What Matters to Me and Why?

A UNIVERSAL DILEMMA   by Elaine Fisher                 
--A September 17, 2015 Focus Lecture for the WomenExplore Fall Lecture Series

“What Matters to Me and Why?”

ONE          It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

For several evenings, my brown and tan, Domestic Short Hair Rescue Cat, Shao Lin, had been staring intensely out of the window, looking up at the stars. Unfortunately, this particular night’s weather forecast indicated persistent clouds, curtailing her research.

And so she now sat across the room with her tail thrashing irritably, her grumpy, green-eyed gaze focused relentlessly on my left ankle.

Even Jean Luc, my often oblivious, but quite loving, brown and tan, Main Coon Rescue Cat shifted restlessly in his soft, white nest

on the couch. Noting the movement, Shao Lin quickly shot him a disdainful glare and slowly stretched out her front paws, brandishing her sharp, hooked, shiny nails. He was not to interfere.

Satisfied with his compliance, she now stomped across the living room rug toward me, whiskers twitching, ears back, determined

to proclaim her latest insights into the mysteries of the universe. Her Publish-or-Perish-Drive-to-Glory could be discerned clearly in her arrogant, self-righteous demeanor. At one time that familiar mandate also reverberated within my own soul, reminiscent of the Academic Sandbox in which I had spent nearly four decades, running fast with scissors.

Her narrowed eyes filled with, “Why?”.

“Why what?”, I wondered.

“Why ANYthing?!” Finished with her terse, ontological appraisal, she marched stiffly, tail high, back hairs up, toward her litter box, with not a backward glance at me, the Inept Unfurred One.

Devastated, I decided to shore up my defenses by sending:

                  A Text Message to God

Dear God, please exist, and if you do, please consider my desperate inquiry.

I know you could have made me a speck of dust floating in the breathtakingly vast, expanding universe; or a bright photon of light, zipping along in its wave of particles; or a mysterious bit of Dark Energy lurking within ninety-five percent of everywhere.

In fact, You probably made me all of these things, at one time or another. Except I wasn’t an “I” at the time. Just an Eye of a rather large, Bang up Storm in the Dark Night.

Or You could have made me a rock. It would have been ok. I wouldn’t have minded. Really. Why make me a Consciousness, only

for me to be painfully aware of my own eventual demise?

I ask these questions in earnest. Why not? I have an opposable thumb. I walk on two legs... mostly. I did reasonably well on my SATs. And yet, answers to these questions consistently elude my understanding.

I waited for God’s response... [pause]

                  Finally, a Text Message From God! 

[low voice]  My dear, beloved creation,

You can be such a persistent pain in the ass.

Go live your precious life, and we will meet again, by and by, at the Gate, near the Tunnel, where I will answer ALL of your inquiries.

I have to go now to recharge my iPhone 5s.

Love and kisses, God

PS: ...that rock idea might have some merit... LOL...

TWO        A Star Filled Insight   

It was early Friday evening when my mother picked me up after work, from my Grandmother’s apartment, where I lived during the week. It was now late Saturday night, as I perched on the arm of the fuzzy, navy blue couch, next to her in the darkened living room, as she stared anxiously out of the window, hoping her husband, my father, would come home. I watched, focused intently on her tears, as they slowly moved down the sides of her face, sparkling like stars from the reflected light of the street lamp outside. 

Hoping to comfort her, I offered, “Mommy... I’M here!”. She glanced at me, patted my upturned, little, five year old head, and immediately resumed her dedicated vigil out the window. I looked out of that window as well, up at those same stars, at the bigness of the night sky, and understood that I would never be of real interest to either one of them. I also understood that the opposite of love is not a heated hatred, but rather a room-temperature indifference that slowly starves the soul.

THREE    Infinite

One day in third grade, Sister Helen George mentioned the word, “infinite”. Puzzled, I asked her what it meant. She explained

that it meant something that “never ended”.

Later that afternoon, walking the one block home, I tried out my newly won knowledge by wrapping the concept around numbers:       “One... two... a hundred!” (I was impatient.) ”A thousand. A million... plus one more! A bazillion, gazillion trazillions... plus one more!” An electrical storm swirled in my mind as I ran up the stairs to share my newfound, thrilling insight with my grandmother. ”Bocky, forever means infinite! Infinite goes on forever... plus one more!” We laughed together. Then, over our lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise sandwiches, we talked about the bigness of the idea.

After a while, her face became very serious as she clarified that not everything was infinite. Some things did end. That in time, even people would end, that even she would die. I was startled. I never thought she would not be there. Of course she was infinite and would always be there! Horrified, I felt my warm tears slowly soak the front of my light blue t-shirt, as I realized with increasing shock that someday I would actually lose the person who saved my life by rescuing me from indifference. That one day I would lose the only person who loved me.

