Sankta Lucia comments

RE: Sankta Lucia

Marti,
I really enjoyed your recollection of your first Sankta Lucia Fest and how you got in-touch with your “inner Swede”. Would you mind If I copy/pasted your story into an email to my friend Rich Lindberg?
Merry Christmas!
Mike [ Rich is author of the book “Whiskey Breakfast, my Swedish Family, my American Life”, Univ. of Minn. Press, 2011]

St Lucia

I absolutely enjoyed your story, I smiled remembering my own Hungarian heritage and the night of St Lucia. Although I don’t quite recall, I have vague memories….will have to google it!
Have a wonderful evening celebration! Enjoy the festivities!
Many warm hugs!
Annika

Re: Sankta Lucia
Thanks for a wonderful note! We just had our Christmas party with the 3rd grade of Goudy school who sang for us. 51 nationalities and I did not see a Swede!!!
Wil

Re: Sankta Lucia

Marti, this is beautiful. You are always discovering something about yourself and the universe. I could practically feel the cold, the snow and the reserved Swedes feeling that despite everything, all’s right with the world.
PRAY FOR PEACE
WORK FOR JUSTICE
BOOGIE FOR SURVIVAL
www.barrelhousebonni.com
Reconnecting generations through blues education: www.chicagoschoolofblues.com
The Story of a Chicago Blues Musician, co-authored with Larry Hill Taylor: www.stepsonoftheblues.com
Dear Marti,
Good to hear from you and love your message. I too remember the Sankta Lucia festivals. I was always in awe of the beautiful candle lit crowns,the beautiful songs, and of course the hearty smell of hot Swedish coffee brewing in the church kitchens and cardamom rolls baking. Happy holidays to you as well. See you soon.
Dorene
Dr. Dorene P. Wiese
President
American Indian Association of Illinois
6554 N. Rockwell
Chicago,IL 60645
773.550.9600
Chicago-American-Indian-Edu.Org

