This image of the WayMaking Cairn (WMC) was taken in late January 2015, just a stone’s throw from the Little Calumet River. As I’ve menioned in earlier posts, the WMC is one of many images in a subset of my contemplative photography work. It serves as an avatar-like manifestation of my spiritual engagement with my surroundings as I walk. In anthropological terms it serves as participant-observer in the environment where the shot was made. The excerpt from Robert Frost”s poem “Looking for a Sunset Bird in Winter” created a rich dialogical exchange between the image and the text.
January’s image is a historic building in Hamchek Village, Wisconsin. Taken in October 2011 while my sister Beth McQuade Nichols and I were hosted by then proprietor, architect Kevin Kemp. The quote by Bertrand Russell was especially compelling for me. It was chosen for the image and then the content of the message seemed best suited as the opening sentiment for the year.
NECESSITY GIVES BIRTH TO A CALENDAR of IMAGE and WORD
Over the holiday break this year while I was down with some indefinable malaise – who can really tell what is flu and what is cold? Especially if it moves into bronchitis? Too sick to do much, I did find focus and drew energy from reviewing thousands of images that I have taken over the years. I’ve come to understand the lion’s share of work with camera as my contemplative photography practice. A subset of images within this practice contain the presence of the WayMaking Cairn (WMC); an avatar-like manifestation of my spiritual engagement with my surroundings as I walk. In anthropological terms the WMC serves as both witness and subject in the environment where I framed and took the shot.
GETTING ONE’S CREATIONS INTO THE WORLD COSTS TIME & MONEY
As I reviewed all these images I was experiencing again the almost intolerable frustration that I couldn’t share these images in a tangible encounter with others. Paintful reality that I need to overcome: getting my images out into the world is a time consuming enterprise and costly. Here are the biggies:
- Printing images ($15 – $100- depending on materials and size) and
- Framing images ($50 – 125-depending on materials and size) ;
- #’s 1 & 2 are only the tip of the iceberg in terms of cost because applying to the various galleries also costs time and money – one spends a lot of time combing the internet for opportunities.
- 98% of the time to apply to be in an exhibit or show requires an entrance fees of $20 – $40 for the privilege to submit 3 – 5 images for the curator’s review.
- Let’s not forget the time to frame and mount the images and the costs to deliver the finished images – either I drive these images or I ship these images – shipping is always a coin toss. The real risk of damage to the image requires especial diligence to protect it – and more material costs for packaging
- Applying to show work in festivals is another huge time suck that requires more money to pay for the booth, the tent, images printed on spec with no promise of sale, and time and travel to and from these festivals also requiring overnight stays in hotels and restaurant meals
- Those who are early in their practice are pretty much confined to group shows in pop up or non-traditional sites. Opportunities for solo shows in accredited galleries are slim and none. There are a few more opportunities to get a solo show in a coffee shop, or a bank or a clinic, but those require a lot of prospecting and the possibility of sales from these personally curated shows are not significant.
THERE’s MORE THAN ONE WAY TO….
As I pondered these things and weighed their costs against my limited resources of time and money, I wondered how I might get my work in front of peoples eye’s without a gallery, group show or retail outlet. Challenge: How to get my work to a place where they would see it all the time? Where they might also have a chance for a contemplative experience? I couldn’t afford printing, framing and shipping complimentary full size 16 x 20 images to their home. Plus, giving it away sets a very bad precedent. I need to at least cover the costs of that printing/framing/packing/shipping exercise. How to get my work tangibly present in their homes and offices? Though I love the digital world for its reach – its getting too noisy out here and there’s too many distractions. Attention to one’s work on a website and blog is fleeting. The tangible, physical artifact seemed the strongest way in. So, I determined to design and print my own calendar of images. This way each month there would be a fresh image and opportunity for a contemplative encounter for the onlooker. Publish a limited edition of these calendars and give them to family, friends and prospective clients as a loss leader, if you will. An audience that includes potential buyers of future calendars, as well as organizations that might commission the design of special interest calendars, and outlets where I might place my own calendars for sale.
