Why I Write

 ​The question hangs in the air whether it is asked aloud or not. It may be my own or that of a friend or family member. Coming to embrace the written word this late in life makes me my most outspoken critic. It is not “Who do you think you are?” but “What do you have to say?" And so I write hoping to find the answer.
    I write to discover what I think. It is here I confront what I thought I knew but is no longer true and what I didn't even know that I knew. It is only when I put pen to paper that I see for the first time what lies beneath the surface, what I have kept hidden even from myself. I am the catalyst and the conduit. It comes through me, not from me, and upon reading the hidden wisdom on the page, I nod in agreement and say amen.
    I write to explore language. It is in the unbinding and juxtaposition of words that I find beauty. They spill out unabated and align themselves in shapes and streams of alliteration and metaphor that I once only knew by definition. And yet, I am constantly discovering that these words, beautiful as they are, can never be enough; they fail time and time again to express my innermost thoughts and emotions and so I keep writing, searching for the right word or combination and somehow always falling short.
    I write to begin to understand how I got to be here in this place in time. I take the journey through my life in words and at long last begin to make sense of it. It is in this long view that I can see the how and why of decisions and dilemmas. Moves were not mistakes but gentle nudges edging me ever closer to where I was meant to be. It is here on the page that I confront the ghosts of my past, both real and imagined and hear the voices of those that have gone before me, each of them clasping my hand and trusting me to tell the stories.
    I write to tell the journey of faith in my own words that may possibly only be understood by one. The summoning lies hidden in my writing. “Go and tell everyone.” I come to witness in solitude but the word seeps into the community; a solo act that when sent out into the world exposes my place on the mountaintop. I write because I can not speak but the written word is more than enough.
    I write to announce to the world that I too am the Beloved. With pen in hand, I begin my morning ritual to welcome the day and embrace the wonders that have been promised. LIfting my head, I relearn again how to hold the loving gaze of my Creator. I write to whisper that love in return, still afraid that it’s all a dream.

Opening the Door to Reading

 To the best of my recollection, I was simply a middle of the road elementary school student; not an especially prolific reader but I did the work necessary to collect my Bs and Cs. That is, until my 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Gammell became my 8th grade teacher. It was in our second year together that he saw something in me that other teachers had failed to notice. He pulled me aside one day after class and asked about my reading habits. The next day, to my surprise, he handed me a copy of Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea saying, “I think you might like this,” and a door swung wide open for me. One Hemingway book followed another and then came Steinbeck and F. Scott Fitzgerald. From then on there was no going back to doing the minimum or taking the easy way out for me.

Hemingway’s themes of our human struggle against nature and perseverance were a perfect match for me growing up in the Midwest but more than that, the simple language and sentence structure of this particular selection allowed me access to the first book that led to a deeper understanding of symbolic themes. I finally understood how to answer the question, “What does it mean?”

Fishing had never been a part of my experience but this small Cuban village on the sea came to life through Hemingway’s description. While it was definitely challenging for me as an adolescent to identify someone as a fisherman who had gone 84 days without a catch, Santiago captured my sympathy. I struggled with him day after day and lamented with him at the slow demise of his beautiful marlin for which he had sacrificed everything. The reward that came in the form of the village’s public adulation of the remaining skeleton was something that took me by surprise. Unbeknownst to middle school me, there could still be glory and honor in what might first appear as a personal defeat.

I spent a good deal of my life recommending the book that started me off until I eventually became aware that it wasn’t about the book at all; it was the connection to Mr. Gammell that actually held the fire of this memory. I can still feel that book in my hands today and hear the crack of the cover as I opened it seeing for the first time his signature emblazoned across the front end paper in black letters "Eldon R. Gammell." He was the first to identify me as a reader and thus begin my love of language. He had no way of knowing that I would grow up to become not only an avid reader but more importantly, a teacher that would spend decades doing exactly what he did for me - lead children to that first book that opens the door to reading and the infinite worlds held within their pages.

Being From Iowa

Being from Iowa means many different things to people. When you include it in your self-introduction you can rely on immediately finding anyone else in the room that might also be from the midwest or a descendent thereof. We practically shout out, “I’m from Iowa too!” It is a badge of honor because we know what it is to be of that small state. However, others who don’t share your lived experience will still confuse it with Idaho, Ohio, or Nebraska and sadly, we feel compelled to set them straight for their own good. I suppose now, we could just say that it’s one of the flyover states and leave it at that.

