2023.05.14 Be a Poem, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

To be a poem is not the same as to write a poem. Being a poem takes lightness of mind and soul, weightless wisdom, boldness of heart. In other words, the branches are less weighty, but more supple, lithe, and limber than the vine. Together they create great spiritual choreography. Such is the embracing way of our mothering God.

*  *  *  *  

She had some horses she loved.

She had some horses she hated.

They were the same horses. 

Joy Harjo

A NAME

When Eve walked among

the animals and named them—

nightingale, red-shouldered hawk

fiddler crab, fallow deer—

I wonder if she ever named

them to speak back, looked into 

their wide wonderful eyes and

whispered, Name me, name me.  

Ada Limón

INSTRUCTIONS ON NOT GIVING UP

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out

of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s 

almost obscene display of cherry limb shoving

their cotton-candy colored blossoms to the slate

sky of spring rains, it’s greening of the trees

that really gets to me. When all the shock of white

and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave

the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,

the leaves come. Patient, plodding,  green skin

growing over whatever winter did to us, a return

to the strange idea of continuous living despite

the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,

I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf

unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.

Ada Limón

BREATH IN ME

Breathe in me, breath of God

healing my lungs’ disease

So that I may in purest love

breathe in, and breath out with thee.

Breathe in me, breath of God,

For when my life is done

And my sweet lungs lose all their pow’r

My last breath and yours are one.

Lyn G. Brakeman (after Hymn #508)

And then the plant, fresh charged, would be

itself a vein of grace,

a way the keeper might extend

a hopeful, green embrace,

connecting child and foe and friend,

co-mingled and entwined,

to be and bear the fruit of god

in one life-giving vine. 

Michael Hudson

* * * *

And such are the many and varied ways of affectionate naming, guiding, breathing, mothering we recognize and celebrate on this 2023 MOTHERS’ DAY. 

2022.05.08 Rock of Ages, Get a Grip On Me. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 5/8/2022

Today I write to honor and remember the nurturing energy of all mothering persons and animals in this fragile world—and also our mothering God.  

                                                *  *  *  *

I have always hated the image of a rock for Christ Jesus, for Divinity, a trusted friend, a parent, the church, or for my own soul’s faith. A rock is plain too hard and cold. 

But then the old hymn goes on to tell me that this hard old rock is “cleft for me.” Cleft? That’s from cleave, split in half, or some version thereof. All I could think of was cleft palate, a sad image of misshapenness. But how could this happen to a rock? What would a hard rock look like if it were split? And who could split a hard rock?

This hymn was my maternal grandmother’s favorite. She croaked it a lot and I never thought it was soothing until I heard her sing these words—nearly inaudibly, like a private prayer.  

Rock of ages cleft for me

Let me hide myself in Thee.

Let the water and the blood

From thy wounded side which flowed

Be of sin the double cure,

Save me from its guilt and power. 

The words were written in 1763 by an English cleric, Augustus Toplady (no kidding) when he was hiding under a large rock during a thunderstorm. The rock kept him from being struck by lightning. Toplady was ordained priest in 1764..

The hymn tune, paired with Toplady’s lyrics, was written by Charles Wesley, brother of John Wesley with whom Toplady feuded about ecclesiology, that is, the saving role of the institutional church. John Wesley thought Toplady was a “dirty writer”— a veritable chimney sweep of a writer too smudged up with sin for Wesley even to bother fighting with.  

So you see there is a story behind every effort, and a meaning to every text under God, or Heaven. I didn’t know my grandmother’s mind, but I now know some of her story. She was born in 1873 into a wealthy, socially elite family in Medford, Massachusetts. She was named Marguerite Gordon Hall but soon took on the nickname Daisy, because marguerite means Daisy in French. A lively bright child, she wrote little poems called “The Sayings and Doings of Joey Pumps”, and when she was a young seventeen she met and fell in love with Avon Franklin Adams, a Jewish impresario from New York City. The Halls of Medford were horrified at the scandalous match, so the two eloped and got married in 1891 in New York City at Church of the Strangers, formerly the Mercer Street Presbyterian Church. The church seemed perfectly named for two young people who  broke family and societal rules to follow their love.

