One Deep Breath: vision

Hopes to visit in peace a farm,
somewhere in Iraq,
on the porch
talking
of
crops.

A year ago, I wrote about climbing the steps to the Lincoln Memorial with my dad and hearing him tell how Dr. King's famous speech affected him. This year, I'm writing about hearing a vision that is not so famous, but is an extremely powerful one. As I have frequently written about here, my father is a National Guardsman who has served twice in Iraq. When I first sat down to write this week's poem, I wasn't sure what I would write. I thought of my dad and of Dr. King.

I think our rememberance of Dr. King has a tendency to oversimplify his message, which was one of justice for *all* people - he spoke not only of the injustice of judging people by the colors of their skin, but also of the injustice of war, the injustice of taking from the Many to further enrich the few, of the ways that violence harms everyone - the person committing violence, the victim, even the person "on the sidelines" is harmed - each has a piece of their humanity taken by the act of violence. And Dr. King said that the way to counter this is not to engage in more violence, but to reclaim our humanity, to act as human beings with compassion and strength, the strength that rises above violence.

And I thought of my dad's return from war each time. I thought of his interpreter in Iraq, who had been a doctor until the war, when he and his family were threatened if he continued to treat people. My dad told me that he hoped to bring his interpreter and the interpreter's family here to the United States. He hopes to take S. to see my grandfather's farm and to meet the family, and he hopes one day to travel again to Iraq, so that he can see S.'s family's farm, sit out on the porch, and talk about something really important - how crops are grown on that land.

Just Plain Furious

As if it weren't bad enough that we are abusing our military through more and more frequent deployments, now we discover that funds raised for veterans are being frittered away. This really makes me angry. Hasn't this war stolen enough?

Over the weekend, someone asked me what my dad thinks of the war. I trotted out my standard response that I really can't be his spokesman, for fear of oversimplifying his thoughts - but I also pointed out that one of the things he's talked about since getting back is the level of profiteering off the misery of this war.

And I felt odd, out of place, cold. The table was full of holiday cheer - Holy Day cheer - candles, special foods, made this one season in the year, cookies and even my candies were there, festive tableware, a special centerpiece, everyone dressed colorfully. Everyone looking forward to the gifts that would come out after dessert. The room was full of joy and fellowship, but I was talking about death and misery and the pathetic mindset that looks at that and sees opportunities for profit.

I said afterwards to my husband that I wasn't sure whether they'd wanted the answer they got, but how could I say anything else? He pointed out to me that I was alone in that room in being related to a soldier, that it's important for others to hear the real story, because it's not being told in the places it should be told.

One of my favorite stories is the one about a worthless item that turns out to be a precious gift: the hospitality of Baucis and Philemon, the fool of Notre Dame (part of the inspiration for my blog's name), the clockmaker who brings only a sandwich to the offeratory, having sold the beautiful clock he had intended to give in order to support his neighbor. I agree with O. Henry. These are the gifts of the Magi, the gift of love. Often, it's a hard gift to give. We can't know how it will be received, or what the result will be. All we can do is give in hope and trust.

Some observations

Over at Shipwrecked in South Carolina, there was a series of observations. I made some observations of my own, which I think need to be made in response.

I can't speak for anyone else. I can only speak for me.

I stayed up many nights, praying for my dad's safety, praying that he wouldn't have to use the gun I saw him practicing with. I woke up in the middle of the night, knowing something was wrong, but with no chance of finding out what. I crocheted on a blanket for him through sleepless nights until my fingers were numb.

I wake up in the morning and thank God that my dad is here again, in body at least. I write to my representatives, knowing that my parents taught me the responsibility of citizens to be part of the governance of this country.

I go to work with a splitting headache because my leave was exhausted 2 months ago, with constant travel to visit with my mother who has been doing her work plus keeping my dad's business going while he was deployed.

I don't wear a t-shirt, unless I found it secondhand because I have no idea under what conditions that shirt was made - what child was kept at work 18 hours to make it. Besides, my tax refund went to care packages, so I'm not going to spend money on a shirt I can only wear 2 days a week.

I, like most Americans, do not have a maid, nor am I likely to get one any day soon. After I get home, I'll have to find the energy to pick up the living room, make dinner, wash my hair, and suck up and soldier on.

