Here I Am

“Here I am, sitting in the Maryhouse office – making use of the desk for writing, the CD player for listening – making myself ‘at home.’” This is how I begin a journal entry, March 29, pausing to consider what I’d written reflexively, and the implications of this phrase fill me with wonder and gratitude; “It’s true, I do feel at home.” That was nearly a month ago. Much has happened since both to affirm and challenge this feeling of finding myself at home here amongst this strange cast of characters, in this crumbling old music school, in the East Village of Manhattan.

 These happenings have served to distract me from my ambition of giving an account each week of the events that transpire and my responses to them. Now, as I try to recall these things to the present, I find everything is a jumble. I am sitting at Ted’s desk that I often commandeer since my room is too small for a desk. Ted is stretched out on a mattress on the floor beneath the window copying out a Rilke poem for our wedding. Outside, the sound of one man’s rich melodic Islamic chant competes with the street-cleaner’s truck that rumbles down the south side of our street every Monday and Thursday. Beside me is a notebook in which I sketched highlights from my journal March 24 to April 13 to give me a framework, but now it is April 26 and there is more and more and more.

 Present in my mind and asking for consideration is not the beginning of my burgeoning responsibility in the house – managing the clothing room, preparing and serving meals, answering the door and telephone, welcoming guests, making decisions without consultation – the sweetness and frustration of sharing shifts with Ted and finding how differently we make decisions, the strangeness and beauty of Holy Week, Martha’s fast from words and food, birthday celebrations, becoming engaged to be married (that will have it’s own separate story!) with all the joys and fears that rush in, weeks of prayer and lectures, and strangers and friends forever at the door or in the house, and the multitude of details that shout between the lines and make all of this riotously alive.

 Present in my mind is the memorial mass at St. Joe’s for a fourteen year old girl died by her own hand last week. Her father was a friend of the house. Their story is convoluted and I am confused by the little I know, but his anger and heartache rang clear as he read from his own writing at the end of the mass. And I am thinking too of the tiny woman who, just the night before had shifted from her usually mousey-meek demeanor to a bitter rage when she was asked to leave the house. She threatened that if the police or hospital were called she would kill herself and told Ted, who was trying to reason with her, that her blood would be on his hands. I am thinking too of a woman I call “Sister Job” because she would not tell me her name but kept reading to me from the book of Job, especially the end when Job’s fortune turned and he was blessed with an abundance beyond what had been taken from him. “That’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she would say, “I believe that’s God’s promise to me too. I’m kinda like Job.” And she would speak so beautifully of developing a heart of constant worship, showing how the words of the Magnificat are nearly smudged from her bible because of how frequently she reads and runs her fingers over them. Then she would shift suddenly to God’s judgment, especially how those who stare at her will get theirs in the end, coming back again and again to people who stare, “that’s rude and that’s wrong,” she repeated continually. She would say it and level on me a searching, hunted look with her dark, uneven eyes and all I could think to say is, “you’re right, it is wrong.” Then there is the ever present Angie; her new set of false teeth, her inability to keep a jacket or pair of shoes for more than a day at a time, her constant requests and sweet sociability that’s broken at times with surprising howls when something has gone wrong. I am thinking too of my seemingly bi-monthly descents into emotional tumult when all my attention becomes focused on refraining from tears until I am in a room alone, when I become critical and insecure, when I can barely stand to talk with anyone, question my ability and stability, and feel a desperate desire to flee either to the desert where I can be tried and refined in solitude, unseen, or to “home,” wherever and whatever that might be, where I can be comforted and disappear into familiarity. It was during one of those times that I read the following poem, by Rumi:

Do not ask questions about longing Look in my face. Soul-drunk, body-ruined, these two sit helpless in a wrecked wagon. Neither knows how to fix it. And my heart, I would say it is more like a donkey sunk in a mudhole, struggling and miring deeper. But listen to me. For one moment stop being sad. Hear blessings dropping their blossoms around you. God.

