The Vermont State House Montpelier Vermont Public Hearings on Gay Marriage Bill Wednesday March 18 2009- John Calvi
The drive north form Putney is sprinkled with spring rain. The sky is shades of blue grey as the interstate moves between the Connecticut River in the East and a ridgeline of low mountains in the west. The temperature drops from 50’s to 40’s and snow melts on fields and mountainsides. I find a parking spot directly in front of the state house as though I’ve come home from work and found welcome. As I approach there is a guard at the entrance and I wonder if the long slim object carried at his shoulder is a rifle. But it seems to thin. Is it a large taser? Coming close enough to say hello, I see it’s an umbrella. When hearings were held here in 2000 on civil unions, Vermont had never received so many threats of violence nor filled the state house to capacity. The then governor refused state police requests that he not attend outdoor events, as his safety could not be assured. Instead, he attended many events wearing a bullet-proof vest for months.
Now years later the debate has changed- shall Vermont move from civil unions to gay marriage. The noise around this is less. The crowds are less fierce. But the feelings are still strong. The percentages have now shifted to pro marriage in the polls. The old scare tactics have lost their punch. Often weddings are cited as good business and we need to compete with Massachusetts.
I’m here two hours early and the crowds are small. Our local representative kindly invites me to tea in the cafeteria before the hearing starts. But I make a beeline for the best seat in the house- a large red velvet armchair just to one side of the podium in the House of Representatives. From here one faces the witnesses chair at the end of a long table where the senators sit listening to each witness giving testimony. I face the main door and can see almost every seat on the main floor plus the entire balcony. To my left will be security and I can overhear them discuss their operations. Soon after I sat down, the all the best seats are filled. 1 hour before show time, most of the room is full.
Familiar faces drift through the crowd. A small crowd from Putney has come by bus- Tim, the wonderful painter and his husband Philip the whale researcher have come with Eva our local Quaker lesbian commie and their neighbors Bari & Diane. Netflix says the most rented DVDs for our zip code is the L word- need one more proof of Putney’s bountiful lesbian population? There is also MaryAnn, a wonderful lesbian therapist who had a daughter in my classroom 30 years ago and Bill, a gay Vermont senator who brought me in to sing at the gay coffeehouse not quite 30 years ago. Vermont is small and neighborly. We’ve fewer than 700,000 people in the whole state and only one small almost urban area. We are also small geographically- one could drive the longest diagonal from the northwest corner to the southeast in about 3 hours on our one interstate- watch out for moose. Until recently, the governor answered his own phone.
Witnesses sign up to speak on either the pro or con list and the senators call each forward alternating back and forth, each with 2 minutes to speak. I signed in at #40. This means 80 people would have to be called for me to have a turn. Looking over the crowd and listening to each witness, there is a sense that Vermont’s burgeoning evangelical churches have made a strong showing with pastors and older congregants. They put forth similar ideas to what was heard in opposing civil unions 9 years ago- this is unnatural and against God’s law, the change in the definition of marriage is the beginning of the homosexual agenda to destroy civilization, science and morals don’t support the idea, etc. There was less fire and brimstone which cost them dearly in the last vote- the claim that frogs would fall from the sky and we’d be punished with AIDS just like Africa for going against God’s law ruined their efforts to gain support. The undecided people in the middle said- I may not be comfortable with civil unions but I don’t this it’s going to rain frogs! The pastors come in mainly two flavors- threatening God’s wrath or smarmy and smiling with all the warm of a hungry used car salesman. Both carry on with the most insulting declarations and all deny that any of this is meant to be personally insulting. How, I wonder, can I be accused of plotting the end of the family in American life and not hear something negative being cast upon me? Such is the magic of “Christianity” in its most un-Jesus-like forms.
The pro side includes more young people. There are fewer clergy but they tend to emphasis a loving God rather than the grouchy landlord who will fry your butt with just one step off the path. Also the pro side speaks about their lives and personal experience. There is little in the way of theory or abstractions. There is mention that this law is on the way to gay couples and their children receiving the 1200 or so federal benefits such as social security in the future. The con side describes theology and legal theories that feel as though they mask a huge fear of some unknown monster. Throughout, the senators face the speaker, listen and make notes. There is no sign of favoritism or opinion among them this evening.
There is not as much insult as there was before. One unfortunate man probably in his 40’s came forward to say he was a rape survivor and equated his wounding and the current bill as legalizing male rape. This brought the only loud response, a moan from the crowd making a clear statement that this was unfair testimony. It was a sad moment of hurt being used to blame and hurt others and the crowd wouldn’t stand for it.
In general, there is no understanding among the cons that describing gay people in the most insulting manner is their assumed privilege while they are under no threat of votes on their marriage. And believe me, I’ve got a few marriages I’d like to vote on!
This went on for 3 hours. Mostly everything had been said. Gay zoology, Adam and Eve, kids needs, proud Vermont history of progressive thought, God’s authority. I was just beginning to think I should leave when my name was called to testify. I immediately had a panic attack with my heart in my throat. I can’t imagine why- I’ve spoken to larger crowds easily, I’m a popular invited speaker, I had thought about what I’d say on the drive up, what’s the big deal? I tried to calm myself using prayer and straightening my posture, which was weary after 5 hours of being chair bound. I sat in the batter- up chair listening to the speaker before me.
This poor guy was in horrible pain. He came from some evangelical church and confessed that he had been an alcoholic and womanizer and that he was wrong and his sin shouldn’t be legalized and this sin of gay marriage shouldn’t be legalized either. He finishes up with his arms in the air yelling Jesus Christ Exalted Forever.
