Wednesday

good

morning

wednesday

before you

get too busy

can we dance

nothing fancy

just hold hands

and move

in small circles

letting go

of the need for

something more

Litany/2 (¡Presente!)

The following was near the end in the original version of The Book of Mev.

Ignacio Ellacuría, engaged intellectual, credible witness,

Fearless announcer of God’s Kingdom . . .

¡Presente!

Ordinary eco-friendly folk, hallowers of this land,

These waters, all this air. . .

¡Presente!

Nhat Hanh, you are breathing, I am smiling . . .

¡Presente!

Ann Manganaro, gentle healer in El Salvador,

Sagacious leader, spiritual elder. . .

¡Presente!

Daily Chores

if only

everything

were this simple

that with just

a spool of pink ribbon

we could neatly

bundle then store

away those things

that have now

served their purpose

our shame

our regret

our fear and trepidation

faithfully entrusted

to a shedful of bees

Kurushindeta: A Response to The Book of Mev by Clara Takarabe

Dear Mark,

I’m at Schiphol.

I started your Book of Mev again and read it in about 7 hours.

After p. 251, I cried through nearly every page.

p. 303 nearly killed me.

At the wake, p. 324, I couldn’t continue for awhile because I was crying so hard on the plane.

The poor young Greek couple sitting next to me. They were really dysfunctional, nevertheless trying to make out half the time, with this weeping shaking person next to them.

As I Wander

i like

to walk

the quiet streets

those with

ornate black iron

entrances

gates

the people

do they

silently long

for a simpler life

i wonder

A Reflection on The Book of Mev by Maria Benevento

The Book of Mev contains an interesting combination of Mark’s narration, excerpts from Mev’s letters, journals, and interviews of social justice figures, and news reports about events from all over the world.  Although Mev is the central figure, not everything in the book is directly related to her.  Mark Chmiel wants his readers to know about Mev, but he also wants us to know about other people—how they suffer unjustly, how they touched his and Mev’s lives, how they react with love in the face of evil.  Some of the stories inspire admiration for their central figures, while others inspire empathy for the suffering of the people they depict.  I don’t think I’m the only one who cried at Mev’s death, for example.  Because Mark both shows examples of extremely compassionate people and makes his readers practice feeling compassion for people, one of the main things I learned was the importance of being touched by others’ suffering.

What Dr. King Would Say

A home demolition in Rafah

Torture of men under administrative detention in Israeli prisons
IDF breaking up of nonviolent protests with rubber bullets, tear gas, and bludgeons 
Settler terrorizing of Palestinian farmers trying to harvest their olives around Nablus
Apache Helicopter attacks on Hamas resulting in predictable “collateral damage” of women and children
Lurid characterization of Palestinians as  subhuman

Are threats to justice everywhere

--from Dear Layla Welcome to Palestine

I Badgered and Pestered Rumi To See a Page of His Favorite Writing Notebook and He Finally Relented and Showed Me How Each Page of All Three Hundred Looked More or Less Just Like This—

Fatima

Life is Pretty Swell

love

stay healthy

smile

When I  Read

By Chris 

Why it is that when I read a book

I feel like I have to become a

character in that book.

Like right now

I want to talk with a southern accent

and feign a capricious air

about all that is passing me by.

This beautiful spring day,

little leaves emerging on the

bud ends,

flower ovaries growing

into the beginnings of the fruit

they will become,

sweet to taste when they

become fully ripe.

Like this should be a metaphor

for my ripening.

Am I developing

into something that will be

sweet on the tongue,

words in someone’s mouth

about my possibilities

or my loveliness.

Perhaps,

when I am the main character

in the book I am writing.

That will be glorious

The Poetry of Ordinary Time & Purple Flowers

This morning while on the elliptical, I listened to an On Being podcast with Marie Howe called The Poetry of Ordinary Time. It's funny how far you can go while on a piece of stationary exercise equipment. One thing Marie talked about was how she has her students write down ten observations about the world without using metaphor. We don't always need metaphor; life is the poem. They always find it difficult because it involves confronting exactly what is there in front of them.

Then tonight, I was struck by Katherine's reading of the Alice Walker's words - "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it. People think pleasing God is all God cares about. But any fool living in the world can see it always trying to please us back."