Lucia Fest

                                          Lucia Fest

I time-travel to before I was born

Split personalities – that was our family: part French Canadian, part Swede, with the hidden German perhaps holding the two together inside us. My dad the spontaneous flamboyant French Canadian, my mom the thoughtful reserved Swede. As Dad ran the family, the values of the Swede inside me often felt overshadowed. It used to feel like the “dull” part of me. But as an adult I sense solidness in this Swede inside and I search to know and affirm this quiet thoughtful part of myself.
I also seek elucidation on some mysterious parts of myself. Somewhere inside I’ve always felt a prohibition against bragging, and this has cost me a lot. And it’s so strong! It feels as if the worst sin I could commit would be to stand out and show off. Along with this is a natural concern for the well-being of others, a group-mindedness. My second sister (out of three), eight years younger than I, looks Swedish as I do and lives by the very same altruistic modest values. My sisters two and ten years younger than me look French Canadian and live by what I would call French values. The central drive seems to be to enjoy as much of the world as possible (the famous ‘joi de vivre’), to take good care of themselves and to make their own lives as wonderful as possible, all beautiful values but kind of opposite the Swedes.
I’ve puzzled mightily over my inability to show myself and my accomplishments and my natural putting others first. A friend told me of someone she knows who lives in a Scandinavian community in Massachusetts. He told her this is a basic Scandinavian law: An individual is not to take credit for doing well! With Swedes, every person should naturally do their best, but pride we take as a group.  One should not stand out or call attention to one’s self or one’s individual achievements. This is actively frowned upon, disapproved of. I was amazed to think I may have inherited this taboo in my very genes!
Living in Chicago I have opportunities to get to know the Swede inside me. One fun Swedish experience happens each December 13th, the Lucia Fest at Ebenezer Lutheran Church in Andersonville, the only remnant left of many Swedish settlements in the Chicago area. Though I was raised in a Swedish town in Michigan and we kept various food customs at Christmas, for reasons I don’t know, none in our town did the Lucia Fest.
But here in Chicago all is possible. So tonight, my first experience of the Lucia Fest, I arrive early at the church because I feel a serious hunger to experience this. I choose a seat on the inside aisle so I can see well whatever’s going to happen. I expect “beauty” to be a part of tonight, and some kind of celebration of light in darkness, with the help of “young maidens,” who always stand for beauty.
An older couple climb over me and sit down. The woman tells me she comes from far down the genealogical line of “being Swedish”, but she still thinks of herself this way.
The celebration begins. We have programs with all the information. The pastor gives an introduction, then we rise and sing a Christmas song in Swedish with the translation alongside. I hear everyone sing out fairly loudly. We know how to pronounce this language from hearing it in childhood and feel happy to be making these familiar sounds that bring back memories. Perhaps we’ve been to Sweden once and listened to the lilt of people speaking “our tongue.” Quickly I see it: we are “WannaBe Swedes.”
We listen to the young girls’ choir sing a song in Swedish; they are obviously, like us, trying to pronounce and remember words that are mostly meaningless. Then we hear a heart-warming sharing by Mr. R. Johnson, Chairperson of the Board of the Swedish American Museum in Chicago. He remembers for us when he visited Sweden in the heart of winter back when he was in high school or college; how thrilled his heart was when he arrived at a train station in the night and saw the snow glistening everywhere, just as he had imagined Sweden would be in winter – dark and snowy and beautiful. I can feel something respond in my own heart – yes, we love to picture this winter scene with Mr. R. Johnson. This is our homeland, though we’ve never been there.
We happily stand and sing another long song in Swedish; I don’t even know the melody but it’s still fun to try. The Swedish Consulate greets us and we feel honored that she’s come to acknowledge us in our serious attempt to stay part of the homeland. She tells us how beautiful the Swedish Embassy is in Washington DC and that “it’s a stone’s throw from the Kennedy Center and you must all go visit it.” “Yes!” this little foreigner inside me responds. “Yes, of course I will go and see our embassy!”
I look around at the faces of the people. I know I have some particular look, a face like my Swedish grandfather, and these people look like me! And I feel their character too. What is it? If we were all Hispanic or Italian I suppose the children would be running happily around and even the adults would be boisterous, – they’d sing and chatter and move with energy. We are ‘reserved.’ We have quick, genuine smiles, but also a modesty and gentleness. I’ve often wondered how on earth we changed from the ferocious Vikings into the self-controlled Scandinavians of today. I only know that this character is in my very bones. I do not feel like a puzzle to myself here; I feel completely normal.
Finally we get to the Lucia part of this experience. After the men’s choir tries to sing a couple Swedish songs (pretty badly) then a young lady explains the legend of Sankta Lucia. St. Lucy was a young Christian woman in third century Italy. She wished to dedicate her life to Jesus, called the Christ, but her father had other ideas for her and betrothed her to a young local lad. Lucy then gave away all her dowry to the poor. Neither her father nor her fiance appreciated her attitude and together they had her tortured to death. So she’s been proclaimed a saint, and particularly a saint of the poor.
One winter in Sweden there was terrible famine and suffering; someone saw Sankta Lucia walking across a frozen lake bringing bread; she was wearing a white robe like an angel and had candles around her head. And so began this custom of the eldest daughter waking the family on this dark day each year with bread and coffee for breakfast. This is a special bread, a sweet bread shaped like an “S”.
Now, finally, Lucia and her court are coming! Each Lucia wins this honor on her merits, though it probably helps if the young lady has blond hair (not all Swedes do). The lights in the room darken and we hush and look back and center, just as if we awaited a bride. Then Lucia comes walking slowly down the aisle in the darkness and we all stand and smile with joy at this beautiful sight: she with five heavy candles secured around her head on a strong crown, and the other girls also in white robes, carrying candles in the darkness, and all sing a beautiful song (memorized in Swedish, of course). It truly is as I always expected – just lovely.
Lastly we all (try to) sing Silent Night in Swedish and are invited to the parish hall to be served sweet bread and drink non-alcoholic (non-genuine) glug by Lucia and her court. My heart is content: I’ve felt like a real Swede for one night, like I was in Sweden in another century, some time when life was difficult and religion held us up and it was the long winter. And out of the place of hardship and hunger, Sankta Lucia felt our need, heard us praying, and brought us bread across the quiet and gentle snow-covered landscape. I remember and am comfortable with this serious and gentle and generous part of myself and am glad to be who I am.

