Don't Sing at the Table (16 page)

I understand what it means to be a minority, and to defend a set of spiritual ideals that are just beginning to form. For as far back as we go, my family has been Roman Catholic; it is as much about being Italian as it is about religion. You can find out most any fact you need about my lineage by checking church records. But even then, with all this history behind me, I wanted to decide what I would be for myself. I wasn't sure who I was in the eyes of religion, but I always knew who I was in the eyes of God. I didn't like to be in the position of defending my church. This was something I was born into, not something I had chosen for myself. I felt that I should be allowed to seek God however I wished. I thought I should atone for the sins I committed, not the ones others said I had committed. I was often torn, and in spiritual exile. But those Glenmarys—they got me. I saw how they did it. It was plain, it was simple, and it was grassroots. It was person-to-person. And I realized, and now have seen many years later, they don't even need the building. They don't even need the costumes. All they need is a circle of folks who want to be still, and there it is, in the gathering of a few in prayer—the celebration of faith.

I am not a theologian or an expert in any matters of religion. I have been exposed to many, and found a deep beauty in the history and traditions that are at the center of organized religion. I remember moments at the wedding of my Jewish friends, who at the reception sang a beautiful song they had learned from a cantor as kids. I've shared Seder supper during Passover in Norton, Virginia, and then with the Luck/Schneider family in New York. I made a good Muslim friend in Annika in South Africa during Ramadan, and learned, by watching her, the beauty of sacrifice through fasting. The great sects of the Protestant Church—I've taken delight in their celebrations, covered dish suppers, and devotion to alleviating human suffering and being present for the poor. A Baptist funeral is a send-off to behold; it almost makes you believe that grief is a good thing.

Davide Perin with children on the field of Delabole Farm in the 1920s.

And I've seen the other side too—when God, and your notion of Him or Her, is used to manipulate earthly want. Well, it's enough to make you throw your hands up and forget religion altogether. Organized religion is complex, and there is much good to recommend it—a sense of community, of connection, of purpose. The grassroots work done in the name of God in the Appalachians by the Glenmarys is practical and also transcendent. However, structured, organized religions are run by human beings, so our capacity for good can be well matched by lesser traits, and sometimes even evil.

The development of faith and a spiritual life that sustains us is not about religion; it's something far more personal; it's about cultivating the ability to be
still.
We must nurture our souls with the same diligence with which we care for our bodies, and in the same fashion that we have built our intellect through the development and study of ideas and the celebration of our particular gifts and skills. We cannot simply walk in this world subject to the whims of fate and materialism, of greed and want, of fame or recognition, or of grief and despair. We have to be strong inside. When we have fortified our souls, when we have taken it upon ourselves to be responsible and to honor the dictates of our own conscience, strength comes.

I watched Viola work through the despair that came when her three-year-old granddaughter, Michalynn, died of leukemia. I watched Lucy stoic and supportive when her grandson Paul was diagnosed with severe autism. They led our families with grace. They moved us forward.

We know how to love one another, to take in love, to return it. We know when it's right because everybody wins; everybody is better for the exchange. The depths of self-love come from the connection we make to our souls. If that connection is made, if we become aware of the force of the unseen, we cannot be swayed to go against the voice within us. We will hear it, and we will do the right thing.

Always.

The finest people I have ever known never went to church, or went and don't go now. The finest people I have ever known might go to synagogue once a year, or on occasion stop in church to light a candle; still others make sure they go every week. There is no one path to learning to be still. You use the tools you have, and if that includes gathering in community, then that's for you. Some people go to the gym, and others put on a pair of sneakers and run as far as they can go. Both build the body, and so it goes with the soul, the path to faith is personal.

I cannot separate out the dutiful Catholic from the imperfect one, or the agnostic from the atheist, or the diehard Presbyterian from the cultural Jew. No one belief system, or lack of one, has the ticket to the concept of heaven with a guarantee that Saint Peter is there to punch your card and send you in. But there is a difference in people who have the ability to be still, and go inward and keep their own counsel. They have
peace
.

As Sister Bernie Kenney (a nun who is also a nurse and operated the Saint Mary's Health Wagon for years in the Appalachians, delivering medicine to people who had none, and a modern-day saint according to Father John Rausch) said to me, “There are no labels on the other side.” Hopefully, we won't act like there are on
this
side either. But somehow, it's an ongoing struggle—when we are adults, the invisible dividing line remains, akin to what we experienced in the high school gym at school assembly: different beliefs often represent strains of humanity, and not the whole. You have the popular, the artsy, the geeky, the jocks, and subsets of all; but in religion, it's
worse.
Sometimes religious leaders believe they are above us, and that's when exploitation and evil take root to destroy the very beliefs that we hope will sustain us in our quest for inner peace.