And I looked out the window of my sanctuary bedroom, and sure enough, a soft breathing breeze was freeing the white petals from the limbs of trees and filling the sky with them, and so it is with the blessings that breeze into and fill my sky. I share love and life and work with a brilliant, tender-hearted man who (though I often forget it) is a wonderful mystery that I’m being given the privilege to explore for the rest of my life. I live in a house where, to the best of our ability we provide a space for the hungry to be fed, the naked (or scantily clad) to be dressed, the lonely to have companions, the sick to be cared for. I live in a house where, though we also contend and have conflict with each other, we aim to contend with oppressive forces in ourselves and in our world so that we might better love each other, ourselves, our God. Two dear friends from the Chicago Catholic Worker drove to New York to celebrate life with me the weekend of my birthday adding to the feeling that all of my families, my human homes, were in some way present with me – the White Rose, the Nees, Maryhouse, St. Joe’s, the Walkers – and that I am filled with more love and blessing than one woman’s body can hold. Trying to store it up will only make me burst; may it flow out from me and become life-giving water for those who thirst.

Chasing Tails

As I grow more familiar with Maryhouse, and Maryhouse grows more familiar with me, my participation and responsibilities expand. Along with the endless task of dishwashing, the labeling of the newspaper, I find little things here and there to fill the day and feel useful: help Trey, who lives with his family on the fourth floor, edit a paper for school; talk with Martha about how to compose a letter to the Cardinal and frame the message of her Holy Week fast; cut and paste a record of recently used images for the newspaper; play with the kids so their moms can have a break and I can be refreshed by their energy and enthusiasm; begin “shadowing” house shifts in preparation for me to begin taking shifts on my own.

People ask what kind of “organization” the Catholic Worker is. Living in one quickly dispels the idea that we are anything of the sort – there is nothing organized about this place! Not in a formal way. It runs, rather, with the informal organization of a family; at times maddeningly inefficient, often utterly absurd. While cooking dinner over at St. Joe’s (the other NY CW) I vented my frustration that they “close the house” at 8pm, whereas we stay open until 11pm. What are we doing during those extra hours? Mostly watching TV with Evelyn around whom the night shift is designed. It doesn’t help that I dislike watching most TV and that Evelyn dislikes me, making the shift not only a source of consternation but aggravation and occasionally hurt feelings. I will not even begin to describe the process of writing, editing and publishing a paper in a house that does not have internet, computer or printer!

All this drives me nuts. Yet, somehow I find myself feeling more at home and alive here than I would have dared dream I could within less than two weeks. While giving a talk Fordham University last week, along with Jane and Ted, I told the story of how I came to be a part of this messy movement. I could again feel the glow that grew in me when I first learned about this experiment with truth that Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin brought to life in the 1930’s. I am so grateful for the leaps and little steps that led me here and even for the ramshackle way of being that allows us to be more familial than functional.

I have to remind myself of this and in chaos and calm alike, repeat the mantra that has become so helpful, “observe without judgment,” keep asking questions and always be ready to listen. Before being given more tangible tasks, I found my days were filled with listening. “This has been a day of intense listening,” I wrote at the beginning of a lengthy journal entry. First, to Frank. Intense because his body is so weak, he can barely project his voice and then too because it seems as though a lifetime of memories have been poured out on the floor of his mind. It is confusing and time-consuming to try to make sense of them; “I’m such a mess,” he will say, “I don’t know where I am.” “I don’t want to close my eyes because I’m afraid all this will disappear.” He clasps my hand, “I just want a hand to hold. I’m wonderful as long as you are holding my hand.” And it feels wonderful for me too, as though we are life long friends instead of new acquaintances.

I find myself continually touching his fingers, assessing their temperature. A memory flashes, my aunt with my grandfather during his last days, “your hands are cold, Dad,” she would say to him, “Dad’s hands are cold,” she would say to us in the next room, looking out the window with a gaze that looked beyond it. Frank’s hands are cold, though his eyes at times still sparkle. Especially when he talks about me and Ted, or sings, “I Love a Piano,” in his quavering but still rich voice. I find myself wondering, do I attend to him so eagerly in part because I could not bring myself to sit at the side of my grandfather as he lay dying? And so I listen, at least a little, to my own memories too.