Comments on Nudist Halloween

Interesting comments on “Nudist Halloween”

Dear Marti,

I thoroughly enjoyed your piece. Believe it or not, I also went to a nudist camp with 2 other girl friends in my early days. It is Sky Farm in NJ and it’s the first nudist camp in the country.. Still operating. At the time, it was a family camp and we three women were the first singles they allowed in. It was an experiment for them and apparently we passed and they opened it up to others like ourselves. Like you, it felt so natural, lots of interesting talks, bright people. Loved swimming without clothes. The camp was open in winter for sledding and other winter sports. Clothing essential then.
Each family had their own cabin, large, medium or small. We stayed with friends who had extra room. We all loved it. It was wonderful to feel the air on our bodies
Haven’t had an opportunity to do it again. But would not hesitate to go back
(anonymous)

                                              ***
Marti, thank you for the blog. I read a little of it and found it to be enabling. In my case it is not a back curvature but a urostomy bag on my abdomen that I call my “ectopic breast”. It has taken me a long time to feel at ease in public despite living in a community where lots of persons have stooped posture, paralyzed sides, vocal distortions, canes, walkers,fat bellies, tremors etc…and lots of smiles, friendly faces, very smart brains, etc. We are so fortunate to have a community where we accentuate the positive and LIVE! The other day a person paralyzed on the right was helped by a person paralyzed on the left!
have a good Halloween
Wil
          Wilmer Rutt

From:Bonni McKeown <barrelhbonni@yahoo.com>To:Marti Matthews <martim1234@sbcglobal.net> Sent:Sunday, October 27, 2013 5:27 PMSubject:Re: My Halloween Blog
  
I havent figured out how to access my google to comment on your blog… so I’ll just say your Halloween post reminds me of playing piano at a nudist resort in eastern W.Va., Avalon. Everyone was friendly, polite and unpretentious, as you say… and you’re right, when we die our earthly appearance becomes a moot point.

PRAY FOR PEACE
WORK FOR JUSTICE
BOOGIE FOR SURVIVAL
http://www.barrelhousebonni.com/
Reconnecting generations through blues education: www.chicagoschoolofblues.com
The Story of a Chicago Blues Musician, co-authored with Larry Hill Taylor: http://www.stepsonoftheblues.com/

 
Dear Marti,
I read yr blog top to bottom and found it very moving. Thank you for sharing your life so freely with us…quite a life, too! I love yr poems and share a recent one of mine:
With love,
Patty
Patty de Llosa (author of The Practice of Presence and Taming Your Inner Tyrant)
 
Nut, Stone, Feather

I went out to the Park feeling moody

and ill at ease.

So what am I supposed to be doing?” I asked the roses

and kicked at a fallen acorn on the path.

Hey, wait a minute!

Acorns grow into oak trees.

Let’s have a little respect here!

I picked up the acorn and saw a stone just near it,

Dirty white.

But I bet a little polishing would show its worth,

Prepare it

To lie like a jewel

At the center of a necklace.

I walked on a little farther.

There in the path lay a bird’s feather,

Thrown away by a winged life.

Where’s the bird that needs no feather?

Could feathers ever do for me

What they do for birds?

Nut, stone, feather.

What are they telling me?

Let’s make a guess:

Living stone is the foundation of the earth.

Touch it and you touch the earth, your Mother.

The nut is a seed of enormous possibility,

A tiny life with a powerful future.

And the feather?

It comes from a being that can fly.

www.tamingyourinnertyrant.com

How I Won First Place in the Nudist Halloween Costume Contest

    Participating in nudist clubs was not originally my idea, and yet I know that it flowed out of my life and was done for my benefit. Moreover, this story encompasses some of the most delightful experiences of my life and three of the greatest tragedies of my life.

      This adventure began with my first husband, Tom. He was very tall, 6 ft., in contrast to my 5 ft. at that time, a venturesome Renaissance man with black hair and fair Irish skin, he loved me with complete dedication and said that he found me delightful. He would do anything he could for me. When I would cry as I tried to sew jumpsuits or bras for myself to accommodate my back curvature (impossible things to sew for one’s self even for the skilled, which I’m not) Tom would try to help me sew. He knew how frustrating my body was to me – the severe curvature in my lower back, the heavy breasts that increased my back and neck pain, these made me feel altogether physically ugly and out-of-sorts with my body. Tom found me beautiful. I know he wasn’t lying, but I never understood this.

