For those who choose to bang the drums of war, slam shut the gates of compassion, and greet the hard issues with false bravado…
I offer these pictures of Syrian refugees, alongside sacred texts from the world’s major religions, all of which speak to the idea that we are our brother’s keepers, beholden equally to some version of the Golden Rule.
And as ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise. — Christianity (Luke 6:31, King James Version)
Regard your neighbor’s gain as your gain, and your neighbor’s loss as your own loss. –Taoism (Tai Shang Kan Yin P’ien)
What is hateful to you, do not to your fellow man. This is the law: all the rest is commentary. –Judaism (Talmud, Shabbat 31a)
This is the sum of duty: do not do to others what would cause pain if done to you. –Hinduism (Mahabharata 5:1517)
Ascribe not to any soul that which thou wouldst not have ascribed to thee, and say not that which thou doest not. Also: Blessed is he who preferreth his brother before himself. –Bahá’í Faith (Baha’u’llah)
[A] state that is not pleasing or delightful to me, how could I inflict that upon another? — Buddhism (Samyutta NIkaya v. 353)
This is the sum of Dharma [duty]: Do naught unto others which would cause you pain if done to you. –Brahmanism (Mahabharata, 5:1517)
None of you [truly] believes until he wishes for his brother what he wishes for himself. –Islam (Number 13 of Imam, “Al-Nawawi’s Forty Hadiths”)
In happiness and suffering, in joy and grief, we should regard all creatures as we regard our own self. –Jainism (Lord Mahavira, 24th Tirthankara)
Whatever is disagreeable to yourself do not do unto others. –Zoroastrianism (Shayast-na-Shayast 13:29)
Tse-kung asked, ‘Is there one word that can serve as a principle of conduct for life?’ Confucius replied, “It is the word ‘shu’ — reciprocity. Do not impose on others what you yourself do not desire.” — Confucianism (Doctrine of the Mean 13.3)
This is a terrible problem, of vast proportions. There are no easy solutions, and platitudes won’t wash away the horrors. I’m not suggesting otherwise…just asking that we step away from our reflexive fears, and quiet ourselves long enough to contemplate how we might respond with compassion, instead.
I hold my face in my two hands My hands, hollowed to catch what might fall from within me Deeper than crying I am not crying I hold my face in my two hands To keep my loneliness warm To cradle my hunger Shelter my heart, from the rain and the thunder Preventing my soul from flying in anger.
— Thích Nhất Hạnh
My thoughts are with Parisians this morning, in the aftermath of last night’s violence. In solidarity and sorrow, I add my own prayers to the collective: May we meet violence with compassion, directed toward all those whose lives were shattered. In this period of confusion, may wiser heads prevail, thus allowing peace be restored, within and beyond any man-made borders. Now, as always, nous sommes tous les Parisiens.
Strange as it might seem to say, my brother’s hospice stay helped crystalize my thoughts about Father Junípero Serra’s canonization ceremony. Though I was personally conflicted, I was glad for the opportunity to witness this historic event firsthand. But it was during Roger’s illness, and his eventual passing, that I eventually found the words I needed for this follow-up blog entry. To wade into troubled waters, unafraid.
My moment of clarity came at Roger’s bedside when, plastic water pitcher in hand, I harkened back to an author’s chat with Anne Lamott. She spoke to us about a good many things, including Grace, which she described as “a glass of cool water from the flow of the Beloved.” I nodded, then as now. We tap into Grace when we ferry endless cups of water to the parched and suffering. We catch glimpses of Grace in a spoonful of ice chips, skimmed across the fevered lips of a cherished other. Crystal clear, Light-reflecting water. And the tears that flow, theirs and ours? Rivulets of Grace, flowing to and from the Source.
I thought about how, in fast-tracking Father Serra’s path to sainthood, Pope Francis must’ve known that decision would ignite the burning embers of controversy. Opinions were–are–sharply divided. While acknowledging Serra’s mixed legacy, some believe he should be judged in the context of the era in which he lived and worked. Such is the case with my new friends, pictured below. However–and without judging the source of his missionary zeal–historians agree that Serra (along with his fellow Franciscan friars) committed crimes against humanity. In elevating this colonial padre to sainthood, would the pontiff also call him (and the Church) to account for his actions?
