Stand by me - There is hope

I must respond. There is a wonderful inspiration started by Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes on her facebook page (a very rich place to hang around).. A kerfuffule -- a communal gasp-- a rise of energy around the song 'Stand by Me'.

Dr. CPE says "South African Yvonne Chaka Chaka sang this song a cappela to an audience after she warned Batswana to quit sitting around shaking one's head, and instead to be alert and to guard in every way possible, against increasingly devastating child pornography and human trafficking in all of Africa.
 She sang this POWERFUL song afterward."

It is a marching song, a question, a fearful longing, and an answer. My favorite version is from "Playing for Change"-- Musicians from all over the world are recorded and one by one brought into the shared space of the message in the music. In the end it is a joyful awakening --to the answer of many voices joining together --- and it lets us throw back our heads to sing louder and more fearlessly and to move our bodies.   An accompaniment to the work of many hands reaching out to make sure others know, "I am here".

Today I send this good medicine to Abdi and Hassan Nur Iftin in Nairobi (see Abdi flies Somalia from March 2011)  because we feel that there is now real hope that their dream of being college students in the US may happen.

As Dr. E says "we can make mere 'light' into Lightning!....¡Relampago!"

In April when I was sick nearly to death in the ICU, Hassan and Abdi found a phone line that reached all the way into that room in St. Johnsbury Vermont from Nairobi.  In my fog of grace and darkness a nurse said "Abdi called and his mother is praying for you".  I was felled.  This mother of mothers living in a Somali refugee camp, whose boys are not safe with her, who has no certainty of food still stops and offers me her prayers and stands by me.  This song is for her too.

I met Abdi and then Hassan through his stories on the radio. Listen as Abdi tells of life in Somalia as more and more people move to the restless rhythm of drought and lack of food, again.
Be reminded, he is a good storyteller and we can stand it. The Story: Abdi talks of Somalia now

If we are lucky these young men will soon get to open a course catalog and begin to choose -- feeding their hearts and their brains. Medicine for the murders they witnessed, the sister they lost to starvation, the threats, and the nightmares born in hiding caves, hopes lost in refugee life.  Its not perfect medicine but it is strong and it will help,

To pull this off we may have to ask for help but today there is real hope. Wahooo!
Sharon y familia

 

Greetings! It has been a long time since I sent out a blog post, a tweet, or a facebook message.   My journey into septic shock and back was very engrossing. Convalescence has been a circuitous and much slower process than I would have predicted despite years of medical training. 

I offer messages of thanks and gratitude for the many people who provided aid in my hours (and weeks!) of need and in the all ways it came.  And, of course, I have philosophical views and thoughts from the very edges of life. There is much to learn from life-threatening illness, but today I want to start with lighter fare.

There is a new section on the website called "stories” in which I share the background for some of the pictures on the website: the crazy, effortful, funny, and surprising behind-the-scenes events of Gay Bumgarner, photographer extraordinaire pitting her wits and patience against the goddess of nature.  Using her photography journals, the writings of Jim Bumgarner her husband, my own eye-witness accounts, video clips, and occasional poetic license, Mother-Daughter Press gives you a peak behind the creative curtain.  I hope you enjoy the unusual behind the scenes views.

The first photo-story is brief and it’s called Bugsy the Watch Turkey

If you want to see larger versions of the pictures, go to the new gallery called "Series in Nature"
 
Welcome to this new feature on the website, and enjoy the story-ettes. Please let me know what you think and feel free to share your own stories. I even take requests, if you have a picture you have wondered about let me know.

To make finding the stories easy, we have added it as a choice on the navigation bar of the website.  If you want to automatically get story updates you can subscribe to the blog or send a note.

Most of all thanks for all your well-wishes and kindness in this difficult time

Sharon

To Stories from Mogadishu and responses from Vermont

We have been enriched by a conversation with new friends in Africa and one of the topics has been snow. They live at the equator and have an idea of snow that has charmed us here and made us laugh. So this video is for them to give them a sense of snow.



If you haven't heard it yet check out "The story" and Messages from Mogadishu.  This is citizen journalism at its best.  Our response back via this lighthearted video may seem trivial in light of the difficulties there. How can we laugh or complain about the snow when their lives are so constrained and difficult? I don't know how to balance these things, I just know that all I can offer are authentic responses and images of my life.  Sometimes "help" comes as humor, sometimes as questions and always listening.