How do I acquire this inner peace? Just as the sustenance of anything that matters to you takes care and diligence, focus and attention, it takes daily commitment. Each day we must carve out time to go inward, to embrace the silence and listen to the voice within. Some spiritual people find this voice through the physical—they break through to their souls by using their bodies to focus on a particular thought, or a goal. Others immerse themselves in the service of others, and in so doing, find the still voice in the strength they need to serve. We all come to it our own way, and if we are wise, we pay attention to everything that comes our way that opens our hearts. That's really all it takes.

I learned to pray as a Catholic girl. The mysticism, the prayers, and the rosary in particular matter to me. The greater goal of serving others is never far from my mind, though I come up short often and plenty. But I know how to pray, and I can thank my religion for that. I learned how to be still watching my grandmothers. Sometimes they were so busy caring for their families and doing their work, they had to steal a moment to be still. But they did it; they
insisted.

I found rosary beads tucked in their pockets, and prayer cards in their wallets, and small books of wisdom, dog-eared and marked up, on their nightstands. They owned the destiny of their souls, knowing that there was very little of the physical world that they could control. Loved ones would die, money would come and go, friends would disappoint, family would hurt, disaster would strike, but nothing that ever happened to them would catch them unaware and render them helpless, because they knew how to pray. They knew how to be still, and tap the state of knowing that deep within you are all the answers you need, and an endless well of strength that will sustain you. This is spirit. And it has nothing to do with the pew you sit in, or don't.

I'm sure they hoped I would be a good Roman Catholic, but more than that, they hoped I would be able to listen to my inner voice and follow my heart. One led to the other for me. Who knew that trusting the voice would give me a job that I love and would sustain my family? Who knew that trusting the voice would help me make the best choice of lifetime partner, with the promise of commitment giving way to romance and hopefully, lots, greater, and even better sex? Who knew that trusting the inner voice would give me one good daughter and a peek through the window to the future in her eyes? This inner peace has also given me the ability to navigate grief, pain, loss, disappointment, and tragedy. I know it's not about me; it's about how I
react
. And when I am experiencing the worst—and believe me, it shows up uninvited—I turn to the voice within. I rest in the notion of that peace, and no matter what, the voice tells me that it will all be all right.

You can find chapter and verse to back up God's big plans for us, and tell us that if we follow a few choice beliefs, those beliefs will lead us home. That might be true, but none of these promises can be realized without the ability to go inward. And truthfully, when it comes to the concept of God, I only know that He made me, and maybe that's all I get. This life.

The gift of this crazy, fabulous hayride is mine, which, if I'm lucky and pay attention, will be shared with family and friends who want the best for me, and I for them. Then as a bonus, the ordinary moments that are also divine: standing in front of a blue ocean, holding your daughter in her pajamas on a winter morning when she's not quite awake, or writing one good sentence in a sea of seven hundred pages of trying, reveal themselves like lone glittering stars on the darkest night sky. The gifts, in fact that keep on giving: the promise that you are not alone in this insanity, that you can love someone and hold on. But you need
strength
to hold on. The ability to be still gives you that particular strength, and the power to appreciate and, for a second, to
hold
the moment. If I get to the other side, and I find out that indeed that was the prize all along, I will spend eternity in bliss.

I could only know these gifts because of the stillness.

At the end of Viola's life, I asked her if she had any regrets. She said, “I wish I would have had more children.” And I was shocked—after all, she'd had four children, which seemed like a lot. And furthermore, at that point, in the spring of 1997, I had none. Having a child was on my mind, and I suddenly felt bereft that she would never know my children. But I also knew that you can't plan everything, even if you try. So instead of telling her that I was sorry that she would never see my children, instead I asked, “Gram, why more kids?” And she looked at me and said, “Because life is good.”

And then she smiled.

Afterword

W
e worry what to give our children, agonize about what gifts to give them in the hopes of choosing something special that will build a memory for them. We trudge to theme parks, take them to musicals, unveil the wonders of the circus or the thrill of carnivals to give them an
adventure
, where they have to be brave while having fun. We want them to remember the blinking lights, the whirling Ferris wheel, and the glass boxes filled with spools of pink cotton candy. We want to give them moments, so hopefully, when they're old, they'll look back and remember the commitment we made to their childhood, to
show
them things, to fill their imaginations with wonder.

We hope they'll remember the thrill of riding on Mr. Toad's Wild Ride, or maybe they'll forget the ride, the circumstance, the day, and simply remember the feeling of security they had while holding our hands on the endless line. Maybe that's the best gift we can give them, the knowledge that we will always be there. Or maybe it's the only gift that matters.

