2013 - A Year to Savor

A friend has picked out one word to focus on for each of the last few years.  This time, I decided to follow her example.  My word for the year?  Savor.

It's a good word for me.  To begin with, I've been carrying a fair amount of resentment because of  the dog attack in June, during which my life partner got between me and a pit bull that had lunged into our back yard. The pit bull went to live with Jesus a few moments later; and I took Michael to the doctor shortly thereafter. That Tuesday a return visit to the doctor ended with hospitalization, massive antibiotics, massive painkillers, and, on Wednesday, plastic surgery to clean out the infection, which by then was sending red streaks up and down his arms. Five days in the hospital and nine weeks out of work wiped out all of the year's vacation time, personal time, etc., which is no doubt the reason my resentment escalated in December. I'm accustomed to being surrounded by dozens of friends and family over the holidays, but I wasn't going to leave Michael alone; and Michael had no options for taking time from work.

That brings us again to savor, which, it seems, to me, is the antonym of resent. I'm willing to let the dead past bury its dead; and to let the pit bull rest in peace, having learned that, as vicious as pit  bulls are, cocker spaniels are notorious for attacking pretty little two-year-old girls. (Per a nurse we met, they always go for the face).Cocker spaniels, I'll admit, commit less damage, but the essential problem is owners who don't believe that any dog, including their own sweet precious dog, must be constantly overseen.

It was a summer of panic attacks for me and concern that somebody would retaliate by killing my dog. I also  spent hours in hospitals, where I constantly called Michael "Fred" -- the name of my late husband, who died in 2000. (PTSD has many guises.)

On a lighter note, in September I was five years out from giving up cigarettes and thought I could withstand the modest deprivation of a diet. I've lost 17 pounds, using a miracle method I developed ALL BY MYSELF but will now share with you. Here is is:
    no ice cream
    no eating between meals
    after putting your meal on your plate, scrape half of it onto another plate to eat the next day.
    in a restaurant, ask for a go-box when your meal is served, put half the meal in it, take it home with you, and don't eat it until the next day.

That's pretty much it. I also did join a wonderful site called Bitch Yourself Thin which has an emergency distraction button and people in charge with smart moves and bright ideas to keep you motivated. Love them a lot.

Not eating takes up a lot of time. Further, I've come to suspect that blogging, while useful, does not equal writing. I can blog with one eye shut and my brain sent out to the cleaners, which is the opposite of writing. All of this is to say I'm going to be out of pocket for a while, giving my time to understanding what it means to savor each day; and to notice what is to be savored in each day; and how much.  Wishing you the best for 2013.

Spring is here!

 

Today my contributor's copies of Spring: Women's Inspiration for the Season of Hope and New Beginnings, edited by Debra Landwehr Engle and Diane Glass, arrived.  My essay, "The Rescue Dog," is included; it's about how Laramie (whose photo I posted last week) came into our lives in a difficult season.

This book is one of a series of four being published this year by Tending Your Inner Garden, in celebration of their tenth year of offering programs on health, growth, and healing for women.  You can check out the website to learn about their on-site programs in Iowa, their potential on-line program, and the book series.

The books are available either in print or as downloads.

Ephemera: On Writing

My historic preservation work requires a dedicated file cabinet in which I can sort without inflicting harm on my parents' paperwork.  I have enough file cabinets if only I will free myself from the dozens of file folders (marked TO FILE) that contain quick hand-written notes: a word, a phrase, a sentence, an idea too valuable to pass over.

I'm now going to transfer those quick notes onto this blog so I can pitch the paper and free up a file cabinet. You'll find factoids, dialogue, excerpts, notes to myself, brilliant ideas from other people on a variety of subjects.

Today's subject is writing because the plurality of notes in the first file that came to hand this morning concerned writing.

[Side note: I've cited sources when available.  Otherwise, either I wrote it or I was in the room when somebody else said it, and I thought I'd remember forever who that was.]
*****************************
**"You can say the most radical things if you couch them in the most conservative of terms."

**"The role of the artist is to hold the complexity."

* *    "[I] feel about writing the way a struggling designated hitter once told me he felt about batting:  'I think too much at the plate.  I ought to be just stupid up there.'
      'Just see the idea and hit it' is my motto.  Roy Blount, Jr., Now, Where Were We?, p. 172

**[Probably a summation rather than a direct quotation]:  "A story is a sequence of actions in which a sympathetic character confronts a complicated situation which the [main, sympathetic] character struggles with and then solves."   John Franklin, Writing for Story, the book to read if your plot is a tangled mess. The first time I read it, I understood little.  The next time I read it, two years into working on Grace, Franklin's ideas let me access the rhythms of plotting.
 