The reporter, a young man called Abdi, encouraged by Dick Gordon from the radio program "The Story", has gained a voice, an audience, and in our case friends and supporters. This affection and concern has spread and includes his family spread far and wide who worry for him and help him. Abdi, through Dick Gordon and Paul Salopek, an award-winning journalist from Chicago, has begun a conversation with our family, friends and a community of public radio listeners, that makes the far-flung country of Somalia much more pressing and real. Everyday we try to cast a net of safety and connectedness over him. This type of reporting is amazing and life-changing.

Listen. If you want to support The Story or Abdi please do.

Peace

Sharon

The danger of too few stories-- womens voices

For anyone that has learned the power of narrative and story particularly, if they were not in control of those stories that were supposedly their story.  A single oppressive story shapes the lives of all who tell it and receive it.  It shrink-wraps everyone like a web.

I give thanks to Ben Bellows who shared this gorgeous video and I dedicate it to Dr. Clarissa Pinkola Estes -- the queen and the trudge- the fairy and footslogger keeping stories alive but, even more important, for reminding people of their own power as storytellers and audience.  Your/my/our story has not been told.  To find your voice, start by talking. 

"Tell me"

Take Love for instance-- A couple of birds- cardinals

A couple of cardinals -- "We" -- the cardinal couple

Gay Bumgarner prized the cardinal birds for their their flash of red color and their friendliness. She loved photographing them, particularly in winter when their presence seems festive, Christmas-y, brave and romantic. Cardinals became one of her specialties and the depth of her collection is astonishing-- illustrating every type of "emotional" moment especially to those willing to let fancy run free.

Suzanne Rhodes and I created a web-sampler of winter cardinals for the staff at International Animal Welfare to use to select their official holiday card. As we explored and then chose the collection we found ourselves easily spinning stories.

So, here is one for fun, the familiar story of the arc of romance. Its the same the whole world over-- whether we've two feet, four feet, feathers or fur. Join us...add a line or two, suggest a picture or a plot twist.

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It starts with magic. . . Everything is easier. You speak the same language. Your step is lighter and your song is sweeter. You can't get enough of each other.

Your lives intertwine you create a home and revel in the small domestic details-- preparing meals, social gatherings, entertaining the neighbors-- together.

Then come the holidays, with all the decorating and family visits. Something creeps in, you're not on the same page anymore, everything matters and feels effortful.

And then, with the holiday festivities in the past, it breaks down altogether ...... ouch. Foreigners to each other, your eyes don't quite meet.

Things that used to make you laugh aren't funny anymore. You move stiffly past each other and say "FINE!" a lot -- and silence follows.

But then, somehow, something gives. Is it hope, habit, fatigue, or compassion? You forget you're "supposed" to be resisting and in the face of even the smallest opening, you bend towards each other. The efforts of resistance seem to evaporate. You find yourselves softening, leaning in, the roaring has quieted. Its just "us" on our branch here. Relief flows in like fresh air as the normal becomes possible and humor is in reach.

Then, on that cold winter day with snow falling continuously, the photographer came and takes your picture -- the picture up on the mantle -- it's the warmth and connection you share that day that suffuses the picture and everyone comments on. There something in the color-- is it contrast or compliment? -- something companionable, even romantic again.

The well-being and simple pleasure are earned. It's no simple feat; it may be miraculous! Good to remember everything has it season. And if you are lucky you recognize the value of each season and don't panic when it isn't always summer.

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If you have never heard it listen to the song/poem "Take Love for Instance" written and read by Bobbie Louise Hawkins At the Great American Music Hall. Its free to listen once on this site, and definitely worth it. If you have problems with the link let us know.

Meanwhile, inspired by the last cardinal image we have created official holiday postage stamps If you would like to purchase these custom stamps (or others with images by Gay Bumgarner and Mother-Daughter Press) please send an EMAIL request. Same goes for cards or small mounted prints-- give someone an image that makes them smile.

Be well and tell us if you "recommend" the post (it's similar to the "like" on facebook except we could only get the word "recommend". Love to hear just that... did you "like" or enjoy it-- no heavy sign in, no justification, just sign of life response. Thanks!

NORTH FORK OF GRINDSTONE CREEK

This is a favorite image of Gay's and a favorite place for her. Here is how she described it in writing for people that liked the picture.

"This picture was taken with late sun shining in autumn on the north fork of Grindstone creek and limestone cliffs. This creek is the type known as a “loosing creek” because when it rains it rises rapidly, sometimes as much as 12 ft, but within a few days loses is extra water into the many tributaries which have also emptied into it. The creek then moves on and joins the south fork of the grindstone, then to the Hinkson and then to parts beyond.


