Just a note...new people may be visiting this site...
Please make sure to find Paula's posts.
None of them from 2016 are hers, only one from 2015.
But all of the rest are.
Please do explore. She had a most unique and special way of looking at the world.
I will continue to celebrate her spirit, and will hope that you, whether this is your first time here, or have been coming here for years, will too.
These pictures of Paula with one of our kitties, Billy (we had declared that Billy was the finest animal in the universe) give a rather historical perspective.
Paula holding Billy when he was a kitten.
And 12 or more years later.
And here's us. I'm guessing around 1987. We were at a friend's farm, while back in Kansas, visiting my parents.
And....at WBGH's studio....at least 20 years later, maybe more...
It never occurred to me until just now to post some of my settings of Paula's words...I've released a number of CDs featuring her poetry extensively, with the Jazz Composers Alliance Orchestra....and have a new one out soon, with more,with my new, smaller group, OddSong. A name Paula gave to me in a poem...I read this poem to her regularly while she was in the hospital...I probably had seen it, but forgotten about it, and wondered when she had written it, and found the date, July 6, 2012. On July 2nd, I'd had knee replacement surgery, and this was for me when I was in the hospital. I've set Guiding Narrative, but no recording....and the links here...don't seem to work right. You'll have to copy and paste...
I don't need to tell you, oddsong, that
defense from all perils comes
in whatever forest of the night you find yourself,
so sing on and on, even (or so it goes)
at the grave, even if (as is likely)
there's no one to hear either you or the tree
that will fall on you and crush you, even
before the birds have eaten all the breadcrumbs, even
before you reach the Big Rock Candy Cathedral
where the curate has prepared a supersaturated solution
to all your problems, hope
after hope after hope, my beloved.
The photos, I'm just picking randomly...and sorry, at the moment, I can't access the commercially recorded examples, will be back in the future...but here are some links to some of the music (and these are seeming to require being copied and pasted, instead of just clicked on
I've been working with a marvelous vocalist for 18 years, Rebecca Shrimpton. Paula took some voice lessons from her, and wrote a couple of great posts here on this blog about them...anyway, Rebecca has been singing my music for all of that time, most of it being settings of Paula's poetry. Rebecca and I wrote this piece together (first time for that) last January: she really liked this post and extracted song lyrics from it...I'm putting on two different performances....they're live, and raw....
This is is the JCA Orchestra, performing an early version of How To Clean A Sewer, which includes the last poem Paula wrote for me (summer of 2014), as in: I gave her the title and requested...and when I put it to use, I insisted on changing the last word to "sleep"...
When I was in music school, I suffered from a considerable lack of confidence. I was having regular meetings with one of my teachers, and when I would show him music I was working on or had finished: he would say, "Yeah, I like that", or "that's nice". And I would proceed to tell him what was wrong with it. When I would talk about ambitious projects and he'd suggest that I'd take them on, I'd tell him I wasn't ready.
Finally, one day, he said: "You know, you've got a lot of music in you, but getting it out of you is like cleaning a sewer."
So: that was the title of my piece honoring his retirement.
How To Clean A Sewer
There lie the rinds of things,
there in the shadows,
that shamed the tongue.
The wind that howls through
that matter horn;
the dervish fire hose;
the cold and smothering clods;
the snakeroots piercing
the clotted gourd
to god soul truth love hope heal heart --
there is no fix
but in ash-scour and the scent
of windfall lemons
from the grove of the last
dream before you die.
Windfall Lemons, from "How To Clean A Sewer" (2nd of three movements)
I don't know if any of you are still out there reading...but if you are, I thought you might want to see some of the photo booth pictures that Paula took of herself. Photo booth, if you're not familiar, is a mac application that lets you take pictures from a camera mounted on the screen. Paula, generally, was camera shy. An introvert. She was fond of making self-effacing comments about her self: she enjoyed claiming that she was: a "crone".
But: she left, taken between 2011 and early 2015, FOUR HUNDRED of these pictures. Laughing,frowing, smiling, scowling, all kinds of moods. She went all photo shop on a few...
She was clearly documenting herself. Record keeping. Creating a history...just for herself, I think.
You can get a sense of what season it was from what she was wearing.
I love these pictures. She's so beautiful in them. And they are so honest.
I'm putting a random selection here, in chronological order.
Sara Irwin was Paula's priest and friend...
Her homily was very personal and moving...she added to this, but here is the written part...