ECONOMIC LIMITATIONS = LIBERATION + EXPANSION OF ARTISTRY & BUSINESS MODEL
This calendar becomes a liberation and expansion of my artist’s role: I have curated my own exhibit for each calendar recipient. This also sets the stage for the next phase of creating a way for these and other of my images to be purchased online. I also hope to design each year a new calendar which can be ordered on line as well. A survey will be sent soon to all who received those calendars to get a sense of how to think about next year’s design and how to price it.
Along the way though, another idea came to mind, springing from my love of poetry and poetic prose. Though not a novel practice – many other calendars have been printed pairing evocative imagery and writing – I welcomed the additional exploration and discovery to pair my images with text that in some way created a rich dialogue of deepening discovery between word and image. While I made every effort to look for writers’ whose work was in the public domain, occasionally a contemporary writer’s work was so perfectly aligned with my own spiritual stance that I could not look any further. This is a challenge and an opportunity for future calendars.
I’m a little late in this first explanatory post of the what and why of the calendar and hopes for future calendars. The next two posts will serve as catch-ups for the January and February images and text. At the beginning of each subsequent month I’ll post another image and the literary work that appealed to me.
July 13, 2017: While on a solitary exploration, walking with my camera through San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park, I stumbled upon the AIDS Memorial Grove, which opened up my artist’s soul in unexpected but welcome ways. My reflections on the discoveries made that day and in the weeks to come are shared here.
Musings: An Afternoon in the AIDS Memorial Grove
A concrete circle with a floral arrangement laid in the center.
I think: Who placed the flowers there?
Floral arrangement at the center of a concrete circle. Long, tall Bells of Ireland with purple allium balls and red I-don’t-know-whats, tied together and placed thoughtfully, gently (or so I imagine her doing so – yes, it’s a her, I’m so sure of that — does that make me sexist?) in the center of rows and rows of words and names carved in outwardly radiating circular lines that go round and round this concrete plaza edged with a cement bench for those inclined to sit and ponder.
Later, I think:
The Circle of Friends has a cast of thousands inscribed in the cement floor. Or is it hundreds? well, maybe thousands if you extend the count to include donor institutions’ employees and members: …..Dr. Peter H. Alpert * John A. Parmeter & Kenneth J. Miller & Sissy Spaceout * David Lynch ……
This Circle of Friends really has a cast of millions when you consider all those who succumbed to AIDS, going back to the early 20th century, before we gave it a name.
That day I think:
All in caps, each word a heading of sorts for a separate section of remembered and those doing the remembering:
I grow dizzy, then weary, trying to track the concentric circles of names of individuals and companies all wanting to remember ( Later I think: and be remembered for remembering) the names of those lost to AIDS.
The path reminds all who see it that these names represent
“donors to the grove,
those who died, and
those who loved them”
(Later I think: ) Notice who gets top billing.
That day I think:
Another path over to the left of the one I entered in. I feel the pull to continue further into the grove, but I can’t yet turn my back on the circle. I slowly back out, focusing my eyes, heart and spirit on the circle to sustain as long as I can the special connection with the space
(Later I think:)
It is this precise moment in the garden where I acknowledged to myself that I have entered a dimension of being that I can only now describe to you as a sacred state. As extension, this grove has become a sacred place for me. I imagine it has become so for many before me, and will do so for many others who have yet to visit. Despite my subsequent cynical editorial comments regarding the narcissistic practices that come into full bloom in major fundraising efforts like what brought this garden to fruition, I freely acknowledge that the artistic, compassionate and spiritual dimensions of planning that went into making this garden have created a sacred space for all who seek and/or need such a place.