I believe that the 17 years I spent there definitely made me stronger and more persevering than I would have been growing up here in California. In the years I lived there, it appeared to be a harsh and even brutal environment. The questioning adolescent in me wondered why you would be here unless you were a farmer. It was good dirt but what other gifts did it hold? The summers were hot and humid and the winters brown and frigid. Just when you thought things were warming up, an April blizzard would appear on the horizon. The month of May always seemed nice but beyond those few short weeks there was little that was dependable for anything you wanted to do beyond the walls of your home.

I definitely learned about all types of weather in my childhood. There was no form of precipitation or moving air that we didn’t experience. It seemed there were rules passed down through the generations that corresponded to many of them, especially hail and tornadoes. Watching or listening to the weather report was an important start to each day. This too, is something that Californians simply don’t understand and why they are so often surprised by the weather but it is a ritual that I never left behind.

Around election time, every few years, brings up a curious question. Did you caucus when you lived in Iowa? No, I can honestly say I was not a part of this bizarre notion of choosing corners to “vote” in a presidential primary. Luckily, it started the year that I left for college. But the thing about curiosities is that it’s hard to keep from watching them so, yes, I will be tuned in on Monday to see just who shows up to the Republican Caucus and how many layers of jackets and coats they have donned to make the outing because this year they will have the added challenge of snow and frigid temperatures.

So, Iowans, enjoy your limelight this week. I salute all of you for your continued fortitude in eking out a living in the cold and brutal midwest. I am grateful for my time there but am truly blessed to have found a home here in California.

Letting My Field Lay Fallow

Having spent my childhood in the midwest, the sights of empty fields in winter always brought me a sense of peace and comfort. The land had given up everything it had for its harvest of corn, soybeans and alfalfa. Now it was time to rest. The frost covered expanses of brown soil only added to the image of being under the weighted blankets of winter. January feels like that. The darkness of winter solstice carries on for many weeks before we sense any increase in light. And the added chill in the air invites us into the extra weight of fleece and flannel holding us deeper into the couch. We have traversed through the turbo speed of the fall holidays - Halloween, followed on its heels by Thanksgiving and right into the rush of Christmas. And then suddenly it stops without warning. The invitations for holiday dinner cease and we realize there is no plan for dinner without a run to the grocery store. Gradually we come to realize that this is the time that nature has built into our rhythm for good reason. Slow down, breathe, cover yourself in blankets and just sit for a bit. Take a minute and become aware of this moment in time. Give thanks for the slower pace where you can actually plan out the next few weeks or months. Let yourself be reborn into resolutions or a single word to carry you into and through the new year. Take time to be, just to be. Think and ponder who I am becoming. Is it pleasing to me? Am I searching for something more? I am embracing this current feeling of emptiness. For now, I will honor the darkness, the cold and the extra layer of blankets on the bed because this too shall pass. Soon it will be time to plant again and this gift of time and empty boxes on the calendar will have vanished. In its place will be yet another rush to be, to accomplish, to do.

Looking Back on 2023

What worked in 2023: 

Building a Community of Believers
God has answered this prayer of mine for community in the most interesting way. The Mission Church drew me back here and I accepted the call. Then came Lorraine, then Nancy, then Paul. And the parade continues. As summer turned to fall of 2023, it seemed that with each passing week, a new friend or acquaintance appeared in the seats around me. The call seemed to have gone out to each of us in the form of a thirst or hunger that is difficult to put into words. And whatever it is, the Jesuits of SCU are quenching it.

Retirement 2.0
The jokes and jabs of my second retirement are finally subsiding as the year comes to a close. Yes, this second time around, I am making it work. I have learned how to sleep better and rise slower. No appointments before 10. Take time for a morning walk every day but Sunday. Take each day as it comes and celebrate as it ends.

Putting Friends First
This is closely aligned with the previous topic. I have committed to saying yes to all invitations. Lunch? Breakfast? Walk the trail? Walk the labyrinth? Coffee? Movie? The answer is always yes. I am learning to trust that despite a particular day's busy schedule, it will all balance out. And with that balance comes a beautiful memory of time well-spent.