*This next statement may be mine; however, if you know an alternate source, please advise:
"What's sensible,
what's wise,
what's prudent,
what's orderly,
what's the normal way of doing things --
but
sensible is not always kind;
prudent is not always merciful;
wise is not always blessed;
orderly doesn't always get the job done."

*******************
And now to the question of whether you should pursue a degree in writing?  Here are four (out of roughly 100) reasons I'm convinced that the low-residency M. F. A. in Creative Nonfiction  program at Goucher College saved my soul as a writer.

*Lisa Knopp showed me what was beautiful about my writing, thus empowering me to write more beauty.

*Leslie Rubinkowski wrote here and there, on, say, page 83 or 104 or page 178 of my manuscript, "This seems rather important. Maybe it should come sooner?"  (Yeah.  Like in the first chapter if not the first page.)  Without her, my book would be slithering around without a skeleton/structure capable of holding it upright.

 *Philip Gerard remarked on the strength of my book's themes but added, "Somehow you have to pull all of these themes together."

 It took two years and 10 or 15 major revisions, but I ended up with a second chapter that fulfilled exactly that requirement.

*Lee Gutkind struggled to mentor me when I could hardly put two consecutive thoughts together the semester during which my husband, who had an aggressive, terminal cancer, underwent a stem cell transplant. His kindness and friendship then and later, when I was putting together the original mentoring program for the Creative Nonfiction Foundation, were life-giving.



By the way, an essay I wrote for my first Goucher workshop in August 1998 became my thesis manuscript and was picked up by Crown Publishing, a division of Random House, in January, 2000, eight months before graduation. The lectures, conversations, friendships, mentors and shared bottles of wine allowed me to write a book I could love, 2003's Grace: A Memoir, which received a Best Book of the Year award from the National Federation of Press Women.

Middle Bass Monday: breaking news 1951

Some more items from the January 1951 issue of Erie Island Mirror:


"A couple of hours later a party left Put in Bay for Port Clinton but reported cracks up to six feet wide.  They altered course for Middle Bass and a visit to Lonz Winery.  They were:  NORMAN HEINEMAN; HARRY AND LOUISE HEINEMAN; ETHAN FOX; ART. AND VAL TRAVERSO.  While there they phoned Karl (skinny) Parker and convinced him that they were in Port Clinton."


"Warmer weather has brought several foggy days.  Over 100 people were stranded on the island [South Bass], Jan. 14th.  Next morning, Island Air Service ran shuttle service until everyone was cleared."

"The ERIE ISLE FERRY CO. is contemplating the building of a small boat to replace the Mystic Isle which they sold last fall.  it is doubtful whether the new boat will be available for the Port Clinton run before 1st. July.  However, it will be a decided asset to the whole island when it does run for we will have a more regular service to Port Clinton and possibly more trips each day than it was possible to make with the Mystic Isle.  Besides, it will probably be registered on Middle Bass due to lower tax rate."

Middle Bass Monday: Erie Island Mirror

 

In December 1949 Belle and Doug Cartledge published the first issue of Erie Island Mirror which, their records show, was published monthly (with some exceptions) until September, 1951.  At the time, they had three children, aged 32 months, 17 months, and 3 months.  They also had animals, as revealed by the following item in the January 1951 issue of the Mirror:

"Next month we would like to say a few words about goats.  As you know we have two ourselves, but you may not know that we get around four to six quarts daily of wholesome milk from them.  Perhaps there are a few other facts about goats which you may find interesting.  See our next issue."

What's most interesting about that paragraph is that roughly two decades later they'd get a new goat, who soon became an island fixture, following people on daily walks to the post office, running up the stairs inside our barn to investigate / spy if she heard noises to the south of our property, and breaking into the house at every opportunity to clean the dining room table of the contents of the sugar bowl and anything else even moderately edible.

I can only guess that Milt's renewal arrived while Mother was in the middle of addressing this postcard.

My parents studied books on owning a small business and on marketing, which shows in their mailing products.

January 1951 Erie Island Mirror.

The issue had one page of Put-in-Bay news; two pages of Middle Bass news, three pages of advertisements, and a page titled "Festive Fruit Cake for The New Year."  The page features a photo of a two-layer frosted cake in the shape of a bell and the recipe, which calls for a "handy package of Layer Cake Mix."  Oh, the times they were a-changin', with women all over the country eschewing bake-from-scratch cakes in favor of those handy packages.