FOUR       The Macrocosm / The Microcosm  

My treasured pussycats are gone now, Shao Lin at 19-years, Jean Luc at 18. They both died 2 days before Valentine’s Day, two years apart, in 2012 & 2014. Sometimes I find myself wondering if Shao Lin has decided to bite Jean Luc, or if they’re both only memory energy-activating synapses in my brain. And then I wonder, since those same brain cells communicate through tangible synapses, where is the tangible part I call “me” located, the “me” who activates those synapses.

But for now, I’m the only one staring out of my window at night, looking up at the moon, the stars. Even though I realize they’re burning rocks, or exploding hydrogen, or dazzling White Dwarfs, yet from my perspective, the night sky looks much like a navy, velvet cloth, with benign, friendly, scattered pinholes of light. If we manage to look behind the cloth, will we find The Magic Wizard,

or just more layers of Multi Universe cloth?

Immersed in wonder, I sense the amazing vastness of the Cosmos, the MACROcosm. So big that even if I drove my impressive, 2013, silver, 6-cylinder, Honda Accord EXL, at the Speed of Light, 186 thousand, 282.4 miles per second [whoosh!], that fast, it would take just one second to span a distance equivalent to the 24,901-mile equatorial circumference of the earth... nine times! And it would take 2.5 million light years to reach our nearest galaxy, the Great Nebula of Andromeda. Never mind that at that speed, SpaceTime would slow down my ageing process; I would still be getting rather long in the tooth...

And when I think of the other direction, the smallest of the small, the MICROcosm, I am overwhelmed at the concept of something billions of times smaller than the very atom itself, whose protons, electrons, neutrons and nucleus were once thought to be the tiniest bits of matter. But now we know from studying the Quantum, using the five billion dollar, 17-miles in circumference, Hadron Particle Accelerator Collider in the CERN Control Center [European Council for Nuclear Research] near Geneva, Switzerland, that the Microcosm is like its own universe, where physics folds in on itself, contradicts our beloved notions of how matter exists, and teases our minds with being in two places at once... but only when actually looked at! Matter becomes an entity so miniscule that I cannot use an ordinary ruler to fathom it, and instead try to simply imagine I have magically become the smallest unit itself, the very beginning of matter. Is there consciousness here? Is all matter composed of willful consciousness, enveloped within energy? Is this where consciousness begins? If matter goes so deeply into smallness, will it flirt with the infinite, or eventually simply disappear into nothingness, as our entire universe flies apart and disappears into nothingness, each one of gazillions of stars burning out its energy until only Darkness exists within the very last Stormy Night? And then, does Time stop, or Bang into existence yet again?

Or dance on a String, near a Multiverse Membrane? How can I expect to have an Afterlife if even the Universe itself will end?

Yes, I will have many questions at the Gate, near the Tunnel. That is, if the gate hasn’t disintegrated into rusty dust, lying on a dark, velvet cloth when I get there. And then I think, “OMG!“. And then, I, [low voice] “LOL!“... to quote God.

FIVE         So...

Some people’s hobby is art, or sports, or making wine, or making love. My hobby is Astrophysics. But that’s just code. Don’t be fooled. Striking as the stars are, my real focus is on longing. An intense longing for some kind of an Entity to care. To care about

me. To care about all of us. Not like a Facebook “friend”, but with His, Her, or Its actual face... if there is a face. Why make us wait

until we’ve decomposed into heavenly ashes? Why NOT now? At any rate, I’ve had more luck in my life with dorks than with

A Divine Being, with the spirited than with The Spirit, with the available than with The Almighty, with pussycats than with parents.

So... what does the Universe mean to me? It means Space, Time, Stars, Searching, Consciousness, Death, Life, Loneliness, Hope, Courage, Despair, Emptiness, Fear, Creativity, Destruction, Indifference, Intimacy, Tenderness, Love, Bocky, Us, ...God... maybe...

Everything. It means EVERYTHING THERE IS... to Infinity... plus one more!