The forest here is native oak, hickory, maple, serviceberry and sycamore plus many others. This section of creek usually has water in it except for a few weeks if no rain falls for many weeks. There are deep holes, such as exists at the base of the cliff you see. During one very dry summer, the hole had water holding fish and frogs and a Green Heron and northern water snake (harmless) tried to share the hole but finally disputed the territory.


Gay Bumgarner, photographer"
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Notes from Sharon-- a little back story for the picture and the place.

There are many photos of this spot. It was essentially her back yard and on special nights she would turn on the lamps hidden in the bluffs and the dramatic rock faces would shine and skitter with shadows.

Gay and Jim placed a bench there to watch things happen. There is a picture of Jim on the bench with Bugsy his companion turkey (or guard turkey). He could hide there with bugsy, have a secret smoke sometimes, rest from the weed eating, supervise my brother rappelling while trimming the trees. There is also a wonderful, romantic photo of Gay and Jim siting on that bench together in the fall (K1300a_Older couple shares a bench.tif) --

The area was changed greatly by the city trying to improve the flow of sewerage in pipes placed under the creek. Gay hounded them for 2 years across her property and made sure they did a good job. She marked every tree, and kept them to their word. The new job they made can be seen in [E0512_Grindstone creek after major city public works.tif] and the bench where they sat returned to its place.

In 2008, during her final summer we spent a lot of time on the deck looking over the lake and beyond to the bluffs. The efforts of maintenance had scaled down with age and Jim's absence-- unnoticeable to any normal human gardener but a source of wry interest to her.

The Canada geese were nesting and presented an excellent low-key distraction and mini-drama. After years of building among the reeds and grasses on the lake shore the geese finally abandoned the strategy. Too many eggs and goslings were lost to Raccoons, turtles, and other predators. Thus, almost 15 after the lake was adopted by Canada geese they began to build their nests on the bluffs- on a flat spot part way up. The view of the nest was perfect from the house but there were tradeoffs and new hazards. Now instead of easing into the water for a first swim the gosling had to “jump” or “fly-fall” down to the creek 15 feet below then a hike up the creek edge over the dam and into the lake. Not a clear improvement overall.

In the summer of 2008 on a perfect day Gay and I were on the deck watching the lake. The male goose came and offered the female her short respite from the nest. The two of them swam together for a brief time every afternoon. They muttered and honked and sounded as if they were catching up on all the events of the world. This quiet pair swimming together -- such a romantic sight and a deserved break.

But, then, they were out of the water up on the dam, upset, honking, running back and forth across the dam. They were yelling and flapping at something happening in the nest. We were puzzled and mesmerized. But, suddenly on the ledge where the eggs sat something pushed one of the eggs off into the creek onto the rocks below. Then we were up, standing, binoculars fixed to the spot, shouting at this unknown malevolent force, no superpowers to help. We watched disbelieving as one after another the remaining 3 eggs were pushed out of the nest, first to the edge where it would teeter and almost rest then it was pushed again. They fell one at a time, lit by the sun, in breathtaking slow motion, orbs alight falling in a perfect arc; disappearing below our view.

My mother gripped her IV pole and the two of us stood on the edge of the deck, holding hands and me offering her a place to lean. We were weeping, outraged and shouting along with the parents whose noise was deafening... all to no effect. Finally, I had to know what it was that would do this, to know if something could survive. It was just days before they would hatch. I took off running across the garden, across the dam, and down the embankment to the base of the bluffs and the creek, to do what?

It was quiet. Whatever did this damage was apparently not interested in the product. I could find nothing. Then down a bit I saw it.... One egg floated in the water midstream, was it intact, was it too cold?

It was cracked but not through and through and it seemed there was some little movement perhaps inside. I carried it to the dam where mother and father were pacing, honking, flapping...beside themselves. Why had they not flown to threaten whatever it was? Were they so certain of the loss or the chance of something worse?

I brought the egg to a soft sunny place in the long grass near them, they were unhappy to see me but overwrought. I backed away. They approached cautiously, sniffed and poked with their beaks, but quickly dismissed it-- dead, too damaged, not theirs, wrong, they wouldn’t own or tend it.

My mother said, leave it, they wont claim it, there is something they know perhaps about the odds and the effort, and there are plenty of others that will want it come dark.

I hated it, that unknown snake or rat that decimated the nest. I wanted signs of the good universe, of the arc of justice and not of waste. If I was facing my mothers death it seemed doubly awful to have the fierceness of the pruning forces be the sign I was to somehow use to help me.
S.McDonnell