PHOTOS: Mary van Balen
While helping me clean my old house, a friend asked if I would miss it when I moved. There are plenty of things I will not miss: non-stop noisy traffic, a one-person kitchen that managed to hold four or five people when the children and I were baking or we hosted a party, and a narrow hallway with four doors that all opened into each other. Of course, all homes have drawbacks.

As I stopped cleaning for a moment and considered her question, a number of thoughts came to mind. The bedroom walls I was washing had been decorated with a glow-in-the-dark moon, Monet, dinosaur, and Einstein posters, as well as awards and original art. The décor changed as the room’s occupants matured from infants and toddlers to “home only on breaks” college students. The walls had heard secrets and private tears. The other upstairs bedroom held its share of secrets and memories, too.

True, every room in the house was witness to the lives of a family of five as they lived, loved, and grew, but so was I. The memories are mine to treasure no matter where I make my home. They reside in my heart and mind, and do not depend on a particular location to survive. However, some things will remain in the place I am leaving, and I will miss them.

For over twenty years, when looking out the window over the kitchen sink, I saw a deep yard filled with trees and a gurgling creek that separated our place from a small woods full of wildlife. Below the dining room window in the front of the house is an herb garden bordered with bushy lavender and a crumbling sandstone wall. Whenever I walked past the plants, I ran my hands over its leaves as I passed by, releasing a sweet pungent fragrance that filled the air and lingered on my fingers.

There are abundant spring flowers, so lush and varied that an artist friend who lived above a downtown shop once shared his envy: “I would love to have a garden like yours: a bit wild and colorful like an impressionistic painting.”

Blue bachelor buttons, lavender, flowering sage, red and orange poppies, deep magenta peonies, purple flocks, pinks, chives, yellow yarrow, and purple larkspur never again look as lovely as they do after late spring rains and cool nights. I will miss them along with Christmas ferns that spread out near my small office, thick, and deep green, all from a single plant given to a daughter on the occasion of her first communion.

These are the things I cannot take with me; gifts that have blessed me and fed my soul for years. I bequeath these grace-full bits of creation to those who move into this place, whomever they will be. May they be open to wonder and joy so freely given.

© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: “MEMORY SYNAPSES” – SMITHSONIAN MAGAZINE “How Our Brains Make Memories”
A few days ago I had the unusual experience of watching my vocal chords in action. Chronic hoarseness and some difficulty breathing sent me to an ENT specialist. I had gone to one decades before when singing in coffee houses, churches, and at sing-a-longs pushed my voice past its limits, but this time technology had a new tool to offer: a rigid stroboscopic endoscope, or in layman’s terms, a long silver tube with a camera that takes a video with soundtrack of one’s vocal chords while the patient follows the speech and language pathologist’s directions for holding pitches and taking deep breaths through the mouth.

The procedure was painless, and the results were amazingly clear.I marveled at the two small muscles that moved, stretched, and relaxed, allowing me to make sounds that become speech when they are strung together. For almost sixty years, my vocal chords have worked with my brain and lungs as I moved from a crying infant to a toddler learning language, to a singer, teacher, and public speaker. I called my children for dinner, whispered sweet words to my love, and chanted with choirs of monks. I have moaned and groaned, cheered and yelled, laughed and cried. I watched the video in the pathologist’s office and wondered that those two whitish strips of muscle had vibrated and produced an infinite variety of sounds.

After the fascinating session, while waiting for the doctor, I flipped through a Smithsonian magazine and found an article on the plasticity of adult brains and changing of memories. The brain is the most mysterious and complicated part of the human body. Mesmerizing images of neurons, cells, and synapses accompanied the article. I will have to find the issue in the library because the doctor was ready to see me before I had reached the end of it.

Since the doctor’s verdict was that my vocal chords were healthy, but needed strengthened and “beefed up” with proper diet and exercise, I will have the opportunity to see if voice therapy has changed as much since my former experience as the tools used for diagnosis have. Meanwhile, I have been reminded of the wondrous creation that is the human body. Its existence is a miracle; its myriad of working parts something most of us take for granted until one of them don’t work as well as we would like. I have no way of imagining the glory of the One who set in motion the matter and events that led to such a creation.

© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: Mary van Balen
Where do you find a room full of enthusiastic authors, poets, and storytellers celebrating life together? At the Ohio Literacy Resource Center’s Writer’s Conference. For twelve years, the OLRC has sponsored a writing contest for adults enrolled in Adult Basic and Literacy Education (ABLE) classes throughout Ohio. From hundreds of submissions, the conference committee chooses poetry, memoir, fiction, and non-fiction stories and puts them together in a softbound book.