Service for David Dodson Gray

Liz's and David's friend and minister Tom McKibbens conducted a memorial service at First Baptist Church in Newton Center on Saturday 11th July 2015.  Martha Nielsen collected remembrances of David from the women of TOP/WE and edited them down into a piece which was read by Erica Kenny at the service.  Here is the edited version of this piece:

!
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David Dodson Gray: Remembrances by the women of the Theological Opportunities Program, now known as WomenExplore !
!
David Dodson Gray was such a GOOD MAN, a man of integrity, who lived out his ethics. He was sweet and kind, and a true feminist. He understood the Biblical sense of justice, and the justice dimensions of black/white and male/female issues. He believed strongly in “women’s voice”, and for many years he used his considerable editing and typing skills to assist our women at the Theological Opportunities Program at the Harvard Divinity School with their talks in our lecture series. His presence in our lives will be sorely missed by all of us who knew him.
—————
Each week, David and Michael Donham, after they set up the sound system, would put on their hats and go over to Peet’s for coffee and muffins which they brought back. They sat in front of us and there was great unwrapping and enjoyment of muffins during the talk! They had a grand time together at their weekly ritual.
—————
I remember David interrupting Liz, or anyone else, when something was missed, fearless to add his point of view or to clarify.
—————
David was an appealingly quiet, giving and gentle man. This is not to say he didn’t have his convictions (he had them in abundance), but that he was a very principled person - bright, caring, faithful, true and unusually generous.
—————

I'll always remember David's welcome to me as a new member: big smile, kind, efficient, well-groomed. David was a treasure
for Liz, TOP, WE, and me. I feel sad in my heart at his passing. —————
At TOPs [tops] meetings, David was known for his helpful assistance to enable the event to function smoothly, and for his generous support during the Think Tanks to record our suggestions for the new series - accurately. He modeled, with Liz, the complicated interplay of marriage relations - with no hesitation to disagree or do corrections of each other in a room full of people - successfully and with humor.
—————
I remember David as always being present in the moment. Always loyal and respectful to Liz, David was a masculine example to me, embodying stability, intelligence, and a willingness to be a team player as well as being a tranquil leader.
—————
I always looked for David’s cheery face at the back of the Braun Room, presiding over a book display and watching to see that the speakers kept to their time limits.
—————
I remember David as a man who was very clear about his feminist views---as a consistent, heartfelt advocate for women.....and at the same time he appreciated enjoying women, noticing what they wore, feeling their sensuality.......he was devoted to women as equals.....women in their strength, leadership and wisdom.....and, as we all witnessed, devoted to Liz.
—————
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I have known Liz and David for forty years, and have reveled in the richness of their talents and personalities. Just one of his special talents, and a very special gift to the focusers (of which I have been one many many times), was to convert our talks into professional looking booklet form, and print five copies for us to have and to share with our family and friends. My covers were often red, which he well knew was my favorite color. And apropos of that, on the rare Thursday I appeared with no visible red in my outfit, he would tease me about that omission. On one of those days I spontaneously said “Oh don’t worry, I have on a red slip!” As you might imagine with David, this became an ongoing joke between us.
—————
As a clergy spouse I recognized David’s awesome role with Liz and TOP for so many years.
—————
David’s devotion to Liz with its many twists and turns speaks volumes of their mutual love and respect and David’s role in the background, editing and publishing - a true helpmate with his considerable skills. A GOOD MAN. An authentic role model. —————
David never turned me away and never avoided me if he thought I might want to speak to him. He answered questions clearly and simply, and he was kind.
—————
A very tall Pooh Bear himself, David calmly chauffeurs Liz to Cambridge, and with a wink, assembles the AV equipment so we all can hear. We are fortunate to have a practiced, able, and handsome male presence amidst all of us femmes.
—————

David was a living model of a feminist man, beginning with his relationship to the woman of his life. He was genuinely interested in me and other women, and expressed that interest with inquiring about, and with keeping up with, what was going on in one’s life.
He showed and expressed his appreciation of how women were living their lives, and what they were discovering about themselves. He believed in the power of women in their own lives, and most particularly the power of his beloved Liz.
—————
David was very supportive of all of us in TOP/WE and together he and Liz guided us to create both wonderfully stimulating lectures and a warm community of women as well.
—————
To me David was a magical mix of mentor, father figure, counsel, brother, friend, buddy. One of the many memories and feelings that have been floating through my heart is the hugging practice that evolved over the years that we delighted in, and that was transformative and healing for me.
—————
Attending the TOP series on a regular basis in the mid-80’s
and early 90’s, I grew to have an even deeper appreciation of how comfortably and publicly he held the role of chief support person
to Liz’s endeavors. He truly supported her creativity and provided the collaboration and organizing efforts for her books and her travels and lectures about the country, as well as for the management of the TOP lecture series.
—————
!
!