After Viola died, I went to visit her grave. I drove down to her house in early summer, when trees were in bloom, and the house and property were hidden by foliage. As I made the turn up the driveway, I felt she was there. I took a walk around the grounds, remembering the summer days, the chores, and our conversations. I used to address my letters to her: “Mrs. M. A. Trigiani, Head Nun, Little Sisters of the Poor Summer Camp.”

I got back into the rental car and drove through the village, and into Bangor, and up to the stoplight. I was thinking about her when there was a tap on the passenger window. I looked over and saw a man. I rolled down the window, thinking he might need directions.

“Are you Viola Trigiani's granddaughter?” he asked.

“Yes. You know she passed away.”

“I saw it in the paper.” He introduced himself.

“You know, she came to see me before she died,” he said. “I live in that house right there.” He pointed.

I remember his house because next to it was an impromptu alley, a strip of grass with grooves made from the wheels of parked cars, two parallel dirt tracks with tufts of grass going between them.

The man parked his cars in the alleyway. And they weren't just cars, they were vintage models. There was a beauty, one that I admired since I was a girl. It was a hardtop Ford Fairlane circa 1960 in mint condition. My favorite aspect of the car was the wide turquoise-and-white harlequin shapes on the sides of the car. It looked like Commedia dell'arte pantaloons to me. Whimsical. And whenever we drove by, I'd look for the car, and tell my grandmother I wanted that car. Then we'd spar.

“What would you do with that old car?”

“Put it in your garage.” I'd tell her.

And then we'd argue about the car I didn't own. There wasn't room in the garage, and besides, why should she be stuck with another vehicle to maintain? How would I afford it? Why would I need a car when I lived in New York City? The car was old. You never know about old cars—they might look good on the outside, but be clunkers on the inside. And on and on. It was a routine with us.

The man looked at me as though he knew what I was thinking.

“Were you the one that liked my Fairlane?” he asked me.

“Yes sir, I was.”

“Well, last March your grandmother knocked on my door. Said she wanted to buy the car. I told her I wasn't selling it. She tried to bargain with me, but I stood my ground. Then she went soft and told me that it was for her granddaughter, who admired it. I was moved, but I still wouldn't sell. She left me her number in case I changed my mind.”

I thanked him.

“I think it's nice she wanted to buy it for you,” he said.

I couldn't say anything. I was thinking that a car was the highest gift you could receive in the Trigiani family.

On the way to the cemetery, I thought of all the things my grandmother did in the weeks before she died. She gave things away. She dropped a herringbone car coat at her niece Violet Ruggiero's house, because Violet had admired it. She made amends. She called her friends. She invited her grandkids to play cards with her in the hospital. She took visitors. She pretended not to be in pain, and when they'd sneak booze into the hospital, she'd toast them from a plastic cup.

In her final days, Viola made life seem like a party that shouldn't end, whether she stayed or went. I thought about the girl she had been, one who loved dancing, parties, and a life of glamour and fun, but whose path turned serious when her mother died so young.

Her passing made me aware of precious time. I was lucky to have time with my grandmothers. These moments are my treasure, afternoons or mornings or bits of time at a family function when I was lucky enough to steal private moments with them. In my imagination, these moments swirl around one another and clump together; the days and years might somersault over one another, out of order and out of sync, but the message remains clear.

I was loved, and I loved them.

Whenever I wish, I can taste their cooking, hear their laughter, and know their love, just as they promised.

When I was young, I worried that they would die. The thing I feared most didn't happen, I was lucky to have them both into my thirties. They didn't see my daughter born, but I'm pretty sure they sent her to me.

And greedily, when they died, I wished for more. There are days when I would trade everything I have to be with them again. But I've learned that there is never enough time with someone you love.
Ever
.

I look down at my hands a lot, and remember theirs—Lucy's long, tapered fingers as she sewed, and deftly spun the wheel on the Singer, and Viola's hands, at first artful and strong, and then in constant motion to ward off arthritis. Their hands did not rest; they were busy creating, stirring, crocheting, pruning, or kneading. When I attempt to follow their example and make something with my hands, whether it's a meal or something crafty, I come in a distant second to my grandmothers, but I
try
. I owe them that.