So as I wrote tonight, I let these two inspirations mingle together, and I focused on writing down observations of the "field" around me. Lucky for us all, that field included purple flowers amidst yellow ones in the vase just behind our circle of sharing. Here's what I observed...

Purple flowers.
A perfectly cylindrical water glass sits atop my wrinkled page with tonight's agenda on it.
Light bends through the water in four places and shines onto Mev's Ode to Joy.
The 2/3 of empty space above the water leave the teal text unbent by the light.
"Life's Tragedy Is That We Get Old Too Soon & Wise Too Late - benjamin franklin" it reads.
Mev's eyes are warm and earnest as she looks from the cover of The Book of Her toward the empty wooden chair beside me.
Who is she looking for? What is she wanting to say?
The swaddled child in the cover's far right corner looks sideways at me.
Is she (or he) skeptical of me? Should she (or he) be?
I wish I was wrapped up with my cheek smooched against my mother's warmth like her (or him).
And the hatted boy in the far left smiles at us both - at me and whomever Mev is looking at.
The wind moves through the treetops outside, and the leaves dance.
The sky faces from bright blue to pale blue to a warm yellowed white.
Two birds fly in opposite directions.
Light still bends through the water left in the glass, but only in three places now.
Mark sings to the sounds in his headphones and makes another kind of music on his computer keyboard.
The ice maker lets out a rumble, and I hear water running in some sink down the hall.
Pages turn.
The hostess returns to the greeting of an open door and writers scattered about.
The prickly cactus stands still in the corner, tall and artificially lit.
I notice the artificial light next to the soft natural light.
The natural light grows dimmer while the artificial light remains the same, only more noticeable than before.
Carpets add patches of softness to the smooth hardwood flooring.
Three candles sit on a plate with curled up edges. Two white, one a golden yellow-orange.
Fingers tap on the table.
Five pens move, mine included.
Keys jingle-jangle.
Light only shines from the water in two places.
Converse shoe soles patter down the hall and back.
My own green flats carry me to Fatima's cookie-brownie goodness.
I can only see the sky's warm yellowed-whiteness from one window.
Out another I see the bright blue fading into the pale blue.
And out another still, I see only a panel of bright blue - lost of its natural glow.
The light fixtures from the kitchen reflect twice onto this monotone panel of sky, but they don't light the green trees that stand stoically on the other side of the window pane.
The light only shines through the water in one place.
It's the light from the ceiling that bends the rays through the water and onto my still crinkled page.
But the rays aren't as big as they were before.
Instead of falling onto Mev's Ode to Joy, one ray lands smacks-dab in the space between two sentences - between a question mark and a capital "B" to be exact - and the other into the blank space.
The bell chimes. 

Of Goodness

in

your

heart

sow

a garden of goodness

invite the first seed

to be that of your own

water it often

tears work well

then

just sit

and watch how

your garden grows

Consumerism and Inter-being by Lindsay Noesen

Check out this wonderful piece!

What Matters? by Katrina Becker

The following was sparked by, among other things, that quote from a couple classes ago of Clodovis Boff: "This is all so essential to recuperate out humanity- to liberate what is most fine, most noble, most profound, most human within us.  Life isn't only struggle. It's struggle and play!"

Compassion fatigue matters.

Apparently poetry matters (it does).

Agency and agencies matter.

Listening to a Cardinals game barefoot on a porch matters.

Adequate sleep matters.

Ad majorem Dei gloriam matters.

Embracing cliches despite their cliche-ness matters.

Poetic rhyming with prophetic matters.

Pad thai on South Grand matters.

Hungry kids on south-er Grand matter.

Feeling validated by your Myers-Briggs type matters.

Snail mail matters.

Heartwarming moments matter.

Heartbreaking moments matter.

Golden retrievers matter.

Listening carefully and caringly matters.

Recuperating our humanity matters.

Mev's Penetrating Portraits by Marty King

Marty is hosting the Be in Love with Yr Life Spring Writing Class. 

