Meanderings on Motherhood

There was that time, long ago,
(but when I picture the photo in my mind,
I can recall it as if it just happened),
Your voice urged, “Go! There’s dad!”
and these feet (much smaller)
carried this body (tiny then) upright,
for the first time in recorded mystory.

Since then, to now, such a stretch
of rolling and running and walking long trails,
working on words,
how they are formed
on the lips and in the mind,
naps and daydreaming,
watching motes of dust
float through the air,
the sacred holding of ladybugs
in small hands and large,
skipping beside you,
my hand in yours,
later walking on my own.

Of the countless adventures:
The tiny kid on the painter’s ladder,
“But I can do it, mom!
I can go all the way to the top!”
I clearly remember saying,
and when I got there, I looked down,
to realize that up and down are
two wholly different skills,
and your fear-of-heights coaxing
“But it’s time for lunch,
I have your favorite, all ready,”
literally willed my safe descent
from the edge of the rooftop.

Only a superhero can do that,
I hope you know.

Cups of sweet, milky coffee,
in the time-honored tiny tea set,
with fresh from the oven cookies,
punctuated long days of discovery;
who knew that spiders, large enough
for Tiffany the standard poodle to bark at,
could emerge from under an old house,
or that summer swim lessons would
require you to wear your winter coat,
while blue and shivering kids paddled,
as you observed from the stands?

Rescues, both small and great:
the bus-missing preschool finger-paint project,
that found me walking wrong-way home;
the playground knee-roll over broken glass,
requiring a taxi ride to Emergency,
where an old man walked through the plate glass door,
as if to continue a theme of shatteredness;
your calm voice calling to me from up the block
while a stranger tried to lure me with a lie,
through his car window.

Further opening windows of consciousness,
the daily theme, from the portholes
of your piercing brown eyes to my own,
everything an exercise in expansion,
from cultivation of flowers
to the care of small creatures,
from the march against war
to the long bus ride to help
in the marina after the bay oil spill,
for we must save the sea birds.

Over time, these portholes on the world
have upgraded themselves from transoms
to casements and skylights, even bays
clear or color-stained like gems,
to picture and double-opening French windows;
Windows on the world within and without,
these aforesaid windows of consciousness,
this is extraordinary vision,
mapped as the starry heavens,
and the young must first be led
on all the well-trodden paths
before they can forge any path on their own.

The painstaking after-school reading lessons,
for this late bloomer, a first opening
to the greater world beyond our time and place,
leading to the sharing of books and music,
endless school art shows and concerts to endure;
How you and every pet in the house
stood the squawks and squeaks
of an inexperienced bow across the strings,
I’ll never know, even though
every pet in the house slept at the epicenter,
and you sat proudly through every concert,
from violin to voice. 

And I know now,
         I now know,
through my open window,
         what it was all for,
what it meant to you,
         what it means to me,
having relived it all,
         in a different time,
and with a different voice.

And I want you to know that,
         though you are far away,
the little hand of your child
         still reaches through open windows
of consciousness and vision,
         finds your warm hand,
ever-curious mind and open heart,
         and feels your mommally hug.

Love,

         Elisabeth

© 2019 BY Elisabeth T. Eliassen

//
Top photo: Mom has given me little kirigami to throw into a bowl of water, where we watched them open into flowers, circa 1962.
Bottom photo: Me with my twins when they were very young, circa 2000

The Grift is On

I took a break in the middle of my workday to do some much needed grocery shopping. Though cloudy outside, the temperature was pleasant and it was nice just to get out for some air.

I parked at my favorite grocery store and exited my vehicle. 

I was lost in thought – which I have to confess is rather typical. 

A man came up to me. He was shorter than I am, he was smiling and looked slightly bewildered.

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’m not asking for money, I’m just lost. Can you tell me where I am?”

“Well, you are on Broadway in the city of O-----.”

“Could you tell me what part of town this is? I am from South Africa and I don’t know the area.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what this neighborhood is called,” said I, longing to be helpful, but also trying to extract my grocery list from my pocket. “How did you get here?”