Now the odd thing is- I couldn’t wash myself of my tension while waiting to speak. But upon hearing his pain, I immediately settle down into deep prayer in body and mind to reach his layers of sadness and panic and lighten his load. It was as though I’d gone to the cosmic car wash because I was able to stop shaking and feel completely grounded. Oh service, be thou my savior.
I took the chair and spoke briefly from memory what I had planned to say. I was able to keep eye contact with the senators and treat them as though they’d had a long night too. I did forget one line I meant to put in the middle of my statement- I think the opposition we’ve heard tonight does not reflect the teachings of Jesus, which are kind and generous.
Here’s what I said-
My name is John Calvi from Putney Vermont. My husband, Marshall Brewer, and I were married by our Quaker meeting in Putney 20 years ago. Quakers have been marrying gay couples for 40 years now. I have a ministry among Quakers. I am an itinerant preacher. When I look at the issue we are discussing tonight, I think mostly it is caused by a mean nasty old rumor that gay people are not good. You have a wonderful opportunity here. You have the opportunity to make an improvement, to make history. I hope and trust that you will do the right thing.
Nothing memorable, but I sounded so good after the fellow in so much pain and confusion. I wished I’d remembered the part about Jesus, but there it is. There was one more speaker after me, then generous applause from the crowd thanking the senators.
I had some sense that the opposition feels beaten, unheard, their theological warnings unheeded. And it seems the votes are there for passage. The Republican governor has been unclear about signing or vetoing. He tends to wait and have his expensive pr consultants do a poll. I am hopeful and after the sadness of California’s vote I’d really like a victory of common sense. I also trust that in 50 years or less, people will shake their heads and say- what was that noise all about? www.johncalvi.com www.vtfreetomarry.org
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Thursday, March 19, 2009
Friday, March 6, 2009
The Old Way
When did this become the old familiar way to be? I am taking the steps to lay my hands on someone and the work has already begun- my posture changes to very upright, my pace goes down to very slow so as not to scare a skittish horse, my hands land on the surface of that other person like heated air coming to warm a chill, and my breath becomes deep and slow. All this is without conscious thought, simply the way it’s done.
I can recall the first weeks at massage school and none of this happened- no awareness. Even second semester was not much improvement on my intention and tone. My kindness was evident but too many false moves, too little grounded-ness, and lots of un-sureness making trust difficult. I think it was the continuing work with rape survivors that taught me to go slowly, say little, and make firm contact in all ways.
There is something in showing that I will not be afraid of that ones pain no matter what I see- to hold steady and bare witness simply as a way of being with someone unfolding their worst. I remember in Swedish massage class that first I had to learn to work more quickly to make each massage stroke more sure and certain. Once I learned the form then I could consider pace and depth.
Thinking back to that time, I seem to be cleaning out all my own obstacles to my own best touch. I was learning how much came between myself and another when I was being unconscious, not being aware, not deliberately trying to join in being present.
There was also the work of listening. Now, without thinking about it, I am listening inwardly for what I might know from my own life experience, and listening outwardly to what is being told me and perhaps what is not being said, and thirdly I am listening for spiritual guidance that offers messages about what’s needed. I know I was completely numbnuts on this and had to be bludgeoned into noticing the obvious.
I recall a particular moment when I began work in the AIDS wars. I was doing massage on a man named Mikel. He was in decline and I was worried that I would not be good enough to help him die well. In a moment my being was filled with Light and I heard clearly that I do not work alone, that I was never alone, and I would be guided. This tender message washed me in comfort, the delight of knowing I was not working alone, and opened my heart to listen for more as time went on.
So many pieces now in place, so regular- all of them really hard fought and each learned over years and miles and many many people with long hours of hearing, seeing, feeling the worst. I feel like an old monk who goes deep soon, or an old baker that feels the rightness of dough without measuring, or maybe I feel like myself coming back around to myself after so many detours and distractions. It is a comfort to be really good at something after doing it for so many years. Maybe the changes that come will be small, maybe large, but the shift in tone, the peaceful quiet that comes at least is a rest from the worst for now.
I can recall the first weeks at massage school and none of this happened- no awareness. Even second semester was not much improvement on my intention and tone. My kindness was evident but too many false moves, too little grounded-ness, and lots of un-sureness making trust difficult. I think it was the continuing work with rape survivors that taught me to go slowly, say little, and make firm contact in all ways.
There is something in showing that I will not be afraid of that ones pain no matter what I see- to hold steady and bare witness simply as a way of being with someone unfolding their worst. I remember in Swedish massage class that first I had to learn to work more quickly to make each massage stroke more sure and certain. Once I learned the form then I could consider pace and depth.
Thinking back to that time, I seem to be cleaning out all my own obstacles to my own best touch. I was learning how much came between myself and another when I was being unconscious, not being aware, not deliberately trying to join in being present.
There was also the work of listening. Now, without thinking about it, I am listening inwardly for what I might know from my own life experience, and listening outwardly to what is being told me and perhaps what is not being said, and thirdly I am listening for spiritual guidance that offers messages about what’s needed. I know I was completely numbnuts on this and had to be bludgeoned into noticing the obvious.
I recall a particular moment when I began work in the AIDS wars. I was doing massage on a man named Mikel. He was in decline and I was worried that I would not be good enough to help him die well. In a moment my being was filled with Light and I heard clearly that I do not work alone, that I was never alone, and I would be guided. This tender message washed me in comfort, the delight of knowing I was not working alone, and opened my heart to listen for more as time went on.
So many pieces now in place, so regular- all of them really hard fought and each learned over years and miles and many many people with long hours of hearing, seeing, feeling the worst. I feel like an old monk who goes deep soon, or an old baker that feels the rightness of dough without measuring, or maybe I feel like myself coming back around to myself after so many detours and distractions. It is a comfort to be really good at something after doing it for so many years. Maybe the changes that come will be small, maybe large, but the shift in tone, the peaceful quiet that comes at least is a rest from the worst for now.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Early Morning Light
Early Morning Light – John Calvi
I haven’t put this story to paper before. I understand it differently now, maybe in ways I couldn’t have decades ago. It was early morning when the phone rang. A woman I’d taught with in prisons was calling. She’d just come back from the hospital with a young friend who’d been raped earlier that morning. Could I come do healing work at the survivor’s house now.
