Of late, I’ve met a man from a war-torn country who now lives and works in the U.S. He has described to me scenes of great brutality inflicted by man upon man for reasons like this person looked like someone from that country versus this country. He often has a smile on his face.
I am noted for seeing even an empty glass as half-full, but this man’s ability to find the positive puts me to shame. Why is he so happy? Not because he has a job that pays exceptionally well. He doesn’t. Not because he’s made many new friends in this country. He hasn’t. I think it is because, even as the soil ran red with blood around him, he remained open to the possibilities. He saw the beauty amidst the horror, like the flowers blossoming near that same bloody field.
He remained hopeful. Or, as he once told me, he has love in his heart and so long as you have love, what else do you need? Hmmm.
One day I did chance upon him not smiling. I asked the first question that came to mind. “Do you still have love in your heart?” He did not react with surprise to my words. His brow furrowed in deep thought. After a moment, he nodded, and then he smiled broadly. “Yes, Cynthia. Yes I do!”
Today I made my annual donation to one of the nonprofits I support, WalkBoston. As a card carrying pedestrian (and dreamer), believe me, I need help crossing the road. I made the donation in memory of my Aunt Thelma who used to describe her walks to me. Following is a blog post I wrote about her two years ago, about how she influenced who I am today, including how I can choose to give myself to others. This bright, beautiful day is her birthday so it seems like a good time to give back, and give thanks for her having been in the world. At the end of the post is a youtube video of Dives and Lazarus by composer Ralph Vaughn Williams. It was music Steve had shared with me, and music I remember replaying until I could collect the words to write about a lovely woman who in her own unique way helped me learn to walk in this world. Please enjoy the words and the music, and have a good day.
***
Memories
My mother taught me to cook, to plant flowers, and to tell stories. From her I learned to love books and to love writing. She passed away before I ever wrote and had published my first story. During her life, I never traveled abroad. She never knew me with a camera in my hand. She never met Steve or any other fellow in my life. But her sister, my Aunt Thelma did.
In Aunt Thelma’s bedroom dresser are the postcards I sent to her from my travels all over the world. On her bookshelves are the magazines and other clippings of my work. And, last year, after I returned from my travels with Steve in Japan, she made me create a photo book for her. “I need tangibles I can hold in my hand,” she said when I pointed out the pictures were viewable online. “And include a picture of that fellow you’re seeing. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him any other way.” They never did meet, but she read about him, and they spoke on the phone once. I sat next to her on her couch as she laughed with him on my cell phone. I remember him asking her what he should call her. She laughed and said, “Well, why you don’t call me what everyone calls me. Aunt Thelma.” After she hung up, she asked me if he was a good man. I said yes. And then we went on to talk about my brothers and their families.
Growing up in Virginia, my mother made it clear early in my life if I was ever in trouble I could call my Aunt Thelma who was living in New York. When my mother died, Aunt Thelma traveled to Virginia and was there with me and my brothers, along with the rest of the family. When my father died unexpectedly a year and half later, she couldn’t make it, but I will always remember standing in a hospital waiting room on the phone with her crying and her saying over and over, “You go ahead and cry. It’s alright to cry.”
In bad times but mostly good, I called her, especially after I got a cell phone. I could call her randomly as I returned home from work. She’d laugh at my stories and in the end, wind up telling me to be careful as I crossed the street. She always ended her calls with, “I love you, Cynthia.”
My Aunt Thelma passed away this weekend. I will miss her. I am thankful that she was in my life. I learned a lot. In NY this weekend, as the family gathered, I held one of my young cousins in my arms. She was crying. “I’m sorry,” she said as she tried to wipe her face. I said, “Why are you apologizing? For crying? Don’t ever apologize for crying. It’s alright to cry. Do you know who taught me that?” When she shook her head, I said, “Aunt Thelma.”
As soon as my brother uttered the words, I smiled and shook my head. Once again I was proven right. I may feel compelled to put my words out into the world, but it is my brothers who are the poets in my family. In this case, my youngest brother was simply sharing his growing understanding of what it means to be a father — the ups and downs and everything in between. And with this understanding he was able to look into the past from a different perspective. “I remember,” he said, “walking towards Pop. He was sitting in that chair, lost in thought, tilted over, looking like a dandelion without light. I don’t know which of us he was worried about that day or if he was sitting there wishing he’d done some things differently in life or maybe he was just missing Ma. But then he saw me and he straightened up and he smiled. It was like the sun had come out. I was his light. That is what my son is like for me.”
… inspired in part by reading Tattoos on the Heart The Power of Boundless Compassion by Gregory Boyle. An excellent read that highlights the power of compassion, the strength found in families (however family is defined) and the impact of telling someone “you matter in this world.” The book is composed of nonfiction stories. I suppose that’s why stories keep bubbling up in my mind.
My brother remembers it as the “rumble in the jungle.” I remember it as the school bus ride from Hades. The short of it is that I was in the 8th grade and he was in the 6th grade. I don’t remember how the message was communicated but somehow during the school day I was told that he was going to get jumped on the bus ride home that afternoon. And he was. And then he remembers me saying, “Get your hands off my brother.” Luckily our older brother had taught us how to make fists ’cause there were plenty of them flying. Eventually the school bus made it back to school, the older boys were suspended, and my brother remembers that no one ever tried touching him again. I remember the principal saying to me, “Cynthia, what were you thinking? How could you get yourself into a fight?” I didn’t reply but the answer was easy. I wasn’t thinking. There was no thought at all involved. No one was messing with my brother but me. Family ties, right?
But what tied my aunt to the girls who wanted to mess with her granddaughter? There was an incident where my aunt had to sit on her brownstone stoop to bar entry to this gang of girls. As I wrote in an earlier post, she said to them, “I do not know why you did what you did to my grandchild. I do not care what you say now, that you want to play and not fight. You shall not enter this house without removing me first.” The girls looked at her, how frail she was. My aunt returned the look and shook her head. “I love my grandchild, do you hear? I love that child and,” she added without hesitation and with great sincerity, “I love you too.” The girls, all of them, walked away without further word. My aunt did not know those girls and yet she did and does still love them. Why?
Other random thoughts flutter through my head like butterflies (in shades of gold and gray and a bit of blue). But I must stop and get up from this computer and head out into a sunny day. Where ever you are in the world, I hope you are having a good Monday.
This scene is a detail from the Edward Burne-Jones and William Morris stained glass window, David’s Charge to Solomon, 1882. The window, designed by Burne-Jones and executed by Morris, is located in the baptistry of Trinity Church in Copley Square. I was drawn to this particular section because of the colors, the incredible drapery of the cloth, and the faces of the women.
The faces of these women and apparently the faces of many of the women in Burne-Jones’s post-1860’s artwork all have a similar look. They are likely the face of his great love and muse, Maria Zambaco. She appears to have been the muse for many of the Pre-Raphaelite artists. This wikipedia article gives a broad overview of the Burne-Jones/Zambaco relationship, but I must say that this Oxford Today article referencing Fiona MacCarthy gives a much richer picture of a complicated man, his many muses and the influence of his art.
Words + Images 