Happy, Wick, and Baby are elders of the Juaneño Band of Mission Indians, Acjachemen Nation. Their direct-line ancestors were conscripted to build and inhabit the San Juan Capistrano Mission.
It wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. The pope might view this historic occasion as an opportunity to personally address tribal leaders who circulated petitions to oppose the canonization. In his homily, he could respond directly their myriad letters of protest, as-yet-unanswered by the Vatican. In a Catholic mass, live-streamed around the world, he could weigh the practices of conversion against the larger issues of human rights. How better to heal any open wounds, than to administer a measure of Grace?
It would be surprising move, perhaps; but then again, this pontiff has a penchant for the unexpected. He expresses tolerant and compassionate views. He pushes the boundaries on social issues, more so than some of his predecessors. In my heart of hearts, that’s what I hoped for. Naïve or no, it was the prayer on my lips when the ceremony opened with the traditional ringing of the bells.
But as my Nana used to say, “If wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.” Meaning: That’s not the way things unfolded. In his homily—broadcast from the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception—Pope Francis characterized Father Junípero Serra as a kind-hearted padre who protected Native Americans from colonizers—a trailblazer who relished the opportunity to spread the Gospel throughout California, while also preserving local customs and cultures.
Monument of Junípero Serra and a Native American boy. At Mission San Juan Capistrano, the 7th of 9 missions Serra founded.
In this uncharacteristically passive excerpt, Pope Francis attributed the known atrocities to a nameless enemy:
Junípero sought to defend the dignity of the native community, to protect it from those who had mistreated and abused it. Mistreatment and wrongs which today still trouble us, especially because of the hurt which they cause in the lives of many people.
Pope Francis spoke at length about the importance of missionary work, related the joys it brings and spreads, and described Father Junípero Serra as a humble servant who fulfilled Jesus’ commandment to His disciples:
Jesus said: Go out and tell the good news to everyone. Go out and in my name embrace life as it is, and not as you think it should be. Go out to the highways and byways, go out to tell the good news fearlessly, without prejudice, without superiority, without condescension, to all those who have lost the joy of living. Go out to proclaim the merciful embrace of the Father. Go out to those who are burdened by pain and failure, who feel that their lives are empty, and proclaim the folly of a loving Father who wants to anoint them with the oil of hope, the oil of salvation. Go out to proclaim the good news that error, deceitful illusions and falsehoods do not have the last word in a person’s life. Go out with the ointment which soothes wounds and heals hearts.
He then declared that, in meeting that commandment with an open heart and willing hands, Father Serra proved himself worthy of sainthood.
The moment of canonization, as seen from within the vaulted walls of the Great Stone Church Ruins of Mission San Juan Capistrano.
In pivoting to this final note, the Pontiff completely sidestepped the more difficult truths of Serra’s legacy:
Father Serra had a motto which inspired his life and work, a saying he lived his life by: siempre adelante! Keep moving forward! … Today, like him, may we be able to say: Forward! Let’s keep moving forward!
Here, a liminal moment in which Pope Francis might have delivered Grace to those who’d “hungered and thirsted after righteousness” for more than 200 years. But he walked right past that wellspring, and assumed his traditional place at the altar where a trio of ornate chalices rested.
Time and again, my camera leads me to the threshold of discovery, that shimmery place where boundaries dissolve and new worlds reveal themselves to the willing traveler. Today’s photo challenge, liminal, is new to my vocabulary. I explored its depths and breadth by reading, took notes, and then translated my findings into words and pictures that make sense to me.
Liminal comes to us from the Latin word limen. In the literal and figurative sense, it refers to some kind ofboundary or threshold. And as you know, we encounter lots of jumping-off, stepping-over, and slipping-through, liminal moments in our lifetimes.
Sometimes we find ourselves drifting in a place that’s neither Here nor There, perhaps waiting on some unseen hand to lift the misty veil of uncertainty. So it is with many things, the creative process among them. It’s a shallow place, with dangerous undercurrents. Our inner critic calls out from the rocks, sings to us the siren songs of despair and disillusion. If we’re the impatient optimistic sort, this quickly leads us to the liminal point where we haul in the anchor and set sail for the Uncharted Place where anything is possible.