I shower, dress, and leave in haste of bodily motion. But in my mind I am quiet and prayerful. Be thou with me as I do this work. May I be a vessel of Light. It’s a long drive, giving me the time to go over what I’ve heard and then set the details aside to reach my deepest calm and feel the heat grow in my hands. No worries. No fear. Don’t interrupt the given flow of Light with mere human obstructions. Ride the high tide to deliver the best.
She’d been out late at a party. Walking back to her car in a dangerous part of town, this small young woman was literally picked up and carried in to an abandoned building by a much larger man. She struggled and was beaten. And when he was done, he just walked off leaving her in the dark and cold. From the police station, she called her friend. They met with the police at the hospital. And now they both were at the survivor’s home.
I come in slow and quiet. I need to see and feel her response to this assault before I begin any work. Is she tired and weary into calm or fretful? Is she still or pacing? Are words still too much to process or can simple conversation going slow happen without too much pressure. She is in pajamas in the living room. Showered and weary, she’s been given a sedative but hasn’t slept really. We don’t discuss particulars. She feels best close to her friend and not talking very much.
She lies on the carpet and we begin. I keep my hands soft and my touch firm. I only touch her head and limbs and do not approach the areas of trespass. I’ve done this work more times than I can count because sexually abused women make up the largest group on the planet. But always the work is years after the assault, not fresh like this.
There are not words to describe how it feels to open yourself to feel another’s pain come in to your body. There can be no flinching or wincing or partial acceptance. It’s beyond story or listening to the wailing or witnessing desperation. It’s a wave of knives forcing their way through. And any resistance catches like fishhooks. The task is to come in calm and strong. Stand and face the wave. Feel all of it’s meaning and dimension. And let it go through- the bull under the red cape, the car sliding sideways on ice, the grief of trespass, brutality, and disrespect without filter.
I touch her head and shoulders. I hold her feet. I hold her hands and draw down her arms. Each of these is a hello and can we connect essential energies. Mostly it feels like an empty garage, only a shell. But by and by comes that feeling of yes, I am here and soon a flood of that essence of her pushes to the surface. I draw this out as one would unfold a large tablecloth underwater to find the stains that need soap and scrubbing. More and more comes to the surface, show me all there is.
She is still lying quietly with little expression, no sound. And I am working up a sweat doing simple touches, all the heavy lifting is felt and not seen until- towards the end of the work I am sweeping my hands over her as though I am gathering up all the Light around her body. I am scooping up her most immediate and intense self to raise it upward, heaven-ward, for cleaning. And this is when tons of grief lift from her body, pass through mine, and are released. My face crumples with terrifying sadness, my arms stay aloft, and a rage and deep sadness washes through and is gone in moments. The friend sees this and identifies it accurately later. The survivor goes off to bed to sleep peacefully.
I have a long drive home in which to be in awe of those moments and the task of being faithful and doing more somewhere soon. I’ll see her a decade later at a funeral. She will thank me again and I become teary to hear her gratitude and remember that early morning Light.
And now it’s more than 20 years gone as I write this. Looking back I can see this miracle not of my making is what I wanted for the first battered woman I knew, my mother. To live with the unrelenting violence and no one making protection put a longing in me. How this longing became connected to warm hands to lift wounds out of the body is beyond my understanding. It’s a horrible gift- horrible and beautiful. Horrible because there are no gloves save focusing on the Light. And it cannot be done except in the war zone of that persons trespass. It’s beautiful because relief is witnessed over and over in the most splendid geometry of balance and rightness. It’s changed for me over the years, but the basics remain the same. Gathering enough reverence before is crucial. Rest and quiet afterwards are important too. I’ve made a small beautiful life so I can dip into gruesome. The older I get, the more beauty I need.
I haven’t put this story to paper before. I understand it differently now, maybe in ways I couldn’t have decades ago. It was early morning when the phone rang. A woman I’d taught with in prisons was calling. She’d just come back from the hospital with a young friend who’d been raped earlier that morning. Could I come do healing work at the survivor’s house now.
I shower, dress, and leave in haste of bodily motion. But in my mind I am quiet and prayerful. Be thou with me as I do this work. May I be a vessel of Light. It’s a long drive, giving me the time to go over what I’ve heard and then set the details aside to reach my deepest calm and feel the heat grow in my hands. No worries. No fear. Don’t interrupt the given flow of Light with mere human obstructions. Ride the high tide to deliver the best.
She’d been out late at a party. Walking back to her car in a dangerous part of town, this small young woman was literally picked up and carried in to an abandoned building by a much larger man. She struggled and was beaten. And when he was done, he just walked off leaving her in the dark and cold. From the police station, she called her friend. They met with the police at the hospital. And now they both were at the survivor’s home.
I come in slow and quiet. I need to see and feel her response to this assault before I begin any work. Is she tired and weary into calm or fretful? Is she still or pacing? Are words still too much to process or can simple conversation going slow happen without too much pressure. She is in pajamas in the living room. Showered and weary, she’s been given a sedative but hasn’t slept really. We don’t discuss particulars. She feels best close to her friend and not talking very much.
She lies on the carpet and we begin. I keep my hands soft and my touch firm. I only touch her head and limbs and do not approach the areas of trespass. I’ve done this work more times than I can count because sexually abused women make up the largest group on the planet. But always the work is years after the assault, not fresh like this.