My cell phone is a treasured connection, full of possibility. Perhaps today, I'll hear from him, or maybe he'll answer an email.

I hear that soldiers are being "extended" and rage at the radio until my husband turns it off.

I worry when a friend writes that his ship will be leaving soon, and they expect to be sent later in the year to the sandbox.

I am angry because my dad's loyalty and service are being abused.

I criticize my government when the wounded are housed with rats and other vermin after they've come home. I criticize my government when my dad is given the wrong body armor. I criticize my government when billions disappear with no accounting while soldiers are sent unsafe equipment. Damned right, I criticize my government.

I criticize my government when it ignores the commission it created and puts even more lives at risk. I criticize my government because my dad put his life on the line for me not to live in a tyranny, and because there is more than one way to live bravely. My dad helped to teach me that words tend to solve more than fists.

I criticize my government when I learn that they are employing torture. Guilty? Innocent? The waterboard doesn't know the difference.

I do not and will not joke about the war. I said goodbye to my father, the taste of bile still in my mouth, because there was no time to brush my teeth after I vomited from worry.

I hear his voice from half the world away, and can't feel at peace, even in a bustling farmer's market - right between jars of apple butter and handsewn aprons.

Despite my heartbreak, I smile bravely, knowing he takes strength from his family.

I am on call. No matter what I am doing, it stops if the cell phone rings. And I smile, because he can hear the difference.

I know the world is a better place because of him. I know that when he is here, he treats people, often people who have little money. I have known him to treat people for nothing. I pray that my government will leave enough of him to allow him to continue to improve the world.

And feel free to link, email, or whatever. I don't want the lies to stand unanswered.

Crossing the Great Divide

By tomorrow, I'll be in the Mississippi River system, rather than feeding into the Chesapeake Bay. As a child, I used to watch eagerly for the sign on trips telling me exactly when I'd crossed a state line, but now, the real divides speak to me more: I've crossed between the Mississippi system and the Chesapeake system many times in my life, but still the high point that divides the waters (even waters that will eventually reunite in the Atlantic) speaks to me.

This trip, too, feels like its own watershed, as though it is the permanent division between the time of my dad's most recent deployment and the rest of the surrounding time. But like the division of the waters, it is a sort of illusion, temporary. This weekend will be the first time I've seen my dad in person since the day I lost my breakfast with worry, but had to keep going anyway, only stopping in a giftshop for a t-shirt to replace the blouse I'd been wearing. I went home that afternoon, exhausted and sad, wishing that someone who had power to stop this madness could hear me.

I've written here about many of the days in between that day and this, the worries, the hopes, the relief of hearing good news of all stripes. I poured worry and hope and prayer into the blanket that so many friends and family helped make. I've taken comfort from that blanket, the act of creating it, the act of showing it to my mom, the act of sending it out. Writing about the experiences of this deployment also has been a comfort of a different sort, as have been the lovely messages of support that so many of y'all have left. Thank you.

There were days when I thought that the rising river of tears would surely sweep me away, down to the ocean, beyond hope of return, and of course, as I said, this is still not a true ending. While I wish to shut away the time, it will have echoes in days to come. But the worst for me is over. Now, it's time to work to help others lost on that flood.

Father's Day, 2007

Now that I have over a year's worth of blog posts, it is interesting to occasionally be able to look back and see where I was a year ago. Last year, I was worried sick about my dad's upcoming deployment. Today, I am relieved and grateful that he is back and yet, what I wrote then holds today:

We are now responsible for cleaning up our act and helping the people of Iraq. That doesn't mean shooting them. It means improving lives - with things like access to healthcare, roads, bridges, etc. It means asking folks with practical on-the-ground experience of peacework how to set about trying to rebuild. It means getting Haliburton the heck out out of there, and looking at actually *helping* people to rebuild their own lives, so they are invested in it and feel that they have some power in their own life, rather than whatever influence the US wants to visit next on them. It means walking humbly and saying we're sorry.

And that still holds today. We have spent yet another year going down that wrong road, again and again. We disrupt the lives of Americans and Iraqis, and the main benefactors seem to be extremist recruiters and big money corporations. Halliburton is no longer even an American company, but still they rake in the government spending on this war with no-bid contracts, despite prior shoddy performance, misuse of government funds, and outright theft.