Eventually, I turn and place the circle behind me, moving forward into a deeply shaded grove of tall trees, whose nearest branches are far above me. In the generous spaces between these tree trunks I spy an undulating river of rocks that stretches on beyond a crest in the distance. On its “banks” I see large boulders here and there, accenting a curve in the “flow” of the dry, stony river that is composed of thoughtfully placed stones, ranging in sizes from baseball to melon.
Before I reach this river of stone, the raucous magpie energy of a group of adolescent boys on bikes with boom box blaring bursts into the grove. They stop and form a circle at one of the benches there. They laugh and talk with the unheeding energy of boys racing toward manhood and I experience a sense of outrage and disbelief. Are they really unaware of where they are and what the space calls for? Did I glare at them? Or did I merely stare at them? Whatever I did, or didn’t do in that moment, one of the boys turns off the radio and one of them (the same one?) says “ hey, let’s go.” They ride off quickly, silently. Gradually I bring myself back to that internal place of stillness; of attention and focus, where all my sensors are receiving information and I feel myself becoming one again with the sacred space.
Moving closer to the river of rocks I see that some of the boulders contain carved remembrances:
Sweetness and Light
The Root of All Wisdom is to Love One Human Being
Michael Louis Steingraber
Loving Friends & Colleagues
The overwhelming amount of information in the Circle of Friends is now distilled here on these boulders to its purest, sweetest, simplest essence. I am grateful for the quiet encounter with one life, or two, and those whose lives were intertwined with them. In this way, throughout the afternoon, I will become more intimately acquainted with the ‘million stories in the naked city‘ in the the most human way possible: one name, one soul, one marker at a time. But it’s never just one soul, is it? Each soul touches other souls, leaving lasting impressions. In these garden encounters throughout the day, I recall, over and over again, that in the particular story of the one whom we name, we simultaneously give name and heart to a universal story that plays itself out with countless unique permutations. Each carrying the universal spark of essential truth threading all these stories like beads on a rosary.
And so, I recall now, in this place, my personal permutations of this story: the names and souls of those near to me who have died:
My mother, Joan.
My sister, Mary.
My brother, Sean.
My father, John.
There are other names, other souls, but these names, this day, in this garden, have particular resonance. They have heft and weight that I must pick up again and carry for whatever time is required.
Mary died from “complications resulting from AIDs” back in 1987 when she was 27. I had to call my sister Beth to be sure of these particulars. To understand my vagaries about the year and her age, (and to ask for cosmic forgiveness for this and so many other sins), I must give just a little background. I am the eldest of 12 children born to John and Joan. Mary was the 7th child, and the 3rd daughter born into the family. By the time I was 18 years old, with 5 other sibs between us, Mary was only 12 years old, and I was already out the door, college bound. In trying to come to grips with this guilty fact, I’ve learned that its often the case in families of this size that there are actually smaller sub-units of family. In these smaller family units it is in the proximity of age where we more easily share stories of the realities of the time and home(s) and the state of parenting at that particular time.
Though I shared my little bedroom on the first floor with each new baby as s/he entered the family for a time, once they were ensconced with their peers (the four big boys downstairs in the remodeled basement, the four middle girls upstairs and the three youngest boys in the other bedroom on the first floor) I had little to do with my much younger siblings outside of dinner time, diaper changing and baths, babysitting and holiday dinners at our grandparents home on the East Side of Chicago. Though these words suggest an idyllic “Cheaper by the Dozen” family existence, our family story grew darker as each year passed and our parents’ alcoholism worsened.
The little I recall of Mary is that even before I moved out, and certainly after I was gone from the house, Mary became a “problem.” This was a catch-all phrase used by my parents when they wanted to make clear to the world that they didn’t have any problems – it was this kid. Not their fault. Mary was placed in an institutional Catholic boarding school for troubled girls in Navou, Illinois. She frequently ran away from home and then from that school and finally she succeeded in staying out and on her own. She would reach out occasionally to her sisters near her in age, Beth and Colleen and Monica, but I was married and had started my own family by the time I saw her again.