The published authors are invited to attend the daylong conference that from its early days has featured Lyn Ford, a nationally recognized storyteller who draws on her Native American and Black American heritage to mesmerize attendees with tales of wisdom laced with humor. This year’s keynote speaker, Ray McNiece, is a poet, actor, and playwright who, as he says, makes a humble living following his call and passion: words. He moved through the audience, picking people to help with a poem or skit. One shy young man from Jamaica was puzzled when Ray chose him to pantomime the part of Casey in the well-known poem, “Casey at the Bat.”

Despite knowing nothing about baseball, the Jamaican was a good sport swinging mightily each time the “pitcher” hurled a ball his way. While McNiece’s energy and delight in poetry was contagious, it was matched by that of the authors for their work and for the celebration. A variety of ages, races and nationalities were represented, as were native and non-native speakers of English. For some, the Writer’s Conference was a new experience. Others had been honored by publication of their work in years past. Sprinkled among the guests were proud teachers, family, and friends.

Throughout the day, honorees were invited on stage to share their stories, either ones that had been published or thoughts and poems written as part of the morning’s activities. I have had the honor of attending this conference numerous times, and I am always moved by the honesty and beauty of the writing. People entrust to others important moments in their lives, wisdom gained, pain endured, and loss mourned. I am also moved by the reverence with which the stories are received. The authors had plumbed the well of life’s nitty-gritty and found treasures; those who listened accept them with respect.

Storytellers, story hearers, we all savored the feast of lives shared. Story empowers those who tell it and are heard, claiming their experiences and journeys as worthy of being told. Story also empowers those who listen, connecting them to the larger web of life that makes family of us all.

Listening to Lyn Ford, I knew I was connecting with a native people in a way more intimate than any book could offer. Relishing word and rhythm with Ray McNiece, I knew joy in poetry and wondered how I had dropped the habit of reading a poem every day. Witnessing the strong sense of self that radiated from yesterday’s honorees, I renewed my commitment to tell my stories and to encourage others to tell their own.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

I always liked walking into an elementary school building an hour or so before classes began, when quiet covered every classroom and office, inviting unhurried reflection as well as preparation for the day. Occasionally I saw a janitor pushing a wide mop down the old wooden hallways and making them shine. Now that I work at a large department store, I find similar calm when I arrive before its doors open for business. I also see the people who work behind the scenes to make most American department stores shine.

On Mother’s Day, I walked in the employee entrance and made my way downstairs to clock in at the register. I passed a number of workers, women mostly, wearing full aprons, pushing mops and buckets down wide aisles that reflected the dim lights of the early morning store.

“Good morning. This place always shines in the morning. Thank you,” I said to each as I passed by in a simple attempt to reverence their work, their personhood.

They nodded acknowledgment. Some smiled. Some responded with a tired “Good morning.” Some don’t speak much English. I opened one of the registers at my station for the first time, counting and recounting coins and bills to make sure I entered the correct numbers. Two more registers to go before the store doors opened to customers.

“Good morning!” came over the speakers. “The morning meeting will be at the fine jewelry counter today…” I stood at the meeting, thinking of the remaining registers I had to open and wondering if I could do it before opening. Maybe I didn’t have to. I wasn’t sure. A smiling associate interrupted my thoughts as she handed me a corsages; there was one for each mother working that day.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” she said. The carnation and greenery looked cheery perched above my nametag. I left the meeting a bit early to finish opening. My thoughts were with the women who had been cleaning the store. I wondered how early they arrived to do their jobs. I wondered how many were mothers. I wished I had carnations for them.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

Once again, I spent part of my day substitute teaching; this time it was language arts. The students were quiet as they took a long vocabulary test and then opened “With Every Drop of Blood,” a Civil War novel by James and Christopher Collier, reading until the period ended. I took advantage of the time and read the novel myself. It tells the story of an unlikely friendship between a Southern boy, Johnny, and one of his captors, a Black Union soldier named Cush Turner. As the boys become friends, they realize the erroneousness of many stories and stereotypes about Blacks and Southerners they had learned growing up.

At one point, after Cush ‘s fierce desire to learn to read and his reverence for Abraham Lincoln’s Gettysburg address surprised Johnny, he began to rethink his assumption that Black slaves were inherently inferior to their white masters, and realized that he had never considered anything from the point of view of the slave. Through conversation with Cush, Johnny was able to do that, and what he learned surprised him. Johnny was thoughtful and honest with himself and the experience changed him.