Everyone that knew Paula learned from her. I just now learned how put the photos (randomly selected, I'm afraid, and without her keen sense of finding just the right one) in between blocks of text.
There is a section in one of the addenda to the Episcopal Book of Common prayer politely titled The Burial of one who does not profess the Christian faith. You can have whatever reading you want at a funeral, and it really doesn’t matter what part of the Bible it comes from. So the headings are not important. But when I was putting things together to talk with Darrell about what to do today I just kind of caught on that expression. To profess the faith. To believe it, to say it out loud, to identify. Paula’s relationship with the Christian faith was just never as simple as professing it. When she was preparing for confirmation, Paula made a comment about how the cross inscribed on her forehead when she was baptized as a child had endured there, without her knowing it, an invisible claim made by God on her. That claim followed her and held her, when at moments she would have professed something pretty different from the traditional creeds of the institutional church.
Whatever she professed, Paula’s faith, however, I would trust to pray me out of the belly of any whale, as our first opening acclamation from the book of Jonah said. Paula’s faith was in unfathomable beauty and grace and clarity and vision and justice and peace. Paula’s spiritual life was that of a theologian, as in the classical understanding that defines theology as “faith seeking understanding.” Paula’s faith was always, always, always seeking understanding. And as I think about her faith, she was one of the most Christian, most theologically grounded person I’ve ever met. She did not simply believe, as though a crowd of people in a stone building saying words together could make them true. She interrogated and imagined and made poetry out of the most random shards of life. She wrote in her blog once about Jesus as the chimera of eternity and history. The chimera of eternity and history. She was never sure of how, exactly, to believe in Jesus—but I am sure she knew him.
What has come into being in the Word was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
It might be a little weakly transparent to use imagery of Word and light at the funeral for a poet. It might a tad too obvious to talk about how Words and Light are part of the reality of God at the funeral of a poet and photographer. The work of poetry and photography is to hold time still, just for a moment. It’s to say “Look, here! Something important is here!” But that was part of how Paula was a theologian. I remember once when we setting up for Good Friday services. We set up a huge wooden cross next to the baptismal font for Lent, and part of preparing for Good Friday is to cover all the crosses with black veils. So you cover it and tie it at the bottom under the cross bar. And the first year we had the big wooden cross Paula asked me what I thought. This was not long after the photographs had been released of the atrocities in Iraq and I kind of shook my head and said, “I think it looks too Abu Ghraib.” And she said “Well, is that bad? Isn’t that the point?” Which, of course, is exactly the point. She got it, whether or not she always claimed it. The point of Good Friday is to say that God is able to face the worst of humanity, not to shy away from it, but to enter into our violence and say that it does not have the last word. The violence and suffering of the world are always defeated by the love of God.
Paula had an amazing gift for the particular, for the things of life in this world. When Paula found her way into helping with the altar guild, a solitary ministry done for the community, but completely alone—she said it was her anchoress work, like Julian of Norwich having visions in her little church hermitage. She took it on with such astonishing precision and understated grace that when she left, suddenly everyone realized how we’d all be unconsciously leaning on her to straighten us out behind the scenes. Where was the screw that somehow transforms a paschal candle into an advent wreath? Everything, though, came from this amazing core of dedication and rigor. She would get here at 8am in a blizzard, just in case someone else showed up for church and I needed help (not many did).
This piece from John this, too, is a story of creation and origin. It’s not Jesus born in a stable, and it’s not Adam and Eve walking in the garden. Those stories tell us one thing, and this one tells us quite another. This one reminds us where we have come from, and the One to whom we belong. The one whom Paula sought and sought and wanted and desired after, who sought and sought and desired after her. This is the scandalous story of the Christian faith—that God chooses humanity and pitches a tent here with us, in the person of Jesus. Jesus turns over tables and casts out demons and heals and does all of these wild things with all the wrong people. And the powers of empire and the world just cannot handle it. You just don’t act like that with no consequences. The world does not work that way. It still doesn’t.
And all the power of the empire that can’t imagine such love nails him to a cross. And the love doesn’t stop. His friends see him. He eats with them. They find him when they are together. And this love that couldn’t be defeated by death continues. In them, and through eons and days and over years through shadows, and brings us here. To this love and grief, terrifying and beautiful. The same love that moved mountains is the love that catches us, and catches Paula. It is that invisible seal on her forehead, the crown on her forehead, and the bond that will keep our hearts and hers united in God’s love forever.