Blog – Page 8 – Marti Matthews

summer poem

Marti Matthews on June 12, 2016

Covert Township Park, MI

Do I belong on Riff Raff Row

in that last campsite near the dune?

I ask my Mom and she says “No.

A lady, now, should stay at home.”

I ask my Dad and he’s not sure,

though he’s been riff raff all along.

He doesn’t see me in that way.

Nor should I be content – that’s wrong.

I wonder why I feel inside

That I belong to Riff Raff Row

and hills and dunes and trees and sound

of water splashing to and fro,

and people living on the edge,

content with friends and open air

and simple joys and little work,

with children tumbling everywhere.

From somewhere in the woods around

Something tells me “Yes, it’s true!

This is your home – you own it all

in just the way that it owns you.

The earth and water gave you birth;

The sound of waves was your first song.

Here you are sufficient, child;

Here all can rest till each is strong.

The empty site before the dune –

Number nine on Riff Raff Row –

Go bring your tent and be content.

That sand, those trees, are home to you.”

Marti Matthews 2/16/99

“Let us not demean the dead,” my grandfather said quietly, his head turned slightly toward my father at the head of the table. We were all silent, holding our breaths in shock at the whole scene. No one ever spoke up against Dad. But today at Thanksgiving dinner, where we were all gathered as a supposedly happy family, he had spoken without thought about his deceased mother-in-law, our grandmother, whom he had never liked. I forget what he said, but he was not thinking with any respect that Grandpa was here with us.

Dad never showed respect to Grandpa. Perhaps there was a jealousy under all; in his own house Dad was top dog. Grandpa, on the contrary, former state senator for ten years, respected all over western Michigan, invited to speak at commencements, churches, public ceremonies, always spoke respectfully to my dad, as he did to everyone. Dad had married the senator’s daughter and that was all he needed from his father-in-law.

During the Depression, the Republicans of western Michigan were looking for a senatorial candidate who would stand up for education. Grandpa served on the School Board, the County Welfare Board and the bank board. They asked him to run and he won. He was paid $2 a day as a senator, only when the senate was in session, so between sessions he worked in the general store he owned with his brother. His brother began to drink, claiming he had too much work, so Grandpa agreed that he would quit the senate if Lowell would quit drinking, and that was the way of it. Grandpa returned to being a small town grocer with complete cheerfulness and grace. Lowell eventually returned to drinking but Grandpa never spoke of him with bitterness. He looked back at everything in his life with gratefulness as if all was a gift to him. He’d tell with relish of tromping through the bitter snow in northern Russia during World War I and learning a few words in Russian which he can still remember, to speak to the locals.

Mom was raised a Lutheran and stayed a Lutheran when she married Dad. When Dad proved that Martin Luther had been a Catholic priest she opened to joining the Church. Twenty years after her marriage, an old friend told her that when she married Dad, the Lutheran minister gave a sermon that Sunday about the wrongness of parents who allow their children to marry Catholics, with Grandma and Grandpa sitting in the front row as they always did. Grandpa had never said a word about this. When Mom had asked his opinion about marrying Dad, Grandpa had said “I’ll respect whatever you decide.” Mom was furious to learn about this story from the past but the pastor was long gone.

Grandpa’s library spoke to me of a different set of values. To begin with, he owned and treasured books! A whole room of walls quietly filled with inspiring books – biographies and autobiographies of great people, books of quotes and jokes he used in public speaking, Bible study books he used in his fifty years of teaching adult Sunday school. In my house, though we had money, I cannot remember seeing any book around the house except an unused Bible on the coffee table of the parlor. For Christmas we got hair dryers, petticoats, roller skates, nice things for teenage girls but not books. When I went into Grandpa’s sunny quiet library I felt my body lifted in surprise and delight. Grandpa let me borrow from his books and these were food for me in a way our family kitchen didn’t provide.

One Easter morning I was home from college when Grandpa stopped on his way to his church. He didn’t usually do this. He said in his cheerful simple way, “I’ll be teaching the adult Sunday School this morning!” I froze. It was Easter. How special! What I heard was an unspoken invitation to come and hear him teach. I longed to say to my parents, “Can I go with Grandpa?” But such was my fear of my parents’ disapproval that I did not say a word and Grandpa cheerfully hurried on.

I’ve lived under the shadow of my father’s temper and opinions most of my life, though I followed Grandpa’s path into the world of religious studies, spiritual practice, and service. I endured a lack of understanding and support from my father because I never earned much money on this path. But I’ve come to see that Grandpa has been the father of my adulthood, the example of walking humbly and cheerfully over the earth doing worthwhile things. I know my grandfather’s mentor was Jesus Christ and Grandpa did his mentor proud. I hope in the end I may also do Grandpa proud.