“I took a cab from San Francisco Airport. Look, here is my receipt!” The gentleman said, holding out a handwritten receipt made in the amount of $500.00.

He put his flip-phone into my hand, “Could you speak to my attorney?”

And thus began the grifters’ confidence game. I’ll briefly outline the rest of the encounter. The “attorney” spoke to me, saying that he wanted me, “the mark,” to ask his “client” a few questions because he, the “attorney” was having trouble understanding his “client’s broken English” (a problem I was not experiencing; the “client” spoke clearly and without any accent, and the phone reception was astonishingly clear for the “attorney,” who I can only assume was in a parked car, nearby). The second question is the one that clarified the entire situation for me:

“Can you ask him if he completed his assignment?” 

I posed the peculiar question and the man replied by opening the shoulder bag he carried, revealing what appeared to be a huge wad of cash.

At that point, I spoke into the phone with no particular inflection to my voice, “I am handing the phone back to your client. You can assist him from here on.”

Having handed the phone to the “client,” I made purposely for the door of the grocery store. 

(I may seem distracted, but I didn’t fall off a turnip truck.)

//

This is The Classic Grift, my friends, as depicted in “The Sting” and “Paper Moon” and any number of other films and TV Detective shows; these guys were "confidence men." It is so classic, it even has it's own name; it is called "the Pigeon Drop."

I’m taking the time to tell you about my experience because we are living in remarkably difficult times. People are pushed to desperation; we’re all distracted and extremely busy trying to keep a standard of living, if we can. The UN has reported that the United States has the most inequity of any developed nation; U.S. policies benefit the rich and exacerbate poverty. More than 40 million citizens live in poverty, in this great country of ours. Desperate people might well go along with the type of patter I was treated to today, and give up their precious money as “collateral” or “security” towards a potential for great riches.

But let me just say, the bills you see in the bag are not real; the stacks of bills are just plain paper.

And let me just say, don’t offer to drive any “lost client” anywhere, especially not to the nearest ATM.

And let me just say, don’t get into a car with any “lost client” and his “attorney” or some “cab/Uber/Lyft driver” who might show up on the scene.

And let me just say, there is the possibility of any number of really, really bad scenarios that can spin out from what seems like an innocent encounter with a lost waif in a parking lot. And all of the really, really bad things would happen only to you.

The best thing you can do is speak in an easy, friendly manner, turn and walk away casually, but purposefully, toward the nearest open door. Once inside, report what is happening and/or call the police. Don’t waste time trying to take a photo, just get yourself away.

Of course, by the time you report it, the individuals will have made their escape…

//

Addendum.

This entire silly episode of my life started in the most innocuous fashion. I thought the guy was asking for directions, until it became apparent that the man and his confederate on the flip phone were angling for something else. 

Will this experience stop me from giving directions to people who request them on crowded sidewalks and in busy parking lots because this happened? No, I will not stop doing so.

Why did I write about it? Well, I learned about such scams on a rainy Friday in Junior High School, when the social studies teacher decided to show an old black and white film that talked all about and depicted such scams, followed by a class discussion. I don't know if that film still exists (perhaps social studies teachers have a newer film to show!). 

Can you find out about scams on the internet? Yes. But most people would not take the time to look into it because most people are of the mind that "It couldn't ever happen to me," "I would never fall for that," "I'm too intelligent to be tricked." 

And that, dear friends, is precisely why I wrote about it. We all believe we are so intelligent and so on guard at all times that we could never fall for some scammer's tale. We would never be so gullible.

But even the most vigilant of us are basically trusting individuals, happy to step into the breach to help strangers with minor difficulties. Grifters capitalize on the best part of human nature to gain confidence; this is why they are called "confidence people." Once they have hooked your natural good will, they then dangle a carrot called "greed." 

It is a simple psychological game such people run, and it is unfortunate how successful the game can be. This game does not seem intrusive, not at all, unlike the continual barrage of robocalls from the non-existent "Microsoft Refund Center."

