Laurel Massé

Her gentle hand

Why have I not written? I ran out of steam for a bit, or rather, the steam was otherwise engaged.

A big question came my way, demanding an immediate response. I asked for a little bit of time, then dove deep into silence and dreams, and came back up a few days later with my answer. I breathed it out to the closest of friends, and then gave it to the asker: "Regretfully, no."

It was not well-received. Sharp words flew at me for a couple of days.

Wow.

What a gift!

Gift, because second thoughts that might have arisen were tucked in and laid to rest.

Gift, because I was given the opportunity to decide, several times, how to respond to what was coming at me, and I did not respond in kind. The soft word turneth away wrath, though not as quickly as one might hope. In case you've ever wondered about that.

Still, wow. I was exhausted. But I had the best of care, from my sister, my parents, my dear Mrs. Peel, and my friends, and from trees and birds and the broad rolling river. Even here! In the city!

Not far from where I am living, there is a spectacular old beech tree that has a lot to say about holding firm. Just down the hill, there's a city park that, transected by highways, is incredibly noisy. But I saw a beaver in a bit of wetland there, bold and patient, gnawing on a branch in front of God and everybody. In an old grove in another, quieter park, I saw two Great Horned Owls harassed by a pair of Red-Tailed Hawks. The hawks screeched extravagant flaming insults - better than anything that had come at me! - and flew at the owls, who stayed put, and simply repeated themselves ("Who. Who. Who.") until the hawks flew away.

February has begun gently. These first few days are the season of St. Brigid's Day, Imbolc, Candlemas, a time that probably has other names, too, names I don't know. But it is all about the return of the light, of fertility, of what Hopkins called "the dearest freshness deep down things". Of transformations. Years ago, I recorded a piece I titled Radiant Flame of Gold (on my CD Feather and Bone), invoking the protection of the great Irish Goddess/Saint Brigid. Under her care are poetry, healing, midwifery, metallurgy, and those who practice them; all of these, as Patricia Monaghan has pointed out, involve transformation. Strangely, sometimes one does not realize a transformation has taken place until something tests an old, once-broken place, and finds it fully healed. I have been thinking of Brigid, with gratitude.

And, because I also think of you all with gratitude, here is the CD track (my vocal, with Layne Redmond and Tommy Brunjes on frame drums). May we all be under the shielding of good Brigid.

Radiant Flame of Gold - Laurel Massé

And if any of you know who made the glorious quilt in the photo, please tell me, so I can give all the credit that is so richly due to the maker.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mirror, mirror

I recently read something arresting in a blog called The Pagan Princesses. The writer, a pagan, wrote:

...the fact remains that we all of us [pagans] find inspiration in pre-Judeo-Christian gods. We all practice a faith focused on life and not on an afterlife.

The remark weighed on my heart because, though it should not be, that second sentence is too often true. Many who follow Christ seem to  ignore what he actually did and said, and focus instead on blame and punishment, and conversion-or-exclusion, all in his name. Some of these folks are in our government, and this grows more frightening every day.

What are non-Christians to think when Christians act this way? How are they to recognize how off-base that behavior is if the rest of us keep silent? Why do we allow harshness and cruelty to supplant Jesus' teachings as if replacing the pages within a book but keeping its well-worn cover?

You'd think everyone's forgotten how to read.

According to the gospels, Christ was very attuned to nature, relished a good feast, loved his friends, healed the physically and psychically sick, sang hymns, and in every way constantly reminded his followers to care for and help each other in this life. On this earth, in these bodies, with these hands. Love your neighbor, he said, and then showed that everyone is a neighbor. Love, to him, was not a theory or a nice idea, or something to be strained to exclude the unworthy. It was an all-embracing action, and not an action to be delayed until the budget was balanced, either. Love, and the economy of love, will always be in the red in human terms, as red as Jesus' words in many editions of the Bible. But in God's accounting - or the balancing of the Universe, if those words ring more true for you - love overflows all measure and always will. That is the nature of God's love.

To the politicians and pundits who describe themselves as Christian, yet are now insisting on holding back disaster relief because it's "too expensive", I ask this: did our Lord Jesus Christ bill the people he healed? Did he check his funds, polls, or vacation plans before he got on that donkey to ride into Jerusalem?

It's time, and long past time, to take "love your neighbor" seriously. Until we all do, I don't see how we can face what we see in the mirror every day, because if I am indeed created in God's image along with everybody else, then I should be seeing God in the mirror, and in every face I see.

To the woman who wrote the passage I quoted at the beginning of this post, and to all my readers, I am deeply sorry for the havoc wrought in Jesus' name, and for the meanness.

 

 

Speaking truth to power

Father Cletus J. Kiley, my spiritual director when I lived in Chicago, is a man of great passion and intellect, with a mimic's ear, and a keen sense of the absurd. Here, he offers an invocation at the 2011 gathering of the National Building and Construction Trades Conference. I admire him, and am fiercely proud of him. Please watch.

 

The city that never sleeps

In my dreams, I often live on a gentlewoman's farm, or in a thatched cottage, with animals all around, a thriving flower garden, and the perfect desk for writing. In my waking reality, I've lived in or near cities most of my life (except for the eighteen years stretching between 1988 and 2006). With my family as a child, or on my own as an adult, I have made homes in Birmingham (UK), Paris, Brussels, Los Angeles, Chicago, and (three times!) in New York City. From 1988 to 2000, I lived in the Adirondack Mountains of far upstate NY, in the least populated county east of the Mississippi. There, I learned that I am not a very good gardener, that twenty-two horses is twenty too many, and that everything that happens in the city - good and bad - happens in the country too, though perhaps more quietly, and in locations that are farther apart.

