Body, mind, self

My mother always told me that when I was about to exit the birth canal, I was in a breech position, which means any-which-way but head first. As it turned out, the skillful obstetrician was able to reposition me in my mother's womb and I came out aright.

I never learned, however, which position I took up on my own. Often I've thought that it must have been feet first because that's my basic orientation to life. Not as in "hit the ground running" but as in "heels dug in." It's not that I'm especially stubborn--at least, I don't think so!--but I like to slow things down, take my time, think things through. I guess I also like to exert a measure of control over what's going on. (Okay, a lot of control.) "Going with the flow" sounds good, but too much flow leaves me feeling as if I'm going under for the last time.

I've had occasion to think about these fundamentals recently because I've been undergoing intensive physical therapy for adhesive capsulitis (a.k.a. frozen shoulder) along with a therapeutic Pilates practice. Just yesterday, my PT noted how I tend to let my weight settle into my heels and that I needed to move it forward to help realign my posture. "Dang!" I thought, "I guess I hang back in more ways than one."

But along with my drift to the rear, I also have a tendency to lead with my sternum--as if there's a hand between my shoulder blades pushing me forward. The result has been tremendous misuse of my upper body and, hence, the pain of adhesive capsulitis.

All this comes at the same time that I'm struggling to promote Eve's Bible. Self-promotion doesn't come easily to me and I have been digging in my heels trying to avoid it. At the same time, I've been pushing myself forward, demanding much of myself but not focusing on any one thing, and so I end up getting nothing done.

I don't have a solution yet, a way forward that both respects my fundamental M.O. and challenges me to expand my self conception. I'd like to think the body work will lead to shifts in my inner understanding, but that remains to be seen. In the meantime, I'm learning to be kind--to my self and my body.

A match made in heaven

Hog heaven for bibliophiles doesn't come better than the LA Times Festival of Books held this past weekend at UCLA.

You get hundreds of booths hawking everything from literary action figures (Jane Austen in plasticine anyone?) to discount books from major publishers as well as scores of concurrent panels featuring America's A-list authors plus seven stages offering readings, cooking demonstrations, and musical performances. It's more than a bit overwhelming, but also major fun.

The only drawback was the weather: the temperatures soared over the weekend and the humidity dipped into the single digits. On Saturday I was helping friends at Global Voices for Justice sell their high-quality audio recordings of progressive thinkers and their booth was like sauna. I couldn't face another day on broil so lamentably skipped Sunday.

Still, I got to hear Maxine Hong Kingston interviewed by the LA Time's book editor, David Ulin. Kingston, author of Warrior Woman, China Men, and The Fifth Book of Peace, is one of my cultural heroes. Besides writing brilliantly imaginative prose, she directed long-running writing workshops with Vietnam vets, helping them write their way back to peace. Saturday I learned that this effort came as a result of loosing her house--and the manuscript to her latest book--to the Oakland fires of 1993. For a long time she wasn't sure she ever wanted to write again; when she was ready, she wanted to be in the company of other wounded souls. Her work has had profound consequences for everyone involved.

Being in the company of tens of thousands of other book-lovers is mind-expanding, but too much of the festival is about celebrity authors. I'd like to see the LA Times use the venue to introduce readers to authors and ideas outside the mainstream. One panel featured Amy Goodman, host of Pacifica Radio's Democracy Now, and Tom Hayden, long-time social justice campaigner, and we need more of their sort of perspective if we (the human race) are to dig ourselves out of the hole we've put ourselves in.

Religion also got short shrift, with only the usual suspects invited (Reza Aslan, Chris Hedges, for example; important voices but hardly the only ones).

On the other hand, my UU friend Theadora called in to the C-SPAN book network that was covering the festival and talked up Eve's Bible--her comments went out on their national broadcast. With friends like that, I don't need to rely on the kindness of strangers!

Earth Days

Earth Day came early for me this year. I spent April 9 to 14 in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia at my sister Jane's place, which is tucked into a hollow at the end of a dirt road. The tall oaks, maples and sycamores were still bare, but the grass had greened up--it's been a wet spring--and clumps of bright yellow daffodils populated the hillsides.

The ornamental plum by the drive was covered in pale pink flowers and the forsythia had turned yellow, providing surreal bursts of color against the gray forest backdrop.