I called my grandmother Ga. We had our clashes, mostly because she and I had similar spirits of rebellion. But when I heard her singing her hymn, I glimpsed her Christian faith, and thought about how she must have felt sheltered by the old fashioned, somewhat morbid to me, imagery of Christ crucified, blood and water, together no less, spilling from his wounded, pierced side. How could this ugly image have felt healing to my grandmother? It was her grief. Her chosen beloved husband died in 1924, leaving her a young widow with four children, the youngest of whom was my mother whose own grief was lifelong.  

Such a gruesome image repels and compels. Life hurts and heals. God is OMNIpresent in Love—and symbolically in a cleft rock.  

In the midst of my own midlife crisis, I broke rules and wounded myself and others—not to death you understand, but emotionally. One day, as I struggled to get right with myself and God, I sneaked into a small store located down some stairs under a huge shopping mall north of Boston. I feigned curiosity only—browsing—while deep down I knew darn well that I hoped to find a small unobtrusive wooden crucifix—for myself. Here it is 25 years later and partially maimed. 

Daily I pray this line from the Ignatian prayer, Anima Christi: “Hide me within thy wounds.” How could such a prayer be healing? Was it like that old rock of ages cleft for me, a sheltering prayer, as if the rock were gripping me as it had gripped my grandmother, or gripped Jesus in the midst of his dying moments? One day I too will sing to the cleft rock.

Life’s all about taking multiple chances—offered by God and/or taken on one’s own— is it not? 

2021.05.09 Mothering Day

Just two days ago I awoke in a funk, feeling sorry for myself, sure no one of my four biological children would remember the M-day, or make a last-minute quick phone call or maybe a card from CVS. I moaned to myself in an orgy of self-pity when a phone call from my youngest son on his way to work. He was telling me about the heart maps he helps his young students make for their moms. I asked him to make me one. He said he was at work on it.

I remembered our blended plethora of mothers: step-mother, mother-in-law, their own wives/ significant others who have mothers, not to mention their wives' mothers, a few grandmothers—and godmothers! And this doesn’t even account for the many mothering friends and female mentors along the way. I’ve know plenty of mothering men as well. It is the quality of unstrained mercy. The count got unmanageable and quite beyond me, so I rolled out of half-slumber, checked my phone to discover that it was only Friday not Saturday, then thanked my own mother, dead by 23 years now. I told her I wished she were here with her lavish excesses always overboard for me. I could use her boostering.

Mothering day is always a Sunday. In church we hear Jesus remind his followers of old and today to love each other as he loved them—without condition, forgiving regular lapses in affection, faith, and loyalty. He loved with trust in God, a constant presence no mother can ever replicate. Some hearty clergy dare to speak of God as Mother, but being averse to any theological genderizing at all, I wouldn’t slap the title of Mother—or Father—onto Divinity.

My thoughts strayed to Molly (not her name) a 95 year old resident in our apartment building, who is mother, grandmother, great grandmother, maybe even great great grandmother—beloved of many, loving many. Last night I, by pure luck, was walking down to the dining room and saw Molly, dressed elegantly in blue with earrings and necklace of pearl, standing in the doorway of her apartment, clutching the handles of her walker. She looked bewildered, not quite right, so I stopped and asked. She began to say something with great intention, but it was gibberish. She managed to say with slurred speech as I came close that she’d “never felt this way before—all dizzy and nauseous.”  

Another resident came by, and we managed to get Molly back inside and seated. Her lifeline was buried deep in her brassiere arrangement. Molly then tried to remove all her clothing in a great rush. I asked if she was anxious and her frenetic eyes answered. I felt my own panic rise in my throat, but I breathed and focused on Molly with soothing reassuring words—prayers for us both really. I knew time was of the essence.

At last we located the magic “savior” and pushed the button. A voice answered the call from a box on a table in her living room. I managed to locate numbers for her family. Her landline had large buttons with names on each. The message I received from family members was firm: Do not let them take her to the hospital! We’re on our way. The adamancy of their message alarmed me. Why would a family give such an order?
 

Within ten minutes the EMTs arrived with their gurney. Three energetic young men burst onto the scene and began to spray Molly with questions. How many fingers? Who is the President? What year? Molly’s face screwed up with effort. She knew these things but her mind was scrambled. We waited for the family to arrive. The men fumed and paced. I inhaled the swirling angst, exhaled to calm myself, and prayed. Finally THE family of authority arrived, daughter-in-law and a grandson. The daughter-in-law ran in as she loudly announced: “I’m a nurse. I’m a nurse.”  It was time for me to leave and join my beloved husband for dinner.