There are not words to describe how it feels to open yourself to feel another’s pain come in to your body. There can be no flinching or wincing or partial acceptance. It’s beyond story or listening to the wailing or witnessing desperation. It’s a wave of knives forcing their way through. And any resistance catches like fishhooks. The task is to come in calm and strong. Stand and face the wave. Feel all of it’s meaning and dimension. And let it go through- the bull under the red cape, the car sliding sideways on ice, the grief of trespass, brutality, and disrespect without filter.
I touch her head and shoulders. I hold her feet. I hold her hands and draw down her arms. Each of these is a hello and can we connect essential energies. Mostly it feels like an empty garage, only a shell. But by and by comes that feeling of yes, I am here and soon a flood of that essence of her pushes to the surface. I draw this out as one would unfold a large tablecloth underwater to find the stains that need soap and scrubbing. More and more comes to the surface, show me all there is.
She is still lying quietly with little expression, no sound. And I am working up a sweat doing simple touches, all the heavy lifting is felt and not seen until- towards the end of the work I am sweeping my hands over her as though I am gathering up all the Light around her body. I am scooping up her most immediate and intense self to raise it upward, heaven-ward, for cleaning. And this is when tons of grief lift from her body, pass through mine, and are released. My face crumples with terrifying sadness, my arms stay aloft, and a rage and deep sadness washes through and is gone in moments. The friend sees this and identifies it accurately later. The survivor goes off to bed to sleep peacefully.
I have a long drive home in which to be in awe of those moments and the task of being faithful and doing more somewhere soon. I’ll see her a decade later at a funeral. She will thank me again and I become teary to hear her gratitude and remember that early morning Light.
And now it’s more than 20 years gone as I write this. Looking back I can see this miracle not of my making is what I wanted for the first battered woman I knew, my mother. To live with the unrelenting violence and no one making protection put a longing in me. How this longing became connected to warm hands to lift wounds out of the body is beyond my understanding. It’s a horrible gift- horrible and beautiful. Horrible because there are no gloves save focusing on the Light. And it cannot be done except in the war zone of that persons trespass. It’s beautiful because relief is witnessed over and over in the most splendid geometry of balance and rightness. It’s changed for me over the years, but the basics remain the same. Gathering enough reverence before is crucial. Rest and quiet afterwards are important too. I’ve made a small beautiful life so I can dip into gruesome. The older I get, the more beauty I need.
Sunday, January 18, 2009
January Sabbatical Journal 2009
Some travel these last few weeks, out of the New England winter. As this sabbatical closes, I find more and more moments of pondering this past year and seeing so much more of myself. It’s clear that I am a nicer person when I am working- something about the disciplines of work, setting the self aside, and not so me involved. It’s also true that I haven’t been this rested since I left working on the loading dock and had a long break before becoming a Montessori teacher in 74.
One of the more shocking revelations this year was to understand that I am old. Now, you may say that 56 is not old. But what I sense is that I was too busy to notice how hard I pushed over the years to get it all done. Each year I’ve had to push a little harder. This year of not pushing made obvious that my body is worn from the pace and the intensity. And I make myself laugh as I ponder simultaneously how can I make my life less intense and would it be possible to get to every yearly meeting in North America to teach about torture in the next year or two.
Other opposites present themselves to me. I have a growing sense of mercy in myself and my work over the years. I had so little of it early in life and have learned about mercy very slowly. Having mercy for rapists in my prison work when I was in the midst of my own incest work was a turning point decades ago. And that arc has increased. I can feel when I have no mercy on those impatient days when each moment seems fraught with the too-much of life. And I can feel the relief when I take a breath and become a wiser self that wants to be differently in the world.
Another opposite is feeling stronger and more alive in my body after these months of physical work, but saddened not to have lost weight. I remember a year ago thinking that 12 months was infinite and all manner of things would be possible. (I could even be tall and blond if I put my mind to it.)
To feel the relief of accomplishing some goals and the disappointment of feeling my limits gives me a more rounded view of myself. So often I’ve found myself blazing some necessary trail and insisting that something could be done, probably as a way to fend off my own fears of its impossibility. Stubbornness has its place as all progress comes from unreasonable people. And of course stubbornness is a personal obstacle to my own necessary changes. I want routine and avoid all structure. I crave peace and quiet, but am bored by stillness. I am intrigued by how trouble can be deconstructed.
Another change I've noticed: in Putney Meeting in Vermont and Claremont Meeting in California, I have noticed that I went deeply and quickly into the depths of the silence in meeting for worship. The hour flew by and left me hungry for more. The time was too short. Am I becoming a Buddhist? I am delighted to feel the depth and ease of spiritual entry. But I also notice I am dissatisfied with much of the spoken ministry. There's too much thinking, not enough sense of the spirit coming through. Am I becoming a grouchy old Quaker who wants to yell, "If you can’t improve upon the silence, then hush up! If you’ve only been here 15 years, keep listening! Quakerism is cumulative!" I am becoming exactly the person I would flee from as a young person.
Sabbatical has also given me time to go slowly enough to see that I need to be more careful with who I am. Often people ascribe power to me that is either news to me or I assume we all share equally. It’s not a pedestal so much as it is some sense that I do take up a lot of space and hopefully I will put this force to good use. It’s good that people in trouble are hopeful that someone else might be helpful. It’s a delicate balance to maybe be helpful without being seen as a solution. At the same time, there is a cultural reluctance to own the power that is given in the Light. In that moment of grace when healing comes, I know it’s a gift from above that only comes through me. I also know that to surrender my life to making this gift is to live a powerful life, a life in which my own innumerable imperfections are lessened in the midst of that Light.