I never saw Mev take a picture, but somehow I am sure that she connected with every child, every woman she photographed. She once told me that she always asked their name, and received permission before she aimed.   I imagine the photo came after the introduction, the getting to know, the sharing, the listening to their story.  Their dignity is there to see.  Even pain is shown as part of the story, not as detached or distant.  They look directly into the camera, but they are seeing beyond it, right into her eyes.  And the intimacy makes her portraits penetrate our lives.  She was there.  She came to their world, shared their experiences, walked along in the streets beside the open sewers.  Ate with them in their homes.  Absorbed the sight and sounds of the favelas.  And they, in turn, welcomed her as one of their own.  She was.

Quinzinharia; Santo Domingos, Brazil; 1989

From Mary Elizabeth's Notebook

Cafe Ventana; 4.21.2015

Haiku daze

My stern house stands on

Grains of sand, where winds of hurt

Knock me down in love.

-----     -----     -----     -----

Looking out windows

I hear the sorrows nearby

From barred heights I stand

-----     -----     -----     -----

the world never quiets

listening for a whisper

my ears grow tired

-----     -----     -----     -----

languidly I rise

to step onto shaky ground

strength beneath my feet

-----     -----     -----     -----

oh come yogic flow

tell me I am strong, like trees

rooted with within

-----     -----     -----     -----

ask, what me brings me joy?

I tell, just this exactly

Living, wanting more

-----     -----     -----     -----

quiet! Anxiety

the pull within to live more

I cant shut you up

-----     -----     -----     -----

(elongated haiku)

enmeshed in the dust

of the corners of this life

I would  rather be

Than sitting pretty,

mounted on a perfect wall

-----     -----     -----     -----

(reverse haiku)

she eats the bread of sorrow

it fills her belly

but never sustains her soul

-----     -----     -----     -----

God lives in this house

And too  lives on the night streets

Alive where lights are dim

-----     -----     -----     -----

(elongated haiku)

present in the tears

when no bread has risen up

too present in joy

when our bellies are filled up

-----     -----     -----     -----

why do I cry to

the mysterious unseen?

Unknowing I cry

-----     -----     -----     -----

I silence myself

To hear the cries from within

Caged in my prisons

I cry to be free

-----     -----     -----     -----

with my eyes it seems

every foreigner belongs

to my family

-----     -----     -----     -----

Mev’s Ode to Joy

Sitting across from a friend
Downtown Gelateria

I’d just given her The Book of Mev
(Her silent, deep response I’ll never forget)

I offered to read her something
So I turned the pages and came to this …

Mev’s Ode to Joy
Even as her brain was being ravaged:

It is hard to describe the moments of joy
Even days of sheer bliss!  

A Friend of Mine

Last night a friend of mine

told me that he's going to

be moving soon.

I'll miss him.

And for that I'm grateful.

This is Why

this is why

where else
will someone
offer their hand
asking only
that i be happy
in return

where else
will someone
offer flowers
or a cup of tea
asking only
that i be at peace
in return

and where else
will someone
simply offer their smile
as we say goodbye
asking only
that one day
i return

this is why

no sleep

why is it that sleep slips by the window
not muttering a sound, not a leaf cracking
not even the noise of a snail
or a spider busily web building
illusive as the sight of a shooting star
star-crossed lover elusive
slipping by, slipping by, no sound
no vision
no word
no taste
round in the mouth without sweetness or saltiness
round, marble round ball of smooth eggness
no taste
no taste of sleep this night
no vision of sleep
no sound of sleep buried as it is, held up, tied up
near but far, how is it, how is it
that this no sleep defieds all reason
the body cannot hold it
the mind cannot appraise it
the tongue has no use for its tastelessness

let us see if there is a forest
a forest tall and without boundaries
a sky of untold numbers of stars
and if these tree, these stars, hold the grains of sleep
the golden grains of sleep
and the grains spin in the forested night sky
they gleam in the leaves and clear atmosphere
they chime in unison across the spongy forest floor

come to us, they call, come and see the tiny golden gods of sleep
can you envision them, can you taste their erratic dance
skipping, just skipping in delight
can you hold these golden sleep gods in your mind?
will they allow you some respite or will their demands
make short your dreams, cut to the quick of your longing,
longing for just one night
one night of blissful sleep

the coming and the going

okay - so there were four
and then three until one wintry morning
I awoke to two -
now there is one
one so far away that essentially
I stand alone
which is not entirely true
I FEEL that I stand alone
I have friends that I have not contacted
shuttered in my home while
time has rolled over like an autumn wind.

nothing is static
what I loved and longed for
has drifted like a river current
further and further from the muddy bank
where I stand, arms lifted, heart open.

why had I not thought to mourn this?
How did I not realize the effect of this loss?
a loss of closeness and what was to me,
a deep caring and joyous being together.

