This morning, as the coffee perked merrily on the stove, and as I rinsed the luscious local strawberries for my breakfast, I heard a suite of music that stirred an ancient memory. It was the orchestral suite from Der Rosenkavalier, an opera I saw long, long ago with my then brand new husband. I knew nothing about the story, except that it is about a love triangle between the Marschallin, an older woman of allure and prestige, Octavian, a young man, and Sophie, a young woman. As in the tradition of much opera, the part of the young man is sung by a woman. When I heart it, the trio consisted of Kiri Te Kanawa as the Marschallin, Frederica Von Stade as Octavian, and a wonderful singer whose name I forget as Sophie.
The opera is long, and I know I struggled to follow it, neither speaking German nor fully understanding the plot. But near the end of the opera, the three women sing a trio, and I remember the thrill of the music, the beauty of their voices, sending electricity through my body. And I know that part of the thrill was the fact that, despite the characters being of opposite sexes, the passionate words of love were being sung by women, to women. Ultimately the trio resolves into the sweetest imaginable duet betwen Sophie and Octavian, who, of course, end up together. They sing,
Octavian:
I feel you and only you
and that we are together!
All else passes like a dream
before my senses
Sophie:
It is a dream, it cannot be real
that we two are together,
together for all time
and all eternity
Hearing this stunning music this morning brought tears of memory and gratitude to my eyes... It was always there, this dream of singing a love song to another woman. It is like a dream, to finally be resolved into the person you were meant to be, and to the relationship you were meant to have. Thank you, God.
Friday, July 6, 2007
Thursday, July 5, 2007
The Greatest Love Letter, Possibly, Ever
Last night, after our lovely dinner and a day out and about, Beloved and I watched the first episode of The Civil War. It is so brilliant... the way it moves from the national and international forces that brought the nation to war against itself, to the intimate portraits of individuals, prominent and obscure, who lived and loved with that great and horrific war as the backdrop to their lives.
The episode ended with the reading of this letter, to the haunting melody "Ashokan Farewell," while the camera showed image after image of couples, soldiers and wives or sweethearts. (Interestingly, the documentary also showed, at other moments, photos of young men who were visibly physically affectionate with one another, as in this wonderful short piece). I think it might just be the greatest love letter ever written.
The episode ended with the reading of this letter, to the haunting melody "Ashokan Farewell," while the camera showed image after image of couples, soldiers and wives or sweethearts. (Interestingly, the documentary also showed, at other moments, photos of young men who were visibly physically affectionate with one another, as in this wonderful short piece). I think it might just be the greatest love letter ever written.
July 14,1861
Camp Clark, Washington DC
Dear Sarah:
The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days - perhaps tomorrow. And lest I should not be able to write you again I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I am no more.
I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the government and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing - perfectly willing - to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this government, and to pay that debt.
Sarah, my love for you is deathless, it seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but omnipotence can break; and yet my love of Country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly with all those chains to the battlefield. The memory of all the blissful moments I have enjoyed with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to God and you, that I have enjoyed them for so long. And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes and future years, when, God willing, we might still have lived and loved together, and see our boys grown up to honorable manhood around us.
If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I loved you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name...
Forgive my many faults, and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been!...
But, 0 Sarah, if the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you, in the brightest day and in the darkest night... always, always. And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath, or the cool air your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by.
Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again...
Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the 1st Battle of Bull Run.
Tuesday, July 3, 2007
Independence Day
I realized yesterday that, until about four years ago, I was with my parents on July 4 every year-- I internalized the idea that it was a family day, to be celebrated together, and I dutifully brought my family (husband and children) with me to the old homestead for the obligatory celebration.
My family always made a very, very big deal about celebrating the Fourth of July. My dad's business was always closed for the day, a large American flag was proudly flown, and we had a family barbecue, normally following a trip to the beach. The wearing of red, white and blue were mandatory. Following dinner, there were (illegal) fireworks to be enjoyed (my father and brother entertained our suburban neighborhood with amateur, and, I'm sure, incredibly dangerous, displays). The sulphuric smell of a sparkler still awakens all these memories, very sweet.
Here is what we would have at our barbecue, without fail: hot dogs, steaks, which my dad had marinated in garlicky pickle juice, potatoes wrapped in foil and roasted on the grill, corn on the cob roasted on the grill, potato chips, soda for the kids (I had a preference for cherry soda in those days) and beer for the grownups. There may have been something green, but as I wasn't eating green in those days, I don't remember it.