Summer Catechism, an early religious experience

Marti Matthews on April 26, 2016

Perhaps I was eight years old, perhaps it was June. Not too hot yet, but summer vacation. Our small town Catholic church, St. Bartholomew’s, had the honor of nuns coming out from the city to teach us catechism for a week. We brought our breakfasts – this is what I remember with joy! There was a grove of trees with picnic tables throughout, sun shining through. The grass was still a bit dewy. My mother sent my younger sister and I with little boxes of cereal and milk. The boxes, rice krispies or cornflakes, would open along dotted lines forming a bowl with waxed paper lining; we’d open the milk cartons, pour the milk in, and have our breakfast. All the tables were filled with children together eating this special outdoor breakfast. Everything seemed shiny and lovely.

After breakfast we went to class outdoors, which also seemed special. We sat on folding chairs on the grass in the open sunshine. I’d barely ever seen a nun before. They seemed alright, not mean or scary, but not as personal as our classroom teachers at school. They were intent on teaching us ideas they felt were very important, and those as much and clearly as possible in this short time. We memorized the catechism and were given holy cards with pictures of saints as rewards. The catechism explained all about life and how we should live. They told us how Jesus had suffered because Adam and Eve had eaten an apple when they were told not to and so we were all born in sin and couldn’t go to heaven when we die. Jesus had made things OK for us with God again by his terrible death.

After class we went into the church to do the Stations of the Cross alone and go to confession. Doing the Stations was very painful for me physically. I didn’t know if it was the same for everyone else. I did it because I was told to. I’d go to the first picture on the wall: “Jesus is tried by Pilate”, and read the story, then kneel down as the book said to and read the prayer of love for Jesus. I’d stand up and move to the next picture, “Jesus is whipped”, look at the picture, read the story, kneel down and say the prayer of thanks to Jesus. There were fourteen pictures, each more gory and sad than the one before.

After doing this spiritual exercise I’d try to go to Confession. I was raised to be a “good girl” so I didn’t do much of anything others’ thought wrong, so going to Confession was hard. I usually had to repeat the same sins over each time: “I forgot to say my night prayers. I was mad at my sister.” Maybe I’d add a general “I disobeyed my parents” but actually I never did this. Confession was also lots of kneeling and physically hard for me, but I never told anyone about how my body hurt. I supposed everyone experienced their bodies the way I did. Besides, I’d learned that it pleases God for us to suffer silently. The example of Jesus’ suffering and dying to please God made this clear.

Many years later when I was sixteen it was finally discovered that I have a severe curvature in my lower back; my spine was almost falling off my pelvis! Many, many times I had to do things that felt too much and were painful and exhausting, but I had meditated many times on the story of Jesus’ sufferings so I never complained about my own suffering.

At summer catechism, after confessing our sins we were done for the morning and my mom would pick us up for lunch. I did like learning about life and religion and the promise that God loves and cares for us. It was fascinating to be close to these unusual women all covered in black with only their faces showing. I dreaded doing the Stations of the Cross though the story touched me deeply. Confession made me feel guilty because I mostly had to lie to do it, not seeing anything clearly sinful in the way I lived. Eating breakfast outdoors in the sunshine and dewy grass with other children still brings me joy to remember.

All of these experiences were the ground upon which much thinking happened as the years went forward. I endured suffering I should not have. Finally it became too much and I spoke my true experience of my body and was able to get relief through surgery. It took much more suffering yet to learn that The Source of my Life really is trying to lead me towards happiness and out of lifestyles and beliefs that value suffering for its own sake. It would take much, much more experience and reflection to figure this out….

The Day I Fell Off My Bike

Marti Matthews on April 22, 2016

Walking was difficult now

so how could I enjoy the spring?

Was I forever banished from strolling through the woods?

From greeting the buttercups, the trilliums,

Spring Beauties, the May Apples?

“No way, Jose!”

For $30

I bought a bike from the sixth grade boy

next door. His dad

adjusted the seat on this

old no-gear stop-with-your-pedal bike.

Not able to get my leg up and over I

sat it on the ground, stepped over and

pulled the bike up between my legs

undaunted.

And then:

Get those pedals right,

here at the top of the slanted drive,

hop up on that seat and I’m off!

Sailing down the drive into

the quiet street, no cars,

I’m pedaling happily and free!

I’m 71 and I can still ride a bike!

Around the corner onto the next quiet street,

wind and sun on my skin, in my hair, on my face,

I wave at the neighbors and they

Smile back and wave me on.

But down the way

I’m surprised to see where this

street is going – into

A car-busy street, I

see it coming up – Must either

stop or make a U.

A wide driveway offers

space for a turn and

I go for it,

for the U turn,

but don’t quite make it.

Whoops, Whoops I’m on the pavement

really hard. My arms reach out to

protect, to stop, bike on top of me, pain in shin, blood?

can’t tell, try to gather

nerves and muscles back together quickly,

car coming down the way, pain actually

pretty bad. “Are you Okay, Ma’m,” the young man asks

passing very slowly in his car?

“I’m fine; thanks.” I lie and smile, and he

moves on and so do I,

walking my bike till

I’m stable enough to get on again.

I get on again,

Pedal with effort towards home,

afraid to look at my throbbing shin

but once again on wheels

and I’m still 71 and still

riding a bike!

Spring Poems

Marti Matthews on April 21, 2016

Imagine a magical universe in which we never die! We live forever and whenever we want, we take different forms of our own choosing, in order to learn and grow in whatever ways we want to.