Weathervane on red tile roof (San Clemente, California)
Forest openings and locked gates, prison towers and poisoned apples…the hero’s journey is fraught with choices. Real and imagined dangers lurk around every corner. Read another way, it’s these liminal moments that shake us awake at dawn and–assuming there’s a fairy tale ending–lead us from Once Upon a Time to Happily-ever-after.
Saddleback Mountain, silhouetted by the dawn’s early light
Liminal points can also be literal. Stucco archways that frame the ocean, mosaic tiles that arrest your eye, and the staircase that meanders down a flowery path before finding its sandy terminus at the water’s edge…all liminal.
Casa Romantica (“Spanish Villa by the Sea” in San Clemente, California)
A liminal space invite you to step over the threshold, to knock on the door between Here and There. Maybe it’s inside, maybe it’s outside. It all depends on where you’re standing when the door swings open.
Liminal things: India ink, spilling from the nib of a storyteller’s pen; plumeria buds, unfurling into snowy white pinwheels with yellow centers; and water that bubbles and bursts, escape and return to their oyster shell existence.
Liminal events are the portals of transformation, the handmaidens of sacred rituals.
Always and Never, Everywhere and Nowhere…liminal points open up for interpretation the concepts of time and space. Perspectives shift. Feelings are transient. We listen for the space between the notes, and the things we once took for granted are now recognized as ephemeral.
Piano tuner at Casa Romantica. I’m fascinated by the placement of his hat. It occupies a liminal space.
Camouflaged as it is by dappled shade, this leaf suggests the liminal qualities of life itself…the interplay of shadow and light, and the interstices between being and not-being. Whoa, that’s deep.
Window Leaf Philodendron
Liminal. I rather like this word, don’t you? It’s mental yoga for people like me, who do some of their best thinking behind the camera lens. I’ve only just brushed the surface, so please, weigh in with your own definitions and examples!
For previous photography challenge entries, click here.
On a more personal note: During my brother’s illness, I didn’t give much thought to my promise to do a write-up about Father Serra’s canonization ceremony. It got reprioritized again, in that liminal time after Roger’s passing. But while it’s more succinct than I originally envisioned, it’s ready now. I’ll post it after the weekend.
We didn’t stay in any one place for long, nor did we ever sit for family portraits. And while revival organizers sometimes took candid snapshots of my father’s fiery sermons and the like, most of those got pitched overboard to make room for an ever-expanding family. So by the time my siblings and I reached adulthood, only a handful of personal photographs remained.
Some wayward pictures were eventually returned by my father’s associates. Some found their way ‘home’ when I reached out to estranged family members. My sister Sheryll, who shares my interest in personal genealogy, tracked down quite a few photographs on her own. Secrets oftentimes stay buried, but we encouraged more than a few hoarders to share their private stash. And as it turned out, I retrieved a good number of images by climbing into my “Nancy Drew” roadster and following my father’s tire ruts down the Sawdust Trail.
When Roger passed away this month, I felt a hollowness in the places where his voice once reverberated. So precious–then and in hindsight–the times we shared in communion, recounting the highlights of our individual and shared stories. Such treasures, the memories and pictures we’ve managed to archive, for ourselves and future generations. This doesn’t seem to me the appropriate place to write my brother’s obituary, but I’ve assembled a small number of images that bear witness to his life.
To my brothers and sisters, a love offering. That’s already printed on the dedication page of my memoir–in my mind’s eye, at least. Same with the pictures of Roger that you see here.
Roger Suva was born in Detroit, Michigan in 1943.
Roger’s standing next to the family dog, facing my father, who has my oldest sister Coral on his lap. A candid (?) snapshot, taken in front of my father’s revival tent in Johnson City, Tennessee.
My brother Roger’s upper elementary school picture, taken the year I was born.
A front-porch respite from the cramped back seat of our family car, the summer before his senior year in high school.
Roger the Bookworm, shortly after college graduation (Wheaton Bible College, in Illinois).
A Christmas hug from his older daughter, Esther.
Hanging out on the front porch with Heather, his younger daughter (Anaheim, California).
An outdoor enthusiast with an irrepressible wanderlust, Roger’s pictured here in Joshua Tree, watching for Halley’s Comet.
A vegetarian before it was fashionable, Roger espoused strong opinions about many things.