Amy
Amy, my beautiful, amazing half sister that is more like a sister and a half! We have known each other for a year and a half and yet she knows things about me that no one else knows. She has brought a feeling of safety to my soul that I have never felt with another person. My vulnerabilities seem to fall away in her presence. She somehow embodies God's complete mercy and understanding; "You can tell me anything and I will still love you."

Service
It's happening! Service opportunities have come calling. My prayer kept telling me to wait, it will come to you and it has. I have my gig at the Nativity library twice a week, and I am back to serving as a Eucharistic Minister, and feeding the homeless once a month. It feels like the perfect mix; I feel useful but it has not overwhelmed the relaxed mode I am enjoying in retirement.

Leaning into a Future
Perhaps the thing that worked best in 2023 was allowing myself to lean into what was next for me. I am currently a participant in the Pierre Favre program at El Retiro and am in the process of becoming a guide for the Spiritual Exercises. The latest word is that it will eventually lead into becoming a Spiritual Guide. This is the work that God had waiting for me; this becomes more clear with each passing month.

What didn't work in 2023:

Taking Sickness and Death in Stride
I know no one is ever ready for this stage in life but it seemed that 2023 packed a wallop. A dear friend was diagnosed with bladder cancer, my aunt and uncle moved into long term care/assisted living, and another of my Top 5 had a series of strokes and passed away. We are all far too young for this or maybe I just wasn't prepared. As I step out of my 69th year and into 70, it is clear that these events will become more common. I promise to keep showing up for my friends as was listed above. It has also been the stark reminder to say whatever it is you have to say whenever you have the opportunity to say it.

Listening to my gut when it says Go!
If I have any one regret from this year, it is that I didn't fly to New York to see Tessa perform in her Christmas show. I thought about it and then sat back and just assumed it would be live streamed like it was last year. So, 2024 will be the year where even though I have traveled in August, October, and November, I hope to be able to say yes to a December trip to NYC.

My commitment to "This is my last move."
One never knows when you make statements that include absolutes what might happen to change your mind. My move to Willard Ave was clearly not the last. It all turned out well in the end but this move in December was definitely one of my more challenging. It has become clear that my body simply doesn't have the strength or resilience it once had. So I will just say, I'm hoping this was my last...

Again, it's a Writing Schedule
A year ago, I said what hadn't work was coming up with a writing schedule. This is still true. However, I did make progress with some actual writing. I attended a spiritual writing retreat and have done several classes on-line. So perhaps the goal is misaligned. Let's do more writing and find our comfort zone before we criticize ourselves for not having it on the weekly schedule.

Looking Ahead
As I look into the horizon I see only blurry images of what is to come. I am hopeful that it includes much of what is contained on my list of what worked in 2023. One thing is for certain; there will be unimagined joys and painful sorrows. I only pray that I can retain the image of them walking side by side on the path, each one making the other better for having made the journey together.

Margie Bennett

 Margie Bennett was my friend, my co-worker and my traveling partner on so many journeys of life. It was my honor to have her walk beside me in the halls of three different schools but she and I would always say that our best work was done at Nativity, bar none.  It was the school from which she would at long last retire. But that was not the end of her teaching career.  She continued subbing for several years and could not have been happier just to be in conversation with adolescents and guiding middle school students on their academic path.  It is rare to find a teacher who stays in it beyond the 4th decade just for the fun of it and to be in relationship with kids.  

Margie was one of the strongest women I have ever known. She stood up for herself, her staff, and her students no matter the outcome. She was always willing to stand in the breach to do what was right and suffer the consequences, come what may .  When the benefit of her students was at stake, she went head to head with fellow teachers, principals, presidents, pastors and even this vice principal. She knew our friendship could withstand it and it grew stronger because of her honestly and forthrightness. No one ever had to worry about what Margie would say behind your back; she said it all face to face. She promoted social justice from her first day in the classroom with the "No uvas" movement until her last with her fight for our DACA students and interns.  Sometimes the lesson plan took a flying leap out the window in deference to her preaching on racial or gender injustice.  You had to be ready for anything when walking into Margie's classroom; you would either encounter a hands-on math or science lesson or a deep conversation on civil rights.  

