Relief

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From The Decameron (1353)

  As I have discovered through certain unmistakable symptoms, the young man is ardently in love with her, though as far as I can tell, she herself is unaware of the fact. But you will now know what measures to apply if you want him to recover.’ On hearing this, the nobleman and his lady were greatly relieved, for at least there was now a possibility that he could be cured. But they were very disturbed at the prospect, however remote it might seem, of being forced to accept Jeannette as their daughter-in-law. So when the doctor had left, they made their way to the invalid’s bedside. ‘My son,’ said the lady, ‘I would never have imagined you capable of desiring something and not telling your mother, especially when you could see that your health was suffering through not having what you wanted. You may be quite sure, indeed you should have known all along, that I would do anything to make you happy, even if it meant stretching the rules a little. However, since you have refused to take me into your confidence, Our Heavenly Father has seen fit to intervene on your behalf, thus displaying more pity towards you than you were prepared to concede to yourself. And, so that you would not die from your malady, He has shown me the reason for this illness of yours, which turns out to be nothing more than the excessive love you bear towards some young woman or other. It was really quite unnecessary for you to feel ashamed about revealing it, for this sort of thing is perfectly natural in someone of your age. Indeed, if you were not in love, I would think very poorly of you. Do not hide things from me, my son, but acquaint me freely with all your wishes. Get rid of all the sadness and anxiety that are causing your illness, and look on the bright side of things. You can be quite certain that I will move Heaven and earth to see that you have whatever you need to make you happy, for your happiness means more to me than anything else in the world. Cast aside all your shame and your fear, and tell me what I can do to make this love of yours prosper. And if I don’t put heart and soul into it and arrange matters to your liking, you can consider me the cruellest mother that ever brought a son into the world.’

• From The Decameron (1353)

  The young men, seeing and hearing all this, turned upon Arriguccio and gave him the soundest rating ever losel got; and ultimately they said to him. 'We pardon thee this as to a drunken man; but, as thou tenderest thy life, look henceforward we hear no more news of this kind, for, if aught of the like come ever again to our ears, we will pay thee at once for this and for that.' So saying, they went their ways, leaving Arriguccio all aghast, as it were he had taken leave of his wits, unknowing in himself whether that which he had done had really been or whether he had dreamed it; wherefore he made no more words thereof, but left his wife in peace. Thus the lady, by her ready wit, not only escaped the imminent peril [that threatened her,] but opened herself a way to do her every pleasure in time to come, without evermore having any fear of her husband." THE NINTH STORY [Day the Seventh] LYDIA, WIFE OF NICOSTRATUS, LOVETH PYRRHUS, WHO, SO HE MAY BELIEVE IT, REQUIRETH OF HER THREE THINGS, ALL WHICH SHE DOTH. MOREOVER, SHE SOLACETH HERSELF WITH HIM IN THE PRESENCE OF NICOSTRATUS AND MAKETH THE LATTER BELIEVE THAT THAT WHICH HE HATH SEEN IS NOT REAL Neifile's story so pleased the ladies that they could neither give over to laugh at nor to talk of it, albeit the king, having bidden Pamfilo tell his story, had several times imposed silence upon them. However, after they had held their peace, Pamfilo began thus: "I do not believe, worshipful ladies, that there is anything, how hard and doubtful soever it be, that whoso loveth passionately will not dare to do; the which, albeit it hath already been demonstrated in many stories, methinketh, nevertheless, I shall be able yet more plainly to show forth to you in one which I purpose to tell you and wherein you shall hear of a lady, who was in her actions much more favoured of fortune than well-advised of reason; wherefore I would not counsel any one to adventure herself in the footsteps of her of whom I am to tell, for that fortune is not always well disposed nor are all men in the world equally blind.

• From The World of Biblical Israel (2013)

  138 Lecture 19: Religious Developments of the Exile • Josiah’s religious reform, enacted in the late 7th century, also insisted on the exclusive worship of the Israelite god and even went so far as to destroy the statues and cultic paraphernalia of other gods. But Josiah’s reform does not say that only one god exists and all other gods are not gods. Instead, he calls on the Judeans to worship their national deity, Yahweh, exclusively. Monotheism • Psalm 82 has often been highlighted as a poem that captures a historical transition from henotheism to monotheism. This poem plays with the singular and plural forms of El and elohim. o The psalm shows knowledge of a time when multiple deities gathered to discuss the governance of the world. Each had his own portion to manage. o But at this meeting, the Israelite god accuses the other gods of failing to live up to their divine responsibilities, that is, of judging unjustly and showing partiality to the wicked. o So grave is their error that they will lose their divine status and become mortal; they will die like mortal men die rather than live eternally, as gods do. o With the demotion of the other nations’ gods to non-god status, the Israelite god is elevated, and his new sphere of influence is the entire world. • This returns us to the Babylonian Exile as the context for the first articulations of something that approaches monotheism. o When the Israelites and Judeans first experienced the empires of Assyria and Babylonia, at least some began to see the Israelite god acting on an international scale. The attacking Assyrian and Babylonian kings were viewed as nothing more than pawns in the hand of the Israelite god. o In other words, the experience of these massive empires contributed to expanding the Israelites’ knowledge of the