We shared a complicated story, and a tangled family tree. Here, Roger’s (re)introducing me to Cliff, whom I’d met on a couple of other occasions but hadn’t yet realized was my brother.
The VW bus that Roger called home for several years before he died.
Once upon a more simple time, they rumbled through quiet neighborhoods in rural Massachusetts, flanked on all sides by kids of all ages.
Legs churned, arms waved. Dimes glinted in the afternoon sunshine.
“Snow Cones, Push-up Pops, Creamsicles…come and get yours!”
A single row of barbed wire runs along the outside edges of the pasture where these utilitarian vehicles came to rest. They are nested, now, in tangles of ivy.
Hard to believe that the rust-covered metal was once a glossy white. The wiper blades are arthritic; the headlights, bleary.
Shredded tires are stashed on the floor, and the windows are smeared with nature’s residue.
Tired sentries, standing guard over the happy moments they once delivered:
Sweet frozen treats on hot summer days, tucked behind decorated metal awnings.
Their time has clearly come and gone.
And yet…
At the end of an old gravel road, within the loose confines of a pasture, someone’s mowed the grass around these time machines.
Their engines are long gone, and their beauty has long since faded. But maybe, just maybe– if we squint our eyes, just a little, and tilt our heads just so–nostalgia will carry us back to those blue-sky moments of our childhood.
A restful view from a friend’s front porch in Western Massachusetts. Prime view, premiere seating.
Toadstool among fallen leaves, spotted in the lush green lawn of a rural Massachusetts library. Do you suppose fairies read books under that speckled umbrella?
White steepled churches in the center of town, and autumn festivals that feature handcrafted quilts and clocks, hot apple cider and fresh-made donuts (York, Maine).
A magnificent sunrise in coastal Maine…
…and a family of deer, watching me watch the sunrise.
Cemeteries that provide sanctuary for the living and those who came before us (Sleepy Hollow Cemetery, in Concord, Massachusetts).
Impossibly brilliant foliage, on Walden Pond.
Homes that bear silent witness to history, former residents and guests (Olde Manse in Concord, MA).
Impressionistic views along the waterfront in Turners Falls, Massachusetts.
Bookstores that support readers and writers, and the stories that bring them together.
The joy that comes of seeing the first snowflakes of winter, and then heading home to sunshine.
I’m excited to share the small but personally meaningful role I played in Pacific Symphany’s eagerly anticipated Beyond Land and Ocean.
In creating this musical homage to Orange County, Composer-in-Residence Narong Prangcharoen drew inspiration from personal encounters with our region’s landscapes and people. He also invited local residents to submit artistic responses to two key questions: What makes Orange County home, and what unites its people?
Image courtesy of Pacific Symphony Orchestra
As the project moved from creative vision to musical composition (a process chronicled here), Prangcharoen harmonized his personal impressions with community members’ input, including mine. The resulting piece makes its world premiere at Orange County’s Segerstrom Concert Hall on Sunday, October 4th.
If you guessed that I wrote a piece about hummingbirds, you’d be right. My submission is featured on the OC in Unison project website, alongside a photograph of Hope. Want to see an excerpt? Click and scroll to the second story from the top.)
Hope, that thing with feathers, is carrying music on her wings.
Want to know more about Hope and ‘my’ backyard hummingbird brood? Click here.
I’m headed to Mission San Juan Capistrano today, to bear witness to an historic, if highly controversial, event. Pope Francis is officially declaring Father Junipera Serra a saint, and the canonization ceremony will be live-streamed in the Great Stone Church Ruins (pictured here).
I find sanctuary in these beautiful gardens, which is maybe hypocritical, given the gruesome events that once took place on the Mission grounds. True stories, oftentimes buried, in which Father Serra plays a key role.
At the heart of my own restlessness about today’s event is the mythology that surrounds Father Serra. The Catholic Church depicts him as a man of his time–a protector of Indians who displayed concern for the Juaneños’ physical and spiritual well-being. A father figure.
But descendants of those indigenous people suggest otherwise. They argue that Father Serra was, in fact, an anti-hero of sorts. These perspectives were whitewashed when I was a 4th grader, but the official California school curriculum now says: “The historical record of this era remains incomplete due to the relative absence of native testimony, but it is clear that while missionaries brought agriculture, the Spanish language and culture, and Christianity to the native population, American Indians suffered in many California missions.