I had my early lesson in critical thinking over 40 years ago, and this incident happened only a few days ago. I'm glad I had the lesson back then, and was able to recall it when a stranger flashed what looked like (but most certainly was not) a bag full of money at me.

I walked away. 

So You Bought Yourself A Band, Redux

To recap from our last episode:

Nemesis, the cold light of truth, awaits you, in every seat, in every concert hall.

Entertain me. Make me smile.

Nemesis is waiting to see and hear what you will deliver.

//

So, time has passed. 

“Back in the Family,” you said, “where it belongs.” And that’s where you began your bait-and-switch, at venues that had been advertising other performers for nearly a year. You donned the requisite striped shirts and made your move. (We note that stills of the old lineup continue to show up in venue promotions, even today…)

But it was soon evident that cracks were forming.

The ham-fisted, litigious takeover immediately turned off longtime fans that might have continued to be your primary audience. You got into brawls on the internet with people. Lawsuits surely won’t build a new fan base, and trademark licensing doesn’t entitle the licensee to threaten tribute bands covering “your” songs… 

You discovered, to your chagrin, that the summer camp you thought came with your purchase deal was actually owned and operated by someone else. (You didn’t do your homework.) You tried to create a new camp, but no one signed up. Quelle surprise! The fans you’d turned your back on were the very ones who had the means to devote to such pastimes; who did you think you were going to attract? Being that you can’t sing or play all that well means it is extremely doubtful you could teach, so what were you planning to offer? It couldn’t have ever been more than a schmooze-and-booze punctuated by posing and boasting, nothing more than a one-night stand.

Swiftly must have come the realization that one set wasn’t enough for a whole show. You discovered you couldn’t sing some songs in the keys they’d been performed in. Three-part harmonies flat-lined into unison. Instrument tuning was, shall we say, problematical. Lame is the patter, and y’all ain’t got rhythm. Adding songs that had never been part of the repertoire, one can only wonder about that. But not taking requests and leaving out some signature tunes audiences have come to expect actually does have an impact in terms of branding, marketing and sales, or so it has been just generally opined in the pages of both the Wall Street Journal and the Hollywood Reporter.

Nemesis has seen the videos, and she has heard the whispering on the wind. 

Interestingly, somewhere along the line the DNA baby got thrown out with the bath water; lo and behold, the thing isn’t really in the family anymore. At this point, the only legacy member is actually the sideman, a non-member.

Then, a fight broke out over the website. For a while, no one who might have wanted to see shows could find out anything about them. The old URL points to some other group; and while there is a new URL for The Group, no one can find it. The investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be.

Spies have informed Nemesis that phone calls had been made to former members, trying to sound out availability to “fill in” or “replace” well before the apparent coup d'état. Most of these parties politely demurred, as involvement could be construed as legitimizing something or someone. People who did step in struggled to perform with you, as the arrangements had been dumbed-down or put into different keys, and signature licks had been ditched. Ultimately, poaching someone from another group can only make it sound better, so that’s one plus for you... 

Email alerts come in from the four corners; there is abundant ticket availability! People who work the venues report arrogance and mistreatment back stage. Believe me, presenters will think twice, if they haven't already done so. Investors must be a bit concerned; if they aren’t, they should be. When any tribute band can play and sing circles around you, who will pay top dollar to hear less than the very best that can be done, to hear you “learn on the job”? 

And this has entertained Nemesis the most: There has been absolutely no need for her to intervene!

Your reputation precedes you. While you can fool some of the people some of the time, you cannot fool them all. What you can do is fool yourselves, as long as ever you want – at a price.

It is said that revenge is a meal best served cold. The sideboard is laid. The wine is chilled and the glasses are filled. It is all just a matter of time. 

Let us raise the parting glass!

Raspberries, strawberries, let us toast with fine wine:
Here's to the songs that we used to love, dying on your vine.

The End

© 2019

https://songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com/2017_08_10_archive.html

Addendum: The show at Yoshi's in Oakland CA on 5/15/19 was less than 1/3 sold...