I'll scan the issue once I determine how to take it apart without damage. Meanwhile, here are the top news items:

"The coldest night recorded was Dec. 26 [, 1950].  Unofficially 15 below zero on Catawba, 5 below on Put in Bay, zero on Middle Bass, and [illegible] on North Bass."

"On Friday, BILL MILLER and BILL MARKET drove to Port Clinton in a Model T tourer.  (BILL MILLER has since been called to service in the Coast Guards and is stationed in California.)"

"We helped LESLIE BRETZ unload a bulldozer blade off the plane the other day.  We understand that this is an accessory for his Ford tractor, to use for scraping and also to plough snow off the roads.  It is anticipated that now it won't snow again all winter."

The mentions of the temperatures and of Bill Miller remind me that Miller's Ferry began running regular trips to Put-in-Bay last week and was contemplating adding trips to Middle Bass this week. That 15 below zero and 5 below zero were hardly atypical when I was a child on the island.  Boats running in February?  No.

Anybody hanging on to the illusion that global warming was invented by scientists (because . . . why? Are scientists notoriously wild and crazy guys who like playing practical jokes on the rest of the world?) can catch a ride on Miller's and spend the trip contemplating what open water on Lake Erie in February portends for the rest of the world in the coming decades.

Art Project 52-4. The Sketchbook Project

 January 31 is the postmark date for The Sketchbook Project. I'm ahead of the game; my sketchbook is ready to go in the mail today.

I started late and was controlled by the instruction to stay dry:  "Your book should be finished at least 48 hours before mailing" to allow all of the paints and glues to dry.  I needed a quick-dry medium to begin with that would allow me to do a backgrounds without having to wait for each page to dry. Thus the decision to use colored felt-tip pens.

The pens weren't enough in themselves, which is why I added bits of photographs.  Somewhere in that process, I realized I needed to add text in order to make sense for other people of what was obvious to me.  That's the reason for the black lettering, which, in the best tradition of any kind of art, reached a conclusion that surprised  even me.

 WHO GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO SCRIBBLE LIKE THIS?

 WAS IT THE SUN, HURLING ITS GOLD UPON YOU?

 WAS IT THE ENDLESS NUMBER OF SHADES OF GREEN?

 WAS IT THE EAGLE,

 OR WAS IT THE EARTHWORM?

 WAS IT YOUR HEART, POUNDING, ROLLING LIKE A WHEEL ACROSS CONTINENTS AND TIME?

 WAS IT THE SHADOWS -------   OR THE RULES?

 PERHAPS PERMISSION CAME FROM THE STEADFAST AFFECTION OF OTHERS OR

 FROM YOUR OWN LOVE OF LANGUAGE AND OF

 COLOR.

 THE GREATER GOOD

 DEPENDS UPON -------- FREEDOM OF EXPRESSION.

 MY BRITISH GRANDMOTHER SIGNED LETTERS XXXOOO.

 X. O.: STRUCTURES THAT BRIDGE THE DISTANCE BETWEEN US.

 DID YOU ASK PERMISSION TO BUILD, TO SCRIBBLE, TO BE FREE,

 OR DID YOU CLAIM PERMISSION AS YOUR BIRTHRIGHT?

My sketchbook is one of 4,264 created by artists around the world.

Art Project 52 -3 - In Which I Write an Essay

Last week's artist project: writing an essay with a maximum of 600 words to submit for possible publication in one of four books to be published this year by the Tending Your Inner Garden program founders, Deb Engle and Diane Glass.

I'm sharing the first paragraph of the essay, which will appear in the Winter volume.

Deadline for the second book is February 15. If you want to take part but the thought paralyzes you, the best trick I know for breaking through resistance is to decide to write for ten minutes a day.  That's all you need:  ten minutes a day.

The Onset of Winter by Mary Cartledgehayes

Nearly three years ago, Maureen called from South Carolina to tell me that her sister Terry, my friend of 35 years, had a malevolent sarcoma on her left arm. Chemotherapy might be called for. “And” (note: in medical conversations, and often precedes a full-on kick to the head) “she may have her arm amputated.”

Quilt-speak

 As promised, another view of Mary Flowers' quilt.