The family had come together in 1986 because our mother had died of “complications due to alcoholism.” (seems our family will create a new world’s record in “deaths from complications due to…….”) This is another story for another time. I need to follow this thread before it becomes hopelessly snarled in the countless other threads of the McQuade family drama.
By then Mary was in and out of doctors’ care and psychiatric wards, having been diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic, as she blithely informed me. Though she seemed on edge, I was hard-pressed to see anything frightening or pathologic. And she showed the McQuade humor in her story about the anonymous phone call she once made to the house when she heard that Mom and Dad were distributing family belongings in preparation for selling the house. When Dad answered the phone, all she said was “Who gets the sword?” then hung up. Dad had been a member of the Knights of Columbus and said sword was forbidden to us all, but we each regularly snuck into the closet where it was stored to pick it up in wonder. She giggled when she told us, and we laughed along with her.
I remember her telling another story of a time when she’d been in St. James Hospital in Chicago Heights for treatment. She told me that when she left she walked by the Statue of Mary on the corner at the front of the building. She had a bottle of nail polish in her purse and wanted to paint Mary’s toes, but a security guard caught her and stopped her before she followed through on her impulse. I still want to paint that statue’s toes, even now, 30 years after hearing that story.
By then, while I listened to Mary’s stories, I was a mother of a three little girls. I was always looking to other woman to observe how they mothered their children and managed their homes, hoping to learn and make different choices in parenting my children. I knew that I wanted to avoid at all costs the choices our parents made, especially in the later years as their alcoholism short-circuited their tempers, derailed their mental capacities and ramped up the physical violence toward each other and upon the kids. Now a mother responsible for my own behavior and my children’s mental and physical well-being, I had come to see and understand just how awful was Mary’s early and consistent abusive treatment at my parents’ hands. She chronically wet the bed, and my parents’ shaming of Mary and the physical punishment heaped on her over the years was very likely the tragic root cause of her problems. Certainly her acting out and substance abuse were a direct result of our parents abuse. The unrelenting and unanswerable conundrum: Did Mary’s mental illness make her unable to survive the trauma of parental abuse and shame or did her mental illness arise because of it? Do these questions serve anyone, really? I don’t know, but they haunt me. As do these questions: Could I have done anything to save her? What more should I have done to save the others who were younger than me?
Once out of the house, Mary connected with a young man, Jason, who had a good family who held them both for a while. She gave birth to Jason Jr., but the relationship with his father foundered and so ultimately she lived as a single mom, with her son, a toddler at the time. As we pieced together later, Mary was hanging with a crowd of drug users and pushers, and she was having unprotected sex and probably sharing needles. Whether she contracted AIDS through shared needles or unprotected sex, we’ll never know. But by the time Mary’s sickness brought her to the hospital, there was no way to treat her. The days of the AIDS super-cocktails were yet come.
What I recall:
The family standing around in the hospital and hearing that Mary had AIDS. I didn’t know what it was. Jason’s family cried. They knew her far better than I and had cared for her far better than I. I was dry-eyed.
The shock of the first time seeing Mary in her isolated hospital room, fully intubated with tubes down her throat, IV’s in her arms, catheterized, arms strapped to the side rails with only a little movement possible because she kept trying to remove all the tubes. She was frail, frighteningly underweight. The sound of the electronic breathing pump filled the room, as did the rattling in her throat. A viscous yellow lava-like flow continuously bubbled up from her mouth around the tube. I would wipe it away with provided cloths and then wash my hands. Then more bubbled up, and I wiped and washed again, and again, and again.
She was provided with a ‘talking board’ on which were words and letters so that she could communicate her thoughts to us.
“Take it Out” she spelled.
“I can’t, honey.” I never called her honey before, but I did that day. It was instinctive. I spoke to her as I did to my baby girls, calling them “honey” to soften the hurt and let them know that I felt their pain with them. I needed to tell Mary I understood her pain and fear, even as I knew I had to speak truth, which would bring more fear. This may seem normal behavior to persons brought up in loving households, but for me to behave with my siblings in this way was not the norm.