One of the difficulties in a lifetime of healing work is that connection to the Light -- that moment when messages come and hands get warm and changes large or small are made and literal, linear thinking is overridden with new understanding for which words are insufficient. This moment can be such a bounty of peace and calm, an escape from one's deficits so as to make one a grace junkie. Yes, let’s go back to that place and stay longer. It also means that this on-going experience sets one apart from others who may have this sense only a few times in their life.
Because it is cumulative, going back to this well in any regular way makes life different. In some ways, this can make a life of healing work lonely. There is lots of connection to grace, not through any difference in me, but by calling, obedience, and duty. This makes a life separated from people who have less of it, not unlike having lots of money, being very attractive, or possessing artistic skills.
This is the hardest thing to describe without being misunderstood as arrogant. I know I’m not important. I also know my path is not shared by many. Is it arrogant to name this? Some will say, "Yes, who do you think you are?" Others will hear what I mean. And I know it’s easy enough to misunderstand, so I try not to get into it.
Here I am at the end of a time of rest and restoration. I’ve gotten done much of what I set out to do, but haven’t done all I’d hoped for. Now, I come back into the fray with some sense that I have a lifetime of experience which I can continue to make use of with people in the pain and confusion of trauma. As someone older in the work, I can’t do as much as I did when I was younger. It’s also true that as an elder in the work, I can do more with less effort. My overview and rest habits are better. While I have less patience with foolishness, especially my own, I love good, hard work, as when things are cooking hot and movement towards resolution of a long-held mystery is finally possible. Can the grief come out of this shoulder? Can we understand that torture is being done as a system and bring democracy to bear on ending it? Can I teach a large group how to reach their deepest quiet by relaxing their bodies and prepare for larger spiritual work?
That seems enough to me. Enough as a life work, enough as a faithful response to gifts given and calling heard, and enough to go on as I am able without stopping, finishing, or over-doing.
Meanwhile, I’ve begun editing transcripts of speeches for a book. Yesterday, I cleaned out a closet to find my winter coat. I found a dozen leather travel bags, all beautiful in their age and wear. I suppose as I look in the mirror I look the same: well-used, ridden hard, tough around the wrinkles, and buttery soft to the touch.
I am coming out of sabbatical incrementally. I am reluctant to return to listserves, but I am back to reading 6 newspapers a day. I have stacks and lists of things to do at my desk and have given most of the morning to the luxury of writing this. How do I get work done, keep balance and humor, and know that it’s enough? I swear off all guilt, rushing needlessly, and my tendency to feel a nap coming on before all large work.
Perhaps the most profound experience this past year is that enough people financially supported this rest. Enough people valued my work to grant me the luxury of time to rest. Imagine in these economic times that someone who lives mainly on gifts and works by invitation would ask for some time to lie down. Enough kindness and care came forward so this could happen. This is gigantic in my life. So, too, I must say is the love and care of my husband, Marshall Brewer, who helped me with QUIT work plus all my travel work these many years. And even now as he does his own job while finishing up a second masters degree, he still makes sure that I am on track for rest, nutrition, and being my best. 2009 is our 20th year married and I’m sure this accounts for my good work as much as any heaven-sent gift.
More than this, I’m not sure how to tell you what is new here in this snowy little corner of the world while awaiting the changing of the guard in Washington, and getting ready for my own busy year, and hoping this new man in DC remembers why he’s been chosen and all the good that needs doing.
One of the more shocking revelations this year was to understand that I am old. Now, you may say that 56 is not old. But what I sense is that I was too busy to notice how hard I pushed over the years to get it all done. Each year I’ve had to push a little harder. This year of not pushing made obvious that my body is worn from the pace and the intensity. And I make myself laugh as I ponder simultaneously how can I make my life less intense and would it be possible to get to every yearly meeting in North America to teach about torture in the next year or two.
Other opposites present themselves to me. I have a growing sense of mercy in myself and my work over the years. I had so little of it early in life and have learned about mercy very slowly. Having mercy for rapists in my prison work when I was in the midst of my own incest work was a turning point decades ago. And that arc has increased. I can feel when I have no mercy on those impatient days when each moment seems fraught with the too-much of life. And I can feel the relief when I take a breath and become a wiser self that wants to be differently in the world.
Another opposite is feeling stronger and more alive in my body after these months of physical work, but saddened not to have lost weight. I remember a year ago thinking that 12 months was infinite and all manner of things would be possible. (I could even be tall and blond if I put my mind to it.)
To feel the relief of accomplishing some goals and the disappointment of feeling my limits gives me a more rounded view of myself. So often I’ve found myself blazing some necessary trail and insisting that something could be done, probably as a way to fend off my own fears of its impossibility. Stubbornness has its place as all progress comes from unreasonable people. And of course stubbornness is a personal obstacle to my own necessary changes. I want routine and avoid all structure. I crave peace and quiet, but am bored by stillness. I am intrigued by how trouble can be deconstructed.
Another change I've noticed: in Putney Meeting in Vermont and Claremont Meeting in California, I have noticed that I went deeply and quickly into the depths of the silence in meeting for worship. The hour flew by and left me hungry for more. The time was too short. Am I becoming a Buddhist? I am delighted to feel the depth and ease of spiritual entry. But I also notice I am dissatisfied with much of the spoken ministry. There's too much thinking, not enough sense of the spirit coming through. Am I becoming a grouchy old Quaker who wants to yell, "If you can’t improve upon the silence, then hush up! If you’ve only been here 15 years, keep listening! Quakerism is cumulative!" I am becoming exactly the person I would flee from as a young person.