Somebody asked if I'd mind sharing what I wrote around the edge of the quilt. Here is what it says:
 

Where ever we may be, the sun is shining on me and thee. The same sun, yours and mine, no matter how near or distant our houses may be. That sun warms, comforts, nurtures – much the same way that you (my dearest friend Mary Flowers) and I (your dearest friend Mary Jo Cartledgehayes have warmed, comforted, and nurtured each other for what is now more than forty years.

Forty. How can that be? And why do I feel as though if we'd blinked we'd have missed it. “Ars longa, vita brevia” - the Latin, constant believe that life is short and arts long. Today, January 8, 2012, the day I am completing this quilt, I understand the statement anew. Life – our lives – are long in the day-to-day; in experiences and creativity and curiosity and people loved steadfastly. Long in cute shoes, pretty dresses, leather jackets, blue jeans (remember the time we went somewhere and they wouldn't let us in because we were wearing jean? Jeans that cost $50 in 1979-ish? I think that was the night you put your purse on top of the car and we got in and started off and papers flew out like giant snowflakes in the dark). Long in places: Paris, even though we weren't there at the same time and London and Middle Bass and the Carolinas; bars and 24-hour breakfast places; baptisms, burials, weddings, Cookie Days, and the thousands of ordinary days (14,600 to be precise) that we have laughed our heads off, cried our eyes out, raged, ranted, run (remember running on East Main?) and sung.

Our lives are long in the counting of days and goodness, but they are also the blink of an eye. But art: here's the thing: art, even the oldest – Phoenician, Babylonian, cave paintings – or the famous: Mona Lisa, the crown jewels, the Daniel Morgan statue: art is long but art is frozen, forever frozen in the moment of its completion.

We have been a lot of things over the course of our amazing lives, but what we have not-not-not-not-not-not been is frozen. Those flames you saw dancing on my head when I was in the pulpit? Girl, those flames were dancing over your head, too, this whole time, since back when your dad christened you May-Ree and me May-Ree Jo. We are the brains in our heads. We are the wrinkles and scars on our bodies. We are the flame. And we are the dance. xxxooo Mary Jo

Hellloooo, 2012

2011 was capped off by my annual meeting with Dick Clark to welcome the new year.  He was on the television in my bedroom, where I was snug as a bug, keeping my right arm still and allowing the muscles and ligaments to recover.

While I was in South Carolina, I met my friend Brian for coffee, and we talked about the New Year's Eve we spent in Times Square with our friend Susan Malavet.  Cold?  Oh, Lordie, it was brutally cold.  We'd have frozen, no doubt, if not for Susan, who lived north of the city and was the veteran of numerous New Year's Eves in New York City.


The most amazing aspect of being there is the other-worldly / one-world feeling you get when you visit the Mona Lisa or when you see Charles Dickens' name inscribed in a visitors' log at Shakespeare's birthplace, both of which I've done.  It's equal parts awe -- I'm part of something so much larger than myself -- and also of connection -- not to the artist but to the millions who've joined in admiring the work. 

The next most amazing aspect was that within twenty minutes Susan, Brian, and I were the only people left on the street. I don't know where all of those people went, or how they got away so quickly.  If they'd all flowed to Grand Central Station, they'd all flowed out of it again by the time we arrived there to catch a train.  The night is a masterpiece of civic planning and foot-traffic flow.


And here we are with a whole new year,all bright and shiny, just waiting for us to pitch in and make something of it. 

I'm beginning a new series of large art pieces this year involving bridal gowns (and perhaps additional garments) and narrative. 


I'm also planning a number of smaller pieces.  Rather than making 365 pieces of art, though, as I did last year, I'm going to complete 52 pieces of art (painting, collage, quilt, fiber art, assemblage) in 2012.  Yep, that's one a week.  Twenty or so pieces are already off to a good start; at least a dozen more are right at being finished and just need me to push through that final "what the hell do I do now?" stage.

My other major art project for 2012 is to learn how to operate all of the bells and whistles on my Nikon camera.


And then there's that book project.  It's a very fine project, indeed, but I won't be working on it until the repetitive stress injury to my elbow heals.


Finally, I'm still researching preservation techniques and still working on Step One, which is to halt the damage to paper records, photographs, and ephemera from my parents' house.

For the record, the Year of the Rabbit continues until February 4, when the Year of the Dragon begins.  Other dragon years are 1928, 1940, 1952, 1964, 1976, 1988, and 2000.  If any of those are your birth year, you can expect an especially propitious time of it.  The rest of us can expect the usual sun and rain falling on the just and unjust alike.