The Southern born fourteen-year-old’s openness to seeing the world through someone else’s eyes makes me aware of the growing lack of such openness today. Particularly, some current events come to mind: The arrest of Faisal Shahzad brings terrorism again to headlines and news programs. How to understand what motivates such a person? How do we perceive Muslims in general after an attempted terrorist attack? How good are we at looking at ourselves through the eyes of others?

The immigration bill in Arizona is another red flag signaling the need for each side to view the concerns of the other with a biblical social justice perspective so the problems of immigration can be addressed humanely.

Other issues point to continued polarization within this country. One of the most surprising was the statement made to Neil Cavuto of Fox News by former FEMA director, Michael Brown: that the oil spill was “exactly what they (the Obama administration) want, because now he can pander to the environmentalists and say, ‘I’m going to shut it down because it’s too dangerous.’ While Mexico and China and everybody else drills in the Gulf, we’re going to get shut down.”

Mr. Brown is upset that President Obama ordered new drills to be halted until the cause of the spill and the possibility that modifications in the technology used might prevent future spills. This seems reasonable to me. I am quick to write off opinions such as Mr. Brown’s as inflammatory and purposely divisive. What might I learn looking at the situation through his eyes? I don’t know.

I don’t imagine many people on either end of the political spectrum in the US will be inclined to consider the other’s viewpoint. As Mr. Obama pointed out last weekend in his address to University of Michigan’s graduating class, civility is missing in public debate. The atmosphere is toxic (My words, not his), poisoning attempts at compromise.

Issues of race, states’ rights, and economics sat at the heart of the civil war. What sits at the heart of our present predicament of animosity and distrust? Is if fear? Fear that we will need to change? That the “other” will take these things from us? Fear of the unknown “other?” Perhaps, like Johnny and Cush, being thrown into life-threatening circumstances that demands cooperation for survival, will be the only way we will develop openness and transcend our fear and suspicion.
© Mary van Balen 2010

PHOTO: Bead Creative
The call came early in the morning: A seventh grade history teacher was sick; would I like to sub?” Yes. As I prepared for the day, I smiled at the timing. For months I had hoped for calls to substitute, but none came. Then, after my first full day of working as a large department store associate, when I was looking forward to a hot bath and putting organization back into my office, I received the call.

Life has always been like that evidenced by expressions like “Feast or famine,” and “When it rains, it pours.” The mess of my office would have to wait.

After assisting students as they researched the Catholic Church in Medieval times (a particularly embarrassing stretch in its long history), I spent the evening with my father. We ate dinner together and then meandered past robins and sparrows finding meals themselves and on to a small pond where we watched a goose turn her five eggs and jets overhead scratching the sky with silvery contrails. Back in dad’s bedroom, I received the second call: The history teacher was still sick. Could I come in tomorrow? Yes.

Friday morning I dressed, hunted a CD of Hildegard von Bingen’s music in my messy room and tucked a small silver labyrinth into my purse to share with the students. I made an ATM withdrawal, stopped at the grocery store to pick up new stockings and then headed to Cup O’ Joe, my favorite away from home office. Absentmindedly eating quiche lorraine, I wrote my column and emailed it to my editor.

Off to teach. Back to the grocery for savory rotisserie chicken, home to eat a bit of it then off to the department store for a late shift. I am piecing together my life right now, finding ways to make ends meet. Sometimes I am a teacher, at others a writer, and then a saleswoman. It is not easy to keep a collected spirit let alone an organized office.

A pieced together life requires trust and openness to God’s presence in all of it and within my heart. Somewhere, in the midst of all the activity is Love, present and sustaining. Somewhere, in paths that cross and veer off in unexpected directions is opportunity. It is all Life. In faithfully embracing it, someday, somewhere, I will see not only the pieces, but also the pattern and wholeness they make.

PHOTO: Disney
Last night a couple of friends and I spent the evening at the local art theater watching Disney’s new Earth Day offering: Oceans.
That it was short on storyline did not present a problem since I went for the images; the movie does not disappoint. I am an ocean soul and treasure every moment I can muster in the waves or walking the beach. I left the movie theater with a more profound respect for the complexity and wonder of the world under water.

The images were breathtaking: an octopus that looks like a silk scarf patterned with gold and brown undulating through its blue world, a leafy sea dragon that is almost indistinguishable from the plants it eats, humpback whales hanging upside down to sleep. The list is endless.