Money that should go to rebuilding Iraq instead lines the pockets of corrupt "businessmen" who cheat our country and our troops. Money that could be spent on healthcare, education, caring for our wounded veterans and their families, all the boring, necessary work of responsible government, instead goes to billionaires who cynically exploit our political system.

Today, there are thousands of families that are where I was last year, waiting for the dreaded day for deployment, clinging to the time remaining, and many thousands more who will be sending emails and ecards for fathers away at war. In this years proclamation of Father's Day, Mr. Bush said that "Fathers have indispensable roles to play in the lives of their children: provider, protector, nurturer, teacher, and friend." And yet, we are separating families by the thousands. Children are growing up without knowing their fathers, because those fathers are overseas, without even a clear reason for being there or plan for sucess. And some of those fathers return wounded in body and soul. Some never return alive.

This Father's Day, let us begin to do the legwork to reunite those American families that have been separated for war. Although Mr. Bush specifies that Father's Day is for honoring American fathers, let us recognize that Iraqi fathers have a role to play in their children's lives, too. Instead of sending more troops, isn't it time we begin to send experts in world development? Many of those experts are familiar with dangerous conditions. Instead of floundering about with a military "solution", let us address actual concrete issues on the ground. People are living without adequate water or sanitation. For the sake of their fathers and ours, isn't it time we started trying to find practical solutions?

Relief

The receptionist at my office came over to my desk...

"Your mom is on the phone." My mouth went dry, my heart was pounding. I knew what she said she'd do if it was bad news, and instead of a call, I'd be getting my husband showing up at the office, but I still practically ran for the phone.

He's out of Iraq.

But the war goes on without him. Unfortunately, he will still have the war within himself. While I have a deep, deep sense of relief, I also know what he was like when he came back last time, taut and jumpy, scanning every shadow, jumping at the sound of trucks, ready to react at any second, yet sometimes sitting and staring at nothing - watching the program listings on the television just to have something to look at, sometimes just staring at empty walls. This time, at least I know what to expect.

And this is what disgusts me when representatives of this administration claim to understand the sacrifices my family has made. Have they ever anxiously scanned the face of someone they knew and loved, looking for some trace of that person in the familiar face? Have they sat up nights, worried beyond belief, knowing that all they can do is send an email that may not be read for days? Waited hopefully for a phone call? Prayed that some trace of the person they know will survive in the body that returns?

When I went to send Dad off this time, I was literally sick to my stomach, my stomach refusing to accept the situation. Ms. Rice, Mr. Bush, until you've had to lay your hands right quick on a clean shirt because you're so sickened by what's going on but still have to carry on, don't you DARE to tell me you understand.

Connections

This weekend, I headed home to be with my mom on Mother's day. We shopped together, ran a few errands, and ate out. And a few times we sat, along with my husband, in front of the computer with the camera on, trying to keep a connection going with my dad. Oh, wicked, wicked us. Don't we know it's better for soldiers to be lonely and cut off from their family and friends? Why, he might have said something to endanger himself or others!

If someone had been listening in, they might have discovered that he put the calendar my husband gave him in a prominent spot so he could see the days ticking by, that he looks forward to canoeing this summer, and that he liked the jalapeno mustard in my last care package. They might even have found out that he misses his family and hates to say goodbye. Other secrets revealed were the marriage and expectant condition of an old friend, a new floral arrangement in the living room, and the reef scene I'm painting for them from some of their diving photos. Weighty matters, indeed. Someone might even have overheard that I finally saw one of his favorite movies and also thought it was funny. The horror!

The new DoD policy on internet usage would be less heinous if at the end of the day, soldiers could go home, throw something on the grill, and hang out with their families. Dad has been deployed in situations where he had only intermittant access to communications, and it was hard on him and on us. Even the situation where he can read his email, occasionally get videos from us, and every now and again a teleconference isn't ideal - when I offer him a tomato juice, it has to go a couple of weeks through the post to get there - but it's better than nothing.