A week before Christmas and all through the house --

Last night's reading at Day's Espresso was an excellent experience.  I'm finally working on the book I've been contemplating for several years.  I wrote four pages on Thursday, decided it was a stupid idea and would never sell, had a good night's sleep, and revised and rewrote the pages, ending up with 2.5, which I read last night.  Each participant must provide a 20-word introduction, and the prevailing winds in recent months have inclined toward "our next writer will be judging show dogs in Argentina next week."  (It had to be explained to me that the statement was completely true except for the show dogs, the judging, and the Argentina.)  Last night, I was introduced as follows: "Mary Jo Cartledgehayes will be reading from her new book, soon to be made into a major motion picture."

I then read the entire 2.5 pages that is the book so far.  The reception was warm, and I'm still explaining away the major motion picture.

And now it's Saturday, one week until Christmas Eve.  Time for a list:
1.  Find my debit card.  In the two days I worked on the book, I lost my car keys, my debit card, my spectacles, and my Chihuahua.  All were re-discovered (thank you, Michael), except the debit card.
2.  Address Christmas cards.
3.  One more post office run.  Michael hauled packages into the post office yesterday, unaided.  Not all were for Christmas; some had been in my car for three weeks.  Two more to go,which he didn't take because they weren't yet in a box, addressed.
4.  Find two boxes the right size before going to the post office.
5.  Post newly received art on my other blog.
6.  Post more Middle Bass ephemera on my other other blog.
7.  Layer and pin the two quilt tops I've made so I can begin quilting.
8.  Four more pages on the new book.  (Four pages in long-hand today equals 2.5 pages tomorrow, a good pace for a long haul.)
9.  Order checks.

Ahh. There's also the matter of Christmas trees.  Today?  Tomorrow?  Certainly soon.  But first I need to find my debit card to prevent it being more thoroughly lost in the confusion.

Persistence

 I first met Rebecca Skloot at a conference in Baltimore in August, 2003.  On that occasion, she did a fifteen-minute reading  from the manuscript of her new book, due out the next year.  The book was about a woman named Henrietta Lacks, who appeared one day in 1951 at the Johns Hopkins hospital in Baltimore.  She had terminal cervical cancer and died not long after.  The story doesn't end there, though. Her cells (known as HeLa cells) are still alive, still replicating, and still the basis for a multi-millon dollar worldwide industry in cancer research.

HeLa cell

Skloot writes that scientists had tried for years without success to keep human cells alive in culture. Lacks' cells were different. They "reproduced an entire generation every twenty-four hours, and they never stopped.  [Italics mine.] They became the first immortal human cells ever grown in a laboratory."  (NPR book excerpt.)

HeLa cells

According to an interview with The Root, Skloot first heard of the cells in a biology class when she was 16. The woman behind the cells, though, was a mystery.  Even her family didn't know until the 1970s that her cells were preserved. The HeLa cells mattered, but their origin did not, which is to say that Henrietta Lacks, the human being, didn't count, nor did her family. Because of Rebecca Skloot, that situation changed.

In 2004, I heard Skloot read a second time.  Again, she was introduced as an author whose book would be released the following year.  It was a nightmare of a reading; her printer had failed an hour earlier, so she was stuck reading from  reading from her laptop, with the usual accompanying pauses and breaks in attention.  Didn't matter.  The text was riveting, the writing smooth and smart and muscular and wildly informative.  I made a mental note to watch for the book's release the next year.

HeLa cells

And I did.  I watched for it in 2005, in 2006, in 2007, in 2008, in 2009, and in 2010.  And then one day, it happened. Rebecca Skloot put an update on facebook saying The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks was soon to be published.  In an excerpt from the book on NPR, Skloot describes what carried her through those years:  an obsession with Mrs. Lacks, her family, and the ethical questions raised by the use of HeLa cells.

Tonight I was watching an interview with Publisher's Marketplace news editor Sarah Weinman, and I learned that, in 2011, The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks was the third-most-purchased book on the New York Times combined list of paper and electronic bestsellers. Number Three on the over-all NY Times book list.  How great is that?