Some creatures travel thousands of miles every year while others that stay put like the leafy sea dragon that cannot survive if moved to a different depth or location.
A “globe” of hundreds if not thousands of fish that rotates as it moves slowly forward is a perfect metaphor for humanity’s need to work together for the common good and survival of all. An occasional shot of a human photographer alongside his or her subject put our size and importance to the planet in perspective. We are small and vulnerable in this environment, yet we hold power of its health and survival. I marveld at the people and technology that made this look into the oceans possible.

Sitting in the old, red velvet covered seats was a holy moment that moved me to consider how my lifestyle choice affect not only our oceans, but the earth and moved my heart to a prayer of praise and thanksgiving for the wonder of the Creator who in one way or another, set this all in motion.

Spring rains pour down from the night sky soaking the earth and pounding against the roof making a familiar sound. Rainy nights often send me to a good book and a cup of tea, content to spend time quietly, but tonight rain sounds sink into my heart and remind me that I am alone with my book, computer, and thoughts. My stomach aches and my heart is empty as I finish another game of FreeCell.

I have not been alone all day. In the late morning I drove to my new part time job only to discover that the orientation had been canceled. I used some of the unexpected free time to find a pair of dressy black slacks, fifty-percent off. After a year of writing a book on my own schedule and then almost another year looking for work and moving, my wardrobe is tired and faded, not suitable for work.

Around two-thirty I headed home. As I approached the exit near my daughter’s house, I called and offered to pick her up and treat her to a late lunch, thinking we could buy cheap food, return to her place, and visit for a while.She took me up on the offer, but as I paid for the food her cell phone rang. She was going to a friend’s house to help him fix a bike and he wanted to know if she would like him to pick up some food for her.

“No thanks. Actually I just got a hamburger and fries. I am good. See you soon.” Turning to me she said, “Maybe you could just drop me off at Chris’s house.”

I did, then drove home and nuked some broccoli and cauliflower in an attempt to redeem myself after descending into the pit of fast food. I washed a load of light clothes and answered a few emails while waiting for the washing cycle to end so I could bounce the clothes in the dryer and hang them up. That finished, I grabbed a postcard of a small museum and some artifacts my archaeologist daughter had sent to her Grandpa and a couple of magazines that had arrived in today’s mail and set off to visit him at the nursing home.

The new facility is pleasant and the staff people I have met are all cheerful and kind, but he has been there for just two weeks and it still feels odd to think of it as his home. I arrived a couple of hours before dinner and Dad had fallen asleep in his recliner watching a show on the History Channel about the role heavy metals have played in human history.

We had a pleasant dinner and I chatted with other residents, aides, and nurses.

“A female goose is sitting on five eggs near the pond by the apartments,” I told Joanne as she settled into a chair near the table where dad and I sat. She smiled.

“Whenever new life comes into the world, it is good,” she said and then asked again if this was dad’s first day and how he liked the place. Joanne is sweet but has no short-term memory.

Dinner takes a long time. After an hour or so Dad was ready to return to his room and watch a John Wayne movie. He nodded off and on and when the aides came to dress him for bed, I kissed him goodnight and drove home. The rain started after I got into bed.

A friend called while I was working on a crossword puzzle. She just wanted to talk. Lonely souls too tired to go out but wanting some company. Sometimes I forget what Joanne remembers despite her forgetfulness: Life is good. It doesn’t always feel that way. When its purpose is difficult to discern and I am aware of only struggle and disappointment, life seems long and spring rain sounds lonely.

One of the emails I checked today expressed a friend’s concern and wisdom: “My heart goes out to you – one of the best definitions of prayer I have ever heard. As for energy: if energy is spirit, your essential be-ing (from which your do-ings flow), your God-given identity as the beloved, the place where your branch connects to the true Vine — may you find that sacred place and there find refreshment and renewal.”

That “sacred place” isn’t in computer game or books. It is in the quiet place within, the emptiness, where, if I am brave enough to go, I meet the Holy One and know that I am not alone. I am beloved.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO:MARY VAN BALEN – Saint John’s Arboretum
At last. A bishop admitted that he did not report sexual abuse of children by priests and did not challenge the accepted Church practice of keeping such horrendous behavior within the institutional “walls.” Bishop James Moriarty of Kildare is not the first to resign over the abuse scandal in Ireland, but his candor and acceptance of personal culpability are refreshing, if late. He is a truthteller.

The Vatican can continue to berate the media for attacking the Pope and trying to bring down the Church, but pressure from the secular press is forcing the issue and compelling the Vatican to begin to deal with the issue.