I will always miss them
we have our lives spread out before us
the focus shifts and something new appears -
appreciate this and leave off grasping
for what was

the endless flow, the coming and the going
continues, new paths open
while old ones become overgrown with
sweet greet grasses
we breathe, we are alive
love is forever

Open

open

what choice do you have

rise

have coffee with mary

if need be

cry

no one is watching

write

a love letter

a poem

do it today

this minute

walk

notice the tulips

bathing in the evening sun

passersby take them for granted

but not you

share

with a friend

better yet

with someone

who makes your heart go pitter-patter

be

brave

it will make you smile

i promise

venture

into the mist

remain there

whistle

a happy tune

A Poem by Carolina Dominguez

Please listen to the grumbling within our depths,

Listen to the indistinguishable sound boldly beating in us and in neighbors alike;

The hungers of our hearts all growl for the same nourishment,

We all crave the same strength to walk the roads beneath us.

Oh! We cannot wait for crumbles to fall hours after the feast.

Please listen for hungry hearts yearning for a fair share,

Listen for women stained with plantain-weathered hands, who crave to light fires everywhere, But whose stove is their limit,

Listen for children thirsting for education, but who walk in an unceasing drought.

Please listen for men and women everywhere who silence their mortal cravings,

Who walk with their word as their only weapon; yet, not silencing their immortal hunger, knowing silence is master to the injustices.

Please listen for men and women everywhere who scream to be free:

Who scream “SUMTIN WRONG” at what they see behind iron bars at the shop; Who scream “THAT’S WRONG!” when the news screams loudly of inhumane realities,

Screaming with fear that this oppression lives deep within thee, as if the suffering is etched in their skin.

Please listen for men and women everywhere who live la lucha, the struggle for survival,

Who crave to dance, to become part of the music that is the only release; who crave to sing, to give voice to the struggle- the reality hidden inside ramshackle homes,

Listen to the men and women everywhere who belong to something outside these homes; to men and women everywhere who belong to something greater than themselves.

Please listen, listen to our hungry hearts; listen quietly enough to hear our one growling human hunger,

Listen to your cries in the ones who cry; Listen loud enough to hear your voice in the shout with the one who shouts.

Listen gently enough to hear that we are the men and women everywhere who belong to something greater than ourselves.

Listen to what lies beyond the growling, for we are greater than the growl.

--Carolina is with the Jesuit Volunteers in Belize City.

At the End of the Rainbow by Penny Smith

A little girl who I love very much

Was talking about lizards and dolphins and such

Said her peas were cold, her favorite color was gold; 

"Cuz that's what's at the end of the rainbow."

A few days later while driving in my car

Driving fast and driving far

I prayed that I might regain that childhood delight,

Cuz that's what's at the end of the rainbow.

A little boy who I love very much

Who, on Earth, said only "choo-choo!" and such,

Will again one day play with his sister and say,

"Cuz that's what's at the end of the rainbow."

The Latest from Chelsea Eva Jaeger

Given our theme for the 4th week, Chelsea Eva wrote A Letter to My Grandmother (Remembering the Dead).  

Dear Grandma,

Hearing you had died was a punch to an already numbed body.

They said you were on hospice at the beginning of November 2013. It was not unexpected. You had achieved 96 years of age and, though living on your own until age 92, had seen decline in the preceding years. I had said my goodbyes to you in June, with the understanding that it would be my final farewell in person. And yes, I was on the other side of the equator from you when I learned you were soon to pass on.

My housemates and I had our first volunteer retreat in the middle of November, in a beautiful sanctuary at Olón. That Friday afternoon, the facilitator asked the fourteen of us to share where we were and what we carried into the retreat. I said that I was trying to process the death of my Grandpa in September and come to terms with your passing on, as soon as it may come. After that opening reflection, I remember looking out over the sea from the Cliffside chapel and weeping.