HeLa cell splitting

 I am happy for Rebecca, for the scientific community, and for the rest of us, because the ethical issues she reports on belong to every one of us. Not until tonight did I remember my own personal example.   My husband died in 2000.  Ten million of his blood cells, though, give or take a million, are are alive and well and frozen in Little Rock, Arkansas. My husband Fred, who had a vicious cancer, was scheduled for two autologous stem cell transplants, requiring the harvesting of his own stem cells. At the time of apharesis, we signed a document giving any left-over blood cells to the hospital.   Fred's failing health allowed only one transplant; and so The University of Arkansas Medical System owns a living piece of him.  Perhaps the cells are still frozen. Perhaps they've been thrown out. Perhaps they're being used. How odd to imagine; and how kind of Rebecca Skloot to have prompted the thought that he may still be carrying on.  (He always said he'd be the last one off the planet and would turn out the lights as he departed.)

Going back to my long wait, this evening I  read on the Niemann Storyboard that the Henrietta Lacks book took 11 years for Skloot to write.  There was the extensive, time-consuming research, of course, but Skloot also says in that posting that "Figuring out the [triple narrative] structure of this book was maddening, and it took me a very long time."

Persistence.  Showing up.  Doing the work, redoing the work, expanding the work, documenting every weather report and every statement from at least two sources, struggling with material enough and themes enough to swamp any writer -- Skloot didn't know how to write the book when she started.  Eleven years later, she did.

I've mentored two dozen or more writers over the last ten years.  Often, they ask if they should keep working; if they're capable of being writers; it the work is worth pursuing. There are three equally accurate answers:  Yes.  Also: Nobody knows.  Also: How much time do you have?

On Writing Again

I've been a dervish of tidying, which I fear is connected to the book proposal I'm mentally writing.

I'm cleaning out, nesting, and battening down the hatches all at once, a mixed-metaphor precursor to finding within myself the necessary levels of stupidity and forgetfulness that will free me to enter into a new book project.

Easier to pledge to scourge yourself once a day with a metal-tipped flog. You might convince yourself that a scourge or two is pleasing to God; but you can't bullshit about writing a book. The process demands utter concentration and a powerful indifference to other people, spiked with intermittent blistering annoyance.

The writing, editing and publishing of my 2003 book was one of the three worst experiences of my life.  My husband Fred died a month after I signed the contract.  My sister died two weeks before the book was released.  In between I had to listen to an insufferable agent tell me that I needed to put Fred's death in the book "for balance."

Yeah.  That's what she wanted out of my husband's death:  balance.

At the time I was still having to remind myself to tie my shoes each morning; and I'm not a whore, so eventually I advised the publishing house that rather than include Fred's death I'd return the advance and reclaim my manuscript. 

The agent fell off the face of the earth (I'd been warned but thought it impossible in my case); the editor was let go from the company; the publicity person got fired; the in-house make-it-happen person left
to be an agent ; and the book became that most useless creation, a publishing orphan.

To round things off, George W. Bush threw a war and newspapers threw out the reviews of Grace they'd planned to publish in favor of big photos of shock and awe.

I put 70,000 miles on my car, showing up for every signing, Q&A, book fair, symposium, and retreat I could get myself into.  (For those of you who believe in the book-tour fallacy?  I'm still paying off that credit card.)  And then the United Methodist Church -- a major character in the book -- refused membership to a gay person, making a mockery of every sermon I'd ever preached and every statement I'd ever made about the Church's goodness, mercy, and inclusivity.

The entire process was like every other death you endure.  I've kept circling my wagons and seeking shelter in the center, near the campfire.

A bigger man might have written a new nonfiction book sooner, but a bigger man can't write with the beauty and wisdom and rhythm and authenticity and metaphor that I do. A woman might have done it, but (no news here) we are still a sexist society, and women with any sense read the book, wrote to thank me for telling the truth, and put the book back on the shelf, after wiping off their fingerprints.

Regret?  Yeah, baby. I regret every minute I wasted on that book.

On the other hand, I'm going to sue a number of copies in a piece of performance art, as soon as I clear up a few questions about outside burning in the county.  I read Fahrenheit 451 years ago and have reread it numerous times since. Of course I'm opposed to book burnings; but in this case it's my book, my match, and my decision.

Meanwhile, I've got this book taking shape in spite of myself.  I know the first three paragraphs; and I'm experienced enough to know that when I write them down, the next 200 pages will emerge like a river overflowing its banks.  But it's December.  I have things to do.  I'll continue to put this project off until I have no other choice.

The Verbs of Life

I'm cleaning off my main desk and creating files, some new, some the identical files I create every time my system loses its effectiveness.

I'm going great guns, filling trash cans and stacking up piles.  I thought I might be far enough along that I could stop and make a list of things to do. 

A mental scan of tasks revealed I don't have the time, paper, or inclination to make the list of substance the coming appearance of December requires.