“I can’t take it out because you won’t be able to breathe. If you can’t breathe, you will die.” I took a deep breath and looked at her face to see her reaction.
She grew still, her eyes on mine. She said nothing more with her talking board.
I remember going home, pulling in my driveway and garage by rote, my minds’ eye filled with Mary in the bed, struggling to breathe, body shivering with the effort. A nightmare to behold. Most certainly a far greater nightmare for her – and there was no waking up from this one.
I went back again to see her, and learned that the doctor had agreed to allow her to try to breath without the tubes down her throat. Moments after they were removed, Mary understood that she could not breathe without them, and they were put back in. This time I had brought a book, hoping that reading to her could occupy her mind even as it alleviated the pressure of trying to communicate through the board, which was more an exercise in efficiently communicating her needs, but not so efficient at communicating emotions. She was unconscious most of the time, but I read anyway, thinking that it might soothe her to hear a voice.
A few days later, in mid October my husband greeted me in the driveway as I got out of the car. The hospital had called to advise that Mary had just died. She was 27 years old.
I wish I could say that we all became much closer as a group for having lost our mother and then our sister in less than two years. I can not. A few of us reached out to one another over the distance of time and geography and age and began to speak more often in one-on-one conversations. We began to visit each other once in a great while. But the survival skills we had employed to keep separate and avoid the combat zones we inevitably constructed when in a large group of McQuade kids was still too difficult to overcome and so large gatherings never happened.
Our coming together to try and form a relatively cohesive whole didn’t begin until our brother Sean, #4 in the family, third son, was diagnosed with terminal throat cancer in 2011. This news helped to bring the matured, wiser, and softer-edged family members together into a place where we began to behave as a compassionate group of sisters and brothers in each other’s company. Sean died in April of 2012. As I said earlier, this is really a whole new thread in the family story that will have to be explored another time, but his memory was alive for me in the grove that day too. Mary and Sean both suffered from personal afflictions that brought out some of the worse parenting tactics and behaviors my parents were known for, but they weren’t the only victims. How and why they died so young, Mary at 27, Sean at 55, while others of us still live despite our post-tramautic legacies, some worse than others, is a question we are uncomfortably aware of, and unable to find answers that give us a lasting sense of closure or security in our circumstances.
These are the thoughts and memories that have arisen during and subsequent to my visit to the Aids Memorial Grove. There is no tidy “happily ever after” ending to this story. Somehow Mary’s life and her death from AIDs came alive that day and invited me, now in my 63rd year of life, to consider what more there is to learn, what more there is to feel. Though no new understanding comes, I understand better that, like my experience in the memorial grove, there is light and there is shadow in my life and in every life. There is serenity and there is sadness. There is remembrance and there is sacred possibility. There is the comfort of shared pain and grief and the love which is before, during, and after a life – if I look for it. If we each look for it. If we remain present and aware and open to receiving it. There can be healing when, in the company of other wounded travelers, we seek to share the walk and share the healing that awaits us.
Thanks to the power of Eduardo Galeano’s writings, I have created my first outdoor art installation, entitled MIRRORS, in my own front yard, smack in the middle of this working class neighborhood of Hammond, Indiana where I have been living for 13 years.
This installation opened on Halloween, just in time for trick or treating children and their parents on Monday, October 31st. I thought that the subject matter of the exhibit lent itself to the opening days of the exhibit which include Halloween, Dias de los Muertos, and the feasts of All Souls and All Saints. And, I thought, it might find persons more open to participating in the Woman from Oslo segment of the exhibit.
This installation includes three short works excerpted from books by Eduardo Galeano, a journalist, novelist, poet, and artist from Uruguay. He is considered one of the great writers of Latin America. I created the elements you’ll see pictured here in response to his stories.
As a sonic backdrop that evening, from my open windows came the movie soundtrack from “American Beauty,” composed by Thomas Newman.
