Category Archives: Uncategorized

A Guest Post by the Reverend Wallace Adams-Riley

When I read this piece by the Reverend Wallace Adams-Riley to my three granddaughters, they broke into spontaneous applause. Wallace is the rector of St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Richmond, Virginia. St Paul’s was founded over 150 years ago and was attended by General Robert E. Lee and Confederate President Jefferson Davis. On January 13, 1990, a pre- inaugural prayer service was held at St. Paul’s for L. Douglas Wilder, the first elected African-American State Governor in the United States.

 

 
My Dear People,
This past Friday, I walked over the Malvern Hill battlefield with my five-year-old, Fin. (Gena was off working and Nelson was at a day camp.)
Malvern Hill is half an hour southeast of Richmond. The battle there took place in the summer of 1862, as the Union army withdrew, for the time being, from the environs of Richmond.
We went mid-morning and it was a perfect day to be out there, walking the paths mown through the tall grass, a light breeze blowing. We walked hand in hand. Visiting each cannon, looking for birds’ nests. Stopping for dragonflies. And caterpillars. And hoof prints.
And talking some, as you would imagine, about what happened there, on that very ground, a little over a century and a half ago.
About how his great-great-great grandfather, B.E. Nicholson, was at that battle. With a South Carolina unit, the Hampton Legion.
About how Papa’s ancestors lost the battle, and the war. And how Mama’s ancestors won.
We’ve talked about these things before.
And we’ve talked about slavery. And what slavery had to do with it.
And about how my ancestors, and therefore his, owned slaves.
Of course that’s hard to understand.
Hard for him, to understand.
And hard for me, to understand.
We’ll talk more, of course.
+
I want him to know. To know what happened. To know the whole story.
To know how brave B.E. Nicholson was, capturing a flag in battle at Second Manassas, just eight weeks after Malvern Hill.
But, also, I want to reflect with him on the painful reality that our ancestors held other human beings in bondage. And that the cause for which they fought – his eleven direct ancestors who served in the Confederate armies – cannot be separated from that soul-crushing institution.
+
And what I hope, and what I pray, is that, over time, our conversations about the American Civil War, and his conversations with others, particularly with African-Americans, will play a part in his becoming, ever more so, a compassionate person. A humble person. A person determined to play a part in helping our world to be a more humane and just and welcoming place. For all people. Regardless of race. Or heritage. Or anything else.
I want him to know the whole story, and to really know it.
So that he can be a whole person.
And so that others can be as well.
Your brother in Christ,

Easter Sunday, 2015

den169's avatarMerging Traffic

http://www.gettyimages.com/detail/photo/girl-dancing-in-rain-royalty-free-image/148290495

(On this Easter Sunday, I pondered how
children seemed to be born knowing
how to celebrate, and how many of us seem
to lose that precious gift along the way.
This poem was first posted here
July 8th, 2014. A blessed celebration of
life to all.)
SHE WHIRLED BEFORE ME

She whirled before me, guileless,
eager face straining for the sky,
light rain chiseling a smile
glorious on glistening cheeks.
She extended her arms full-length
in opposite directions, flat palms
and feathery fingers seemingly
practiced in the art of soaring.
Moments before, she broke loose
from the boughs of my umbrella,
to announce an eight-year-old’s vision
and credo: I gotta be free!

Longing to join the gambol
but hobbled by an arthritic hip
and the rust of years given
to caution and conformity, I settle
for silence and reverent awe
in the presence of this young
priestess and her…

View original post 8 more words

A Guest Post By Hanna Lange: No Last Time

There’s never going to be a last time.

There is no cure.
There is only the finite space
Of not-so-bad
Of kind of okay
The discrete moments of joy
And they’re so hard to remember
Especially when the sadness
Is so overwhelming,
When the melancholy floats to the surface
Like poisonous cream.
When I’m already so tired,
And the reality is that the best
I can hope for is respite
Rather than true relief.
It’s like a terminal illness
That never terminates
Without palliative care
Or hospice
And, so often, without
Real understanding,
Just empty platitudes.
 -By Hanna Lea Lange
( This poem was written 4 days before the previous post, “Remember to Bend”. My daughter Hanna had called me and in the course of our conversation, she said, “There’s never going to be a last time.”  It struck me as an opening line to a poem, and since she is a poet, I suggested that she begin a poem with those words which she did and the above poem was the result.
Four days later, after seeking and receiving the medical help she needed, her inner state had changed profoundly and she wrote, “Remember to Bend” after taking a yoga class as part of her treatment. I am sharing it here because I think it is one of the most honest and clear descriptions of depression that I have ever read and we hope it might help others who suffer from depression not to feel so alone. )

Remember to Bend (A Guest Post by Hanna Lange)

“Breathe deeply,” she says, “and pay attention to the breath.”

In through my nose, and then one long exhale,

At first I struggle to clear my mind,

To be entirely present to my breath,

Not focused on anything but the present moment.

I feel the simple rhythm,

In and out, in and out.

My body moves in response to her words,

Stretching, reaching, seeking

Spine straight, arms up and over

And as I move, everything else slips away.

Knees toward chest, hips rotating,

Long neglected muscles are finally honored

Like veterans of a distant war.

I feel the tension letting go,

Drifting away in this quiet space,

Where there is only soft music,

Gentle instruction,

And the steady rhythm of my own breath.

We move in quiet harmony,

Me and this stranger,

And I rediscover how to let go,

How to be here now,

How to be mindful.

I feel myself relax,

The relief like the exhale after a breath

Held tight for far too long.

When the music and the lesson stop

I feel reborn, alive again,

Awake after a long, fitful sleep.

I realize that the most important thing

Is remembering how to bend in the now

And to focus on the simple things,

Like breath, and sound, and stretch.

– By Hanna Lea Lange