Oddly, I used to collect recipes for special occasions when I was a young girl-- my mother had no use for such frivolities, and relied on a very predictable rotation of meats and poultry and the occasional fabulous Italian meal. But I picked up every Ladies' Home Journal and Redbook and Family Circle I could, and dutifully clipped the recipes to save for later. In my kitchen, a few feet from where I sit typing this, there is a box filled with recipes, including several specifically for July 4, all of which I collected before the age of 13 or 14: Brown Sugar Grilled Pork Chops, Plum Turnovers, American Flag Cake, German Potato Salad. Mind you, I have never once prepared any of these recipes. But I remember the enthusiasm with which I squirreled them away... the idea that I could create a wonderful feast for a celebration took hold early. I remember, too, a certain amount of anxiety associated with those delicious- sounding recipes, with their too-perfectly styled photographs: I knew even then that it was hopeless, that no one could throw a party that picture-perfect. I knew it was an illusion.
In recent years, other Independence Day customs have arisen. I rarely attempt to wear the colors of the flag these days. Today I am particularly distressed about the state of our democracy. I normally do something fairly low-key on the grill (tomorrow: chicken, which is marinating right now in lemon and garlic; potatoes [I add garlic to these too, as well as rosemary], zucchini, and grilled pineapple with sherbet, and Lambic Framboise to drink). But one unalterable new tradition is the Independence Day Film. Sometimes we get very literal; other times we get very campy. Sometimes we go to see what is being released that day, since summer blockbusters are usually available in abundance, like local strawberries. Tomorrow we are going in a somber direction. In honor of the day, we will begin viewing the amazing Ken Burns documentary, The Civil War. However, we will enjoy only an hour or two of this, and that late in the evening after the local fireworks have been shot off.
Despite my worries about our nation... and they are many... I feel hopeful on Independence Day. Don't let anyone fool you: the United States are an experiment. How successful an experiment remains to be seen. Once I read in a book about a group of nuns who set out to found a new monastery. A writer asked them how long before they would have a sense as to whether their new monastery was a success. One nun asnwered, "Oh about 50 years." The writer sputtered, "But you'll be dead by then!" "Oh, yes," the nun replied, perfectly sanguine. "The only things worth giving your life to are things that are bigger than you are."
Here's to the US, bigger than we are, battered and beaten by the idiots who are currently at the helm. Let's see if the experiment succeeds. It's such a nice idea; it would be great if we could pull it off.
My family always made a very, very big deal about celebrating the Fourth of July. My dad's business was always closed for the day, a large American flag was proudly flown, and we had a family barbecue, normally following a trip to the beach. The wearing of red, white and blue were mandatory. Following dinner, there were (illegal) fireworks to be enjoyed (my father and brother entertained our suburban neighborhood with amateur, and, I'm sure, incredibly dangerous, displays). The sulphuric smell of a sparkler still awakens all these memories, very sweet.
Here is what we would have at our barbecue, without fail: hot dogs, steaks, which my dad had marinated in garlicky pickle juice, potatoes wrapped in foil and roasted on the grill, corn on the cob roasted on the grill, potato chips, soda for the kids (I had a preference for cherry soda in those days) and beer for the grownups. There may have been something green, but as I wasn't eating green in those days, I don't remember it.
Oddly, I used to collect recipes for special occasions when I was a young girl-- my mother had no use for such frivolities, and relied on a very predictable rotation of meats and poultry and the occasional fabulous Italian meal. But I picked up every Ladies' Home Journal and Redbook and Family Circle I could, and dutifully clipped the recipes to save for later. In my kitchen, a few feet from where I sit typing this, there is a box filled with recipes, including several specifically for July 4, all of which I collected before the age of 13 or 14: Brown Sugar Grilled Pork Chops, Plum Turnovers, American Flag Cake, German Potato Salad. Mind you, I have never once prepared any of these recipes. But I remember the enthusiasm with which I squirreled them away... the idea that I could create a wonderful feast for a celebration took hold early. I remember, too, a certain amount of anxiety associated with those delicious- sounding recipes, with their too-perfectly styled photographs: I knew even then that it was hopeless, that no one could throw a party that picture-perfect. I knew it was an illusion.
In recent years, other Independence Day customs have arisen. I rarely attempt to wear the colors of the flag these days. Today I am particularly distressed about the state of our democracy. I normally do something fairly low-key on the grill (tomorrow: chicken, which is marinating right now in lemon and garlic; potatoes [I add garlic to these too, as well as rosemary], zucchini, and grilled pineapple with sherbet, and Lambic Framboise to drink). But one unalterable new tradition is the Independence Day Film. Sometimes we get very literal; other times we get very campy. Sometimes we go to see what is being released that day, since summer blockbusters are usually available in abundance, like local strawberries. Tomorrow we are going in a somber direction. In honor of the day, we will begin viewing the amazing Ken Burns documentary, The Civil War. However, we will enjoy only an hour or two of this, and that late in the evening after the local fireworks have been shot off.