The DoD has done its level best to keep soldiers from talking to legitimate oversight, such as Congress or the press. Are they now doing their best to keep our soldiers from even talking to their families? Unfortunately, I think so. Col. Dan Smith, over at The Quaker's Coloniel, has written about this, noting that the official story is that YouTube and MySpace are taking up too much bandwidth. I'm not buying it. There are other ways than an outright ban to moderate the impact of such connections. And, as I've just discussed, there are other programs which can take up bandwidth. But our conference didn't create a permanent record that other people might see. I think that they're more worried about controlling the image people have of war than they are controlling the bandwidth.

Happy Birthday, Dad

This morning, I caught the first whiff of honeysuckle for this year. Yum.

And it made me think about my dad. How we used to go on nature hikes, looking at everything. How I first learned to really love camping by going camping with my parents, even as a toddler. (There's just something *about* slightly scorched potatoes dug out of the coals of a campfire, especially when eaten with baked beans and veggie hot dogs.) It made me think of the picture of him letting me hang on to his fingers as I mastered walking across a stream on a log.

Happy birthday, Dad. Come home soon.

Tuesday is music night

I and my newly acquired "Skip to My Lou" skills will be headed for banjo lessons tonight, where I hope to learn the next couple of bars, and possibly the end bars. (The 3rd set of 2 bars is the same as the first.) Over the weekend, once again, my family got to share some long distance music - this time my three chords and the beginning of "Skip to My Lou", which I hope to have mastered by the time Dad comes home. (He has his travel orders to come home. Woot!)

UPDATE: Well, I did it. Played it through, though now I've got to get the hard parts on the same rhythm as the easy bits.

Heard my dad for the first time in months this weekend. He's enthusiastic about the blanket, which should arrive in the next week or two. And he's even more enthusiastic about the second blanket I've promised to make - one to go to a wounded soldier. (And yes, got a picture of the blanket, so it should be going up soon.)

Spent the weekend with Mom, up in Lancaster County, PA, where we picked up some seriously good food - chocolate, pretzels, chips, rootbeer (You know, she never *used* to let us have this stuff.) and some stuff that even had nutritional content, like cheese, dried apples, cherry cider, and fresh bread. Mmmm.

And I got a fair way into the small project I picked up after the blanket - a pair of socks in various shades of blue that I'm crocheting. (Yeah, I *could* knit them, but I could find my small hook much more easily than my double points. Besides, my husband complains if I leave double points sitting around and it's easier to keep track of one hook than 5 needles.) with purple and yellow heels. (Remember - walk softly, but make loud socks.) It's toe-up with an afterthought heel, for those interested in such details. I have wierd to fit feet, so I vastly prefer to work toe-up so I can try on my work as I go. Also, it gives me more time to think about what stitch I want to do the legs in. If I were working in plain colors, I think I'd have a try at tapestry crochet, since there's a really cute horse pattern for a purse that I saw somewhere and am sure I could find, if I just looked...

In any case, socks are a lovely, refreshing project - small, with just the right kind of detail. Light. Completely unrelated to the current violence that my dad is caught in. (These will be mine, thank you. I can't imagine making socks for someone I didn't know, simply because feet are so individual.) And they go quickly. In fact, I'd better decide on a leg stitch quickly, since I'm nearly finished with the ankle. After them, then the Other Blanket awaits.

I'm thinking of trying a design that I've kind of had in my head - essentially, drawing in crochet - a nice, peaceful scene, either the hills, or the seashore (seashore would be a little bit easier, and I may start with it.)

Wow.

The blanket is done. All the squares are connected, and I've promised Dad that if he wants, I'll edge it when he gets back, but for now, the edges will remain plain. My husband has promised me that he will get a little bit of dried whole sage to pop into a muslin bag as insect protection (I usually use lavender for my stuff, but figure since this is for a soldier...)

Yesterday, I'd half figured that after it was done, I might seriously take a break from crochet, but I'd hardly put down that project when I found my fingers scrambling through a bag of yarn and picking out some red wool to work on. The feel of the yarn has become comforting. When I'm worried, out comes that crochet hook and yarn.

Blanket update

Wow. It's nearly done. All the pieces I have are edged, and more than half have been put into the blanket and the ends woven back in. I only have 22 more to attach, and those will be done in the next few days. When I see my mom this weekend, I'll be able to show her a finished blanket. And then we bundle it up in the bag, pop it in a box with a letter and off it goes.