I learned how to be a woman from my grandmothers. They taught me their simple definition of feminism: make your own living. Rely on no one to take care of you. When a man controls the checkbook, he controls you. Be a good partner, an equal, and demand that he be a good partner too. Work for yourself, invent your own business, so you can set productivity, pace, and therefore profit. Pay your bills. Clean up your debts as you go; let the obligation to pay off the debt fuel your ambition. Own your own home. Have a moral code that elevates your thinking, and your behavior will follow. Use common sense. Modesty is the guardian of privacy. Defend your good reputation; you can't get it back once it's gone. Apologize when you're wrong. Fight back when wrong is done to you, or to those you love. Loving one good man is enough. Know that you will see all those you have lost again, and beat back sadness with the knowledge. Take care of your parents, honor their wishes. Have a purpose and beauty will follow, you won't have to work at it. Style is appropriate. Know what you like, cultivate your individual taste, and you won't care what anyone else thinks. Fill a vase with fresh flowers from your own garden. Grow lilacs near a window, and your home will be filled with springtime when they bloom. Good manners are insurance that you will be invited back. Leave your children your values, not
stuff
. Do not be afraid to die, it's natural. Take a chance, and when you fail, take another. There is no limit on risk; aim high and aim true. Be bold. Be direct. Be different. Remember who you come from; you owe them because they
gave
you the ticket to this adventure. Honor the debt.

I try to live these mandates, and I fall short plenty. But I want to show my daughter how to live, not just tell her. Words evaporate in thin air like smoke, but actions galvanize the spirit and reinforce good intentions. I want to leave Lucia the intangibles—the gift of going inward, an example of peace and of connection—knowing that it is these things that will nurture her soul and make her strong.

Women have found a way to survive and thrive that is unique to our sex. For me, and I trust for many of you, your philosophy of life, your approach to living, came from your relationship with the sages in your life, those women who came before you and made you feel you could achieve a great thing or master a small one, and either would be met with encouragement and then approval. Hold their wisdom close and follow their example.

Maybe your sages didn't come from your family. You might have been close to a teacher, or a boss, or a neighbor who taught you how to make something, and in so doing, taught you how to
be
someone. It never,
ever
occurred to me that I wouldn't work, and that if the fates were kind, I wouldn't be gifted a family of my own.

Love your work, enjoy it. Hard work is good for us. Lucy and Viola loved their work; the mastery of their crafts brought them a sense of satisfaction. Work gave them something that they could in turn give to me:
drive
. Ambition fuels purpose, and purpose builds character, and character sustains a strong family. When it appeared that a task was dull, or that the development of a technique in my chosen profession could be repetitive and boring, they upped the stakes and encouraged me to push harder. They knew that a plateau was only a foothold upward to something greater. They turned this slog into an adventure.

I miss them.

I will long for the cool summer mornings when I'd go berry picking with Viola in the woods. The sun was barely up, but it threw just enough light to see. Raspberries grow deep in the brush, and you have to hunt for them. Sometimes we'd look and look, and no luck. I'd tell my grandmother that maybe there weren't any raspberries this particular year—maybe there'd been too much rain, or not enough. “Have you checked the
Almanac
?” I'd complain. Viola would ignore me and push me deeper into the woods, and farther into the forest, certain we'd come upon them. I wasn't so sure, but I followed her anyway.

Over and over again, we bent back spindly branches thick with leaves, hoping to find them. We'd trudge up a gnarly path and push through more foliage, hoping for a glimpse of red. When you found one cluster, you knew that it would lead to the mother lode. This particular boondoggle seemed like a gold rush with no payoff. I wanted to give up.

There were often thorns and sharp spikes growing in the bushes to turn us back. The slushy mud pits under the green gave me the creeps. I wondered what weird animals lived in the forest—what if one bit me? There was only a dried-up bottle of Mercurochrome and some old gauze in Viola's crap emergency kit from 1932. I wondered if she thought about
that
. But Viola was determined, so I kept looking too, if only to prove to her that this year, there weren't going to be any raspberries.

I offered that she should put up something else—grape jam or apricot jelly. How about peaches? We had a couple of crates of those that her sister had dropped off. I even said, “Let's just go to the store and buy berries.” With that, she looked at me and glared. I was missing the point.

Just when I thought we'd never find them, she pushed back some dense green vines and there, embroidered into the thicket underneath, were the raspberries. There were hundreds of berries, sweet and plump, ripe and ready to pick, just like Viola promised, just as she had hoped. She let out a whoop! The pirate had found the buried treasure, the long-lost wedding ring suddenly appeared, and when you were penniless in a downpour at 3:00 a.m, you found a bonus twenty-dollar bill hiding in the bottom of your coat pocket to get you home. It might as well have been a million! Yes, Viola had struck oil, tapped the vein, and hit the jackpot. The raspberries had been there all along, and I almost missed them. They were buried deep, and full and perfect, just like rubies. And just as priceless.