Blog Archives

"Is it me you are looking for?"

10/26/2014

by Gwendolyn Plano

Upon the arrival of each of my youngest two sons, a gentle custodian who cleaned the office building in which I worked gave me a shiny silver dollar. “This is for your baby,” he said. “It’s not much, of course, but I hope it travels with him through life. Sometimes ‘In God We Trust’ is all we can hold on to, but that is all that we really need.” Thirty years later, his gift is the only one that remains.

Sometimes I would sit with my friend and listen to his stories—of his young years in the segregated outskirts of Atlanta, of his love for Gospel music and of his beautiful family. One day he told me something that remains dear to my heart. He was training a new custodian at the time, and he wanted me to understand how he was teaching him.

“All of us see through our own experience,” he said. “Take this new custodian. I have to understand how he sees, before I can help him.” He continued, “When you or I walk into a room, we’ll see different things—maybe you see the dirt in the corner of the room, maybe I see trash stacked high in the basket. I have to figure out what this man sees so I can show him the whole room.”

My friend did not give orders; he took time to show others the whole room.

What if all of us took time...to understand those around us, to see the world they carry within? Would we judge less harshly, would we love more deeply?

When I saw this YouTube video, I thought of my custodian friend. Though he lives with the angels now, he teaches still. I watch and listen a little differently because of his sage guidance.

And I wonder, in the recesses of our hearts, do we all sing: Is it me you're looking for?

Halloween and the Old Woman in the Shoe

10/20/2014

by Gwendolyn Plano

Bags of candy fill the aisles in the local grocery stores; while costumes for young pirates and cowboys, princesses and fairies await an excited child. In neighborhoods across the United States, homes are decorated with pumpkins and stalks of corn--Halloween is less than two weeks away.

We had no neighbors when I was a child, no one to trick or treat. But the country school that my siblings and I attended had a parade for all the little goblins of the area.

About 150 farm children donned old sheets, handmade masks and grandpa's worn hats, to march around the old wood-planked structure. The principal watched as we paraded past parents and teachers, and then selected a few witches or rodeo stars for candy prizes.

Mom made our costumes from scrapes of cloth; and one year, I was the Old Woman Who Lived In A Shoe. She cut up a cardboard box, painted it with brown shoe polish, and sat it in an old red wagon. She dressed me in a blue bonnet and long dress—both of which she also made. My dolls and those of my sisters lined the wagon bed. I marched proudly with the other country kids, pulling my imaginary family. And, that year, I got an award.

Mom is almost ninety years young; she is frail but active. I don’t know if she remembers that special Halloween; but every year, I think about it. I remember the dolls peeking through the cardboard shoe, I remember struggling with the rusty wagon over the grassy path, and I remember the white cotton balls tucked into my bonnet so that I might appear old. I felt special that day—Mom made it so.

When I think of Halloween, I always think of her. And I wonder, with seven unruly kids, how did she find the time to make costumes for us all? Perhaps she was the Old Woman in a Shoe. Was I, for just a few hours, my mom?

Do you remember the rhyme? It goes like this:

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children
She didn’t know what to do.
She gave them some broth
And a big slice of bread,
Kissed them all soundly
And sent them to bed. (Mother Goose Version)

When you think back to Halloween, do you have a favorite memory? Does it include your mom?
Time changes our perspective or at least offers a context, doesn't it?

Healing past sorrows and finding gratitude...

10/12/2014

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by Gwendolyn Plano

When I was a young child, countrywomen gathered to sew quilts for special events. My mother took us with her when she met with her friends in the basement of the local rural church. Sometimes I snuck under the stretched material on the large wooden frame and listened as the women stitched and knotted. They talked about their families, about their hardships and about love. When they cried, I cried–even if I did not quite understand. It was their emotion that spoke to me. The cloth leftovers rhythmically sewn one to another helped me see the interconnectedness of life. And as I began writing my memoir, I realized I was creating my own quilt of sorts—through a patchwork of stories.

Even before I put pen to paper, I was awakened in the early morning hours with scenes, faded by time. Drawn into the story they revealed, I began to write. Soon pages of text accompanied these reveries and though I captured some on paper, others hid and waited—for yet another night. My crowded desk of post-it notes became my companion and sometimes friend, helping me with the scattered pieces.

This process, unexpected and bewitching, guided me through the corridors of my heart, where I wrestled with haunting flashbacks and elusive threads of connection. The difficult years were long past and in tow—its numbness. I could feel again; and, the tears and gasps came and went—because they could.

Don’t we all carry stories deep within the chambers of our heart? Stories of hardships and triumphs, stories of love betrayed and love found, stories of cruelty and tenderness -- stories linked by people, places and time? And when these memories are awakened by new life events or midnight terrors, don’t we struggle to make sense of it all?

The person we were decades ago may have quietly slipped into the shadows of our life, but old traumas will haunt us until we find a way to let them go. Writing has become a means for me to make peace with the past. And as I have done so, gratitude has emerged. Not for the painful events, not for the human failures, not for the indignities. The gratitude I feel is for what was ultimately evoked by those sorrows: determination, courage, and wisdom.

Gratitude can transform how we see our past, when we identify the strengths that were evoked by our challenges.

What is your way of healing old hurts or disappointments? Do you write, paint, or dance? Perhaps you create music or get lost in nature’s mysteries?

By what means are you piecing together your patchwork of stories?

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St. Francis of Assisi and Yom Kippur

10/4/2014

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By Gwendolyn Plano

Eremo delle Carceri

About fifteen years ago, my daughter and I traveled to the fabled city of Assisi in the Umbria region of Italy – to visit the 13th century home of the beloved monk, St. Francis. For each our own reasons, we were pilgrims searching for answers and for healing.

This morning, I was reminded of our journey, when I noticed that today is the feast day of St. Francis of Assisi. It is also Yom Kippur.

If you have not visited Assisi, know that it is a beautiful medieval town, overlooking a peaceful valley of green fields with groves of fig, walnut, and olive trees. In the distance, Assisi appears golden in the afternoon light, and the walls enclosing its perimeters glisten white. It is magical and beckoning.

We traveled by bus to the town and followed groups of devotees through its arched gate, to the cobbled streets leading to small shops and wall shrines. Our boardinghouse was centrally located. We climbed the worn stone staircase to our room and met our proprietor, a soft-spoken lady who became family over the next few days.

My daughter and I arose early each morning and walked for miles, retracing the steps of St. Francis—from the country church of San Damiano to the tiny chapel of Porziuncola. Perhaps our most memorable hike was a three mile climb to the saint’s cave retreat at the Eremo delle Carceri, a small hermitage in a forest gorge. Francis slept there on a stone bed carved into its rock walls. He had no pillows, or mattress, or other comforts.

It was at the cave retreat that St. Francis reportedly preached to the birds and other wildlife. He was a humble man—in love with all of creation.

Francis lived what he preached, and therefore remains an example for all of us. And, on this holy day of Yom Kippur, I’m reminded of his message: “It is no use walking anywhere to preach unless our walking is our preaching.”

And so it is that I join my Jewish sisters and brothers—in reflecting on the ways I have not been faithful--to myself, to truth, to creation….to love. Perhaps we all need to pause to consider, has our walking been our preaching?

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