"That was the year everybody died. The priest was sick, but he hadn't died yet, hadn't yet come out of the closet all over the front page of the newspaper...."
These were the first lines of a memoir I wrote ten years ago. I wrote it despite myself; muttering the whole time that I was so DONE with this and why was I wasting my time even thinking about it. Yet throughout a whole summer page followed page. When it finally came to completion, I showed it to a pastor who was usually supportive of my writing. He said he didn't see why anyone would want to publish something like this. Then I showed to the Bishop, who said publishing it might be dangerous, people can get upset... So it happened, that another stack of pages ended up languishing in my filing cabinet.
I like the work, however. It speaks to me of life and death, and the love that springs up when we aren't looking. It speaks also of the kinds of reconciliation that are possible through the veil of death; that love and life go on, even when we think we are finished.
This year, David Sweet died. We were all geared up praying for the Bishop's heart surgery and David snuck out under the radar. (Graduated early, as Mariposa once said about Jeff.) Since David had submitted an essay "Do It Yourself Disaster" for our Publishing Project, Rita, who was compiling the memoir section, decided to get an author's comment from his wife. She called the number on his submission form and discovered it was out-of-order. Undaunted, she looked up David Sweet on her trusty computer, found a local number and left a message.
Somewhere along the line I came into the picture and informed Rita that David Sweet hadn't ever lived locally. Therefore she wasn't totally shocked when she got a call from David Sweet wondering why anyone would want to speak to his wife about his writing. Turned out the local guy is a professor and writer. They had a lovely conversation wherein David recommended Tesserae; Memories & Suppositions by Denise Levertov. Rita, being Rita, promptly ordered two copies and gave one to me.
Tesserae is a lovely mosaic of memories written by a celebrated poet. Unlike some memoirs that focus on a single long story, this is a collection of very short, prose pieces--astonishingly well written. Although the book is a slim 150 pages, I sipped it like a fine wine, stretching the pleasure out for more than week. Levertov's father came from a scholarly Russian Jewish family. He discovered a scrap of paper holding a bit of the New Testament, converted and eventually became an Anglican priest. He married a Welsh woman and the book's landscape is primarily post WWII in England.
Although I'm poetry challenged, I have an affinity for short prose written by poets. May Sarton's Journal of a Solitude and Kate Llwellen's Waterlily come to mind as examples of poets bringing the richness of language to the mundane details of their lives. It takes a special attitude of heart and mind to perceive the glory hidden in the the small things. What grandeur hides behind the trivia that is the warp and woof of our days!
"Remember that nothing is small in the eyes of God." - St. Therese
Sidney Poitier's The Measure of a Man has come into the store twice. Lynn bought it the second time. She found the book interesting and loaned it to me. Following Portier's life from boyhood in the Caribbean, through the rigors of Florida and New York, and into the maze of Hollywood movies is a trip worth taking. In the midst of the grind of history, individuals making small, personal choices cause our collective picture to shift.
"Memories of our lives, of our works and our deeds will continue in others." - Rosa Parks
The details of life are the building materials for fiction as well as biography and memoir. I am surprised how often a taste of my day leaks into a story I'm writing. Memories undergird the truth in fiction: the flavor of a thing remembered emerging in a new collection of people, events, and times; meaning constructed from details rearranged in varying patterns.
"Every man's memory is his private literature." -Aldous Huxley
Remember me, Jesus said.
And in remembering, we find more than history.
We encounter His life, His love
Poured out so that we might eat and drink and live again.
Forever.
Blessings,
Alliee +