The title piece of the exhibit, MIRRORS:
Mirrors are full of people.
The invisible see us.
The forgotten recall us.
When we see ourselves, we see them.
When we turn away, do they?
from MIRRORS, Stories of Almost Everyone by Eduardo Galeano
THE ART OF DRAWING YOU
In a bed by the Gulf of Corinth, a woman contemplates by firelight the profile of her sleeping lover.
On the wall, his shadow flickers.
The lover, who lies by her side, will leave. At dawn, he will leave to war, to death. And his shadow, his traveling companion, will leave with him and with him will die.
It is still dark. The woman takes a coal out of the embers and draws on the wall the outline of his shadow.
Those lines will not leave.
They will not embrace her, and she knows it. But they will not leave.
from MIRRORS, Stories of Almost Everyone by Eduardo Galeano
The third piece took the most time, thought and work to create, and has a dual title: “The Woman from Oslo, aka The Passion of Speech ”; the latter title being Galeano’s original title in his book.
Marcela was visiting the snowy North. One night in Oslo, she met a woman who sang and told stories. Between songs, she would spin yarns, glancing at slips of paper like someone telling fortunes from crib notes.
This woman from Oslo had on an enormous dress dotted all over with pockets. She would pull slips of paper out of her pockets one by one, each with its story to tell, stories tried and true of people who wished to come back to life through witchcraft. And so, she raised the dead and the forgotten, and from the depths of her dress sprang the odysseys and loves of the human animal for whom speech is life.
From The Book of Embraces by Eduardo Galeano
I made the “enormous dress” and affixed three pockets. In each pocket I placed a slip of paper. On the slips were written:
“Joan Ruel McQuade / Daughter-Sister-Cousin-Wife-Aunt-Mother / 1932-1985.”
“Sean Francis McQuade / Son-Brother-Uncle / 1957-2012.”
“Mary Katherine McQuade /Daughter-Sister-Aunt-Mother / 1962 – 1986.”
By evoking and including the names of my family members, I felt I could invite others to do the same, without fear of being prescriptive – I wanted to be a colleague in the exercise, rather than a puppeteer. As trick-or-treaters came streaming by, groups of adolescents, youngsters with parents and/or older siblings, it quickly became apparent that the entire exhibit was drawing them in. They were interested, asking questions, taking selfies in the mirror, eagerly reading the words, asking what the slips of paper on the table were for. I explained that this was an art project, something called public art and that it needed the participation of others to be truly successful. If they would like to write the name of someone they knew who had died, someone they could keep alive in the act of remembering, I would add that person’s name by placing it in a pocket of its own on the dress. By the end of Hammond’s trick or treating session I had 21 names on 21 slips of paper. This level of participation was more than I had hoped for and it left me feeling at once awestruck and deeply satisfied. My work had made an impact. People welcomed the opportunity to name and give life, in that moment, to someone who had died. They wanted to share their story. My interest reminded them that their story had meaning just as their loved one’s life was precious and worthy of remembrance.
Each weekend during the monthlong exhibit I will take down the dress long enough to affix new pockets and add the slips with names. I have posted a sign inviting those who care to record their stories to contact me. I’ve also invited people to write their stories for inclusion in a dedicated website and for possible printed publications.
This project is one which I hope to continue in other places, even as I hope to repeat it each year at this time for one month. In future years I hope to include a performative element by wearing the dress and telling stories of the people whose names are on slips in my pockets.
This project also opens the door for other hoped for, yet to be imagined public art projects which I would like to facilitate, which would be expanded to include the works of other artists in the community. I would like to work with students of all ages in the schools in creating visual and sonic responses to literature by the many important writers of our times and earlier times. I would like to facilitate art that brings people together in discovery and sharing.
I welcome invitations to facilitate this project at other sites. Similarly, I would welcome an invitation to be an artist in residence in community working on other installation projects. Write me at firstname.lastname@example.org to begin the conversation.