Despite my worries about our nation... and they are many... I feel hopeful on Independence Day. Don't let anyone fool you: the United States are an experiment. How successful an experiment remains to be seen. Once I read in a book about a group of nuns who set out to found a new monastery. A writer asked them how long before they would have a sense as to whether their new monastery was a success. One nun asnwered, "Oh about 50 years." The writer sputtered, "But you'll be dead by then!" "Oh, yes," the nun replied, perfectly sanguine. "The only things worth giving your life to are things that are bigger than you are."
Here's to the US, bigger than we are, battered and beaten by the idiots who are currently at the helm. Let's see if the experiment succeeds. It's such a nice idea; it would be great if we could pull it off.
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Desert Hearts
Beloved and I finally celebrated our anniversary last night. The original restaurant was inexplicably closed, and so we made our way to another Mexican place, one I actually like better... it has the feel of a real cantina (not that I actually know anything about authentic cantinas... but I really do love the atmosphere of this place).
We ordered Margaritas and our meals and reminisced... It was really lovely, just what we both needed. Then we went home and watched Desert Hearts, the 1986 film about a [female] Columbia professor who goes to Reno, Nevada in 1959 to get a divorce, and winds up meeting and falling in love with another woman. I had seen the film years ago, when it first came out, and I was terrified by films depicting lesbians because, well, I just was. I remember cyring hysterically after seeing The Hunger, that vampire/lesbian cult classic with Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve. Everyone I was with assumed I was crying because I was freaked out by the vampires (David Bowie was never so perfectly cast). But that's not why I was crying. I was crying because I was so stirred by the lovemaking scenes between Deneuve and Sarandon. I was a newlywed, and I knew that, Houston, we had a problem.
Anyway, Desert Hearts was another film that terrified me. It hit too close to home. It still does. When the protagonist, Vivian, realizes how she feels about Cay, she is immediately confronted with her own terror about people knowing. She fears losing her job, she fears becoming a pariah at the university, in academia, etc. She can't envision a way forward. At one point Cay does something (I can't remember what, perhaps she gives her a kiss or takes her hand in a public place?) that causes Vivian to recoil, to say something along the lines of "What are you trying to prove?" Cay's response is haunting:
"I'm not doing this to try and change the world. I'm doing this so that the world won't change me."
We ordered Margaritas and our meals and reminisced... It was really lovely, just what we both needed. Then we went home and watched Desert Hearts, the 1986 film about a [female] Columbia professor who goes to Reno, Nevada in 1959 to get a divorce, and winds up meeting and falling in love with another woman. I had seen the film years ago, when it first came out, and I was terrified by films depicting lesbians because, well, I just was. I remember cyring hysterically after seeing The Hunger, that vampire/lesbian cult classic with Susan Sarandon and Catherine Deneuve. Everyone I was with assumed I was crying because I was freaked out by the vampires (David Bowie was never so perfectly cast). But that's not why I was crying. I was crying because I was so stirred by the lovemaking scenes between Deneuve and Sarandon. I was a newlywed, and I knew that, Houston, we had a problem.
Anyway, Desert Hearts was another film that terrified me. It hit too close to home. It still does. When the protagonist, Vivian, realizes how she feels about Cay, she is immediately confronted with her own terror about people knowing. She fears losing her job, she fears becoming a pariah at the university, in academia, etc. She can't envision a way forward. At one point Cay does something (I can't remember what, perhaps she gives her a kiss or takes her hand in a public place?) that causes Vivian to recoil, to say something along the lines of "What are you trying to prove?" Cay's response is haunting:
"I'm not doing this to try and change the world. I'm doing this so that the world won't change me."
Friday, June 29, 2007
Five Things I Dig About Jesus
Mother Laura (hey, should we be calling you Bishop Laura?) has tagged me for the Five Things I Dig About Jesus meme. Like MoreCows, I was nearly ready to tag myself for this one, so thank you Laura+!
Rather than tagging five people, I am simply going to ask that any readers self-tag, and let us know in the comments that you did so. While I love playing memes, I am aware that not everyone does and I have tagged people in the past who would prefer not to play. So... play away, all you who so wish.
Five Things I Dig About Jesus
1. Jesus turned everyone's expectations of "religious" and "righteous" on their heads.
2. Jesus rejected purity codes as distractions from the heart of the law, that we love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, and that we love our neighbors as ourselves.