Her faith was a driving force in her life and she easily shared it with all she encountered. She called herself a "retired Catholic" but she never stopped living as Jesus modeled in the gospels and expecting the same in her students. As much as she wanted to leave the Church behind, it appeared to have been inborn. Her love for Notre Dame and Mother Mary guided her throughout her life.  Some would refer to her as irreverent but you could never argue that she was wrong about her stance on clerical abuse of children or even the sin of poor homilies.  More than anything, I will miss her witty quips about the Church.  

Visiting Margie after her stokes was one of the more difficult things I have ever done.  The person sitting before me in the wheel chair seemed only to be an image of who she had been; more like a vague memory than this actual human person.  Margie never lost her sense of humor.  I don't think that I ever laughed harder than the first time I saw her in rehab.  I was out of her line of vision and she queried, "Is Miss Allen still smiling?  If Miss Allen is still smiling we're OK." Oh yes, Margie, I'm still smiling.  With every visit she would begin our conversation with the demand, "Tell me a story.  What's been happening?" There was nothing she loved more than a good story of juvenile antics in or out of the classroom. 

It is the laughing I will miss the most.  We were never in each other's presence when we didn't laugh together and sometimes we shouldn't have been.  Faculty meetings are not always fun but she could bring levity to almost any presentation or difficult conversation.  I will miss our Happy Hours, our monthly breakfasts, her updates on graduates and the pride that we shared in the work we did together.  I will miss her irreverence and her spunk.  I pray that I will always hear her laugh ringing in my head and remember the good times we shared together.  Our friendship was a true blessing and I will carry these memories forth with love and devotion for Margie, my dear and loyal friend.   

In Thanksgiving

 From the beginning, Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. Even as a child, stepping into the warmth of my grandmother's kitchen was better than endless candy at Halloween and even ranked above Christmas presents from Santa. Thanksgiving was the only day of the year that the Allen Family and any other wayward souls came together to celebrate the abundance of our lives. As a whole, our family was not especially religious, but this day, apart from all others, definitely felt like the most profound of rituals.

My grandmother was an amazing cook; many of my memories settle on the sights and smells of the dishes that seemed to appear out of thin air from her tiny oven. It was like a miracle each time I witnessed the process even though I clearly knew what was coming. The menu was always the same: turkey, two kinds of stuffings (sage and oyster), mashed potatoes and gravy, two or three vegetables, cranberry sauce, and at least two kinds of pie. And somehow, each dish was cooked perfectly. The hardest day I ever had was Thanksgiving of 1972 when I was unable to go home from college for the holiday. It was my first Thanksgiving away from Grandma's kitchen. The next few didn't get much better either. I remember very few Thanksgivings that did not end with tears of missing the Thanksgivings of my childhood. One thing that Ralph and the kids could always count on was the best Thanksgiving dinner I could replicate and a bittersweet wife and mother. I never stopped missing Grandma's kitchen and the memories it held.

Time has passed and Thanksgiving continues to take on a variety of permutations with each passing year. I easily handed over the reigns to Maria long ago, knowing that she had grown up bathed in the importance of thanksgiving and creating and sustaining family traditions. There were a few years of alternating locations between the Carter-Giannini home, Half Moon Bay, and Lake Tahoe. Then I found myself flying back from Washington and Florida until I was back home in California again. Each of these holidays had its own beauty to it. But the Thanksgiving of 2021 now ranks high on the list of memorable holidays because of the addition of our beloved Tessa. We all descended upon Dave's house for the weekend and commandeered his entire kitchen, no holds barred. I still marvel at how patient he was with all of us; no utensil or appliance was off limits. "Help yourself" was his word of the day. Dinner was amazing but the dessert with Tessa was definitely the icing on the cake. For the first time I sensed a feeling of completeness and wholeness to our family. Dave had at long last found his great love, and within minutes we had fallen deeply in love with her as well. Last year Dave and Tessa made the trip west and committed to making plans for the annual family tradition. So as I joyfully anticipated Thanksgiving 2023, it was with a feeling of contentment and anticipation, knowing that our family would once again gather around the table giving thanks for one another and the blessings that brought us together.

So this year, I again give thanks for my many happy memories of Thanksgivings past while looking forward to those that lie ahead. I have been deeply blessed with a grandmother who taught me the joy of gratitude and have been able to pass on that same commitment to my children. In the end, this is what matters: come together as family, enjoy the food and drink with which we have been blessed, laugh, love.