I've never known a time when David wasn't helping Liz -- holding her arm, her bag, or her chair. I don't think I've ever even seen Liz without David except when we packed up for Utah. I've heard stories of all the wonderful things that David did to help Liz in her role as Executive Director of TOP and to publish her books. Their togetherness reminds me of the Frank Sinatra song of Love and Marriage.
!
“Liz and David, Liz and David,
Went together like a horse and carriage, This I tell you sister,
I didn't see one without the other!”
—————
When my son, Luke, was setting up Liz's website, he also spent some time working with David. I asked Luke if he wanted to say anything about David. His response was that David was a very "supportive chap”.
—————
I recall David so well and his kindness to me, which included giving me some of his academic books on the New Testament, which I treasure.
—————
Liz's "most interesting man she has ever met”
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Dear Liz,
!
Ever since I first met you both in 2004, I have admired the way that David complemented, or should I say, "completed" you. As I got to know you both better I learned just how true this was. It wasn't something that just happened naturally. David strove hard to augment your talents. The two of you are the epitome of the saying that "the whole is greater than the sum of its parts".
!
You, dear Liz, have been extremely fortunate, as I know you are aware, to have lived your life with such a partner. You can rejoice in the legacy of shared memories that David has bequeathed you! —————
!
Received, collated and edited by Martha Nielsen and presented by Erica Kenny at David’s memorial service on July 11, 2015, at the First Baptist Church in Newton MA
! 

David Dodson Gray

In the early hours of 4th June 2015 David Dodson Gray, sharing a room with his wife Elizabeth in their son's home in Utah, died peacefully in his sleep. 

Here is the obituary published in the Boston Globe on 8th July 2015:

GRAY, David Sperry Passed away in his sleep on June 4, 2015 at the age of 85. He was born on January 2, 1930 to Clarence Sperry and Marion Fearney Gray in Providence, RI. David graduated from Yale University in 1951 with a degree in Mechanical Engineering where he was inducted into Yale's chapter of Tau Beta Pi, the national engineering honor society. He then graduated from Yale Divinity School in 1954 where he met the love of his life, Elizabeth Emma Dodson. They were married for 58 years and had two children, Lisa Fearney Gray and Jonathan Hunter Gray. He was blessed with four grandchildren: Tricia Gray, Jon-Hunter Gray, Jake Jackson and Sam Jackson. David was an Episcopal Minister, ordained in 1957. He left the Parish Ministry in 1972 to partner with his wife, Elizabeth Dodson Gray in what they termed an "Issues Centered Ministry" during the course of which they wrote and lectured together on the issues of the day from sustainable growth to eco-feminism. During this time together David and Liz operated The Bolton Institute for a Sustainable Future and Roundtable Press, which published four of Liz's books and one of David's. It was a true spiritual and professional partnership that few are lucky enough to experience at all....much less for 58 years! We love you, respect the life that you lived in service to others, and will miss you greatly, Dad! Memorial Service will be held at 3:00 p.m. on Saturday, July 11, 2015 at The First Baptist Church of Newton, 848 Beacon Street, Newton Center, Newton, MA. In lieu of flowers please make a donation to Autismspeaks.org in his name. Arrangements under the direction of Leavitt's Mortuary, 836 36th St., Ogden, Utah. Please send condolences to the family at: www.leavittsmortuary.com

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/bostonglobe/obituary.aspx?n=david-sperry-gray&pid=175238504&fhid=4506#sthash.7ms7M73D.dpuf

Here is the text of a tribute to David in June 2010 written by Chris Farrow-Noble on behalf of the women of the Theological Opportunities Program (now WomenExplore Lecture and Discussion Forum) on the occasion of his and his wife, Elizabeth Dodson Gray's retirement from thirty-two years of running TOP/WE:

(Chris Farrow-Noble, Cambridge) 

How Can We Change the Culture of Violence against Women?

On Thursday 30th April 2015 at the Democracy Center WomenExplore was privileged to hear the dynamic Wendy Murphy speak on this topic.

Wendy Murphy brought along some handouts which she had prepared on the topic and which she has generously allowed us to show below.  Please note that these are all copyright.

—Susan Nulsen

How Politics and Capitalism Hold Classism in Place

This is the text of a talk given by Susan Nulsen preceding a talk by Tim McCarthy in the Fall 2014 
WomenExplore series on the theme of Class and Privilege through a Feminist Lens