Sabbatical has also given me time to go slowly enough to see that I need to be more careful with who I am. Often people ascribe power to me that is either news to me or I assume we all share equally. It’s not a pedestal so much as it is some sense that I do take up a lot of space and hopefully I will put this force to good use. It’s good that people in trouble are hopeful that someone else might be helpful. It’s a delicate balance to maybe be helpful without being seen as a solution. At the same time, there is a cultural reluctance to own the power that is given in the Light. In that moment of grace when healing comes, I know it’s a gift from above that only comes through me. I also know that to surrender my life to making this gift is to live a powerful life, a life in which my own innumerable imperfections are lessened in the midst of that Light.
One of the difficulties in a lifetime of healing work is that connection to the Light -- that moment when messages come and hands get warm and changes large or small are made and literal, linear thinking is overridden with new understanding for which words are insufficient. This moment can be such a bounty of peace and calm, an escape from one's deficits so as to make one a grace junkie. Yes, let’s go back to that place and stay longer. It also means that this on-going experience sets one apart from others who may have this sense only a few times in their life.
Because it is cumulative, going back to this well in any regular way makes life different. In some ways, this can make a life of healing work lonely. There is lots of connection to grace, not through any difference in me, but by calling, obedience, and duty. This makes a life separated from people who have less of it, not unlike having lots of money, being very attractive, or possessing artistic skills.
This is the hardest thing to describe without being misunderstood as arrogant. I know I’m not important. I also know my path is not shared by many. Is it arrogant to name this? Some will say, "Yes, who do you think you are?" Others will hear what I mean. And I know it’s easy enough to misunderstand, so I try not to get into it.
Here I am at the end of a time of rest and restoration. I’ve gotten done much of what I set out to do, but haven’t done all I’d hoped for. Now, I come back into the fray with some sense that I have a lifetime of experience which I can continue to make use of with people in the pain and confusion of trauma. As someone older in the work, I can’t do as much as I did when I was younger. It’s also true that as an elder in the work, I can do more with less effort. My overview and rest habits are better. While I have less patience with foolishness, especially my own, I love good, hard work, as when things are cooking hot and movement towards resolution of a long-held mystery is finally possible. Can the grief come out of this shoulder? Can we understand that torture is being done as a system and bring democracy to bear on ending it? Can I teach a large group how to reach their deepest quiet by relaxing their bodies and prepare for larger spiritual work?
That seems enough to me. Enough as a life work, enough as a faithful response to gifts given and calling heard, and enough to go on as I am able without stopping, finishing, or over-doing.
Meanwhile, I’ve begun editing transcripts of speeches for a book. Yesterday, I cleaned out a closet to find my winter coat. I found a dozen leather travel bags, all beautiful in their age and wear. I suppose as I look in the mirror I look the same: well-used, ridden hard, tough around the wrinkles, and buttery soft to the touch.
I am coming out of sabbatical incrementally. I am reluctant to return to listserves, but I am back to reading 6 newspapers a day. I have stacks and lists of things to do at my desk and have given most of the morning to the luxury of writing this. How do I get work done, keep balance and humor, and know that it’s enough? I swear off all guilt, rushing needlessly, and my tendency to feel a nap coming on before all large work.
Perhaps the most profound experience this past year is that enough people financially supported this rest. Enough people valued my work to grant me the luxury of time to rest. Imagine in these economic times that someone who lives mainly on gifts and works by invitation would ask for some time to lie down. Enough kindness and care came forward so this could happen. This is gigantic in my life. So, too, I must say is the love and care of my husband, Marshall Brewer, who helped me with QUIT work plus all my travel work these many years. And even now as he does his own job while finishing up a second masters degree, he still makes sure that I am on track for rest, nutrition, and being my best. 2009 is our 20th year married and I’m sure this accounts for my good work as much as any heaven-sent gift.
More than this, I’m not sure how to tell you what is new here in this snowy little corner of the world while awaiting the changing of the guard in Washington, and getting ready for my own busy year, and hoping this new man in DC remembers why he’s been chosen and all the good that needs doing.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
John Calvi’s Year End Letter 2008
Dear Friends,
A year ago I was finishing up another year of travel work and was quite weary. I said good-bye to several people with chronic conditions I’d been working with over the years, stepped aside as founder and convener of The Quaker Initiative to End Torture- QUIT, and began my sabbatical. My intentions were to rest and restore my body and mind for another 25 years of compassionate work. I separated myself from work entirely- no teaching about trauma or torture, no touch work healing trauma. I stopped reading 6 newspapers a day, got off listserves, and had an auto-reply for email- gone fishing.
At first I did much resting, always needing more than I knew. The torture nightmares ended and I slept through the nights. After some travel, I was painting the small upstairs of our little house, discovering that I had neither talent nor skill for such but had chosen the most wonderful blue. Various corners of the household got cleaned out- my archives got put into dryer, more useable space, linen tablecloths from years of thrift store finds became many pillow cases. It was a winter of resting and nesting.
With spring came outdoor work- mowing the field twice, moving tree limbs and collecting kindling. I hauled a thousand pounds of rock, soil, and flagstone. I created 2 new vegetable beds, a flowerbed, outdoor steps for our 3 south-facing doors, and began a rock wall. The goal of restoring my body with physical work was being met. I am stronger in body, toned muscles, clearer of mind, and grateful.
A couple of interruptions held sway. A diagnosis of osteoporosis in the spring was a shock and discomforting. A “heart event” this fall seemed to show what I thought was an inherited trait of an occasional slight cardiac arrhythmia needing only rest. But the cardiologist says no, it's unclear what happened and I am fine. Blood pressure is better but I have failed to lose enough weight to stop meds. Amidst all this, please know I am very well, active, happy, and glad to have rested now.
All in all, I am a much more healthy person- rested and cleared of accumulated body and mind fatigue. But the years, or actually the miles, are being revealed in my body during this long hibernation. I trust that my spiritual disciplines of rest and cleansing will mean years of good works to come. My leadings continue, well tested and honed, from years of being faithful, constant learning, and gratitude.