At dinner I met a woman from Hungary, I’ll call her Jean. “I love your hair!” She had shouted as I walked past the table where she was sitting.
“Oh, thank you. It’s kind of like yours.”
“No, it’s not.”
We started chatting, me standing, holding my plate and water glass. She invited me to sit with her. Eventually, she began to offer fragments of her story. “I feel like I’m caught in this cycle…it’s like a dog chasing it’s tail,” she told me, her words thick and heavy in contrast to her withered body and gaunt face. “When I first came here, through immigration, they put me on the street with two dollars a day, later two dollars a week…now tell me, is that reasonable logic? No friends. No family. No language. Two dollars a day. What could I do? This is crazy, two dollars a day.”
“That is crazy,” I confirmed, commiserating about the negligence of the immigration system.

Is it reasonable though? I am quick to judge the amorphous “government,” but have to ask, what is reasonable to expect from the state? Can an organization fix the problem? I suspect it may be another exercise in chasing tails. Yet, it is so crazy – imagine, living with no home, no friends, no common language and trying to get by on two dollars in a strange and often hostile city. How can such a thing be considered acceptable? And that is why we are here, inefficiencies and all, to respond to Jean. To say, “yes, it is crazy,” to sit and listen, share a meal, a shower, special events and holidays. It doesn’t solve the problem; it isn’t an answer, but it keeps the questions alive in our language and experience. More importantly, it gives women like Jean a place to be treated as a valued individual, as part of a family.

Wednesday night was bible study. Those who are interested tackle a book from the bible, one chapter at a time, with the help of many weighty (in every sense of the word) commentaries to help pick apart and flesh out the readings. We have just begun Genesis and I listened to a poetic description in the first chapter of God’s division of the Lights – the greater designated for day, the lesser for night. Somehow, it put me in mind of a passage from East of Eden. A character, Samuel, is responding to the question of why he, a man of knowledge, decided to farm in the desert land of California:

“It’s because I haven’t courage…I could never quite take the responsibility. When the Lord God did not call my name, I might have called His name – but I did not. There you have the difference between greatness and mediocrity…it’s nice for a mediocre man to know that greatness must be the loneliest state in the world…I believe when you come to that responsibility the hugeness and you are left alone to make your choice. On one side you have warmth and companionship and sweet understanding, and on the other—cold, lonely greatness. There you make your choice. I’m glad I chose mediocrity, but how am I to say what reward might have come with the other?”

This passage tugged strongly when I first read it several years ago and continues to haunt me. I was thinking of the choice, the responsibility, to choose greatness or mediocrity. In the Jewish tradition God told the moon, “diminish yourself,” a command indicating that becoming a lesser light was a voluntary act of submission. The moon’s acquiescence to wane made room for an accompanying host of stars. Greater and lesser lights, the utter loneliness of the first contrasted with the sweet companionship of the second. The solitary sun, brilliant and blazing; the soft reflecting moon, surrounded by her family of stars.

What will it be, Amy Nee? Left alone with the hugeness, I find myself feeling the way I imagine Frank does now with every question posed to him.
“Would you take another sip of this Ensure, Frank.”
“Oh, I just don’t know. I don’t know what’s going on. What do you think?”
“I think it’s worth a try.”
“Sure, doesn't hurt to try.”
“That’s right.”
But it's not right, not really. Trying often hurts. The question is, is it worth the pain?
“How about we just take it one sip at a time?”
“Yes, I can do that.”

Little by Little

What I woke to was sun, streaming through a tall, open-mouthed window that breathed in the cool morning air. Serabi, the tabby house cat that normally shadows Ted was curled beside me. She crept in, to my delighted surprise, and crawled into bed with me on my first restless night. How do animals know so well when we need their warm presence?

Sitting up on this mattress that lies frameless, on the floor, I wrapped one arm around my knees and used my free hand to move aside the white curtains, colored with rings of yellow water stains. Across the street is a high rise apartment of faded red brick, white-faced cherubs engraved across the center, fire escapes descending to the street. “So this is it,” I thought, awareness dawning with the day, “I am living in New York City.”

