The Hermit's Hut

The Poet of Tolstoy Park

“You have noticed that everything an Indian does is in a circle. And that is because the Power of the World always works in a circle and everything tries to be round…The life of a man is a circle from childhood to childhood, and so it is in everything where power moves…
Black Elk, Holy Man of the Oglala Sioux

Here in Fairhope, Alabama, there is a round, stone hut built in the 1920’s by a man named Henry Stuart, a widower and retired professor from Idaho. He came to this area at the age of sixty-seven, sick with tuberculosis, to ‘perfect his soul’ before he died. He chose Fairhope because it was a colony established by free thinkers and non-conformists who lived outside the normal strictures of American society. He bought ten acres of piney-woods just outside the main village and built on it the small, round structure you see above. Instead of dying, he lived for twenty years there, where he wrote and discussed his ideas about an idealized society where capitalism is benevolent and people share the land and its by-products. Leo Tolstoy was his inspiration and people like Clarence Darrow visited regularly to discuss their ideas. He became known as the Poet of Tolstoy Park and his little hermitage stands, preserved, today in the parking lot of an office complex. After twenty years in Alabama, Henry Stuart returned to Idaho and lived and died close to his two sons and his many grandchildren.

Sandy and I visited his Hermitage yesterday and saw the bricks that Henry Stuart made by hand while living in a small barn on the property. There are heavy hooks in the ceiling where his sleeping hammock hung and a small, pot-bellied stove where he cooked his food and warmed his always-bare feet. One wonders whether it was the power of the circle that healed him, or the years of concentrated work and deep thinking. Perhaps it was the hope that the ideas of his beloved Tolstoy, as well as those of Chief Seattle and Henry David Thoreau, would someday find fertile ground and grow into a viable movement in America.

Henry Stuart’s story reminds me again of what a potent place America is, and what she stands for in the world—freedom of thought and lifestyle and the gracious hospitality of an open door. I pray we never lose our way.

In Fair-hope,
Jane

A Southern Education

Being a Non-Belle in the Deep South

“Polishing silver is the Southern lady’s version of grief therapy.”
Gayen Metcalfe & Charlotte Hays

I found a little book in the ‘sitting’ room of the Bay Breeze bed and breakfast titled: Being Dead Is No Excuse. It claims to be the official Southern ladies guide to hosting the perfect funeral, and includes recipes for such things as Aunt Hebe’s Coconut Cake and Mason-Dixon Curried Chicken Salad, and of course, Ham Mouse, because what else can you do with the 3-5 hams every Southern household receives when someone dies. It also gives helpful tips about how to make stuffed eggs that will be the envy of even Episcopal ladies.

You may laugh, but this is serious business in certain quarters of the South. When my friend Libba’s mother died a couple of years ago, she used her last breaths not to say goodbye to her three children, but to make a list of what wine and spirits they should buy so as to be prepared for Dothan’s intelligentsia when they came to her wake. Southern ladies (of which I am unequivocally not included, let me just say) are always prepared to give their very best no matter what the occasion.

Another small gem found here is A Southern Belle Primer, titled: Why Princess Margaret will never be a Kappa Kappa Gamma. It is quite informative and even lists the top ten burial casseroles and other accompaniments along with the zodiac of acceptable silver patterns. Also included are certain words that are the ‘heart and soul of any Southern belle’s vocabulary’, such as ‘lovely’ and ‘precious’ and ‘darlin’. Anyone who spends five minutes here knows that a Southern belle can ‘sing your praises to the sky or slash you completely apart with the nicest sounding words you could ever hope to hear.’ I can vouch for this, truly and surely. To say someone is NICE is the kiss of death—as in ‘well, she seems perfectly NICE, but I don’t know her family’, which translates to ‘you do know she’s white trash, don’t you?’

Hope y'all have a NICE day, darlin’. Stay as precious as always.
Who did you say stuffed these eggs, honey?