My thanks to Eduardo Galeano, who passed away April 13 2015. He is remembered by the many people who loved him. His spirit also is alive and well in his many literary works, which include The Book of Embraces; Mirrors, Stories of Almost Everyone; Open Veins of Latin America; and Memory of Fire Trilogy, among others.
Also, thanks to Barb McBride who spent hours with me getting these pieces in place in the yard. Thanks to Eva Volkmann whose counsel came in just the right ways at the right time as I developed the work.
Sunday I served as the officiant in the marriage of Robert and Valerie Pnakovich. The final summer Sunday in September was gentle, warm, graced by soft breezes and a benevolent sun with enough white clouds to moderate its heat. Well tended gardens surrounded the gazebo where the ceremony took place.
My background in liturgical planning and presiding leaves me feeling conflicted about the term “officiant.” It feels cold, sterile, officious – something that is located in the logical brain alone. I prefer to consider myself a presider, attending to the ministerial aspects of service through the uplifting of hearts in prayer. That belief is what energized my demeanor throughout Sunday’s marriage rite. I believe that Valerie and Robert experienced something heartful, prayerful and memorable – as did those assembled to witness and participate in the ceremony.
Will You Cause Her Pain? “I May.” Will you Cause Him Pain? “I May.”
Is that your intention? Both: “No”
I began working in earnest with the Robert and Valerie about a month before the wedding. I believe my role as presiding minister is to walk alongside the couple in a consideration of the larger experience of their relationship. We looked at the wedding day as a marker along a larger trajectory of growing love and commitment that began the day they met and which will continue long beyond the wedding day.
Understanding that couples want “real” vows that feel authentic to their experience, I introduced them to the vows from the Celtic Handfasting rite. My daughter Kara introduced me to these rites as she planned her wedding liturgy some time ago. These vows acknowledge the human imperfections that make love challenging and messy, as well as sublime. I call them “shadow and light” vows because they acknowledge that life and relationships carry within them our darker aspects as well as our lighter sides, with the attendant pain and suffering. The light, which is always present, gains real dimension when its absence, darkness, is acknowledged and felt. These vows give voice to our eternal intentions to live through and rise above, to transform that pain, using it to temper and strengthen our hearts and souls. I believe this is the best we can hope to achieve in our human existence. Finally, these vows acknowledge that love is always the power that will drive a soul’s transformation. Valerie and Robert have been a couple for a long time and happily took on the vows as being a real encounter of their own experience and hope for ongoing transformation.
Technically, this is the second wedding at which I have presided. However, I stepped into this role naturally, enthusiastically, ready for the responsibility and desiring to make the entire ceremony meaningful, respectful, joyous, and prayerful for everyone there.
I have been in involved in liturgical prayer and planning for almost thirty years, earning along the way a 2-year certificate in liturgical studies from the Archdiocese of Chicago. Prior to, alongside, and following that formal study, I’ve participated in and planned liturgical rites accompanying almost every key moment in an individual’s life and in the liturgical cycle of the Roman Catholic Church’s annual cycle of life. Baptisms, Communions, Confirmations, Weddings, Ordinations, Chrism Mass at which the holy oils are blessed and priests re-dedicate themselves to their priestly ministry, Installation of a Bishop, the funerals of bishops, priests, nuns and fellow parishioners, the Consecration of a Cathedral Church, Jubilee masses, liturgy of the hours and more.
Will you cause her anger? “I may.” Will you cause him anger? “I may.”
Is that your intention? Both: “No”
Will you take the heat of anger and use it to temper and strengthen this union? Both: We will.
