ~ Summer 2000 ~ At the Cricket Club

More Recently:
England ~ Spring Break 2011 ~ In the Pine Forest
P.P.S.
See how I always need sunglasses in England?
It is sunny there -- really!
SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Wednesday, May 28th

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com

Cold Morning Poems by Naomi Shihab Nye

A HOUSE WHERE ALL'S ACCUSTOMED, CEREMONIOUS

Happy Valentine's Day:
"Come and sit by my side if you love me!"

**************************

"Look around you, look up here
Take time to make time, make time to be there
Look around, be a part
Feel for the winter, but don't have a cold heart"

lyrics from "Lady"
by The Little River Band
**************************************
I first discovered the poems of Naomi Shihab back in 1975, in a publication called Power: Personal Reflections by Youth for Youth. My friends and I enjoyed subscribing to this little St. Louis - based poetry magazine and ordering gift subscriptions for each other every Christmas. Although Naomi didn't know it, I was her groupie in those days and copied all of her work into a notebook that I kept throughout high school and college. The following cold morning poems have long been among my favorites:

#1
I would be no one.
I would have no head, no hair, no comb.

I would be the thin mist in the air of a cold morning;
I would rise and disappear early, before the sun
and the noisy streets and everyone moving.


I would hum and greet you when you awaken,
with no words, no face, no promise but my love,
like a river.

I would be here, be here, be here invisible, forever --
when all the braver ones have gone to hide --
when all these tears have years and years been dried.


#2
It is a new day, chill and icy like a cold, sharp, knife.
It is a new day in a long line of new days in a life.

OH! OH! OH!

I walk in wonder to watch
The bundled people in the early light returning with nods
A morning hello

And to think we felt alone all night.


Now, I think I might read this second poem somewhat differently than I did back in the years when I was first such a fan of Naomi Shihab's youthful poetry. More often than not, the "bundled people" do not respond with a nod or a morning hello. No acknowledgement whatsoever of your shared humanity on this planet. Life can seem so harsh, making it through the maze of obligations and errands, dealing with this conflict or that, so many daily unpleasantries. Then, as evening falls, home at last to the inner sanctum of family, friends, and loved ones. Such security!

And to think we felt alone all day!

Home Sweet Home
Here is one more "cold morning" poem, written some twenty years later than those above. This one carries a more somber tone, a sense of loss, and a bit less certainty that all is now or ever will be right with the world:

Snow
Once with my scarf knotted over my mouth
I lumbered into a storm of snow up the long hill
and did not know where I was going except to the top of it.
In those days we went out like that.
Even children went out like that.
Someone was crying hard at home again,
raging blizzard of sobs.

I dragged the sled by its rope,
which we normally did not do
when snow was coming down so hard,
pulling my brother whom I called by our secret name
as if we could be other people under the skin.
The snow bit into my face, prickling the rim
of the head where the hair starts coming out.
And it was a big one. It would come down and down
for days. People would dig their cars out like potatoes.

How are you doing back there? I shouted,
and he said Fine, I’m doing fine,
in the sunniest voice he could muster
and I think I should love him more today
for having used it.

At the top we turned and he slid down,
steering himself with the rope gripped in
his mittened hands. I stumbled behind
sinking deeply, shouting Ho! Look at him go!
as if we were having a good time.
Alone on the hill. That was the deepest
I ever went into the snow. Now I think of it
when I stare at paper or into silences
between human beings. The drifting
accumulation. A father goes months
without speaking to his son.

How there can be a place
so cold any movement saves you.

Ho! You bang your hands together,
stomp your feet. The father could die!
The son! Before the weather changes.

from Fuel

all poems by Naomi Shihab Nye (b 1952)
Contemporary Palestinian / American Poet

A few more of my Naomi Shihab Nye favorites from the mid - 1970s appear in previous posts:

"Now"
Intellectual Cup of Lyrics (November 4, 2009)

and

"My Cat" & "Feeding the Cat"
Quotidian Cat (November 6, 2009)

and one more

"Spiritual Journey"
can be found in the right hand column of mantras on
The Quotidian Kit:

"Where are you on
your spiritual journey?"
you ask, your sharp eyes
thumbtacking the question
on my heart.

What can I say?
I am somewhere beyond "go"
I have not stopped.

Years have shown me
the idea of travelling
is a game we play with ourselves
to pretend we're not home.

ANYONE HOME?SEE YOU IN TWO WEEKS FOR MY
Next Fortnightly Post
Monday, February 28, 2011

Between now and then, read
THE QUOTIDIAN KIT
my shorter, almost daily blog posts
www.dailykitticarriker.blogspot.com

Looking for a good book? Try
KITTI'S LIST
my running list of recent reading
www.kittislist.blogspot.com