Hillsides are about all they have there abouts; the only truly flat spots are the ones my brother-in-law George has created over the years with a front-end loader. To see the Milky Way at night you pretty much have to look up, although the terrain and trees do offer a slight opening to the west and the sometimes spectacular orange-pink-gold sunsets.

While I was there, George tilled the lower garden and I planted a 20 foot row of cilantro and half a row of parsley from seeds he saved from last year. I also planted the onion sets and potatoes he picked up in town. The earth, dark and fine textured, smelled sweet beneath my hands.

But I hadn't flown to Virginia simply to plant potatoes, although that would have been a good enough reason. My sister had a show of 21 watercolors hanging in a gallery in Fairfax and I went to hear her give a talk about her work. Jane studied color theory with Neil Welliver, who was a student of Josef Albers, and she had slides of their work along with other color field painters who influenced her work. She also talked about Chinese landscape painting, which helped me better appreciate where the contemplative dimension of her work comes from.

When I tell people my sister does landscape paintings I'm afraid they think of barns and covered bridges, but in actuality her paintings are beautiful and complex renderings of the Virginia Blue Ridge informed by her many years of living there in all seasons. I think they convey the felt sense of the place with exquisite grace.

I'm proud and very grateful that at the same time my book finally made its appearance, Jane had her largest --and best-- show to date. I feel as if we've finally had our say.

Eve's Bible Debuts

The publication party for Eve's Bible went off without a hitch. (Okay--dessert didn't show up until the reading was underway, but at least it was on the table by the time guests picked up their spoons.)

This being LA, we couldn't have just a book signing. No, we needed An Event--and boy, did we have one.

Our venue was a fabulous private home in Brentwood. Guests gathered under a cloudless blue sky on a Sunday afternoon around the fountain in the front garden. We were drinking sparkling apple cider (Eve, garden, apples: get it?), when all of a sudden, a drummer appeared playing a dumbek. Then a veiled figure emerged through the double-doors of the house. It was Heather Shoopman, who performed a powerfully fluid dance that demonstrated how spirituality and sensuality can be beautifully combined.

Following Heather's performance, we moved inside the house. Against the backdrop of a wall filled with African masks, Dinah Berland led off the program by reading a prayer-poem from Hours of Devotion, Dinah's adaptation of the first Jewish prayer book composed by a woman, which was originally written in German by Fanny Neuda and published in 1855.

Julia Stein then read from Shulamith (West End Press), her collection of poems featuring both biblical women and contemporary Jewish ones. Eve's Bible includes one of these poems--"Miriam's Song"--as an example of how we can reinsert women into the lacunae of the Bible's histories by using our imaginations and creative talents.

We were fortunate to hear next from a work-in-progress by Terry Wolverton. Her newest lyric essays explore the spiritual roots of social problems. Wolverton--an author, editor and teacher-- founded the writing center, Writers@Work where I participate in a weekly workshop. I owe a great debt to Terry and the women who helped me shape Eve's Bible through their honest critiques.

I closed out the program by reading a few of my favorite selections from Eve's Bible, including
"When Snakes Could Fly," which was based on information I learned from Miriam Robbins Dexter about ancient goddesses who took the form of snakes and bird-women. (You'll just have to read Chapter 14 to find out more.)

Cobblermania chef Shea Seward had brought dessert by then so while I signed books, guests dug into the sensational, hand made fruit cobblers. They even left me a little.

All in all, a good day. Deep bows to all who participated, including the pups: Zeesee, Raizel, and Ketzel.

Glory, laud and honor

I was dragging my feet setting off to church yesterday.

“I don’t really want to go today,” I said to my Significant Other as I searched for my wool gloves. Despite the bright sun and blue skies, there was a cold wind from the west.

Why not?” he asked.

“I can’t stand Christian triumphalism,” I answered heading upstairs yet again, this time for a scarf.

“What’s that?” said my Jewish-educated mate.

“You know: 'We’re better than everyone else. Christians über alles.'” I called back.

At that point, he must have noticed the dried-up palm frond I had brought down from my study and left by the front door until I could get it out to the composter.

“It’s Palm Sunday!” he happily announced as I descended the stairs, proud to have recognized a blip on the Christian liturgical calendar. “Isn’t that when Jesus went to Jerusalem?”

"Yup."

