Sound designing a life. The Foley Artist a charming short film on how a Foley artist would sound design a day in an ordinary life. Running hands through spaghetti noodles stands in for hair washing, a spray bottle sounds
Bayard Rustin in Life Magazine. Wess Daniels looks at a 1963 profile of the organizers of the March on Washington:
In reading more about Rustin’s life, I am intrigued by the ways he as a Quaker maneuvered both a racist and homophobic society, while remaining very politically active.
Being Convinced. Iris Graville talks about finding the Quaker way:
the Quaker Way isn’t the only way. For over thirty years, though, Quakerism has been the spiritual home, or nest, that sustains and nurtures the presence of God in my life. It’s the community that keeps me grounded in the Presence within as well as outside of me that guides my actions.
‘Q’ is for Quaking: Charismatic and Pentecostal Aspects of the Quaker Way. From Stuart Master:
For early Friends, the most important dimension of the experience of baptism in the Spirit was that it led to a regenerated life; one in which people found themselves brought into right relationship with God, with other people and with the whole creation. The charismatic phenomenon of Quaking was a manifestation of the work of the power of God within them but the real fruit of the process was a new life.
Gil George takes a deeper look at divisions among NorthWest YM Friends. The causes direct and indirect:
The current conflict is ostensibly about the murky subject of LGBTQ inclusion in the life and ministry of the NWYM, but I believe is actually about who gets to set and enforce the identity of the NWYM. This particular fight has gone on for many, many, years with skirmishes dating back to the 1960s and is rooted in Christian reactions to the culture shift that began then.
Another Divorce in the Family. From a blog called Quaker Parenting:
It’s heartbreaking to watch division grow; to watch a divorce in the making. I’ve witnessed this occur literally in my childhood and young adult life. It’s a hardening of hearts. It’s a lack of communication. It’s whatever the exact opposite of reconciliation is. It’s horrible.
My mother died a few days ago. While I’m overwhelmed with the messages of prayers and condolences, at least at some level it feels like cheating to accept them too fully. This isn’t a new condition. This is just the final moment of a slow-motion death.
A little over five years ago my mother was formally diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. It was quite brave of her to get the testing done when she did. This had always been her most-feared scenario for aging. Growing up, we had befriended an active elderly neighbor who had gently died in her sleep after a minor slip on some ice. My mom thought that was the best exit ever. She swore Mrs. Goldsmith had come to her in a dream the next night to congratulate herself, saying “See, I told you I was lucky!” For years afterwards, my mother convinced herself that she would go in a similarly elegant way.
My mom, Liz, must have sensed that Alzheimer’s was a possibility when she scheduled that doctor’s visit. The news didn’t come as much of a surprise to us family. I had been joking for years that my mom seemed to have only twenty stories that she kept on rotation. After she read a study that crossword puzzles keep your brain sharp as we age, she became an obsessive crossword puzzler; when the Sudoku craze hit, she was right on top of it. She had bravely bought her first house in her late 60s. How proud she was. At the time she let us all know, repeatedly, that she would be leaving it “in a box.” Caulking trim, replacing windows, and troubleshooting a mud room leak that defied a dozen contractors became her occupation, along with volunteering and watching grandkids. But by 2010, she must have known she wasn’t going to have Mrs. Goldsmith’s luck. It was time to adjust.
When she called to tell me the diagnosis, she couldn’t even use the A-word. She told me her “brain was dying” and that the doctor was putting her on Aricept. A quick Google search confirmed this was an Alzheimer’s drug and a call with the doctor later that afternoon helped map out the road ahead.
Alzheimer’s is a slow-motion death. She’s been disappearing from us for a long while. Regular outings became less frequent till we couldn’t even take her out to a nearby restaurant for her birthday. As words disappeared and speech began faltering, I’d show her recent kid photos on my phone and tell stories to fill the emptying space. Eventually she stopped showing interest even in this. On my last regular visit with her, I brought the kids and we had lots of fun taking pictures. Mom kept pointing out at the phone’s display as if it were a mirror. But conversation was too disjointed and after a few minutes, my kids started wandering in ever widening circles looking for interesting buttons and alarms to touch and pull and I had to round them up to leave.
In the past few weeks her forgetfulness has extended to eating and swallowing. Intervention would only buy a little more time until she forgot how to breathe. Alzheimer’s is a one way trip.
On my last few visits she was mostly sleeping. She’s was calm, preternaturally calm. Lying on her back, pale and peaceful, she looked as if she might already be a body resting in a casket. Only the slight rise of sheets as she breathed gave away the news that she was still with us, if barely. I felt awkward just sitting there. Some people are good in these kinds of situations, but I self-consciously struggle. With little chance of interaction, I struck on the idea of reading from a favorite book of poems that she had read to me on countless nights as a child. “Up into the cherry tree, who should climb but little me?” I don’t know if she heard me or pictured the cherry tree in her haze, but it was a way for us to be together.
The slow-motion nature of Alzheimer’s means she slept a lot until she didn’t. For reasons that go deep into biography, she was a wonderfully friendly person who didn’t have a lot of close friends anymore. It seems peculiar that one can walk upon the earth for so many decades and only have a dozen or so people notice your departure. But then maybe that’s the norm for those who live deep into their eighties. Most of us will leave life with the same kind of quiet ripples with which we entered.
My mom Liz just passed away tonight. It’s not unexpected. And sadly, given her health, it’s perhaps not even so tragic; she’s been declining for years from Alzheimer’s and all but stopped eating in recent weeks. I’m sure I’ll find voice to tell some stories in the months ahead, but for now I’ll share some pictures. She would have turned 85 next month.
A note about names: she was born in late summer 1930 as Elizabeth Ann Kleintop. In her adult life she went as Betsy and took the last names of her partners. In her late 60s she decided to take back a variation of her last name and overnight Betsy Kelley became Liz Klein.
My privacy and your transparency. A nice essay from Johan Maurer that weaves together Edward Snowden, shawdowy government officials, protest movement, taxes, Christianity… and the uses and abuses of transparency:
Daniel Webster asserted, and Justice Marshall agreed, that the power to tax is the power to destroy. The power to violate privacy is similarly coercive, which brings us back to the issue of trust. I want to live a transparent life, and I (usually) don’t mind being observed to be doing so. But an uninvited observation that is ultimately for the purpose of compelling my obedience, or tracking my relationships with others, or enforcing political uniformity, is completely unacceptable.
Spiritual Nurture & Advancement. Steven Davison continues is “Quaker-pocalpyse” series with a piece on naming the spiritual gifts of those in our meetings.
I fear, however, that most of our meetings do not try to name our members’ spiritual gifts or nurture them in any proactive way. Too often we are left to our own devices when it comes to maturing in the life of the spirit. As a result, the collective life of the spirit, the spiritual maturity of the meeting, suffers.