Bio: 
Susan Nulsen was born and brought up in Australia. She moved to England for nine years after her marriage and before returning to Australia with her husband to bring up her two children. She has now been living in the US for over ten years.
Talk:
That seems to be a very difficult topic to speak on from a personal point of view. I have three stories.
1) My thoughts immediately went to the Great Shearers' Strike of 1891 in Queensland which, tradition has it, led to the formation of the Australian Labor Party.
Working conditions for sheep shearers in 19th century Australia were not good. This strike began in January 1891 when members of the Amalgamated Shearers' Union refused to sign the contracts offered to them by the manager of a sheep station (Logan Downs Station) owned by the enormously wealthy Fairbairn family. This family owned, or had substantially stakes, in at least 28 properties carrying around three million sheep. The shearers were refusing to work with non-union labour. They saw a “closed shop” as protecting the wages that had been achieved through collective bargaining. The shearers insisted on a minimum rate of 20 shillings per 100 sheep. The pastoralists objected to the word “minimum”. Backed by the Fairbairn family, the pastoralists' association set out to break the union.
The pastoralists organized shiploads of strike breakers from Victoria to the south. The government deployed the military to escort these blacklegs to and from the sheep stations. The unionists were generally non-violent; their main weapon was verbal persuasion, or “suasion” as they called it. In April after one confrontation between the unionists and the military, during which a magistrate read the riot act and the troopers fixed bayonets, the Queensland Home Secretary directed the arrest of the so-called ringleaders of the strike. (The last one Bill Hamilton, was brought in on 13th April.) The thirteen arrested leaders of the striking shearers were each sentenced to three years hard labour.
Most of the 9,000 strikers were living under canvas in strike camps. The summer had been unseasonably wet, and by May, after four months of the strike, the union camps were full of wet, hungry, penniless shearers. By the middle of June most of the strikers had crawled back to work on the pastoralists terms.
A second attempt at a strike in 1894 also fizzled out. It was after this that Banjo Patterson composed the well-known song “Waltzing Matilda”. Perhaps you have heard it. The swaggie in the song is supposed to refer to a unionist shearer choosing to drown rather than being caught by the striker- hunting troopers.
The Great Shearers' Strike is a classic example of Capitalism in the form of the Fairbairn family and the other pastoralists recruiting the power of the government, in the form of the police, the military, the courts and the politicians represented by the Home Secretary, to hold down the working class shearers.
It may be a myth that the Australian Labour Party was formed then, as its predecessors were already in existence, but Labor’s understanding that social change could be achieved through parliamentary power has its roots in the shearers’ struggles of the 1890s. The symbol of Labor’s move to the political arena was a living tree, “the tree of knowledge” in Barcaldine, under which the striking shearers met.
This does not appear to be a very personal story, but the politics of a country deeply affects everyone who lives in it. Indeed I may not have been able to go to university if a Labor government hadn't abolished university fees.

2) My second story is the story of Gwalia where my grandmother and two of her brothers worked.

In the second half of the 19th century gold-fever was sweeping the world. In 1851 gold was discovered in New South Wales and Victoria. The population of Victoria, which had the richest gold fields, tripled in the following ten years. Western Australia wanted some of the same and offered rewards for finding payable gold. Some spectacular finds, as well as some disappointing ones, were made.
One promising find was made by three prospectors who named it “Sons of Gwalia” after their backers, two Welsh brothers who were shopkeepers. “Gwalia” is an archaic name for Wales. This claim was sold to a miner who was able to recruit his substantial investment of £10,000 in one month of working it. Looking for further capital he opened negotiations with a London company. In 1897 the 23 year old Herbert Hoover, who had been sent to Western Australia to look for suitable investments, recommended his company acquire it and install him as manager, which he became in May 1898.
Hoover completely redesigned the mine workings and oversaw the design of the staff and office buildings as well as the mine manager's house. In around 1911 my grandmother came to Gwalia to work as a housekeeper in this house. Her brothers followed, having been sent out from England by their parents to ensure that she return home to Liverpool.

The mine manager's house at Gwalia.

My grandmother (left) outside the house
where she lived in Gwalia.

However in his first week as mine manager Hoover increased working hours, introduced single-handed work (which made the work more difficult and dangerous), instituted shift changes at the working face (rather than at the entrance to the mine), and stopped double time on Sundays as well as bonuses for working in difficult conditions. Hoover's strategy was to cut costs by reducing unproductive work time and also by introducing contract rather than union labour. To this end he recruited a number of Italian workers whom he regarded as his allies against the unions. He wrote “I have a bunch of Italians coming up ... and will put them in the mine on contract work. If they are satisfactory I will secure enough of them to hold the property in case of a general strike and ... will reduce wages,” which is exactly what he did.
This is how Hoover as an agent of big Capital used his power to hold classism in place and keep the working people struggling.
As an afterward:
My grandmother did return home to England after her two years in Australia, while her brothers continued working at the Sons of Gwalia mine and remained living in Australia for the rest of their lives.
Hoover only lasted six months at Gwalia. He was transferred to China because he was feuding with his boss. Nevertheless he retained a personal financial share of the mine for 66 years, until it shut down in 1963, the year before he died. Sons of Gwalia became the third richest gold mine in Australia and it alone made Hoover a very rich man, although he went on to make even more from other mines. Gwalia was one step on his road to the presidency of the United States.