Your non-belle,
Jane

On the Road

Meandering in Mississippi

“On the road again
Just can’t wait to get on the road again.
Seein’ things I may never see again.
And I just can’t wait to get on the road again.” Willie Nelson

We arrived in Biloxi in a driving storm yesterday, and rain continued to gush down throughout the evening. We visited the Walter Anderson museum in Ocean Springs, and spent the entire afternoon viewing his incredible paintings of sea birds and aquatic animals as well as huge murals he painted on the walls of his cottage and on the walls of the local community center. Walter Anderson, like Vincent Van Gough, was schizophrenic and lived as an eccentric recluse, hardly able to feed himself, while he painted relentlessly. As long as he was free to gamble about the shore and draw everything he found, he was content. Once when he was hospitalized, he tied bed sheets together and even as he scaled down the institution wall, drew with chalk on the side of the building. He left behind a wife, four children, and thousands of drawings and paintings that are now housed in the museum that bears his name.

Looking at his body of work yesterday reminded me of two things: first, how even a mind that is hopelessly broken by the world’s standards can produce a bounty of riches of immeasurable value; and, secondly, how little we as a culture, cherish and support those gifts. With the news last week that services to people with mental illness and developmental disabilities will be cut due to funding shortages, I realized once again, that our most vulnerable citizens have little or no voice in how they will live. Walter Anderson and Vincent Van Gough were able to do what they did because their families realized their amazing gifts and provided for them. Most people with mental illness don’t have that luxury. How sad it would be if the world never has another gift such as theirs.

If you ever come to the Mississippi coast, besides going to the casinos, take an afternoon to gamble about the Walter Anderson museum. You’ll be glad you did.

On the road,
Jane

Making Moments

Milestones

“Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.” Rose Kennedy

Yesterday was a milestone for me. It marked the 365th day of writing this blog. One year. My original idea was to create a reading for each day and eventually turn it into a book, but the blog, as writing always does, has taken on a life of its own. I will continue to log in every day, not because I have some great wisdom to share with the world, but because it has become my spiritual discipline, my way of checking in with my self each morning before the events of the day carry me away. If you are a reader, and have received some kind of benefit from it, then so much the better. I want to continue to make the blog more interactive and to encourage you to give me feedback; not only encouragement, but if you have topics or questions you would like me to consider, I would love to have them. You can send them to me via email (jmp8465@gmail.com) or leave them in the comment section at the bottom of each posting.

Today, I am traveling with my girl-cousin, Sandy, down to Biloxi, Mississippi. We have never been there, so it will be an adventure. The Gulf Coast is in the midst of Mardi Gras, so we will no doubt see some revelry and devilment. We will partake of a little of both and I will share with you those parts that seem most “spirit-filled.” Amen, sister.

I can’t thank you enough for the support I have received for my writing. When I look at the stats and see that even one person in Singapore or Ukraine, or somewhere else I never imagined has logged on, I am humbled and inspired to continue. So, here’s to another year…and to Fat Tuesday!

In gratitude,
Jane

A Common Language

Lyrics of Connection

“You who are on the road
Must have a code that you can live by
And so become yourself
Because the past is just a good bye.”

Cosby, Stills, Nash and Young (Teach Your Children Well)

I heard an interview yesterday with George Clinton, funk music legend of the 1960’s and 70’s. He was receiving an honorary doctorate from Berkley School of Music in Boston. When asked what kind of music excites him, he answered, “Any time I hear parents say to their children, ‘that’s not music’, that’s what I want to listen to.” Amen to that. Do you remember your parents telling you to ‘cut that noise off, that’s not music’! I do—about Elvis, and Jerry Lee Lewis and the Beatles. Anything that was not ‘big-band’ or gospel was not music to their ears. I am forever asking my sons to create CD’s (yes, I’m still in the dark ages) for me of the music they’re listening to. I want to know what is moving young people now; what speaks to them and why.