Pope Benedict can continue to share his deep pain, praying and weeping with survivors and promising “church action,” but that is not all that is needed. We, the faithful, need more bishops to publicly acknowledge their complicity in the crimes and by implication, a longstanding accepted Church policy of cover-up and shifting offending priests around unsuspecting parishes.
We need the Vatican to admit to this institutional sin.

For almost a decade, Catholics have heard popes and bishops and even some priests, decry the actions of a small percentage of ordained clergy. We have heard promises and seen actions aimed at swifter response to reports of abuse and harsher penalties for priests so accused. However, what has been missing in these messages, what is still missing, is public acceptance by the hierarchy of their collusion in the crimes, honest repentance, petition for forgiveness, and acceptance of disciplinary action. Like Bishop Moriarty.

Pope John Paul II’s appointment of Cardinal Law to the Basilica of Mary Major in Rome was a slap in the face to those victims Moriarty called courageous and to the rest of the faithful appalled by decades of cover-up. Pope Benedict needs to go beyond chastising priest offenders and implementing transparency in dealing with abuse cases. He needs to deal with the Church’s history of cover-up and hierarchy who participated in it, demanding honesty and repentance and administering appropriate consequences.

In her AP article, Nicole Winfield quoted Moriarty saying that he stepped down “because he realized that ‘renewal must begin with accepting responsibility for the past.’” She also writes “…he hoped his gesture would help the church renew itself and reform.”

Responsibility. Repentance. Forgiveness. Simple Christian concepts preached to all, especially this past Holy Week. I pray that the pope and bishops around the world will head Bishop Moriarty’s example and drop the line we have been hearing for years (reiterated by Archbishop of Westminster Vincent Nichols as he apologized for clerical abuse and the actions of priests), that casts stones at the offending priests and move to the admission that the hierarchy has no right to cast stones since many in its ranks share the guilt.
© 2010 Mary van Balen

PHOTO: MARY VAN BALEN
Sparkling drops of water dripped from broccoli flowerets and lettuce leaves. Radish red and carrot orange were bright and the eggplant’s smooth, purple flesh looked like satin. I stood in front of the vegetable case, a pilgrim to a fresh food shrine. Slowly, I made choices and piled the cart with colorful, fragrant produce that would soon grace my dinner plate.

I am returning to basics that have been missing from my life for a while, and in addition to cooking fresh foods, I am setting the alarm early enough to insure time for quiet prayer before the day gets rolling.

Cooking fresh provides the opportunity to appreciate the beauty and variety of creation while reverencing life and the One who set it in motion. I remember once sitting in the student union while an undergraduate student, raising an apple to my lips, stopping before a first bite.Sun streaming in through the large wall of windows poured afternoon light over the fruit highlighting its green and yellow flecks. I lowered the apple and look closely.

“How often I overlook simple beauty of ordinary things,” I thought, opened my journal, and sketched the apple before tasting its juicy flesh.

The same is true today. I move too fast to savor simple pleasures that feed the body and nurture the soul. Not tonight. This morning I made marinara sauce starting with olive oil, butter, fresh garlic and onions then added tomatoes, parsley, and fresh basil as savory aromas filled the house. Tonight I will dip eggplant slices into egg and bread crumbs, fry them quickly, and serve with pasta, fresh mozzarella, and whole grain bread. I can’t wait. It is a sacrament. No wonder Jesus chose the experience of eating with his friends to offer his presence to us in a special way. Eating is already holy.

Quiet time in the morning reminds me of these types of connections with the Holy One, especially that divine presence, or “imago Dei,” within. Returning to the practice after months of neglect requires discipline. First comes acknowledging then letting go the constant stream of thoughts that run through my head. Entering into quiet is a choice.

What happens when I finally succeed (perhaps for a few minutes of the 30-40 minute time)? Nothing. Often nothing. Not to be discouraged, I remember words of Julian of Norwich “Pray inwardly even if you do not enjoy it. It does good, though you feel nothing. Yes, even though you think you are doing nothing.”

I take heart knowing the struggle with quiet prayer is not a new or unusual reality. Julian was a fourteenth century English nun and anchoress. She didn’t have TV, fast food, or the Internet to distract, but she struggled with quiet prayer, just the same. We all do. What centuries and millions of people tell us, though, is the effort bears fruit.

I will be in good company when I sit down to a healthful dinner tonight. If I have friends to share it with me, they will bring their own grace to the evening. If not, I will be nourished by both food and quiet with the Holy One who is always there.
© 2010 Mary van Balen