“The death rate was extremely high. Contributing factors included the hardships of forced labor and, primarily, the introduction of diseases for which the native population did not have immunity. Moreover, the imposition of forced labor and highly structured living arrangements degraded individuals, constrained families, circumscribed native culture, and negatively impacted scores of communities.”
Given Pope Francis’s expressed desire to place a “New Evangelization” at the forefront of his papacy, I’m wondering how he’ll unite an otherwise friendly audience, who nevertheless view Father Serra’s canonization with no small degree of skepticism. Unambiguous anger, too, expressed on behalf of the indigenous peoples who suffered greatly during this period of colonialism.
In a written protest to the Vatican, Amah Mutsun Tribal Band chairman Lopez says: “The Catholic Church will someday realize that canonization of Serra has seriously damaged their right to claim moral authority on issue of poverty, social justice, and indigenous rights. The Church’s treatment of California Indians clearly sends the message that they believe that evangelizing is saintly behavior even if it means the destruction, domination and the stealing of land of indigenous people.”
Perhaps Pope Francis will begin with a confession. He might admit, on behalf of the Catholic Church, the atrocities Father Serra and his missionaries committed during the establishment of the California Missions. Maybe, too, he’ll issue a formal apology, similar to his plea for forgiveness of the church’s “many grave sins” against South America’s indigenous people. How else to bridge the gap between mythology and fact, and to enjoin members of the Church to lead by example?
I’m just one member of a vast audience, mind you, but I’ll report what I see and hear.
Update: I’m working on my follow-up entry & plan to post it soon. But my brother is very, very ill, so I trust you’ll understand & forgive the delay. –M
If you’ve read Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women, you no doubt remember Jo Marsh’s coddled, self-indulgent little sister, Amy, who trades away her artistic dreams for the promises of marriage. Little Woman in Blue is a refrain of Amy’s story, but with a twist: Author Jeannine Atkins calls Louisa’s character by her real name—Abigail “May” Alcott—and tells her story true.
Abigail “May” Alcott Nieriker (Image via WikiCommons)
In the 19th century, most female artists eventually exchanged their professional ambitions for marriage proposals, and then plowed their creative urges into homemaking tasks and raising children. But while May Alcott has a frothy side (which no doubt irks her older sister), she is a headstrong woman with loftier goals: Artist. Wife. Mother. Wealth and professional acclaim, when her every wish is granted. In lively passages, Jeannine Atkins describes the myriad obstacles that May encounters on this “road less traveled.”
Over time, May’s persistence begins to pay off. She earns the begrudging respect of her older sister, fattens her art portfolio, and is ultimately granted exhibition rights at the esteemed Salon in Paris, where her paintings are displayed alongside some of the most famous artists of her day. Her dreams of marriage and family are eventually realized, when she married Ernest Nieriker and gives birth to a baby girl. There’s more to the story, of course, but you’ll find no spoilers here.
May Alcott Nieriker’s ‘La Negresse,’ exhibited at the 1879 Paris Salon (Image via WikiCommons)
In this authentic, if fictionalized, biography, Jeannine Atkins breathes new life into one of America’s favorite literary classics. Alcott aficionados will find much to love between its covers, as will readers for whom this is a first introduction to the sisters in Little Women. Rich imagery. Relatable characters. Settings that are true to an era, and a story that celebrates May Alcott’s life, aptly published during the 175th anniversary of her birth year.
Within the first few pages, I became friends with “the little woman in blue.” I embraced her faults and virtues, railed against her torments, and celebrated her brave, if sometimes misguided, efforts to strike a balance between her artistic and personal ambitions. Though I was sorry to reach the end, I will remember May’s story, always.
Little Woman in Blue: A Novel of May Alcott (Cover image via Jeannine Atkins’ website)
This review is based on an Advance Review Copy (ARC) of Little Woman In Blue (SheWrites, September 2015), provided to me by the author.I was awestruck when I read one of Jeannine Atkins’ earlier books, Borrowed Names, and I’m a big fan of her subsequent works. Though we live on opposite coasts, our shared sensibilities have sparked an enduring friendship. Even so, I’ve done my level best to write an unbiased review of this book, in hopes that May Alcott’s story will reach—will touch—a broader audience of readers.