3) My third story is more personal.
I realize that I grew up in a bubble, a very large bubble. Like me, everyone I knew or had contact with would have said that they were middle class if they had been asked. It was only when I moved to England after getting married that I encountered a full-blown class system. I was amazed to see people who acknowledged themselves as working class and who just seemed to accept that that was their immutable status in life. I was also disillusioned of the idea that I was middle class. The upper class were the aristocrats and they were very few and far between. The middle class were generally the wealthy business owners and investors, what you or I would perhaps call upper middle-class. Being a comfortably off employee just didn't qualify. Most of the population ranked as lower middle class or working class. Class was not only determined by your income or your wealth but by your family background, the school you went to and your accent. Australians were even lower down in this caste system. This was brought home to me when I described an advertisement I had seen for a good job in Melbourne to a friend and work colleague who was job hunting. His immediate response was “But what would Cathy do?” His wife Cathy had just completed her PhD on the Irish poet, William Butler Yeats. My friend's idea of Australia was not of a place where poetry could be studied.
When Argentina invaded the Falkland Islands in 1982 my eyes were further opened to the British class system: these remote islands were inhabited by sheep farmers but they were owned by the absentee landlords, including the Falkland Islands Co. The extreme patriotism engendered by the Falklands War bolstered Margaret Thatcher's falling popularity and enabled her to win the next election.
Mrs Thatcher, a Conservative prime minister, used her political power to crush the unions. She chose to attack the National Union of Miners. She prepared for this by building up coal stockpiles, increasing imports of coal and converting many power stations to oil. Transport companies were encouraged to employ non-union drivers. Benefits were cut for strikers and their families. A special mobile squad of police to deal with picketing was created. Finally in September 1983, she appointed as chairman of the National Coal Board someone (Ian MacGregor) who had cut 100,000 jobs at British Steel and who was known for his union-busting attitude.
In March 1984 the Coal Board announced the closure of Cortonwood Colliery in Yorkshire and that 20 other pits and 20,000 jobs were on a hit list. The Yorkshire miners immediately went on strike and within days the strike had spread nationally. At the peak about three-quarters of the approximately 200,000 miners were on strike. The strike was to last a full year, with brutal attacks by the police on picketers. I heard of one miner who went to take down the number of a policeman beating a striker, discovering that the police weren't wearing their numbers, and then being beaten to the extent of permanent brain-damage himself .
The strike ended when the demoralized, starving, impoverished strikers voted to return to work. Recent disclosures in the autobiography of the head of MI5 (Stella Rimington) showed that the secret service was tapping the phones of the union-leaders and involved in other “counter-subversive” activities. And cabinet documents which became accessible after 30 years reveal the involvement of the Thatcher government.
The miners' strike is an example of a government taking part in out-and-out class warfare against a segment of its own population. Today some areas still show the scars of the miners strike 30 years ago and much bitterness remains in the divided communities.
Personally, we suffered financially when we moved to Australia at the end of 1984, losing thousands of dollars in transferring the money (in devalued pounds) from the sale of our house in England to buy another in Australia. Still it was nothing compared to what many of the strikers went through.
One of our main reasons for returning to Australia was to bring up our children in a society free of the constraints and stigma of the British class system. 

—Susan Nulsen

Standing Still and Learning to Be Astonished — Can We Open Up to Beauty?

—by Elaine Fisher

PROFESSIONAL HISTORY
Since 1965, Elaine Fisher’s work has been shown in over 150 exhibitions in 27 states. She has earned a Harvard University Master of Design in Computer Studies, a Carnegie Mellon University Bachelor of Fine Arts, and has studied with the renowned photographer Minor White.
One Artist Shows include the LIGHT GALLERY in New york, the IMAGE GALLERY in Stockbridge, MA, the LIGHTFANTASTIC GALLERY in East Lansing, Mi, & the UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA GALLERY in Charlottsville. two & three Artist Shows include the recent BELMONT ART GALLERY in MA, the CARPENTER CENTER GALLERY at Harvard, & the CATSKILL CENTER FOR PHOTOGRAPHY in NY.
Elaine is a Chancellor Professor Emerita of the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, where she was awarded Scholar of the year 2000; was elected Chair of the Design Department for 5 years (until she came to her senses); was appointed the first Head of Photography; and taught Senior undergraduate and graduate majors in Photography from 1973 to retirement in 2008.