Molly did have a stroke, not her first. She is in the hospital receiving proper treatment. I continue to pray for the best outcome for her. Sometimes the most desired outcome is death—hard but not the enemy.  
                *  *  *  *

From Molly I learned some things about myself, about fear, and about mothering, chiefly that I can swallow fear and take charge when needed.

I learned some things about emergency behavior in general. First, when in an urgent situation like this, stay calm, firm, and kind. Breathe. Do not raise your voice or shove your own anxiety into another’s face. Second, make sure you have a conversation about your own desires with your own family. NOW. Third, have your information—instructions, medication, doctors, medical condition/history, insurance card, phone numbers of healthcare proxy— written out clearly on one sheet, laminated, and placed on the refrigerator to consult in a glance.

To die or not to die, that is not the question.

No one knows how they will die. Make a plan and share it with loved ones and professionals. Then pray, let go, and live.

For myself, I think I will have a sense of when I’m done with life and want to say goodbye to loved ones. I hope to die in peace at home or in a hospice with professionally managed palliative care. Trust your tears and your laughs, your memories, fears and prayers.
                

                   *  *  *  *

It was hard for those who loved Jesus to let him die. It was hard for him to agonize about his choices. He chose the way of integrity with courage. He confronted the powers with his gospel recipe—not new news but good news renewed. He chose to die, leaving his words to the bereaved to find their own ways to love, and fail, and try again to love as he had loved them.

2014.06.08 Pentecost Birthings

Most Christians today remember the role of God Holy Spirit. We wear red, because God as Holy Spirit traditionally comes in on a blaze of fiery red. Red’s a tricky color. Spirit red is pure—no purple, pink, orange or lavender. Red is the best color for the experience of “a world flamed into life.” (Barbara Ehrenreich’s phrase from Living With a Wild God.)

I could go on with a lot of good church-talk and risk boredom or adulterating the redness of red. Instead I will write about my four children. When each was born, the world flamed into life. Quite incongruous with the mess my body was in: blood, sweat, pain—no gore.

In an instant, childbirth turned into Creation. Fireworks. I remember feeling very close to Creator-Godde—not “Father” but Creator.  The great American poet William Carlos Williams (1883-1963) had a day job delivering babies in Paterson, N.J. One of those remarkable spirit-flukes, no?  He was regularly present to transcendence and immanence at once. When a woman carries and births a baby she puts her body in the way of creation.

I didn’t think my children were miracles. I knew how babies were made. And no, I don’t believe God sends kids in answer to prayers, even though I prayed to get pregnant, not to get/be pregnant, and for knock-out drugs—none of which God did.

Not  being as eloquent as Ehrenreich, I’d just say that the internal presence of a new life and the emergence of each tiny black head made me sure that this was exactly how Creation happened, how Holy Spirit ignited and ensouled the cosmos, similar to a great work of art.  No bigger explosion of life could be possible; no greater awe could be felt. Love follows immediately, but is not first.

My adult children would cringe at my excesses. O Mom! Nevertheless, despite the many failings and forgivings we’ve all experienced, they are spiritual mentors. They still flame my world into life.

Bev (b. 1963) one day listened patiently to me make amends for my errant midlife abandonments, overdoing it really. She was worrying about her own mothering. It triggered a spate of mother-guilt in me. She listened, then interrupted: “Mom, stop apologizing!”

Jill (b.1964) once mentioned something about prayer, or maybe God. It was good theology. “Where’d you hear that?” I asked. “From you.”

Rob (b.1967) was in a serious car accident about 10 years ago. He and his younger brother were on the way home from a concert when a truck swerved into their lane. Rob was driving. It wasn’t his fault but they are lucky that neither of them was hurt. When Rob called to tell me, I tired to comfort, saying they were lucky, blah blah.  But he kept repeating, “I could have killed my brother. Mom, I could have killed my brother.”

John (b.1970) recently confessed in the course of a phone conversation that he was nagging at himself, putting himself down, angry with himself and his stubborn habit. At my mothery/pastoral best, I was supportive, understanding, giving him a reason why his self-critique made sense in relation to a circumstance.  “Nah,” he said, “it’s in my nature.”

You might say they put me in my place, reddened my cheek. (Oh, they know better than me.) These are small examples but such things have happened many times as the body-remembered umbilical attachment stretches thin and finally falls gently away, replaced by an even stronger, freer bond.

Maybe that’s what being born again—and again—is like.  Ya think?

