THE SONG OF THE RIBBON LADY

This is a poem I wrote in the mid-eighties about a hero of mine who I had the pleasure of working with in Portola Valley at the grade school. Her name was Justine Merritt and she organized a peace demonstration held in Washing DC. People from all over the US brought individual tapestries which were joined to form a huge ribbon that encircled the Pentagon. This was during the cold war, so each tapestry was meant to describe what its maker would miss about the world if there was a nuclear holocaust. The peace movement she began expanded to other countries and eventually had Justine presenting ribbons to Mikhail Gorbachev and Pope John Paul II. Justine passed in 2009 but her movement continues to this day. You can read more about it here.

 

Now and then and on to be
beneath cliffs of iron tipped with white 

through swails of blossoms, wild and scattered: 

down down
to the green of a walled retreat -
knelt the woman, Justine.
Not old was she, not young, 

but tall, and dressed in brilliant tones. 

Silver and sunned, her hair and cheeks
hid pools of tears behind brown eyes.
A week had passed since she'd come to pray 

in the warmth of the chapel-
beneath the creche-
at the oaken table where other heads bent
asking God's will.

She had come to retreat after seeking council

from a spiritual man
whose name was James.
He, gifted with insight
saw "beneath the waters and beyond the hills."
She said, "Father James, I have traveled far
and I am hungry and tired."
But hungry and tired for answers
more than food and rest.
I have been to the land where the bomb was splayed,

seen ashen faces still walking with death,
seen shadows of horror without hope in their eyes,

and, in truth, their despair becomes mine.
"Is hope then, she asked, but a lie,
a magician's facade, a puff from a seer?
Is there no freedom for those who have suffered,
or for we, with hearts full of fear?"
In tones calm with knowledge, the man, James, spoke. 

"Hope is found and sustained in a joining:
a coming together of faith and of works.
The spirit within becomes part of the doing;
the inward and outward are one."

It was then she withdrew

to that safer world,
to retreat, to pray,
to let feeling lie fallow, 

to allow hope to return
that meaning exists.
Yet with some resignation she had gone to her prayers, 

like a child with her chores, she wearied her days.
So eager was she for some tangible sign.
"Some blazing light, Lord, to proffer hope,
to free me from pain,
to show me the way?"
So it wasn't surprising
one morning when wakened,
she bounded from bed as the sun rimmed the hills.
She had dreamt of a plan; she insisted God knew
what she knew so well.
"Once again I must travel far, to a foreign land,

there, to teach children."
Half asking, half telling, she prayed for his sign. 

Half telling, half asking, she announced she would go. 

Yet, lo, the Lord works in wondrous ways.
Fate took her to town to a meeting on peace.
There, a man spoke of arms escalation,
of the bomb that gives birth by its very existence,
mushroomed by those who cry "eye for an eye."

"No", cried she inward, recoiling from truth.
"No", spoke her spirit, harking back to her travels. 

She rode home in silence and built a small fire, 

then sat alone long, confronting her feelings. 

Finally she rose and while stirring the ashes —
a strong message moved her.
Justine listened. It asked her to stay.

----
Leafy days followed.
New thoughts sifted through her:
lost seeds in the wind, finding a home.
So that one day it happened, while writing her journal, 

a silhouette suddenly crowded her thoughts.
Billowing, opulent, curling ques toward her. 

"Nonsense," she chided, and returned to her work. 

Still, in her mind, onward it floated,
"What?" she asked finally, and rose to her feet.

Round-eyed and fixed, she laughed as it circled. 

"A cyclone? A serpent? A dragon's tail?" 

Flag-wide in shape and never-ending
winding, turning, it twisted its message,
ending in circles around a shadow,
a building five-sided - the Pentagon.

 

Closer then, she saw it a ribbon
drenched in hues of earth and sky.
Not mere colors joined for pleasure,
but flags of muslin stitched together, 
each one sewn by people like her,
embroidered, painted, crayoned, quilted, 
preserving thoughts of all they cherished, 
infinitely, in words and pictures -
things they never wished destroyed.

Dizzy now she felt and trembling,
awed by thoughts of circled beauty.
"Why that can't be," said she, smiling, 
frowned then, more in hope than question. 
"A ribbon round the Pentagon?
Warriors trained in arms and conflict? NO.
This is starry-eyed and childlike:
a fragile bloom in a giant's hand." 
Still, she dwelled on it;that evening, 
could not, with comfort, lay it down, 
as round her doubts the dream persisted 
waving, windblown, vision—crowned.
Then with purpose, as was her custom,
she took action: 
Cut out muslin-hemmed flag-size took out 
silken thread and needle-red thread, purple,
any color.

Stopped then -
dwelled on things she cherished:
rocky mountains flecked with sagebrush,
an eagle, wings wide-spread in splendor, 
pale seashells, iridescent,
roses round her, vine—plucked berries. 
Earth-celled creatures, old souls dancing, 
swinging hair, rock and rolling,
dimples, tears and dirty knees.
Voices winging, a baby's gurgle,
a choir of family, off key.
Children, grown-ups, children's children. 
Hands in her hands, warm, that stayed there. 
Arms around her. Arms in circles.
Circles. People. Friendly faces.
Long she looked into the faces.
Then she took up thread and needle,
and stitched his name: her friend in spirit, 
with gratitude,
the name of James.
Like inheritor'sof the earth 
as she worked a calming came. 
A forgiving sifted through her 
meekly born, a new blown snow. 
Then a giving, surging after,
melting earths of fear below.

Justine looked into the embers 
thinking many names to sew.
Then she looked into herself.
Through her pain had come the knowledge. 
Through her hope had come renewal.
Now she knew what she must do.
----
In the then and on-to-be days,
turned she from the cliffs and flowers, 
left her home and yesterdays.
Left her own and sun-blessed mountains, 
left her children, children's children. 
Journeyed far on trains and buses. 
Hearty lady, bravely she.
Slept in dampness, crawling cities, 
homes that shimmered, homes that begged. 
Stayed in coal towns, old motels where 
sounds of trains wail by the door. 
Held the stiffened hands of old ones 
waiting in the sun to die.
Joined the laughing, hatted ladies. 
Spoke softly, in the shadowed prisons.
Sat on floors, cross-legged, with children,
Wonder, asking why.

To these and more she spoke her message: 
"Thread your fears to hope and prayer." 
And everywhere she brought her bag of 
sewing, sunshine-packed, to share.
So they listened, so created, 
dark-skinned people, people fair, 
sewing, painting, always talking 
reaching out - beyond denial,
reaching out beyond despair.
Working towards an anniversary
a day of once and long before,
the holocaust of Hiroshima:
(that wounded, cratered, wasted shore.)
On that day, the train took
those who created the ribbon, 
now sewn as one,
there it circled round the fortress, 
round the mighty Pentagon.
Born on high by it's creators,
and led by one in gentle-prayer,
reminding us
this sum of parts is a sum of hearts.

Copyright (c) 2012 by Anne Whitson