Rise Up And Ride

~ to celebrate Lawrence Ferlinghetti on his 100^thbirthday

We gather
We gather around
and while around We gather
We reflect in the moment
Our reflections remotely interior
reflections that ripple on our surfaces
with experience and emotion
expectation going unspoken
passing traumas unconfessed
tattooed on every cell of blood
that roams the living heart
teased by inner drums
to dance

We gather
We gather around
and while We gather
Our reflections speak
riffing off Our rippling shores
through Our interior drumbeats
and Our drumming fills the space
with that intricate ostinato called
Our Shared Humanity

The Prophet
softly approaches
reading the crowd
feeling the bed of drums
and the spaces between each beat
the World of hurt and of love
the crashing of the seas
the winds of time
motes of the dust of an hundred years
—and more, perhaps—
bounce in the City Lights,
and out of the depths
of these waiting primordial rhythms
he speaks

Friends, Poets, Countryfolk,
quothe he,
There is nothing I can say
that you are not breathing right now
into the outermost continuities of space
—Our collected vibrations are heavy
their mass carries weight yet gives light
unto those of us who are trapped in the night
the collective sighs of We gathered Here
join with those of a Nation and a World
clamoring to settle into any groove
that will kick the beat forward

I say to You
“Kick it forward”
and I’m not talking about any can
but can-do
though any can will do
and be suffered to be cycled
and can be recycled
if you will
into the latest new case for Now

Because Pandora opened the can
all that spilled out is a reckoning
that can only be assuaged
in the timeless Era of Jazz
in the balm of the Beat
in the work of weaving

among hearts heaving
in the joy of healing
in the heat of the night

I say it again
“Kick it forward”
and that means You
You’ve got to swing into the groove
of that bed laid in long ago,
now is the time for listening
to hear rags and blues glistening
in singing and dancing
with canons and fugues
that RISE UP

Round while We gather
be here and hear, Dears,
hear the beating of All Your Drums
gather your precious song of Humanity
Kick it all forward into your swing
and into it find your groove;
join the ostinato traffic lane
and enter the wave dancing
RISE UP
and once arisen
RIDE!

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Garden of Delight

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

All beauty, all abundance,
lying in waste
and left to chance;
a garden of delight,
left in your keeping,
fallen into sad plight,
pushed to contortions
of distortions.

The owl’s head pivots,
but, alas, the indignities
lie arrayed in all directions,
and there is no place
where she may lay her head.

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

“No harm; no foul,”
cry thee unto the hills;
I hear ye, I hear the laughter
as rolling gales of hubris.

“Hang the prophets;
Hang the law,”
they taunt,
“We will do what we want.”

Hoo-hoo.    Hoo.
Who, who?    Who?

Who shall stand
when Authority comes,
calling all to account?

As surely as the sun rises
on the watchers and the holy ones,
Freedom is a sword;
all dance on a razor’s edge.

When the holy Storm comes
with it’s crucible of fire,
know that the angels,
terrible in their beauty,
follow closely after
to wipe away all trace
of offense, all corruption,
and then restore the garden to Grace.

© 2019 by Elisabeth Eliassen

//

I am become as an owl of the waste places.

― Psalm 102:6

But who can endure the day of His coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like a refiner’s fire and like a fuller’s soap.

― Malachi 3:2

Life is tragic simply because the earth turns and the sun inexorably rises and sets, and one day, for each of us, the sun will go down for the last, last time. Perhaps the whole root of our trouble, the human trouble, is that we will sacrifice all the beauty of our lives, will imprison ourselves in totems, taboos, crosses, blood sacrifices, steeples, mosques, races, armies, flags, nations, in order to deny the fact of death, the only fact we have. It seems to me that one ought to rejoice in the fact of death—ought to decide, indeed, to earn one’s death by confronting with passion the conundrum of life. One is responsible for life: It is the small beacon in that terrifying darkness from which we come and to which we shall return.