Reflections from a Soon-To-Be College Graduate by Katherine Kelliher

They told me that high school would be the best four years of my life, they were wrong.  They told me that college was a time of countless cups of coffee and all-nighters, they were semi-right.  Now they tell me that I need to leave, that in a matter of weeks, the life that I’ve known for the past four years will vanish. 

As a graduating senior, the question I have stressed over the most is, “So, what’s your plan?”  When I hear this question my initial reaction is, “I don’t know.”  But really, do any of us know? 

Let me first say that I am a planner.  I like to plan out my meals for the day, what homework I would like to accomplish during the evening, and how I will spend my weekend.  Four years ago, I was the person that swore by a solid plan.  I planned out my college curriculum to a tee, which for the most part turned out as it was supposed to.  What I did not plan for or prepare for was the amount of knowledge that I would gain from my life outside of the classroom.  I had the privilege of studying in Lyon, France, for nine months, my junior year.   I met people from all over the world, ski’ed the Alps, walked through the Red Light District, put my toes in the Barcelona sand and tasted gelato in Italy. 

It was then that I realized how small I truly am in the midst of this crazy world.  My view of the world made a complete 180 during those nine months for which I am grateful beyond belief. 

This past March, my life took another complete 180.  I traveled to Los Angeles on an immersion trip with a group from my university's campus ministry.  Over the course of the week, we went to a juvenile hall and spent time with kids who are spending their days, either sitting in a cell or participating in planned, organized and no doubt, supervised activities.  We also walked into a Level 2 security prison in Norco, California and heard from men who have lived in extreme poverty and witnessed countless of events of nothing short of horror throughout their childhood and adult life.  Did I plan for that experience?  No, but I would not trade it for anything.  

I did something at that time that I encourage and challenge all of you to do.  I accepted the fact that life can be uncomfortable, life can be unexpected and life is often hard.  But creating a plan will not change those three facts.   

On May 15, I will graduate with a bachelor’s degree in Communication, Political Science and French (knock on wood).  Yes, that is three majors and yes, it is possible.  Three courses of study that, in my opinion, intersect rather well.  However, these three courses of study are not accompanied by a plan of Medical School, Law School or even any immediate job prospects.  Rather, they leave me with independence and several open-ended questions. 

At some point in my life, I hope to write a few books — not just one.  I hope to work as a journalist for a while and eventually find the time to craft my novel.  I aspire to write a story that will make a difference, create a change, and draw attention to a wrong.  I dream of traveling the world and filling my mind, heart and soul with as much knowledge and wisdom as they can handle. So as you can see, I have hopes, aspirations and dreams but no plans.   

Many of my friends who are graduating with me in May have committed to a year of service.  I choose a different route.  Certainly I hope to commit to a year or several years of service at some point in my life but I did not feel called to do so immediately upon graduation.  This summer I will move back to Chicago where I will have nothing but time.  Time which will be spent working as a waitress, volunteering in the city and doing what I love most — writing.  I am confident that in a year-or-so, some element of my life will have changed, as it often does.

So with these hopes, goals and intentions, why can I not answer the infamous question about my life plan?  My situation may be a bit peculiar ; however, I truly believe this rule applies to everyone, whether you are 21 or 67.  My answer to anyone who is struggling to define this question for themselves is quite simple: don’t create a plan for your life.  Life is not meant to be planned, it is meant to be lived.

Mev, Presente/1, Gratitudes/1 by Margaret Nuzzolese

My notes on Gustavo Gutierrez’s concluding statements in the course, Spirituality of Liberation, Summer 2014 at Boston College:

I finish by asking you to have a good knowledge of theology, to support the Pope, and don’t lose a sense of humor.  The sense of humor has a human value, even a Christian value.  We are important people, but not so important.  This is very important to be really relational.  It’s necessary.  We need to support the vision today of the Pope, to speak with other people.  The question is to change mentalities.  

We have to try to be actors. 

Well my friends, many thanks for this week.  

Many thanks for this life. 