A better option, I thought, was to make a list of verbs. We've lived by verbs since our Dick, Jane, and Sally days; ("Run, Dick, run."  "Go, Spot, go.").  Theologian Mary Daly gave her life to verbs, of which God was one.  Verbs, no matter your theological persuasion, are the key to happiness.


Here's the list:
repair
restore
clean
scan
research
purchase
organize
dry out
wrap
write (correspondence)
write (business)
write (for publication)
photograph
learn (how to photograph items)
sign
address
clean out
scrub
discard.

That should put enough parameters on my day, especially since I've left off some important verbs like "mail" and "walk" and "eat."  However, there's such a thing as being too organized.

I came to my conclusion after reading some organizing-themed blogs.  The authors offer suggestions and tools, sometimes free, sometimes not, such as templates for laying out chores and -- well, I don't know what other kind of templates they offer, because I'm not going to use them anyhow, but I'll have you know there are dozens, if not hundreds, of organizational templates floating out there. 

The blogs also contain photographs.  Many, many photographs of precisely organized closets and cupboards and shoes and dinnerware and dog leashes and -- well, you get the point.  They're fascinating for a read or two, and then they give me the willies. Too much like a navy submarine or a prison camp.  Life is for flinging your elbows out and knocking the occasional valuable crystal pitcher off the kitchen table, where it wouldn't have been in the first place if you'd followed that template.  But then you wouldn't have had the notion to fling your elbows around, to make new space, to express your native exuberance.

Organization?  Not so much.  Space for exuberance?  Yes, indeed.   And at my house, my friends, that's the point.

The United Methodist Circus

Mary Cartledgehayes and Frederick B. Hayes after ordination service

 The photo above was taken the night I was ordained in the United Methodist Church.  The letter below was mailed during Holy Week 2011 to the bishops and other leaders in the United Methodist Church to explain why I resigned my ordination and my membership in the UMC.

Many United Methodists are unaware that a gay man was forbidden membership in the United Methodist Church because he was gay and due to a church court ruling pastors now judge whether a given person is good enough to join the congregation. This error in doctrine, theology, and historical methodology can't be rectified if people don't know it has occurred. Therefore, I request that you share this post widely.  My one limitation is that it needs to be shared in its entirety, to ensure an accurate reading.  (I'll also post it on the home page of my Web site (http://marycartledgehayes.com) so it can be found easily in the future.)

April 17, 2011

To the Members of Judicial Council and the Bishops of the United Methodist Church:

By letter dated February 2006, I resigned my ordination in the South Carolina Annual Conference of the United Methodist Church.  I have been on the whole silent about the matter, waiting for my grief to pass, except for a few murmurs about my resignation’s connection to Decision 1032 published by the UMC's supreme court on October 29, 2005.

Decision 1032, as you are well aware, claimed pastors are responsible for determining who will and will not be allowed to join a local congregation.  Pastors are free – or, rather, required, per the Decision -- to distinguish between the deserving and the Other and to refuse membership to persons they consider inadequate, sinful, or in any other way unclean.

Decision 1032 voided everything I was taught in Sunday school, in sermons, and at the Divinity School of Duke University (from which I am an honors graduate) about prevenient grace. The Decision also voided the sermons I preached and classes I taught as a pastor that had to do with grace; God’s inclusive love; and most other matters of salvific import. Furthermore, my memoir, published nationally in 2003 by Crown/Random House, became a historical rendition of the church that once was rather than the contemporary explication of the theology, history, and polity of the United Methodist Church I wrote.

As we all know, Decision 1032 was a fusillade in a media war. If, for instance, the pastor had refused membership to someone who didn’t believe in infant baptism (i. e., one baptism for the remission of sins), I fully believe the Decision would have been different, because our pews and pulpits are well-populated by such people.

In upholding a pastor’s refusal to allow a practicing homosexual to transfer into his congregation, Decision 1032 forced my resignation.  Why?  Because if gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, and trans-gendered people are not welcome in the United Methodist Church, then I am not welcome there. The Church is not a country club with self-invented by-laws and membership based on the division between “us” and “those people.”  And who are “those people” when it comes to the United Methodist Church. Those people who live in trailer parks. Those people who live in fine brick houses. Those people who belong to country clubs. Those people who get food stamps.  Those people who buy new cars every year and those whose hiccupping engines pollute my own personal air. Those people who are or were in prison. Those people who think children are snot-nosed little noise machines. Those people with tattoos, or divorcing, or not contributing to the budget. Those people who are persistently, repulsively Samaritans no matter how often their naiveté is mocked. In other words, “those people” who don’t think or look or speak or act or dress in accordance with a given pastor’s standards (or lack thereof).