2013.05.12 Mother, Mom, Mama, Amma—and So On

This poor “holy” day often gets so sentimentalized that it has lost its clout and its roots, always in mothers making political statements about rights, war, booze, et. al. Hard-edged voices, those moms.

But seriously, can you imagine anyone more important in your life, for better and for worse, than your mother? (I’d add father but it is, after all, mothers’ day.)

All my four children remember to call on this day each year, even if the last call trails in breathlessly at 9 p.m.  It matters a lot, a lot.

This year I received an unexpected gift. My oldest daughter wrote a blog post called “Every Day Is a Mom Day.”  It is brilliantly honest, humorous without being sarcastic, as she writes about her own hard feelings, her own difficult mothering experience with two daughters of her own, and her love. 

Here is a bit of her post:
      I’d like to say I’m doing young motherhood better than my mom – I think she would agree.  Generationally alone, I have a leg up on her.  I’m not as alone as she was.  I’ve benefitted from the equality fights she and others before me have won.  I had a ton of therapy before I had children whereas she had to do it all when we were growing up.  So, all said and done my odds at having a successful career while raising children without screwing up one, the other or both are far better than hers ever were.
      I know my mom did the best she could. And over the years her honesty, willingness to hear my pain and that of my siblings, and her absolute commitment to me at every step of my adult life have served to heal and grow our relationship.
       Do I still wish I could have sewn curtains, learned to iron or baked cookies with her growing up?  Yup but it’s okay.  And if I’m honest with myself, I’d admit that baking cookies with my kids is over-rated and sewing with them interesting but generally sort of boring for all of us.

I cried of course, and said thank you and I love you, using just the right amount of a few too many words, as I do. There is no honor much greater.

The best way to honor her and me and all my children, the mothering presence of Godde, and the mother-heart in all people and animals, bio-mothers or not, is to write a letter to my own mother.

Dear Mom,

I know this is too late. I know I could have, or should have, said more of what I say now before you died.  It’s always wondrous to receive a tribute while one is alive and not when one is strewn in ash somewhere or bones enclosed in a coffin with large gold handles so the angels can hoist it up when the time comes. 

But I couldn’t do that for you, mostly because I was still worried about my own failings as a traditional mother, and partly because I had not yet forgiven you for over-mothering me, nor myself for under-mothering my children. We both knew and know all about that so it’s not worth restating. It has taken me a long time to appreciate our differences without hating you for them. I’m sorry, Mom.

Here’s my eulogy:

My mother was a strong woman. She gave me the message that a girl or woman could do anything she wanted. She always smiled and was gay and frivolous, and she could be feisty. One of our best moments was when I, furious at her for some unremembered reason, turned to her and shouted, “Bitch!”  She  rose to her full stature and said, “Bitch!”  We were women together—proud fillies, competing and loving at the same time.

Another proud moment was after a fall when Mom was near 80.  We took her to the hospital in the wee hours. Coming home, I moved ahead to get the door open and heard her weak, almost child-like, voice call out, “I’m going.”  “Where?” I called back. “I’m going,” she repeated till I got it.  I helped her up into the house, cleaned her up, and put her to bed. It was a tender reversal, both of us hated and both of us accepted.

My mother followed the prescribed route of her generation (wife and mother), yet she gave me my feminism, even though she would not have called it that. She worked hard to start a kindergarten in NYC so I could go to school because she knew I loved books. Back then kindergarten was a progressive idea. She always encouraged me to try new things, and if I failed she was still there with more encouragement—until I thought I’d die of over-praise and too much cheer.  Still, I think that’s the way I found my own ways and way.  Thanks, Mom.

When Mom was dying I raced to make it to her bedside, for exactly what I don’t know. Maybe one more love effort, or a goodbye. I didn’t make it. I arrived just after she died. Her mouth was open and I tried to close it. It wouldn’t budge—so mom. I laughed.

She had bright red lipstick crookedly painted on her thin lips. I guess she was prettying herself to meet God. She had told me once that when she met God she would put her head in his lap and everything would be all right.  My mother gave me God.  Thanks Mom.

What I remember most about my mother is how hard she tried to make things work well for me, Dad, my sisters, and everyone in her life whom she loved, and some she didn’t love, but adopted and tried to change.  Today that behavior is called codependent caretaking. It’s become a way to pathologize, mostly women.  What bullshit. It was her way of loving. No one loves perfectly. Most of us try—and trying is divine.

Thanks Mom.