      Browsing in Barnes and Noble bookstore, Tom ran across an interesting book: Nudist Clubs and Beaches in the United States. The information seemed sound and he thought perhaps attending one of these activities might help my self-image, help me feel O.K. about my body. I don’t know why I said “Yes” to this; I can only chalk it up to who I was arguing with – Tom had been on debate teams for seven years in high school and college and I was no match. He persuaded me to to try the once-a-month gathering of the Chicago Sun Club.

      We had to call ahead to make reservations. They explained their philosophy and policies to us. They try to keep a balance between male and female participants and encourage people to come as couples. They described their activities. This would be Hawaiian night, so we were invited to bring a Hawaiian style potluck dish.

      We arrived, were greeted by nice people, and paid a fee towards the once-a-month rental of this facility. We disrobed in the locker room and headed shyly for the food. People were very friendly. Everyone wore Hawaiian leis (nothing else) and in fact, these people seemed very ordinary, though interesting. Believe it or not, after about 90 seconds, I no longer realized we were all naked. We stood around chit-chatting about politics and family and philosophy as at any party. A few people wore swimsuits; this is allowed, except not in the jacuzzi in order to encourage hesitant folks to take the plunge. There was swimming, volleyball, yoga, board games (sitting on towels), and food. We had a great time, and I did feel that my body was no funnier than anyone else’s.

      After that we often returned. Each month was a different theme. There was ranch night when we all brought barbequed food. Everyone wore boots and neck scarves and bolo ties and cowboy hats – nothing else, just boots and scarves and hats.

      Eventually we visited a couple nudist camps. We brought our son and daughter, late elementary age, to a nudist family resort in Indiana. One child went nude and the other wore a bathingsuit; I don’t remember which did which but they could choose as they wanted. The place was a lovely wooded campground and had an outdoor pool, with a waterslide for the kids. They took to it fine because it was such a fun place to be. I got to jump up and down naked in the warm sunshine on a trampoline! It was a gorgeous experience. The place had tennis courts, too. Tennis players everywhere have to be careful about too much sun, so there at the nudist resort the tennis players wear shirts – nothing else, just shirts.

      The Indiana resort is across the street from a truck drivers’ nudist resort, a place that probably fits most people’s ideas of nudism more closely than where we were. In our resort, families can rent campground space and leave a trailor for the summer or bring their tents for a weekend. We were always involved with family centered, philosophically based clubs and resorts.

      We visited the nudist resort in Kissimmi, Florida, which surrounds a lake. At night I rented a canoe and went out to the center of the lake. There I sat naked under the millions of stars overhead in the Milky Way. It was an awesome and holy night for me. Also in Florida, north of Cape Canaveral at Playa Linda, Tom and I and our two children floated naked on the great warm waves of the ocean, held up easily by the salt water, relaxed completely as if Mother Nature were rocking us in a cradle. I knew that I was born for nudism, though it was Tom who got us there.

      Time went on and one night back home when I came to bed Tom said he was having pain in his left arm and shoulder. He hadn’t told me earlier but he’d already gone to the hospital and they said this was not a heart attack. But he was in great pain. We fell asleep naked together, afraid and not knowing what to do. He said, to me “The most wonderful thing in all the world is to lie here in your arms.” Two hours later I heard him make a very long strange sigh. I jumped up and turned the light on. He wasn’t breathing. I called 911 and it seemed to take forever for help to come. Our son was just beginning his senior year and had taken a CPR class; he tried to resuscitate his dad but Tom’s spirit was gone from his body and no emergency help was able to bring him back.

      A few years passed, and I met another Tom, a very different man but dear and special in his own ways. Eventually I invited him to go with me to the monthly nudist club where first Tom and I had gone. We called ahead and were told that this would be the Halloween party. I planned my simple costume: a dark blue feather boa around my neck and a half mask made of white feathers. Tom couldn’t think of anything for a costume so we stopped at a drugstore and bought him a mask. It was nondescript: a face, two round holes for eyes, with a small black mustache and long brown hair hanging down the sides of the face like a pageboy.
     At the club, we were sitting at a table with another woman sipping drinks and talking, when it was announced that there would be a costume parade. We should tell the judges what we were as we passed, in case they couldn’t guess from our skimpy costumes. We three looked at each other and wondered, “What are we?” The woman had a feathered half mask like mine, so I had the inspiration that she and I were birds and Tom was a bird dog. As we passed the judges, the other lady and I ran around and flapped our arms like wings and Tom barked and chased us like a bird dog. And – we won first place!