3. Jesus' definition of "neighbor" was mind-blowingly broad-- our neighbor is never who we expect her to be.
4. Jesus focused more in internals (the intentions of the heart) than externals (apparent righteousness).
5. Jesus proclaimed release to the captives... which is to say, all of us, who are captive in our own prisons, our own hells, our own closets.
I could go on and on... ok, one more.
Bonus: Jesus (at least in the gospel of John) did some of his best and most interesting theology in conversations with women. He took us seriously as partners in the salvation story (and two thousand years later, that is still radical and controversial.)
Thanks Mother Laura!
Rather than tagging five people, I am simply going to ask that any readers self-tag, and let us know in the comments that you did so. While I love playing memes, I am aware that not everyone does and I have tagged people in the past who would prefer not to play. So... play away, all you who so wish.
Five Things I Dig About Jesus
1. Jesus turned everyone's expectations of "religious" and "righteous" on their heads.
2. Jesus rejected purity codes as distractions from the heart of the law, that we love God with all our heart, soul, mind and strength, and that we love our neighbors as ourselves.
3. Jesus' definition of "neighbor" was mind-blowingly broad-- our neighbor is never who we expect her to be.
4. Jesus focused more in internals (the intentions of the heart) than externals (apparent righteousness).
5. Jesus proclaimed release to the captives... which is to say, all of us, who are captive in our own prisons, our own hells, our own closets.
I could go on and on... ok, one more.
Bonus: Jesus (at least in the gospel of John) did some of his best and most interesting theology in conversations with women. He took us seriously as partners in the salvation story (and two thousand years later, that is still radical and controversial.)
Thanks Mother Laura!
Thursday, June 28, 2007
June 26, the Love of My Life and the Date/ Not a Date
Tuesday was a busy day for me. I rose early, heading East for service to my denomination. When that was accomplished I took my daughter for a long-planned lunch with friends, a mother and daughter we have known for many years. We ate at a beautiful little restaurant decorated, among other things, with paraphernalia from the turn of the (last) century-- antiques, photographs, hats, etc. It was a perfect "ladies' luncheon" spot. After lunch I took my daughter to a dental appointment, and then we went to pick up photos from a local developer (yes, we still use film. I know.) Then I went to Beloved's business to help her with a database. After this I ate a hasty dinner, and then went to a rehearsal of an ensemble to which I belong. All this took place in 90-plus degree heat. When I tumbled into bed at last, the fan blowing, I was exhausted from a full, full day. It wasn't until the following morning that I realized I had missed an anniversary.
On June 26 three years ago I had my first date with Beloved. The thing is, I wasn't sure. Was it a date? Was it not a date? I asked a good friend, who knows about these things. She said, call me afterwards and tell me what happened, and I'll tell you if it was a date!
Here's what happened. Beloved and I knew one another through her business. I knew that she'd been long-term partners (both business and romantic) with a woman who was, suddenly, not around any longer when I patronized her establishment. I asked a mutual friend, who said, she's not seeing anybody; why do you ask? And I heard myself saying something I had not yet even admitted to myself: I'm thinking of asking her out. Mutual friend said, Go for it. I happen to know she'd be open to it.
Then there followed a series of phone calls initiated by Beloved, in which we were dealing with something business-related, but to which there was suddenly a great deal of subtext. (Introduced by me? by her? who knows.) And then, out and out flirting. Finally, she called as I was heading out of town on vacation with my children. I said, I'll tell you what, why don't I call you when I get back into town, and we'll have coffee? She replied, I do better with drinks. I laughed, OK. Drinks it is. Back from vacation, we made the "date."
We met at a local restaurant; Beloved was seated at the bar, waiting for me. I was a tad late, having come from an interview and dithering over what to wear, etc. We decided to have drinks at a table. It was also a blistering hot day; we decided on Margaritas, which seemed perfect for cooling-off purposes.
The next six hours consisted of me telling Beloved the story of my life, my marriage, its end, my children, my parents, my work...all spilling out in no particular order. And Beloved told me of her life, her (5-minute) marriage, her loves, her work, her nightmarish family of origin. Our words tumbled over one another's, and a second round of Margaritas was ordered, and then some burritos and tacos to go with the Margaritas, and then more Margaritas still.
One of the stories Beloved told me was about a lover from years ago, who hurt her in ways that make my skin crawl, that make we want to do violence to this woman... betrayal beyond betrayal. Beloved referred to her, disconcertingly, as "the love of my life." After hearing the story, I said, I don't want you to call her that any more. I don't believe she is the love of your life. I think life has another love-of-your-life in store. I didn't say it aloud, but I already knew that I hoped it would be me. No, that's not quite accurate: I intended for it to be me.