Music is like a dream. It emerges from the collective psyche of a generation and speaks their language in melody and rhythm. When Lady Gaga belts out, “There’s nothing wrong with lovin’ who you are, she said, cause He made you perfect, babe,” she’s singing the gospel of little girls everywhere who don’t feel good enough or pretty enough to measure up. George Clinton said that the harsh lyrics of rap music come out of the taunting and disparagement that children of color live with every day, and is a way to ‘say it first’ and ease the pain. I had never thought of that.

I remember the music that reflected the collective angst during the Viet Nam war, and how it kept body and soul together here while our fellow children were fighting and dying there. And no one can forget the anthem of the Civil Rights movement of the 1960’s, “We Shall Overcome.” Parents would do well to listen to the music that their children are plugged into; listen to understand and not to criticize. Better yet, let them to tell you what is means to them. Music is a bridge connecting the generations.

In the spirit,
Jane

Natural Gifts

Giving the Gift

“So when we seek our own birthright gifts, it is important not to equate them with the techniques our society names as skills. Our gifts may be as simple as a real interest in other people, a quiet and caring manner, an eye for beauty, a love of rhythm and sound.”
Parker Palmer (The Active Life)

One of my sons is a gifted artist. He paints and draws and sees the world in a different way than most. He was born with the gift. I remember giving him a white board and markers for his third birthday so that he wouldn’t create crayon murals on the walls of our house. When he was about five, he went through six rolls of colored tape to create a spider web on a wrought-iron banister going down the stairs to the family room. I left it up until we put the house on the market because it was beautiful. Every birthday and Christmas, each family member is given an original piece of art—my house is filled with his paintings. Today, he is a business executive. His gift and his vocation are not the same thing.

I have a friend who is retired now, but made her living as an educational psychologist. She worked almost exclusively with adults with disabilities and established one of the first Americorps programs to train personal assistants for people with cognitive and physical challenges. Her gift is a caring and compassionate heart. She has published one book about Americans with disabilities and another about the women who live in one of Birmingham’s homeless shelters.

Gifts are meant to be shared. They may or may not be parlayed into vocations, but they are always the clearest expression of soul that we have to offer the world. One of the most important jobs of any parent is to see the gifts of each child and provide support and encouragement for them. Long after a career is over our gifts will feed our hearts and spirits and serve the world. What is your gift? How are you sharing it?

In the spirit,
Jane

What's that sound?

Slamming Doors

“As often happens on the spiritual journey, we have arrived at the heart of a paradox: each time a door closes, the rest of the world opens up. All we need to do is stop pounding on the door that just closed, turn around—which puts the door behind us—and welcome the largeness of life that now lies open to our souls.”
Parker Palmer (Let Your Life Speak)

When I read the quote above, I am reminded of the story from Ezekiel 37, about the valley of the dry bones. In that story, the prophet is called by spirit into the wilderness to a valley filled with the bones of a once great army. Ezekiel is instructed to prophesy to the bones about God’s power to call them back to life. They respond by rejoining and re-fleshing. He calls to the wind to fill them and they breathe and stand on their feet. This is the story of all of us who’ve heard a door slam and had no idea that another would open up.

Whether the circumstance is being laid off from a job we love, or having our spouse leave, or losing a loved one to death, or receiving a life-threatening diagnosis, the noise of that slamming is deafening and for a moment we aren’t able to turn around and see what the future holds. Sometimes, we’re even afraid that there is no future for us; that life as we know it is truly over. And it is. That life is over.

Often, when we’re lying wasted in the valley of dry bones some singing Ezekiel comes along and prophesies to us about a new future, a different way—a new job, a new partner, a new life that we could not have envisioned for ourselves. That revelation enlivens us; we feel our breath return and once again are on our feet and moving forward.

Over the course of a lifetime, we will find ourselves in the valley of dry bones many times. After a while, we begin to recognize it as fertile ground, a place of transformation and renewal. We will listen excitedly for the call of the prophet. What’s in store for me now? What’s God calling me to this time? Kind of gets the juices flowing just thinking about it, doesn’t it?

In the flow,
Jane