      There was a funny sexist ending to that little story. The prize was a free pass to the nudist resort in Battle Creek, Michigan. One pass was given to the other lady and they gave ours to Tom, writing his name on it “plus guest”, assuming that he had brought me as his guest! I was indignant as he was my guest and I went up to that judge and asked him to correct the mistake. Gender assumptions, even in such an enlightened community!

      My life with second Tom was short and rich. After three years of our life together he had a brain stem stroke when we got too high for his lungs in the mountains of New Mexico. He was totally paralyzed and unable to speak, though his mind was fine. I cared for him for 2 and ½ years, but finally his spirit gave up and he, too, passed on.

      Now, being twice widowed, I finally persuaded a surgeon to almost completely remove my heavy breasts. “A size A,” I begged him, and because of my age he did it for me. My back is greatly lightened by this, though my body now seems funnier than ever. But now I know a society of people who will lovingly say that I’m just fine, no matter how I look. I am a convinced and happy and grateful nudist.

                                            *****

Postscript: There are two nationally recognized nudist organizations that are trustable for their integrity. Ours was called The National Sunbathers Association, today called the American Association for Nude Recreation. A similar organization is called The Naturist Society. Both emphasize nudism as a lifestyle that promotes such values as living in a manner that respects nature, promotes self-acceptance, good health, equality (beauty is not a person’s value), moderate living, and such.

Poems by Dr. Dorene Wiese

Two Poems
by Dr. Dorene Wiese
(White Wing Woman)
   (from another friend)

Cree Medicine Man
They say you were a Cree Medicine Man
So long ago, as a young woman, I remember you
I remember you watching me,
Following me on your crutches, telling me ancient stories, as your
Magnificent long black braids shown in the sun.
Gifts you gave me of muskrat, eagle feathers, and a bear claw
medallion. Gifts that have carried me through
The decades to this grey-haired present.
I know you tried to keep me from that peyote tipi
But the desert medicine called
To an Indian journey of love, hate, resistance,
Battles won and defeats endured.
Cree elder, did you sway me that night with your love medicine?
Did you make me fall in love with that Ojibwe warrior
Because you could not have me.
Thirty years later, I cannot look his way
Without thinking about that star filled Stoney night.
And that glorious morning, when life and love filled my spirit.
It is too late to bury that bear claw now.
O Typekey Divider
Our Beautiful Chicago Indian Elders
They led the way
Our beautiful Chicago Indian elders.
Back from hundreds of years of
Fear, destruction, death, obliteration.
They led the way
Using the tools of thousands of years of knowledge.
Observation, truth, perseverance, prayer,
Made the way for us.
They led the way
Through caring, laughter, song and dance.
Carrying our burdens, our tears, our weak spirits
When we could no longer stand.
They lead us today
With a smile, a reminder of days before.
While they hold us up
Spirits united in the joy of the gift of life.

Dear readers,
   I’ve decided to begin posting some contributions from friends, as in “marti and friends explore the universe!”  It seems many friends can’t figure out how to post comments here on the blog so they send comments to me by email.  Here I’ll enclose a touching comment on my story “The Gift” that I posted last February 2013.  I hope you enjoy Dottie’s comment:

Hi Marti,

I wanted to comment on your article on Color.

When I was a little girl , I lived on an Air Force Base with my family in a Ranch House provided by the Military. I had a little Black Boy, who was my friend. I liked to spend time with him especially when I was able to go into his home and play his piano .I loved to sing and compose music on the piano. His father was an Officer and my father was a Chief Master Sargent. Since his father was an Officer, his house was grander than mine.

One day this little boy told his mother that he was going to marry me when we grew up. We saw no difference in each other even though I was white and he was not. We looked at each other as equals even in those days. We were just comfortable with each other.

After this day, when he told his mother he would marry me, I never saw him again. It took me years to understand why. We children did not see Color, but the Adults did.

                                      Dorothy Maram