Finally there was something like a lovely silence between us, as we emptied our drinks and settled the bill. Beloved tells me I cried a lot that night, and I don't remember that part, but I do believe her... I was still pretty raw from my marriage's end. But a peace arose, a sweet sense of completion. I needed to go home. It was a Saturday night, and I was preaching in the morning. Beloved walked me to my car. She told me later she had wanted so to hug me, but had felt like it was too dangerous... something might ignite, and then where would we be?
Pretty much where we are now, I suppose. So, so in love. She is the love of my life, and I am hers. I told her so.
By the way, I called my good friend afterwards and reported on the events of the evening... drinks, food, drinks, and life stories. That's it, she confirmed. That's a lesbian first date. And oh, it was.
On June 26 three years ago I had my first date with Beloved. The thing is, I wasn't sure. Was it a date? Was it not a date? I asked a good friend, who knows about these things. She said, call me afterwards and tell me what happened, and I'll tell you if it was a date!
Here's what happened. Beloved and I knew one another through her business. I knew that she'd been long-term partners (both business and romantic) with a woman who was, suddenly, not around any longer when I patronized her establishment. I asked a mutual friend, who said, she's not seeing anybody; why do you ask? And I heard myself saying something I had not yet even admitted to myself: I'm thinking of asking her out. Mutual friend said, Go for it. I happen to know she'd be open to it.
Then there followed a series of phone calls initiated by Beloved, in which we were dealing with something business-related, but to which there was suddenly a great deal of subtext. (Introduced by me? by her? who knows.) And then, out and out flirting. Finally, she called as I was heading out of town on vacation with my children. I said, I'll tell you what, why don't I call you when I get back into town, and we'll have coffee? She replied, I do better with drinks. I laughed, OK. Drinks it is. Back from vacation, we made the "date."
We met at a local restaurant; Beloved was seated at the bar, waiting for me. I was a tad late, having come from an interview and dithering over what to wear, etc. We decided to have drinks at a table. It was also a blistering hot day; we decided on Margaritas, which seemed perfect for cooling-off purposes.
The next six hours consisted of me telling Beloved the story of my life, my marriage, its end, my children, my parents, my work...all spilling out in no particular order. And Beloved told me of her life, her (5-minute) marriage, her loves, her work, her nightmarish family of origin. Our words tumbled over one another's, and a second round of Margaritas was ordered, and then some burritos and tacos to go with the Margaritas, and then more Margaritas still.
One of the stories Beloved told me was about a lover from years ago, who hurt her in ways that make my skin crawl, that make we want to do violence to this woman... betrayal beyond betrayal. Beloved referred to her, disconcertingly, as "the love of my life." After hearing the story, I said, I don't want you to call her that any more. I don't believe she is the love of your life. I think life has another love-of-your-life in store. I didn't say it aloud, but I already knew that I hoped it would be me. No, that's not quite accurate: I intended for it to be me.
Finally there was something like a lovely silence between us, as we emptied our drinks and settled the bill. Beloved tells me I cried a lot that night, and I don't remember that part, but I do believe her... I was still pretty raw from my marriage's end. But a peace arose, a sweet sense of completion. I needed to go home. It was a Saturday night, and I was preaching in the morning. Beloved walked me to my car. She told me later she had wanted so to hug me, but had felt like it was too dangerous... something might ignite, and then where would we be?
Pretty much where we are now, I suppose. So, so in love. She is the love of my life, and I am hers. I told her so.
By the way, I called my good friend afterwards and reported on the events of the evening... drinks, food, drinks, and life stories. That's it, she confirmed. That's a lesbian first date. And oh, it was.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Don't Read That Stuff
This is the overwhelming opinion that has been offered to me, both in this blogspace and in phone conversations with various friends. They are talking about the conservative blogs/ magazines/ news outlets, in which the nastiness can be pretty devastating. These are places where my personhood, my call to ministry, my right, even, to call myself a Christian... all these are not just called into doubt, but actively denied.
Just don't read it, huh?
Why can't I stop?
Why do I persist in reading?
Is it the tiny, yet unkillable hope that I might find an opening somewhere for my comment-- for my opportunity to change just one heart or mind?
Is that an unreasonable thing?
I've definitely cut down.
But it's hard to stop.
Just don't read it, huh?
Why can't I stop?
Why do I persist in reading?
Is it the tiny, yet unkillable hope that I might find an opening somewhere for my comment-- for my opportunity to change just one heart or mind?
Is that an unreasonable thing?
I've definitely cut down.
But it's hard to stop.
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