― James Baldwin, from “The Fire Next Time” 

Called Out

Out of the silent dust

was I called to be

Blown by some sacred breath
into the spring of existence,
particles stirred by
quaking earth and fire,
drowned by storm,
invisibly formed

Some distant song
carried its precious mass
through the void

“Who will go for us?”

Ears to hear, then unexpected response,
“Send me!”

And just as I Am is,
I became further I,
germinated,
embodied,
and released
with eyes to see,
ears to hear,
breath with which
to make voice
into the matchless
universe,
legs with which
to wander the shadowed valley,
arms and hands with which
to grasp, to gain, to give

According to each day
according to every season
according to any moment,
of which all are new
births under different light,
searching, and seeking,
wandering and weeping,
struggling,
learning
being,
serving,
loving,
in vital witness,
as ever be can be,
woven as am I of paradoxical parameters,
warp and weft, contradictory

[right and wrong,
sickness and health,
real and false,
free and oppressed,
generous and miserly,
careful and careless,

studious and ignorant,
shy and outgoing,
loud and silent,
joyful and angry,
studious and perfunctory,
color, full and less,
visible and invisible,
and so on, ad infinitum]

This song,
mine and ours,
knows no end
but partial ends forthcoming

by and by
—one knows not the wherefore nor why,
only that existence presses forward,
revolving and evolving,
perhaps toward,
and even sowing,
knowing

[shall ever I do?
shall ever I know
what I is, am and ever was
or why,
and if then,
what next might be/is,
what might be beyond
or what beyonding might bond?]

And when the Song calls me back
to that valley of bones
that river of dust,

Be, as I’ll be
marked:
Return to Sender,
Am I to I Am,
Thine to Thee.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

(A meditation for lent on International Women's Day)

Incident at the Lincoln Memorial

On Friday, January 19, 2019, there were many people involved in various protest or commemorative marches in the area of the Capital Mall of Washington, D.C., but an apparent confrontation developed between white students from a catholic school in Kentucky, black Hebrew Israelites who had participated in the March for Life and Native American activists, who had participated in the Indigenous Peoples March. Video of this intersection of groups has gone viral, and so many people have commented on it already. I nevertheless also feel compelled to respond.

I, as thousands have, viewed at the original clip (taken by one of the Native American marchers), and the longer video (apparently taken by one of the Hebrew Israelites). This is what I heard and saw, as succinctly as I can put it: One group with a religious affiliation was hurling negative value judgments and pejoratives at a crowd that included mostly white students and Native Americans. The students, for some reason that is not clear, stormed up to the group of Native Americans, invading their personal space and engaged in a staring match. I perceived a clear sense of menace and threat in the actions on either side; the Native Americans were between the Hebrew Israelites and the students. Unrighteous judgment was all around in the video footage. I certainly did not see the best example of nonviolent resistance in this charged atmosphere. Disrespectful behavior was evident.

Then, one of the Native Americans, Nathan Phillips, started to beat his drum and chant. I perceived this to be an attempt to diffuse and de-escalate a challenging situation.

How did I come to make that call? I am a minister in that way; I chant and I sing.  The beauty of the human voice offered in song is one of the greatest healing tools we have readily available to us. The gift that music keeps on giving the world is the creation of innumerable opportunities for unity to occur among people. 

Few are aware of an aspect called “entrainment” or that there is a study called “bio-musicology” that studies this aspect, which is simply defined as a synchronization of organisms by means of rhythmic music. When folks go into a theatre to hear a concert, and they all come out feeling moved or happy in the same way, humming tunes that they heard or singing, that is a simple example of entrainment.

When he started the drumming and chanting, Nathan Phillips was attempting to clear the space and call on the Great Spirit to enter into the discussion. I didn't know what he was chanting, but I knew this was his intent. It is the same thing people do in temples, synagogues and churches, around campfires, in sacred places everywhere - chants, hymns, whatever you want to call them, it is all the same--unifying people around the vibrational energy we all share. My sense of this was affirmed by a woman who commented on the thread of a Facebook friend about this incident. She lives in a community of Native Americans, and she indicated that she knew this was a prayers song.