her

WomenExplore FOCUS LECTURE / May 23, 2013 —Elaine Fisher

Thank you ...and thank you all for coming here today.
For those of you who are new to this forum, the Focus Speaker is usually one of the WonenExplore members who presents the topic from a very personal point of view. Here’s mine:
It all started with BUBBLE GUM ...but I digress! After all, the topic today is, Standing Still and Learning to Be Astonished — Can We Open Up to Beauty?
It takes guts, intelligence and spirit to be actually present in life, to occasionally look with a simple, awake eye, to see the easily missed moments of beauty that shine like liquid diamonds in a fast flowing river.
In our Age of Addiction in America, it seems insanely perverse, or at least unpatriotic, for me to derive endorphin-filled pleasure from simply watching a midday sun pattern slowly inch its golden path across my living room floor. After all, what does my personal, hedonistic delight in actually experiencing the earth move on a cosmic scale do for the Economy ...or my Resume?
We are constantly beset with overwhelming societal norms intent on numbing our mind and spirit:
l with Food clogged with corn syrup and irresistible chemicals;l with Internet Communication so dense and time consuming
it can suck up your life with the illusion you’re somehow in contact with millions of friends, instead of only the handful most of us can manage;
l and, of course, with Money, Sex and Power, fully loaded onto 924 cable channels where Beauty Czars dictate how we should envelope ourselves with stilted perfection. By the way, if you are flawless, you’re not only boring, but slightly dangerous, and certainly exhausting to everyone around you.

We’ve become satiated with symbols of happiness, rather than happiness itself. Not a good sign. What could possibly go wrong?
And yet, millions of tiny, thrilling observations, scattered like brain confetti throughout the day, can at any moment converge into a cohesive mosaic of Beauty if we simply look with interest at the ordinary.

CROSSING THE STREET / RETURNING

CROSSING THE STREET / RETURNING

l Although WomenExplore ordered a digital projector over a month ago, it has not arrived in time for my presentation. So I will hand out original images. One set is for the left side of the room, and a duplicate set is for the right. please pass them along reasonably quickly so that those in the back can see them in a timely manner.
My first image is entitled, CROSSING THE STREET. Its companion image is entitled. RETURNING.
Much of my work is framed in terms of couplets. I enjoy the brevity and emotional succinctness of Haiku, and see my images as a kind of visual counterpart. Dating from 9th century Japan, Haiku is a way of looking at the physical world and seeing something deeper. http://beforeabeyondz.com/tag/japanese-poetry/
Obviously, in these two images, one is not exactly going for an ordinary stroll. Since I spend a lot of time watching untold numbers of science documentaries on the Universe: how it began, what it’s made of, how it behaves, how the earth came to be, what the cosmic future might hold, this interest naturally comes into play in my work. I like to combine it with my desire to photograph the invisible. Photographing the invisible is quite difficult for a photographer --unless metaphor is used. For me, these two images are a metaphor for a spiritual journey.
An Haiku by Issa, 1762-1826, seems to parallel my feelings:
A lovely thing to see:
through the paper window’s hole, the galaxy.
http://www.toyomasu.com/haiku/#issa
Sometimes I close my eyes and imagine I’ve been floating in the dark/ light of the universe for millions of years. After relaxing into the feeling for a few minutes, I open my eyes suddenly for just a second, and immediately close them again.
What a shock of beauty. Everything is beautiful. Everything. Anything. It doesn’t matter. An outrageous joy in the ordinary wraps me in its riveting excitement. At those moments I feel a calmly intense gratitude for consciousness itself. Whether God exists or not, whether we exist after Death or not, whether there’s any sense at all to life, still, despite all the uncertainty, I feel a breathless gratitude to be able to be aware.

DREAM / NOBODY’S CHILD

DREAM / NOBODY’S CHILD

Sometimes my metaphors are not based in concrete reality at all. Sometimes they involve something actually invisible.
Such was the case with an image entitled, DREAM, and its companion image, NOBODY’S CHILD.
A while age, I was making plans to visit my (grand)mother, whom I had not seen for several years. She had raised me and I think of her as my mother. Although I was a woman in my mid-thirties, it was with a very young excitement that I looked forward to seeing her.
These feelings provoked me to make this photograph. I decided to use two negatives, one of her face, and one of a diffused environmental barrier. This process felt similar to the remembering of a dream. I printed her face twice. Dreams have a way of repeating important images. This duplication also created a sense of moving in space, which seemed emotionally correct --she was coming towards (or leaving?) me in an indistinct atmosphere. I also printed in the wide black panels on both sides to show the different worlds, the difficulty of reaching each other over so much space and time.
If I had felt young in my enthusiasm to see her again, I also felt young as I watched the print emerge. It was as if I were a child again, and wanted her to change the darkness I was in. It was as if we were the same person, the way very young children make little distinction between their mother’s identity and their own.
Four days before I was to surprise her with my visit, she died.
NOBODY’S CHILD is my reaction to her death. It is made up of two torn xeroxes, one of which was copied and re-copied numerous times until it felt as raw and disintegrated as the pain in my heart.
An Haiku entitled, Death, by an English woman named Nicola, feels emotionally relevant:
Silent horizon
Winter thickening blanket Blackness deepening
http://www.creative-writing-now.com/haiku-poems.html