My work calendar begins in February 2009. I am feeling a renewed delight at the idea of being on the road and being of help once again. I’ve new appetite for teaching and touch work. I’ve warmed up my hands a bit this fall, which I’ve written about on my blog - see link from www.johncalvi.com
Working by invitation and gifts for 25 years has been miraculous. Now to have had a long rest supported by the grace of your gifts is a blessing beyond good care and respect. I am more grateful than I have words to share for this wonderful gift of sabbatical. As I set to work on a book of speeches in these last sabbatical months, please consider sending me a gift. Your good care and kindness has made all this possible for me to reach so many over time. Please help me continue.
In the Light,
PO Box 301 Putney VT 05346
John Calvi’s Partial Incomplete 2009 Calendar (as of Nov 08)
February 27- March 1 Powell House Deeply Relax to Deepen the Spirit powellhouse.org
Old Chatham, NY
March 29 Colorado Regional Spring Gathering of Quakers- talk on Spiritual Deepening Denver, CO
April 24-26 Woolman Hill Spiritual Disciplines for Healing woolmanhill.org
Deerfield, MA
May 29-31 Pendle Hill Lay Down the Burden and Rest pendlehill.org
Wallingford, PA
June 27-July 4 Friends General Conference workshops fgcquaker.org
Blacksburg, VA
July 15-19 North Pacific Yearly Mtg Keynote/Friend in Residence npym.org
Missoula, MT
August 3-5 New England Yearly Meeting workshops neym.org
Smithfield, RI
September 25-27 Quaker Center weekend workshop quakercenter.org
Ben Lomond, CA
Please send a gift to my address below.
I need your gifts during sabbatical to rest and prepare for another 25 years.
Definitions- tax law says a donation carries the expectation of work for which I am taxed.
A gift is given out of respect, affection, or charity, such as
my birthday- May 14, my wedding anniversary- August 28, or a Christmas gift.
“Chief among the sabbatical luxuries is solitude. I have always, all my life, needed more time to myself than anyone I know. It’s difficult to explain. Often it feels as though I am not sure what I am feeling until there is no one else around- as though others feelings clog my radar until what is mine is unclear. I did not consciously learn the discipline of solitude as a pragmatic professional and spiritual practice for someone of my gifts until I was in my 30’s. And then what might be possible unfolded in bright colors after years of yearning for goodness knows what. What was all this feeling and sensitivity for? Why could I feel where the trouble was in the room or in one person’s body? Why did I know the questions to help sort out confusion and pain but was too shy to speak or believe I might know something?” - sabbatical journal November 2008 - Blog via Website.
New engagement updates, photos, and writings at my website- Please see my journal BLOG now.
My thanks to Blake Arnall and Sehoon Ahn for website expertise.
John Calvi PO Box 301 Putney, VT 05346 calvij@sover.net 802/387-4789
November Sabbatical Journal 2008
I knew I was missing teaching. The whole dynamic of observing someone and offering something that might be of help is just so ingrained in me. I began teaching swimming to non-swimmers at a 4-H summer camp when I was 14 years old. And began my training as a Montessori teacher at 22. After 10 years of teaching in schools and summer camps, I went to massage school and was teaching massage for trauma by the time I graduated. So this sabbatical time of not teaching has been restful. But once all the naps were taken and I began to feel restless and longing for traveling, I just got this itch. I needed to teach something, even just a little.
We had driven to Keene, New Hampshire for Marshall to choose new glasses frames. I was sitting waiting impatiently as I so often do. I really shouldn’t be allowed to be bored. I turn into one of those kids at the back of the bus up to no good. I was watching a mother and daughter trying on new frames, asking each other how do these look. The daughter found a pair she really liked, put them on, and asked her mom- how do these look? I said, “I don’t like them. You have very beautiful eyes and the frame should surround your eye socket to frame your eyes and those frames just block us from seeing you and your beautiful eyes. Try that round pair.” They both looked at me dumbfounded. Then the mother said, “John Calvi! I’d know that voice anywhere. I’ve taken workshops with you at 3 different Quaker meetings.”
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I was lost in a large supermarket looking for something I couldn’t find and not sure what I would substitute for this recipe. I was also feeling a bit lost on one of those gray days when you wake up and not sure what you are doing in your life and one seems neither as cute or smart as yesterday and what disaster might be on it’s way coming and I don’t feel well but maybe I’m just worried but not sure what about kind of days. That’s when a woman made her way up to me in my befuddleness and said, “I know this is not the place to say this but I just want to say that your work with me all those years ago saved my life and I will be ever grateful to you for your gifts in healing work.” It was a balm to my unsteadiness.
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Sometimes when one is lifted out of the water, there is no sense of place or purpose. I’ve had some of that this sabbatical. I’ll be out into the day and with free time I might get to worrying what am I doing with myself and my life. Sometimes this comes in a voice of doubt and impatience, which completely ignores all I’ve been doing. It helps to remind myself of another time- I was exhausted and resting at Pendle Hill the Spring term of 1990. I had traveled to teach to 30 groups in one year and helped several friends with AIDS to die. I was really pooped. And by and by as I rested but had no work of my usual healing trauma topic to tend to, I came to wondering who I was and what was I doing and where had gravity gone now that I had stepped out of my work harness. I was feeling particularly lost one day when someone said to me in passing, “I didn’t know you wrote that wonderful song. That’s great”, she said with a big smile. “Yes”, I said trying to be casual, “I was so happy when Meg Christian recorded it.” “What?” she said, “I was talking about A Little Gracefulness by the Short Sisters. What song did Meg do of yours?” “The Ones Who Aren’t Here”, I said. Now she had big tears in her eyes and said, “You wrote that?! That is my most favorite song ever!” It was just the little boost I needed to remind me who I was amidst my drifting.