In such a magical Universe,

Oh, I want to be a buttercup! A buttercup! A buttercup!

O warm richness!

O passionate color!

O enthusiasm for Life!

I’ll plant myself by a watery place

and laugh for joy.

I’ll glory in the singing birds,

the humming bees,

the busy pesky flies,

the tickling breeze.

And the sun’s salvation,

“Relish in the warmth of sun!”

my shining saffron face will sing.

“And don’t forget enthusiasm, passion.

Dance, swim, listen, sing, love,

feel and sense.

Celebrate like me,” I’ll laugh,

I, the cheerful buttercup!

***

I’d be honored to be a jack-in-the-pulpit.

Oracle of the woods.

With my tri-leaf behind,

erect, serene,

I’ll receive searching visitors.

From my rich roots

through my straight stem

into my waiting cup

will flow wisdom from our Mother Earth.

Whoever has the patience to sit before me

and ask a question

listening

to them I’ll speak the truth.

Truth is solid ground,

fecund.

Standing straight and quiet I’ll speak.

Who sits straight and quiet and opens their own cup

will receive my thoughts.

We’ll nod to each other respectfully,

they’ll pass on,

and I will wait

to be again an oracle for Wisdom.

***

Spring Beauty,

most delicate of all spring flowers,

early to appear,

how lovely to be her!

Small and sweet and dear,

my white five-petalled face with pink mint stripes

will smile up like a shy girl-child

at the awesome world around.

Simple, friendly,

I will open to the sun.

My thin stem will dance with the smallest breeze.

Never alone, I’ll live in a world of gentle friends

like me,

all of us playing

in the sweet spring sun and wind and rain.

O beauty protected,

O tenderness extreme,

I will speak to all the world

of the great sensitivity

of The Source of All Life.

***

I would love to be a white Anemone,

Daughter of the Wind.

Thin and graceful, dancing open,

never shy.

Taller than my little sisters,

leaves much greener, fuller,

bigger face,

my sunny yellow center begging to be pollinated:

“I am ready,

I am beautiful!

O come to me now, Life,”

I’ll say with guileless joy.

Free maiden of the forest,

I want to be seen,

not hidden.

I know my beauty,

O tell me how beautiful I am!

Notice me,

my white loveliness up from the rich green floor.

Notice my readiness,

my aliveness.

Love me now in the springtime of my life.

***

Dancing in the ruins of an ancient Hawaiian temple

Marti Matthews on January 27, 2016

Because I have so many dead people in my life story, and have explored how to hold onto those relationships, people often ask me if I’ve ever experienced a “spirit.” This morning I’m remembering one very clear experience.

I was in Hawaii. This was my second trip, this one alone, after I had won a trip to HI a year or so earlier. (Also a delightful story) I’ve dearly loved Hawaii, felt at home as if I’ve lived here before. I was on the island of Kauai, the farthest out of the main islands and one less populated (so far) by Westerners. I’d read that the ruins of an ancient temple were on a cliff somewhere near this beach. I walked the long length of the beach to the end and found myself at the foot of a high wooded hill; a small path up began nearby. I started the steep climb and eventually found myself at an open place, clearly the old temple ruins. Three tiers of earth/sand each marked into a rectangle by stones, and all looking out over the shining blue ocean, with trees on either side giving privacy to the view. Where I stood at the end of the path, a circle of stones was full of small tokens people had left.

I walked quietly and slowly out into the sandy area of the former temple. Then I felt a happy urge to dance here. I’d been taking lessons in Hawaiian dancing; I wasn’t particularly good at it but I did love it and had kind of mastered one dance. So I began to do it there, facing out towards the ocean, feeling the wind and sun on my body as I flowed in this hula story.

At one point I faltered a little: I always messed up in that place in the dance. I went on and finished. When I was done, I felt a presence. It felt masculine, somewhat large and old, and it said to me, “DO IT AGAIN.” So I did it once more, feeling now that I was being watched. I faltered again at the same place. When I finished, I felt the presence loving me somewhat as a child is loved, like ‘Okay, you tried,’ but the voice told me that “One should not make mistakes; one should dance perfectly in the temple.”

I promised I would practice the dance and come back and do it perfectly.

As of today, I have not done this. I’m not sure I could remember the dance now and even less sure I could walk the length of the beach and climb the hill! Goddess willing, perhaps I could remember the dance and do it at home here.

Yes, I have experienced a spirit. And – discovered that I was being watched by one! I felt that he lived there still, as if time stood still for him, and that anyone who entered this historical area should honor and be aware of him. Dancing in a temple is a prayer and a communal experience; one should do it with proper reverence and – perfection!

I’ll add another small Kauai experience. As I flew off on a small plane back to the island of Oahu, I held in my hand a short smooth stick I’d picked up to carry home as a souvenir. As my plane rose and I looked out the window, I felt the anger of the island coming at me strongly for taking the stick! So now not only do I owe a perfect dance to a Hawaiian ancient one but I have a small stick I must somehow keep separate from all my other earthy collections and return one day to its land.