Most of my significant belongings (clothes, shoes and books) arrived with me in two hefty bags and amazingly, this afternoon, I managed to find a place for them in this sweet little square room (olive green!) with no dresser or closet. There is a short metal rod for hanging and a hip-height book case for everything else. I’ve utilized one of the suitcases as a drawer and tucked it, along with the empty one, into a corner.

Maryhouse Catholic Worker. When I was closing the door this morning to change, my hand touched Ted’s, on his way in to say good morning. We were lucky to have a couple undemanding hours to begin our first morning together. The first of many days in which we learn to share this house, work, life.

The first morning I received a riotous welcome from the children in “Joanne’s Room,” an office and play room on the second floor, and a warm greeting from the adults too. Down another flight of stairs is the auditorium and one and a half more takes you to the cafeteria and kitchen. There I met Marit, “one of the Germans” (many come from Germany to volunteer here for anywhere from a month to a year), had a bowl of soup, and listened to a woman rejoice at the find she made in the clothing room – a striped nightgown, a pair of slacks to wear to an interview – “and now this beautiful food! God is good!” Not every woman who comes for lunch is so cheerful, but there is an atmosphere of familiarity and warmth that prevails.

It’s hard to imagine ever coming to feel as though I am at home here; time will tell. I am willing to try. Driving through the city, from the airport, I looked at the glittering towers and endless apartments as a legion, my opponent. Then I thought of my last train ride in Chicago, watching the city that once seemed so foreign. Outside of my neighborhood, for the most part, it remained so. Yet, having that island of association shifted my perspective, the ocean of strange people and streets and clustered buildings lost its menace and was only an expanse. I could venture into it as far as I liked and know where to turn to swim home. “I found a place in you,” I had whispered to Chicago that day. “I will find my place in you,” I silently declared to Manhattan. We will make peace, my enemy.

*****

I made a rule for myself. Day one, you can hide out in your room as long as you like. Ever after, no more than two hours! Though it’s only been two days since, I am happy to say I’ve followed through so far. Most of Thursday afternoon was spent at Bellevue hospital, visiting Frank, a ninety-four year old man (friend of Dorothy and a CW for much of his life), who had been living at Maryhouse under the care of Ted and others until his condition suddenly, drastically worsened and he required emergency medical care. Frank was so moved to see us, he wept. He never let go of my hand the whole visit and kept saying how wonderful it was to “hold the hand of this special person.” Such an emblem of grace, this utterly unearned love I receive from him though we’d only met recently and briefly. Somehow it is so important to him that Ted and I be together, and so dear to him not only that I have come to the city, but that we came to see him. It is very clear that he wants to be finished – that he treasures his memories, loved ones, and life, but he is weary and hurting. When a friend asked if he wants to “come home,” he responded, “I want to go home, to God.” It is sad and also strangely beautiful, no doubt frightening too, for him. “I don’t know how to do this,” he kept saying, “I don’t know where I am.” How those quandaries resonate with me! Are these questions always with us? Even if one has lived, and lived with energy and fullness, for almost a century?

The events of the evening made a peculiar, poignant juxtaposition to our time in the hospital. We experienced grace in another form, through a mass and baptism for little eight month old Bennett who had been brought by his parents from Germany especially to be baptized here at Maryhouse where they experienced their faith come alive. Bennett laughed through the entire ritual, kicking his feet and craning his head to catch the eyes of his captive audience.

I am tremendously grateful for the Germans volunteering here this month. They are so very friendly and welcoming and somehow, the presence of this handful of men and women who don’t quite belong, yet are temporarily part of the community, helps my own presence to feel more fitting. So far I have had many conversations but not done much work besides some dishes here, some newspaper labeling there, a little ladling of the soup. No one is demanding much and I have allowed myself to take these first few days easy. I am hoping soon to push toward a more assertive embodiment of myself and begin taking on more responsibility. I know the help is needed.

Ted has an endless list of things to do and seems so tired yet in the midst of the madness overcomes weariness and grumpiness to be tenderly present to me, to his friends, to guests, to workers and volunteers. A good man is hard to find – how is it that I happened to be found by one so wonderful?