My return to urban living took several years, and I like to think that it was the river that drew me back. Where the Hudson originates, deep in the Adirondacks, it's a small stream you can step across. It grows in size and strength as it travels south toward the ocean. When I left the mountains, I followed its path, living in the Catskills for a year, and then moving further south to the New Paltz area. I finally surrendered in 2006 to the irresistible pull of the river, and let it sweep me into the magnetic forcefield of this great city.

I think it was James Joyce who described the Catholic Church as "here comes everybody"; I think of NYC as "here is everybody". Every language, every ethnicity, every economic and social level, every philosophy, every faith, every occupation, every challenge, every grace, every magic: all here. The Queen told Alice to believe three impossible things before breakfast; in NYC, we do that before we even brush our teeth.

For the past two years, I have belonged to a community called the Order of Urban Missioners (OUM) that is based at the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. At the moment, there are 36 of us, some clergy, some not, some working in the church, most not. You will not see us standing on the corner with pamphlets. We are not missionaries. Rather, we are Christians who believe that we are called by God to live and work in the city at our various trades and to love with Christ's compassionate love. We meet regularly to share our stories and concerns, to look at scripture, and to join our hands to support each other with prayer.

Recently, one of our members, Marsha Ra, offered a meditation that closed with a beautiful prayer which I've asked for permission to share with you. She has graciously said yes. If you decide to pass it along, please give credit to the author.

 

Dear God we give you thanks for life in the City, for the millions of souls with whom we share this urban life,
We thank you for their variety,
For their thousands of houses of worship,
For the 170 languages they speak
For the interesting food they cook
For the street fairs
For the parks and trees;
For the birds and other wildlife that share this space with us, often unnoticed; for the companion animals of every kind

For owners of skyscrapers who voluntarily change the skins of their buildings or just turn off the lights at night so that the more than 300 types of migrating birds that pass our way may do so safely;
For the volunteers who plant flowers in parks, on street medians, around trees and those who put up window boxes
For   political clubs, block associations,  building associations,  business improvement districts and all organizations set up to improve city life;
For those who grow orchids, and those who play music, for those who paint and sculpt and act and dance, For lighting designers and make-up artists,
For the creative writers and composers
For the teachers medical workers, police and fire fighters
For the strangers who reach out to strangers when they trip, get sick, get lost, need help
For the doormen and handymen for postal workers and Fed Ex guys, for Fresh Direct and CSA’s
For over 300 colleges, universities and research institutions
For great hospitals
For dog walkers and housekeepers
For the bus drivers and taxicab drivers
For social workers
For the garment district, the flower district, the sports stadiums
For restaurant workers and those guys in trucks selling coffee and hotdogs
For those who have been here all their lives, for those who are just arriving from all over the world,
For everyone who lives in the City:
Help us to do better Lord in this great City.
Help us to improve our school system
Help us to find the way to affordable housing for everyone, help us to solve the problem of homelessness and poverty so that everyone who chooses to live here can find a safe place among us.
Encourage those who are discouraged
Watch over the children and be easy on the old.
Help us to improve accessibility to the disabled.
Help those who work in finance and real estate to avoid greed and to remember You and the poor even as they strive for success;
Support the diplomats
Help those in the judicial system to judge fairly;
Let us see the good human intention in the noise of traffic and of construction so that these city sounds can become a song to our ears.
Above all, give us patience and help us to always see you in the faces of the millions who cross our path.
Be with us, God, in the City. This we ask in Jesus’ name. Amen.

Mothering

It's Mother's Day here in the States. In every corner of my city, folks are taking their mothers to brunch, or presenting them with flowers, chocolates, world's-best-mom cards, jewellery - all in an effort to say thanks.

Or in an effort to avoid the ill-effects of forgetting, or - heaven forbid! - willfully ignoring Mother's Day.

Or some combination of all the above.

Great moms grow great kids, we are told. These great moms, living and deceased (for this is also a day of memory, and of missing  the first loved one), are already the topic of so many editorials, blogs, coffee mugs, and facebook comments that I want to take a moment to consider the other mother. The not-all-that-good mother. The bad mother. Because surely, somewhere, somebody had her.

And if great moms grow great kids, as the coffee mug says, what do bad moms grow?

Children who grow up with moms who beat them, physically and/or emotionally, whose moms couldn't be trusted, who forced their children to choose between mother and father - might be having a hard time with this particular holiday, and who can blame them? "I can never repay you for the gift of life," sing the cards. "Thanks, Mom." There is no flowery, verse-y card, though, for the gifts of the fist to the face and the assault on the soul.

We have a tendency to want to make things pretty, to look back fondly at a past that may never have actually happened. The happy Thanksgiving family dinner. The forefathers of our country agreeing on everything. Our foremothers happily consenting to be less than citizens. Many of us are taught, in childhood, that the Bible is a cohesive single text, and that everyone coming to America came for and received religious freedom - that kind of thing. But the truth is that life has always been complex, people have always endured great difficulties and confusions, and tried to do their best. And often failed, with consequences.

One of the best mothers I know is the thoughtful daughter of a bad mother, and I know she is not the only one out there. I want to celebrate the kids who had the not-so-good moms, but have carried on, teaching themselves how to trust, how to make friends, how to give and receive love. For these, the good mother is the one they have become to themselves. To all of you: you've done well. You are magnificent. Happy mother's day.