Weeping Like An Egyptian

[image from nationalgeographic.com]

[Remember Faiza and Bill, the elderly couple I provide home support for? I went over this morning to help out, and, knowing Faiza is Egyptian, asked her how she is feeling with all that is happening in Egypt right now. This is what she told me.]

"I am crying

for my country,

habibi,"

she said.

"They are burning

the museums,

where I walked

so many times,

and that is

my history,

all the way back

to the Pharoahs.

"When Jesus, Mary 

and Joseph fled

from Heroditus,

it was to Egypt

they came,

for safety.

"We are an

advanced civilization.

We have a force
within

with which

we built
the Pyramids

and the Sphinx,
in those days
without equipment,
raising those
heavy stones.

"Our history

is written

and painted

on the walls

of tombs.

They cannot

be destroyed.

"Long ago, 

they mummified

the dead,

preserved them

for centuries.

The kings were buried

with all their gold.

"When the invaders came,

to take the gold,

and they rolled back

the doors

to the tombs,

the force of millions

of tiny bugs

flew out in their faces

to protect the tombs,

and their bite was poison.

They turned the hordes away.

"My uncles are there,

my father's brothers.

My aunts,

and my cousins

are there.

So I am crying

for my country,

today,

habibi,

crying for
my people

and the beautiful land

where I was born."

from msn.com

THE GRANDMOTHER SONG

Florence Fitzsimmons, one of the first women in her area who rode for pleasure -

she rode well into her sixties. Note the wagon to the right. No cars then!

February 14, 1998

I wear my grandmother's ring

for medicine.

Rubbing my fingers over it,

I feel my connection

to her

and to the long line of old, wise women

who came before her,

who walked the grandmother path
before she

who walked here

before me.

One of them was a healer;

one of them spoke with ghosts.

In my past are Celtic crones

and warrior women,

mystics and dream weavers.

In my past, women galloped
on horseback

across the plains,

gave birth in tents, in covered wagons
and in captivity.

A medicine woman
is back there,

and an Untouchable,

a witch and a nun.

In my past are bent, exhausted
and determined women,

digging in the unyielding earth

trying to feed their children

during the potato famine.

Once in vision

row upon row of silent,
dead-eyed women

wrapped in blankets,

I saw, weaving their way

through the frozen blackness
of a winter morning

in the Gulag

and, with a chill, I knew them,

and knew I had been there.

Somewhere back there

there was a woman of vision

and a fool.

Somewhere back there,
wise women sat around a fire

in Council,

speaking truth and governing.

Somewhere back there,

women were

burned at the stake.

Some raised swords
and led armies on horseback.

Some were shackled together
in a ship's hold

to be sold as slaves.

Some lived in castles
and some in caves.

Somewhere back there,

once women's spirits flew;

somewhere back there

our souls were
kept in bondage.

Somewhere back there

our feet were cruelly bound.

Somewhere back there
we threw off

all the bindings
and stood tall.

And now I am watching
my grandmother's face

emerging before me daily
in the mirror.

My grandmother's eyes
are looking out of my face.

They know me.

Somewhere from within

my grandmother has told me

to put on the ring:

for now I am worthy.

I, the baby grandmother,

just coming into my power.

No longer a granddaughter,

now an elfin granddaughter
walks beside me, looking up,

and the vast peaceful knowing

that lived in my grandmother's heart

has come to reside within me.

I wear my grandmother's ring

for love, for memory,

for connection

to the line of strong women
who came here before me

and for the line of strong women

who will walk here behind me,

for the passage of time

that is timeless,

for the circle of love

that is endless,

for the circle of life
that keeps turning and turning:

one grandmother out,

one granddaughter in,

footsteps walking in footsteps,

heart upon heart,

all the way Home.

1955

My sister on Beau at a cattle sorting event

1955
was a very good year.
There was work
for everyone.
Wages were low,
but so were the costs
of housing
and daily living.
A dime could buy you
a Popsicle, two Dubble Bubble
and penny candy.

For fifty bucks a month
you could rent
a pretty great house.

Cars were built solid,
to last.
It was not yet a
disposable society.

Care was taken
to put quality
into products.


My sister was born
that year.
I was jealous
of all the attention
she got.
On her christening day,
I pinched her
through her diaper
and all the flouncy layers
of her long white gown.

She roared,
and so did my mother,
as she rushed
to comfort her.


Now that sister and I
are best friends.
We help each other out.
There's no one else
our history goes
so far back with.


She knew me when
I had freckles
and no hairstyle
and pretended I knew how
to twirl a baton
(I didnt)
and be cool
(I wasnt)


We've weathered
deaths
and divorces
and losses
and starting over
with nothing
so many times


We've discussed it all
sometimes laughing
maniacally
over thousands
of cups of tea.

We support each other.
We have each other's back


Turns out
1955 was
a very good year.