What Women Have Taught Me

Part One

One hundred and four countries celebrate Mother’s Day; 77 of them (including the U.S. and Mexico) celebrate the day in May. It is a good thing to do, but I have always felt that the day should also include honoring the various women in our lives who have made a significant impact on us. In this two-part series, I want to do exactly that by telling you the stories of six women through prose and verse who were, in effect, my mentors. I honor them, and so many more!

THE HEALER

The healer comes in a tiny body born in England more than 70 years ago. She is called Mary, Sister Mary because she is a member of a Catholic order. She has a wonderful laugh. A caring nature. And a prosthetic arm hook. No one seems to know why she has one, but after you get to know her, you don’t notice this fact very much. She works as a chaplain with infants, children, and their loved ones at UCLA Medical Center. She has been doing this for countless years. Although Catholic, she professes Quaker leanings and confesses to me that she prefers the simplistic non-rituals to the Roman trappings. She is fascinated by my Unitarian-Quaker perspective. We become great buddies. She belies any preconceptions I have of what a nun is supposed to be. This sister is no stay-on-your-knees in the convent sister. She puts her heart and soul as well as her tender/tough mindfulness on the line day in and day out. She holds dying and deceased children in her arms and prays for their souls. She holds the hands of the scared little ones who are in pain and listens intently to what the children have to say. In this, she respects their humanity. She scolds parents for being alarmists or pessimists but can also comfort them with her assurance in her God’s mercies. She has eased the suffering of movie stars and Beverly Hills high rollers, as well as that of the barrio dwellers and the gang bangers. She has seen it all: battered children thrown off balconies by drugged-out mothers; children torn apart by freeway accidents or drive-by shootings; children suffering from brain tumors and defective hearts. She has been with them as they have pulled through or breathed their last. Sister Mary teaches us all about courage under the fire of pain and turmoil.

TO SISTER MARY

A proper English lady

for the Lord,

of course, for THE Lord.

Married but to him

not to the Pope.

She does the non-ritualized bidding

of her real Lord and Master.

She waits and listens for what she must do.

Ah! The simple profundity of it all:

To show love through touch and charitable act.

A Galilean thing to do.

She moves with grace and valor

through the world of the wee little ones

As they struggle for life.

It takes a receptive presence to imbibe so much pain

Year after year.

But hers is a heart made stronger

Because of sorrow and fear.

It is the heart of a saint called Mary.

*****

THE NURTURER

The nurturer is Gaia herself, the earth goddess unadorned, vibrant in her simplicity. She is in the guise of Ruth. And she is my mother’s age. She is country and contemplates the universe from her rocking chair as the sun sets over the Appalachian hills and the Methodist church chimes bid the summer day farewell with the old hymns. It is the church where my great grandparents donated the stained-glass windows. I am entering puberty and wait with Ruth for the stars to come out. “You are in my journal,” she tells me. The thought thrills me, even though I am not quite sure what a journal is. “You are imaginative,” she tells me. “You could be anything you want. You could be a great writer.” I tell Ruth of my pain although I am not sure of the depth of it. “Your mother has her problems,” she tells me. “It is hard,” I respond. Ruth is my stability. We speak of possibilities, of her dreams and mine. Of travel. Adventure. Of the great books we will write someday. She is my inspiration. “You play the piano well,” she affirms. “I love it. It helps me,” I say. I want to please this woman. I want her to take me in her arms and soothe my fears. “And God?” she asks, knowing of my predilection for things spiritual. We continue to gaze at the sky and watch the stars and planets appear. They appear slowly at first then there are millions of them. We watch and wait and before we know it, we see a falling star. I feel eternity in my bones, far beyond my Methodist roots. Together we are transported into deep space and dance with the Milky Way, the winds of heaven swirling all around us. And far down on earth, curling its way through the valley of the night, the steam locomotive blows its whistle in accompaniment to the dance.

TO RUTH

Recorded Methodist hymns

A bit scratchy

Bid the eve adieu from bell tower;

The mountains turn dark purple

Before the last amen.

We rock in tandem

A bit off the spiritual beat,

This poetess of the village and me;

She speaks of my imaginings,

Inspiring me to deeper places.

Next door to the universe I knew

She creates her own and shows me

What is and what might be;

Fresh baked bread mingles with the roses.

Together we wait for the shooting star.

***** 

THE COUNSELOR

I am the minister, professionally trained. I help people. I listen to their tribulations. I attempt to inspire hope. I am a counselor, who himself is forever in need of counseling. What can I say but: I am human. Then she comes into my life: Patricia. A decade older than I, but light years beyond my comprehension of the things of the psyche (another name for “soul”). She is a trained therapist, but not just someone who is taught through books and teachers. Hers is an intuitive knowledge, deep and resonant, thorough to the core. A sixth-sense erudition. She reads me more than like a book. She reads me. She really reads me. Then, her son dies. Twenty-seven years old and he dies. It makes the news on National Public Radio. He is killed with his guide when they attempt to climb the Himalayas. The bodies are lost. Patricia asks me to officiate at the memorial service. She trusts me to say the appropriate thing. The appropriate thing is to re-tell the story of her beloved son’s life as she tells it to me. In her telling, she reveals herself. She weaves the web between mother and son. It is seamless, yet apart. Connected, but unencumbered. She feels him within her, even more strongly now than when she carried him in her womb. Even though she has been the champion of his freedom in discovering himself, to the point of succumbing to a Nepalese avalanche. “He did what he needed to do,” she says. “He always has been free. Only his form is different now. Can’t you feel his presence?” Patricia knows that Elliot is with her. Hundreds attend the memorial service. Each is given a tiny evergreen to plant in his memory. Patricia knows this is the right symbol of resurrection. She speaks of hope in the midst of loss.

TO PATRICIA

The goddess Psyche sits at the edge of a stream

Contemplating the reflection of the snow-capped mountain

The stream is the mountainous snow in another form,

The mountain is the stream,

The goddess is but part of this all in all.

She sits, communicating with past memories, blending them

Into the continuity of time;

The sun and moon merge,

Psyche moves through sorrow to acceptance,

Then wonder,

Then peace.

She becomes her own seed, blossoming into flower.

She is woman, she is man;

She is youth and age;

Life and death…

And life.

She is her own resurrected

Self.

NOTE: Don Beaudreau has written 12 books, the last one, a satiric comedy, is a novel set on Cape Cod, MA. His works are available on AMAZON Books in hard copy and Kindle editions.