BECOMING SHAO LIN

BECOMING SHAO LIN

Love does not need to be excessively demonstrated to be beautiful.
Shao Lin, my 19-year old brown and tan, domestic short hair rescue cat, was never extravagant with her love. Were I to swoop her up in my arms to nuzzle, she would usually thrust her paw straight out in a stiff gesture of rejection that would land on the tip of my nose. Her glare conveyed the unmistakable command, Back off, Big Unfurred One.
Shao Lin, who had far too many opinions, is exemplified in an Anonymous Cat Haiku:
the rule for today:
touch my tail, i shred your hand. New rule tomorrow.
http://www.nativetech.org/billy/cathaiku.html
On rare occasions, however, she would stomp across the living room rug, scrutinize me through squinty, green eyes, then finally decide to leap onto my defenseless belly, where she would appraise me thoroughly, and, if I were not found wanting, would settle down for a snooze, whiskers faintly twitching as she made herself completely at home. I would know then I was tolerantly forgiven all recent love transgressions.
Sometimes, she would even grant me the privilege of her affection.
One evening, as I sat on the couch watching TV, I noticed she had lovingly placed her paw on my shoulder. I smiled, reached up, caressed her, and said, Ahhh ...yes ...scratch my ear, Big, Unfurred One ...At last you’ve understood! I realized with a little surprise that I was not speaking for myself, but for her. Well, not exactly for her. For just a moment, I became Shao Lin. my whiskers faintly twitching, much as I had with my (grand)mother.
Understanding, analyzing or empathizing with someone else is actually quite different from, just for a moment, becoming someone else.
It felt familiar. It felt very much the way I am when I create a photograph.
When beauty feels like an extension of your being, when you embody it, you become Beauty.

BUBBlE GUM

Now, I shall digress back to, oh yes, BUBBLE GUM!
I was 12 years old when my father left my mother, who, in her misery and loneliness, passed her pain on to me when she took me from the grandmother who had raised me since birth, with the lure of, you can have your own room. This disruption necessitated my taking two cross- town busses to get from grammar school to my new home. At the point of transfer between the two busses, was a little newspaper shop that sold, yes, BUBBLE GUM! Not being excessively gifted with self- control, I would stuff my mouth with HUGE gobs of it like a starving, greedy hamster with bulging cheeks of booty. I was at an age where no consideration, or even a passing thought, was ever given to decorum, especially when experiencing the triumphant joy of that sticky goop splattering on my face when the humongous pink orbs exploded with a pop. I was not remorseful.
One day I noticed a new brand that proclaimed in bold letters on the label: MAKE YOUR OWN MAGIC PICTURES. With great excitement, I tore open the wrapping to find a tiny negative and a few small sheets of Magic paper tucked in with the gum. The instructions were to sandwich the two and hold them up to the sun for several seconds. Voila! The negative produced an image on the paper! Ecstatic, I used up the whole stash of paper before my next bus arrived. Several days later, I sent a letter to the manufacturer, inquiring what this wonderful, Magic Paper was. They actually answered. Turned out, it was aptly called POP, or Photographic Printing Out Paper.
Remembering that once I had noticed a small photography store in downtown Newark, I eagerly hopped the bus to get some magic. The salesclerk provided me with a small package of POP paper, and I hurried home with my treasure. After a while of creating pictures from my own negatives, I lamented the fact that, in time, they would all turn a cloudy, dark crimson. So when I used up my supply, I returned to the photo store to find out if it were possible to stop my pictures from disappearing in that way. Smiling, the salesclerk introduced me to the TRI CHEM PACK, tea bag sized packets of Developer, Stop Bath, and Fixer. Holing up in a dark bathroom at night with little bowls of stinky chemicals lined up in the tub, I could not have predicted that sweet, pink, delicious, explosive bubble gum would eventually launch me into my adult career!

THIS WILD AND PRECIOUS LIFE

Clearly, Beauty —that’s Life, with Benefits!— creates a happy spark of Serotonin in your brain ...and glee in the Coronary Arteries of your heart!
TO SUM UP:
We all have an Expiration Date.
So take your Training Wheels off of this Precious Life and go for a Wild and Beautiful Ride!