My marriage of 22 years ended in 1996. When I married in 1974, I was barely 20 years old, the oldest of 12 children in a Chicago south side Irish Catholic family, still under the influence of an alcoholic father who threatened me with family exile if we did not do the “right” thing and get married. The “mortal sin” I had committed was having premarital sexual intercourse with the man I was dating. While my coercion into marriage and what followed is another long story for another time, it is important for me to say that countless beautiful events happened in those 22 years, most important among them the births and lives of three beautiful daughters who are now in solid relationships of their own. Further, as I raised Kara, Anna and Eva, I was also raising myself, discovering my gifts for the visual and performing arts, for the literary arts and ultimately channeling all into a deep reverence for the liturgical arts. As I slowly evolved over the decades into the adult self I know myself to be now, the shaky, coercive reality of the marriage’s faulty beginning finally showed the irreparable cracks in a foundation that could not be repaired. Rather than souring me on marriage, instead I developed a keen appreciation for the many couples I knew whose marriages had stood the test of time and trial and whose love grew more radiant with time.
Will you burden him? “I may ” Will you burden her? “I may.”
Will you share each other’s burdens so that your compassionate spirits may grow in this union? Both: “We will”
I left the active practice of Catholicism in 2002. I could no longer bear the disillusionment and real anger I felt toward the church institutional for the abuses it has heaped for centuries on the souls of those weaker and less powerful. Truth be told, I think it resonated with my experience of my father. That the church continues to obfuscate and otherwise protect itself and the abusers is an abomination to me. Its insistence on marginalizing women and preventing them from full membership in all the ministries is too hurtful to me. I can make no sense of the church’s hypocritical practice of welcoming and fully incardinating married priests with families from other Christian denominations, while denying marriage as a possibility for those ordained in the Roman Catholic tradition. (these married priests, by the way, are most often coming to Roman Catholicism because they are rejecting the ordination of women in their original faith practice). The Church, which professes that God’s love is without boundaries, still seeks through its human inadequacies and overweening desire to control, to limit legitimate committed love to being only that which happens between a man and a woman. Love knows no such boundaries. My daughter Anna and her wife Bridget demonstrate that daily.
Though I experienced my separation from the church as akin to an amputation, I knew that I had to remove the source of the disease in order to regain and reassert my spiritual health and well being. But my thirst for meaningful engagement continues. I need to be an active participant in the power of sacred ritual as it takes place in the midst of a community gathered to focus its prayful energies and attention on what is needed for a loving, healing, nurturing community. Love is the divine force in this universe – available to all.
Warming of the Rings
After the reading, I invited the assembly to bless, or “warm” the rings that Robert and Valerie would soon exchange. My daughter Kara also introduced this element to me. Tied with ribbons connecting them to the pillow carried in by the 8 year old ring-bearer during the procession, the rings were passed from person to person throughout the assembly. One by one, individuals and couples took a silent moment, with their hands placed over the rings, imbuing the rings with the energy of their prayerful intention while instrumental music played. During our preparations, I had advised the couple to be seated and turn their intention upon the many who were transmitting their love for them in this act. They did. Though some looked somewhat awkward (understandable when we consider the growing number of persons without any formal faith practice), the majority there embraced the action as a way to be meaningfully involved. When their turn came, I watched one couple stand, hold the pillow between them, their foreheads touching for a poignant moment. Later in the ceremony I would ask the assembly to stand and affirm with the words “we will” their promise to support the couple in their marriage.
After the ceremony many people came to me to express their gratitude for this meaningful ritual. That it engaged their hearts, minds and souls, was wonderful for me to hear.
Will You Dream Together to Create New Shared Realities? “We Will.”
And so, with these experiences and needs for prayerful engagement woven into the fiber of my being, I find myself grateful for the opportunity to use my gifts, to channel my dreams for a new sacred way for people to be together. As I said on Sunday to Valerie and Robert Pnakovich, “I am honored that you entrusted me with the sacred responsibility to facilitate your marriage, in the heart of this community of family and friends. I am better for it. I wish you both continuing, deepening love, ‘together, forever through time and space’.”
As pictures of the ceremony become available, I hope to add those pictures to this very long narrative. Thank you for reading any or all of this personal witness.