“Where do the palms come in?”

I filled in the basic outline, including the part about the hosannas and palm branches, on my way to the kitchen. Now I needed a glass of water.

“What were the rabbis thinking about all this?” he wondered aloud.

I got my drink and returned to the living room. “They were probably saying to the Romans, ‘Don’t look at us. He’s not ours.’”

“Yeah,” he said. “And, ‘This ain’t going to be like any Pesach we’ve ever had before.’”

I laughed. I had run out of reasons not to open the front door and leave. But I didn’t, not yet anyway.

“At least we sing my favorite hymn,” I said.

“What’s that?”

I sang the chorus: All glory, laud and honor to thee, Redeemer, King!/ to whom the lips of children made sweet hosannas ring.

As always, he smiled hearing me sing, although I don't know why.

~~~~

I did get to church and we did sing my favorite hymn. And the children’s choir did sing sweet hosannas, gleefully waving their palm fronds as the adult choir and clergy processed through the church.

And since most of the congregation looked like they were thinking, “It’s enough to hold these damned palms once a year, but by God, no one is going to make us wave them,” it didn't even feel too triumphant.

Welcome home, Mom

Memorial for Jamiel Shaw, Jr. (Barbara Davidson / Los Angeles Times)

They buried Jamiel Shaw, Jr. on Tuesday. He was the young man killed last week in his own Mid-City neighborhood by a gang member out to earn his "stripes."

Jamiel was no gang-banger. He was a 17-year-old star player on the Los Angeles High School football team. His teammates attended his funeral wearing their jerseys. The LA Times ran a picture of them weeping into their white-gloved hands.

The night Jamiel was murdered, his father was waiting for him at home. Mr. Shaw later said he heard the shots and knew immediately what had happened. His mother--an Army sergeant--was serving her second tour in Iraq when she got the news. Welcome home, Mom.

On the day of Jamiel's funeral, the police charged a 19-year-old member of the 18th Street gang with his murder. Even if this kid avoids death row, he'll never, ever see the streets again. So, there's a second life down the toilet.

If such a death were a rare occurrence, I could mourn and let it go, but there's been a plague of shootings in LA this year. Shortly after Jamiel died, a 13-year-old boy was shot as walked back towards his house after gathering lemons from his neighbor's tree. There have been too many other equally senseless deaths.

Is it necessary to point out that Jamiel was African American? That his shooter was Latino? Here's the truth of it: If a white, Westside kid got shot, there would be an uproar. Yes, the mayor spoke at Jamiel's funeral and yes, the police chief held a news conference to say they'd found the killer, but mostly, it's business as usual in the city.

I feel so deeply dispirited by the deaths of all these young people that I can't muster the energy to rant. The causes of these random murders--poverty and racism--are easy to pinpoint, but ameliorating them seems beyond our capacity.

Perpetua & Felicitas

How did I miss it--the feast day of St. Perpetua?!?

Celebrated on March 7 for being martyred by the Romans, Perpetua is memorable to me for writing what is probably the earliest surviving work by a Christian woman, now known as the Passion of Saints Perpetua and Felicitas, dated to 203 CE.

A resident of Carthage, in North Africa, Vibia Perpetua was 22-years-old when she converted to Christianity, much to the consternation of her pagan father. While still nursing her infant child, Perpetua, her slave Felicitas, and several other Christians were imprisoned. Though her father pleaded with her to renounce Christianity, Perpetua instead embraced martyrdom.

In the Passion, Perpetua described her imprisonment. A preface, description of her death, and testimony by another catchecumen were added later. From the time I first read the Passion, I've believed that it's core--the pages attributed to Perpetua--were authentic. They carried the right emotional weight for a determined but frightened young woman facing death.

The Passion also has its oddities, which add to its authenticity. Perpetua never mentions a husband or the father of her child, although she expresses great attachment to the boy. Her on-going argument with her aged father has strange emotional undercurrents. And the dreams she describes are a ripe mixture of fear, bravado, and grandiosity. None of this is the stuff of typical martyrologies, which show their protagonists as staunchly heroic.

I have no longing to be a martyr. I think it's a terrible role model for women, too many of whom are made martyrs to their gender without their consent. But being able to see into the heart and mind of a woman struggling with what it means to be a faithful Christian more than 1800 years ago is a gift.