I resigned my ordination because Decision 1032 is counter to the history, theology, and polity of the United Methodist Church.

I resigned my ordination because I share with Carl Sandburg the belief that the ugliest word in the English language is “exclusivity.”

I resigned my ordination because, as an honorable human being, I refuse to associate with an institution that formalizes its petty dislikes and/or hatreds into church law.

I resigned my ordination because the Decision made by Judicial Council and re-affirmed by General Conference is heretical, being, as it is on its face, antithetical to all we know about the nature of God.

Given my abhorrence of Decision 1032, I could not in good conscience affiliate with any United Methodist congregation. Nor did I choose to affiliate with a different denomination. I knew the UMC’s commitment to inclusivity was a sign of God’s action in the world, and I was invigorated by the difficulties and grace that came from my Annual Conference having the highest percentage of African-American congregations in the United States. United Methodist to my very bones, I am now a ship with no harbor.

Which brings me to my final point. When I preached on the unforgivable sin for the first time, after extensive exegesis and careful thought I concluded, from the text, that there is only one unforgivable sin, as stated clearly in 1 Thessalonians 5:19:  “Quench not the Holy Spirit.”  I regret to inform you that I am quenched; that it was an intention action by the UMC; and that it is unforgivable. I gave my heart, soul, prayers, presence, service, and the last six healthy years of the life of my late husband (Frederick B. Hayes) to preparation for ordination and to pastoring. I was an effective conduit between God and the congregation; a gifted preacher; and a devoted elder.  In other words, I had fruits – and I left them to rot on the ground because, since Fred’s death in 2000, I will not be party to institutional stupidity and hatred.

As for myself, I am well. The Holy Spirit didn’t stop pestering me just because I kept trying to brush it off. My life is devoted to writing and art that reify the gifts of grace, peace, and love.  I’m including a small piece of art for you as a parting gift. You’ll note that it’s made of recycled materials and includes a word or phrase ripped from the pages of my 2003 book. I offer this gift as a life-giving sacrifice and as a plea to the Church to return to its proper tasks:  spreading scriptural holiness and embodying the love of God.

Sincerely,

Mary J. Cartledgehayes

Mary Cartledgehayes, Year 3 of my first pastorate

Fibonacci 98. Fire-engine red roses

Fire-engine Red Roses

1   Fire-engine
1   red
2   roses against
3   a tornado-gray sky.
1   Explosive.
             by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 97. Damp Spring Day

Damp Spring Day

1    Poetry /
1    and  /
2    income tax: /
3    the ideal combination
5    for a gray spring day.
                          by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 96. The Little Dog

The Little Dog

1   Laramie /
1   needs
2   a kneecap
3   replacement.  Donations are
5   accepted.Cash or checks only.

Fibonacci 95. Tranquility

Tranquility

1     Twilight-blue /
1      sky. /
2      Sliver of /
3      moon.  Good evening. /

Fibonacci 93. The End of bin Laden

The End of bin Laden

1    Death/
1    inevitably/
2    arrives with/
3    surprise in its/
5    bag of tricks. Long illness/
8    or sudden death makes no matter; the surprise/
13  has power. The night my father died, Mother said, "It's just so sudden"/
21  and then snorted in amusement at her silliness.  "What am I saying?  He's been sick for twenty years."
         We haven't been/
34  looking for Osama bin Laden anywhere near that long, and yet long enough that the attempt to kill him became more real than the prospect of his death.  We've been after him since 1998,/
55   and today, May 1, 2011, shortly after 10:30 p. m., the news broke.  Ding, dong, bin Laden's dead.  The caves of Pakistan coughed him out, and then somewhere a gun coughed.  Supposedly, a head shot.
         President Obama's press conference will begin soon, but meanwhile I'm told the body is in U. S. hands in Afghanistan. Amen.
                                                       by Mary Cartledgehayes

Fibonacci 92 Catching Up

Catching Up

1    I
1   remain
2   behind.  Family
3   emergencies interfere with
5   thought and also blogs.  We
8   settled back down, and I finished two projects
13  I began in December, 2009, which took a toll of its own.  Besides,
21  bits always remain to be done, don't they, like when you get a haircut and tendrils are left slightly too long.
                                                          by Mary Cartledgehayes