I'm eager to see it finished and amazed to see how far it has come since December, when I first set out to do it. I think somehow I thought it would grow faster, or perhaps that it wouldn't take off at all. I certainly didn't imagine that it would become a source of comfort for me, as I sat working on it. I'd pictured it as somehow magically coming together and being wonderful for my dad. The reality, though, has been better.

I've sat up nights with this thing, letting the worry flow into the stitches, at first praying only for my dad, but later praying for all the people whose lives he's touching as he's out there. Thank you, Rae, for seeing that so clearly and helping me to see it. I've put in squares from friends, family, and even one woman who knows my parents but doesn't know me. There's one square to go in today that was brought to America by a friend's grandmother. I've prayed over it, and sat under it as I worked on it. One woman who saw me working on it in public asked me what I was doing and when she heard, said a brief prayer over it.

I'm going to miss it when it's finished, even though I already have my next project sitting in a project bag ready to go. (I'm doing a lap blanket for the folks who are returning wounded.) There are even a few stitches in that next project already from a day when I'd gone out without realizing that my backup skein for Dad's blanket was sitting at home in a different project bag. This project currently occupies 2 project bags, down from a high of 3 a couple weeks ago. When it is finished, it will have a home-sewn duffle to make it easier to carry.

We interrupt this life...

Mom just contacted me to assure me my dad is okay. Apparantly, something happened today that hit the news and she wanted to be certain I wasn't quietly upset, waiting for more information. Neither of us follows the news much anymore, but she'd had the radio on because of a snow emergency.

And I find myself conflicted- happy that my dad is one of the living still, and sad for yet another family who find their hope turned to dust. Worried at the reminder. Angry that people still have the gall to insist that our all-volunteer army is "working". Well, yes, they are working and have been working very hard. You want this war, think it's a good thing? Then go. And take as many as you can convince that it's a good thing with you. You work with them.

And when you get there, tell the folks who are there how much we love them and want them to come home safe. I'm not in the mood to concede that an economic contribution is enough. It's not. We're paying for this war in heart's blood. I hate this war, and I've given more to it than many who claim that it is the only hope for this country's future.

If you're right, then give.

Out of words

It seems silly: I'm a storyteller, a writer, an editor. I might forget my lunch, but not my words, my stories. I sometimes feel that what really runs through my veins is The Story, but today I feel out of words to say what I want to say.

Maybe it's that I'm overloaded - I've been doing a lot of editing, and my inbox has been the recipient of loads of spam today. No, I'm not interested in refinancing my house, getting plastic surgery, or meeting Asian women. Maybe it's that I'm tired. I've been working and crafting a lot recently. The blanket is now too big to come to my cube with me (If it were a lapghan, I'd be done, but not yet...) And so I've started a second blanket that is small so I can take it to work. At Dad's suggestion, this one will be headed for an organization that distributes blankets to the soldiers who return wounded.

But one thing did inspire me today. Unfortunately, it's another crafting project. I saw this and had an inspiration. I could make a postcard quilt of a picture that is sometimes sitting there in the back of my head - it's one I've painted and sketched in endless variations since I first left home - basically, a view of the hills I grew up in. Better yet, I could make three! Send one version to my dad, and another to the valentines project, and yet another to be sold to raise money for Alzheimer's research...

This from a woman who hasn't finished the blanket she's been blogging about for a couple months. (Well, in my defense, my goal is to finish it Real Soon Now. Squares that arrive in my mailbox are added within hours of me getting the mail. As in, I get a picture for the flickr page, edge, and add them in that night. And I'm getting to the point of having where almost everything goes pictured in my head. I still don't have quite enough squares, but we're very, very close... And the second blanket is in bulky yarn on a K hook...)

And there's a personal project for a friend that I really should be working on, but haven't...

And I haven't done any paper crafting in a while...

I think the problem may be that the words are having to fight for space in the queue.

Folks, go check out Seeking Chivalry. Today, she has a post on the meaning of a surcoat - the garment that went over a knight's armor, and the significance that this can have for us today. There's a lot there about comfort, and about reaching beyond our comfort levels to do what is right. It's well worth reading.