Of the many wonderful aspects of sabbatical- unscheduled time, release from duties, self-care- I find the most luxurious to be time and space within my own mind to wonder. Maybe I am waking up late or stacking firewood or driving to visit a friend. As I leave the patterns of work and over-work and choose more simple tasks, there is a softening of focus. Instead of keeping track of multiple projects and keeping a hard focus on sequence, information, and quality of mind and touch- I am doing some physical motion simple enough to allow ideas and thoughts to come and go as my mind wanders. And the longer this becomes the new practice, the better I am at noticing when something important comes along or some thought is just a delight and a lift to my being, just being. As I wonder about my life, how’d I come here to this now, what is it I know and understand, and what are the parts I haven’t a clue of and might I know more than I think I do- all safely wondered and gazed at in slow motion. And in some wonderful quiet and still moments comes news of what I now can understand of some knot that has been tied tightly for so long. It’s as though a deep breath has come at last to the thirsty lung.
Chief among the sabbatical luxuries is solitude. I have always, all my life, needed more time to myself than anyone I know. It’s difficult to explain. Often it feels as though my clearest sense what I am feeling isn’t possible until there is no one else around- as though others feelings clog my radar until what is mine is unclear. I did not consciously learn the discipline of solitude as a pragmatic professional and spiritual practice for someone of my gifts until I was in my 30’s. And then what might be possible unfolded in bright colors after years of yearning for goodness knows what. What was all this feeling and sensitivity for? Why could I feel where the trouble was in the room or in one person’s body? Why did I know the questions to help sort out confusion and pain but was too shy to speak or believe I might know something?
As sabbatical has gone on I’ve grown used to the vast luxury of time and not pushing. It feels like the rest of a lifetime, an island of calm I only dreamed of. Part of me wants to live here as a contemplative and live in the quiet. An equal part of me wants to use this immense gift of time and restoration to reenter the fray of trauma and torture work. I will have to toss the salad carefully in the future as these are not opposites within me but rather dancing partners needing each other for balance. The quiet and stillness and wonder and solitude bring all my best self, all my strength, and all my learning forward. And the work moves all the learning and readiness into a dance. The task again and again is to be graceful. Not to stay at rest nor to live solely in work but to have each refresh and inform the other in every cycle, at all levels.
How odd to understand this now when maybe half my working years are done. On the one hand my mentors gave me just what I needed all along the way. On the other hand, I spent the first 18 years surviving and didn’t begin to inventory the damage and wash the wounds until later. Like each of us, I am right on time- no matter how much in my impatience I would like it to be different.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
October Sabbatical Journal 2008
October Sabbatical Journal 2009
I really wanted to help. Any mother who has lost two children needs help and in her particular culture grief is done in very restrictive ways. To lose a spouse, a sibling, a parent, a dear friend- all can be very sad. But to lose a child is the worst burden of grief known to humans. And to lose two- once as a young mother and later as an old woman, this called for the wailing and screams not permitted. She is short and cheery. An immigrant of many years, she speaks little English. She’s heard only a little about me and seen me just a bit but when someone in her family says he might help, she says yes. As soon as my hands are over her, I want to run away in terror. If you’ve smelled death and thought you might retch, or seen too much blood and thought you might pass out, well, think of feeling so much grief that your heart would break forever. That’s what I felt and there are no gloves in this work- only allowing the feeling to wash over me and move through. No flinching, no cowering, stand facing the wave and feel every bit of myself joining her experience as though it were my own feeling. My face breaks into weeping and my mouth is contorted though I am silent. I know anyone with any measure of antenna can feel this down the block and around the corner. Marshall felt it in the kitchen- ultimate sadness he called it. I am a bit out of practice. Eleven months of sabbatical with no hands on work and no teaching has lessened my preparation disciplines. So when I enter the work her wave of grief feels larger than it would otherwise. I am not removed by focusing on the Light nor swathed in reverence as I would usually be. As I moved my hands above her and slowly touch her neck and shoulder and belly and feet and knees and hips, I wonder if my guidance is less or my capacity to hear it is less because this witness happened while I was tired and spontaneously without preparations. I wonder if the heart troubles I’ve been having, which have tired me, will be touched by exhaustion. Mostly I am with her and yearn with all my heart for her relief. I’ve asked her to say her favorite prayer while I work and I can’t quite feel if her spiritual connection is working so as to move the work along. On the one hand, all this is familiar and regular- I have my hands on someone in terrible distress again and I am as completely present as possible and know what will come is not up to me and I will be grateful for any blessings. I hope some grace for her learning will make the way smooth or smoother. On the other hand, I am 11 months into a 14-month sabbatical and some of my muscles, as they should be, are slack. What tension is necessary for full attention? What of my own stuff obscures? I don’t know how long we worked- time seems so unlikely as a measure or something unreal during work. But I feel I’ve touched all places I’ve been led to and it’s time to close. I remove my hands from her feet and stand above her. I swoop my hands in the Tai Chi move of Big Cloudy Hands gathering up all her energy and raise my arms to the ceiling, heavenward, with feelings of thanks and here she is and please give what’s needed. And as I lower my arms hoping some gifts are washed over her, I step back and raise my hands again asking to be washed and to say thank you for this opportunity to love and as I bring my hands down I cross my arms in front of my torso and finish standing straight my feet in good balance position holding my whole body without stress, palms down. I ask her to rest a while and this is translated to her. She nods without opening her eyes. It’s time for me to leave. It was a very large witness. Later at home, I drink a large glass of something very cold and lie down for a nap where I sleep deeply and gratefully the rest of the afternoon. I hear later that she laughed for the first time in a long time. So much here that is beyond words- the gifts, the disciplines, the Light that washes, the reverence.
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