Remembering the Dead/4.15.15 by Margaret Nuzzolese

Martin Richard… Krystle Campbell… Lingzi Lu… Sean Collier…

In two days we will remember the “Boston Marathon bombing” – the victims, the dead, the survivors, the inciters… 

Dzhokhar Tsarnaev… and your brother, Tamerlan. 

What a horrible thing you both dd. 

What monsters they are trying to paint you as.  
And true, what you did was horrible.  

But there is another way of remembering the dead.

It is the way of hope, of new life, of resurrection.  

Of rehabilitation, of vulnerability, of learning to walk again.  

*

I was introduced to Mev Puleo by my friend James Meinert, when we were living in community together in Nicaragua, with the Jesuit Volunteer Corps. 

I came to love and adore this woman, for how she sought to implement her vocation for the service of the world.  She was a photojournalist, who was intentional about photography for the world, versus photography of the world.  

I fell in love with the story of her love, passion, service and accompaniment, as told by her husband, Mark Chmiel.

Mark and Mev taught me about resurrection – how the saints rise in all different places and spaces, and we can see them and interact with them if we are paying attention.  

*

This past summer, I had the gift of taking a course with Gustavo Gutierrez. 
Mev was there, with all the people in The Struggle is One. 
Mark was there, with all the people who have continued to tell (and live) the stories of the struggle.  

I asked Prof. Nickoloff at one point the class, “What do we do next?” “Where do we go from here?”  My notes from the course read as follows:

Any real, solid, deep spirituality, must be incarnate – must take on the flesh of the historical moment in which it arises.

 *

Some people die and we are, in Mev’s word’s, “converted a new.”
Other people are killed, and with each preventable death, we lose a bit of our potential for “new life.”

*

Remembering The Dead

A Reason for Hope

Death Visit by Teresa Wink

I arrive at exactly 3 pm, pulling up in front of the sprawling suburban house. I don't pull into the driveway because when I parked there at Tuesday's visit I got blocked in and it was an ordeal.

His wife comes to the door to greet me, and notes with horror that the melting snow has led to mud caked all over my Doc Martens, which I have now worn five steps onto their white carpet. I apologize and remove the boots, which in home care is a big no-no because you never know what hazardous materials could litter someone's home. But I'll be careful, I tell myself, and white carpets sometimes demand the breaking of rules.

We chat for a few minutes. She tells me the past few days have been much better. He's not been scratching so much and today he got up and had breakfast with their daughters in the kitchen.

Their caregiver begins sponging my footprints from the carpet.

She finally leads me into the sun room at the front of the house. "He's napping. Now, he's seemed much more comfortable since we started the morphine. But what you see here is what concerns me. He's been sleeping all afternoon."

I see before me a gray-faced, still form of a man. My heart sinks. "I'm just going to take a quick listen to him," I tell her.

I place the diaphragm of my stethoscope on his thin frame, noting there is no pulse pumping in his neck. And the only sound I hear is the interference from his chest hair sliding under the thin plastic - no heartbeat, no breath sounds

His skin is still warm, at least on his trunk. I am terrified of speaking too soon, but I know he is dead. For my own peace of mind I get out my pen light and lift his eyelids, noting his pupils are blown and remain that way despite the flash of light I shine across his cornea.

"When was the last time you saw him take a breath?"

"What - what are you saying?"

"I'm so sorry," I tell her. "He's gone."

"But - but..." She flushes and her voice rises. "He was just joking and laughing with me this morning. Did he - did he just go in his sleep?"

"It seems that's how it happened, yes."

I can see reality has not set in yet, but tears gather in her eyes as she takes it all in.

"I haven't hugged him since breakfast. You should always hug people, because you never know when it will be the last time."

I swallow my own tears. Now is not the time. Here is not the place.

She calls her granddaughter who is coming home from work. In a few minutes, the younger woman arrives with her own husband and they console this newly-minted widow together. Meanwhile, I tilt his recliner all the way back, as far as it will go. I close his slack jaw as best as I can,  tucking a rolled up washcloth between his chin and his collarbone.

"He's in his favorite chair," she says, "the one all his grandkids chipped in to give him last year."

There is sunlight pouring in through the windows.

I make the necessary phone calls: MD, medical examiner, funeral home.

Then I text my partner: "What are you doing in an hour? I need a hug."