Yesterday, as I walked from work to the train station, it was cold. My poor legs were stiff from it by the time I got to the station, and my hands were cold, cold cold by the time I got to the restaurant for dinner after walking from the station close to my neighborhood. Brrrr. And yet... As I walked, I enjoyed the return of the sunshine. Even a couple weeks ago, I'd have been walking in darkness, but yesterday, the sun was clear, if not enough to melt the little dots of snow that occasionally dropped from the scattered clouds in the sky. And since I was alone on the sidewalk, I sang. It was good, a moment of brightness and joy in what has come to feel like a time of darkness and tears.

To anyone who wants to say that those of us who oppose the war are giving in too easily, I want to know what *you've* actually faced, what you've actually done. Will you sit with a returning soldier, searching for the remnants of the person you once knew? Will you call up a spouse and invite them to just talk? Will you stay up at night, praying with your whole being for the wellbeing of the soldiers? Will you cry? I have.

My granny recently wrote me a note about how we at home are doing our best to carry on, worrying and feeling the pain of this deployment, yet trying to help each other as best we can. When I read that note, I cried. Not little tears that slip down the face silently, but sobs, wracking my whole body as I fought for breath, until there was nothing left in me to cry. And that's something that won't go into my letter to Dad. I'll tell him about the snow, and the singing, and the hoping he's okay, but not the crying. He's got a heavy enough burden on his shoulders.

At no point have I believed our soldiers lacked courage or the willingness to make sacrifices. They do that every day. Nor do I believe the American people as a whole lack courage. I happen to think we also have that famous Yankee levelheadedness coming back, which is causing us to ask why we've bought a pig in a poke, and what we intend to do about it now that it's turned out to be a mess of skunks in that bag. And boy, are they spraying.

It's time and more than time to turn our ingenuity, courage, and hearts to the task of cleaning up. And this one will take more than a bath in tomato juice. (For those who don't know, tomato juice is a traditional remedy to skunk spray.)

Dr. Martin Luther King Day reflections*

I can still remember it. We had come to Washington, D.C. and were visiting the monuments and museums. We had been to the Air and Space Museum, where we'd looked at a space capsule and watched the film about the Enola Gay. We'd been out to Arlington, where we had watched the solemn Changing of the Guard and visited the Kennedy graves. I have to admit, I was probably a little bit young to be much affected by the Kennedy graves, though I was amazed at all the little white stones over those low slopes.

And here we were, standing on yet another set of grey marble stairs, looking up at a giant seated Lincoln, sternly gazing out from his marble canopy. And my dad was drawing for my little brother and me a vivid word picture of a huge crowd gathered to hear a speech given there. And he told us how he'd seen that speech on television, halfway across the country in a small community hospital while recovering from a broken leg, and how he'd known that he was being called to help make the world a better place to be. He didn't yet know how - that came later, but he knew that he needed to make the world a better place.

There is a story that once upon a time, the Baal Shem Tov, a Jewish mystic, knew a secret place in the forest, where he would light a fire in a certain way and pray a certain prayer, and the Presence would come. In time, he died, but his students carried on, though they'd forgotten the exact place. Still, they lighted the fire and prayed the prayer, and still, the Presence came. In time, the fire was forgotten, but not the prayer, and still, the Presence came. Today, we have forgotten the place, the fire, and even the prayer, but we tell the story and it is enough.

As we stood on those steps, my dad told us the story of a speech, and how that speech had called him to respond to that Presence, and it was enough. I will not claim that that one moment was what resulted in how my siblings and I have turned out. It probably had a lot more to do with being raised to use our words, to believe in justice, in equality, that violence is not the answer, that every human being *deserves* access to food, shelter, medical care, security from intentional harm - not because they are especially good, or especially rich, or any of that, but because we are all human beings.

I was not alive to hear Dr. King in person. I have, of course, seen clips of that speech, heard them on the radio, read a transcript, and seen the pictures. But it was though the living story that my dad told us that day on those steps, and through the way my parents tried to live by those ideals that they shared with Dr. King that I was given the gift to hear the Presence that was in that speech. And I pray that it is enough to keep it alive in me.

* Okay, so I'm a day late in actually writing them down, but I was thinking them through yesterday.