Perhaps I should add that music first shifts people from where they are to another place or attitude, one where they are potentially prepared for entrainment. Singing/chanting activates both hemispheres of the brain of the singer; the opportunity for a different type of participation and awareness possible from all who are in the vicinity, whether they are singing or not. I've read on this in the past, but I'm not sure I could lay my hands on a definitive article. I do know that music therapy makes use of entrainment to assist in healing of all kinds, and I am sure the Buddhists discuss this from the aspect of meditation, as well as chanting. The ringing of any bell, for example, is the signal to awaken from one way of thinking to another. Do we heed the bell? Do we heed the song? Do we heed the call to change? That is always the question.

The human voice is the body's primary built-in coping tool. We cry out in the darkness so as not to feel alone. Our voices reach out to find others. Rarely do you find children that do not make up songs or hum to themselves when they are alone, quietly playing. This vibration that we generate is a precious tool for our whole lives. Unfortunately, great swathes of our society have been told they can't sing, music programs in schools have been limited or eliminated, and there is so much generated music, the majority of people passively listen and don't participate as much in singing as they used to. If people are listening to music, it is more often through earphones, rather than a shared public occasion. 

Instead of singing, people talk, gabble, gabble, gabble all the time. Much of this gabbling talk is generated by the judgmental portion of the brain; there is a lot of bad vibe being pushed out there, damaging to self and others. This is unfettered left-brain activity. 

Unfortunately, as a society, we do not teach our children that they need to tend carefully the garden of their minds. Without structure, censorship or discipline, our thoughts run rampant on automatic. Because we have not learned how to more carefully manage what goes on inside our brains, we remain vulnerable to not only what other people think about us, but also to advertising and/or political manipulation.

- Jill Bolte Taylor, “My Stroke of Insight” (2008)

Dr. Taylor’s statement rather aptly describes the situation in front of the Lincoln Memorial, and it’s media fallout.

I write about this today because right now the earth is calling us to change. The earth cannot ring a bell. It can only sing a song of sorrow from the depths of the sea and the wind whipped mountaintops. The whole earth is a sacred place and we are supposed to be stewards of it; but instead we are mostly engaged in trying to conquer one another. One woman wrote, in the same Facebook thread on this incident I earlier mentioned, that the need for people to be right at all costs is both exhausting and crippling us. People yell at each other and fling blame. With all the yelling going on, it is no surprise that we can’t hear anything else. Further, seeking to be right is the chasing of a false idol. Righteousness is not something that can be claimed or owned by anyone; it is a honorific bestowed on someone who does good. 

Martin Luther King, Jr. talked about radical love; this type of love is discussed in many holy books, in many traditions around the world. That is what today should be about. In the incident on Friday, Nathan Philips tried to open a door away from a difficult situation by chanting a prayer for healing and unity. (I am trying to find out more about his chant, and if I do, I’ll update this article with that information.) Love is what must overcome the negativity in our world and be the unifying element of our lives. As Martin Luther King, Jr. said in a sermon:

Returning hate for hate multiplies hate, adding deeper darkness to a night already devoid of stars. Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction. So when Jesus says ‘Love your enemies,’ he is setting forth a profound and ultimately inescapable admonition. Have we not come to such an impasse in the modern world that we must love our enemies– or else? The chain reaction of evil–hate begetting hate, wars producing wars–must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation.”

- Martin Luther King, Jr.,“Strength to Love” (1963)

I’ll end with a somewhat more cryptic way of looking at it for you all to ponder on as you do service today. This is about unison in music.

Equality is never found in the consonances or intervals, and unison is to the musician what the point is the geometer. A point is the beginning of a line, although it is not itself a line. A line is not composed of points, since a point has no length, width or depth that can be extended or joined to another point. So a unison is only the beginning of a consonance or interval; it is neither consonance nor interval, for like the point, it is incapable of extension.

- Gioseffo Zarlino (1517-1590), singer, composer and music theorist