• From Waking the Tiger: Healing Trauma (1997)

  I now know that it was not the dramatic emotional catharsis and reliving of her childhood tonsillectomy that was catalytic in her recovery, but the discharge of energy she experienced when she flowed out of her passive, frozen immobility response into an active, successful escape. The image of the tiger awoke her instinctual, responsive self. The other profound insight that I gleaned from Nancy’s experience was that the resources that enable a person to succeed in the face of a threat can be used for healing. This is true not just at the time of the experience, but even years after the event. I learned that it was unnecessary to dredge up old memories and relive their emotional pain to heal trauma. In fact, severe emotional pain can be re-traumatizing. What we need to do to be freed from our symptoms and fears is to arouse our deep physiological resources and consciously utilize them. If we remain ignorant of our power to change the course of our instinctual responses in a proactive rather than reactive way, we will continue being imprisoned and in pain. Bob Barklay minimized the traumatic impact of his experience by remaining engaged in the task of freeing himself and the other children from the underground vault. The focused energy he expended in doing so is the key to why he was less traumatized than the other children. He not only became a hero in the moment, but he also helped free his nervous system from being overburdened by undischarged energy and fear for years to come. Nancy became a heroine twenty years after her ordeal. The running movements made by her legs when she responded to the make-believe tiger allowed her to do the same thing. This response helped rid her nervous system of the excess energy that had been mobilized to deal with the threat she experienced during her tonsillectomy. She was able, long after the original trauma, to awaken her capacity for heroism and actively escap e —as Bob Barklay did. The long-term results for Bob and Nancy were similar. Released from the debilitating effects that plague so many trauma sufferers, they were both able to move on with their lives. As the work developed I learned that the healing process was more effective if it was less dramatic, occurring more gradually. The most important lesson I have gleaned is that we all have the innate capacity to heal our traumas.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  He went to her house and found a party going on. His daughter was wrapped in blankets on the floor and could have been stepped on, he said, so he picked her up and fled with her and his mother back to Oklahoma. I thought to myself when I heard the story, I guess it’s all right for him to party because he’s a man. And he had his mother to take care of the baby. In the black-and-white photograph of his daughter, small frame houses were in the background. I determined that if he was not at the bus station to meet me, I would try to locate his mother’s house from the photograph. To find it would be difficult, as all the houses looked the same. What if I could not find the house? What if I did find him and he refused to help or denied he knew me? He met me at the bus station, giving no explanation about not writing or not having sent for me, or about the lack of a bus ticket. We immediately pawned my turquoise ring for food. [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] He put me up temporarily in the living room of two of his friends. The house was filthy, with stacks of dishes and uneaten food and piles of clothes through the place. I cleaned. He brought his daughter over to me every morning for child care. She was inquisitive, talkative, and ever hyper. She could not stop moving—opened every drawer, every closet, pulling everything out. The first day she unlatched the screen door and ran down the street, laughing as I chased her. That living arrangement was for just a week. My husband-to-be was concerned about his mother finding out about me. He next attempted to hide me by putting me up at his grandmother’s house and staying there with me at night. But it is impossible to hide a pregnant woman, or anybody else, in a close Indian community in which everyone knows everyone else’s business, or thinks they do. Word got out, especially after I was seen sitting in the town square with his grandmother, who spent the crisp mornings with her friends under the eaves of the old bandstand. I enjoyed that time with them. They were the heart of the nation and made note of the current state of affairs as they watched people enter and leave the bank and the various establishments and agencies around the square. They didn’t say much, and I didn’t understand much of their Cherokee. To be included in this daily meeting under the oak trees gave me a fresh peace that was rare everywhere else. Once when my boyfriend’s grandmother got her monthly check we ate lunch at the diner across the street. I watched her unclasp her black patent leather bag and empty the basket of crackers into it to take home. I tried to duck, but my growing belly made it impossible.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  He was the one who had stolen: he had stolen my mother’s life and was attempting to steal my reputation. I stuttered, but nothing came out. “This is what I think about this letter,” Mrs. Wilhelm told me. She tore it into pieces and threw them in the trash can. I was both relieved and surprised. I had never believed it possible to be trusted over the word of a white man who belonged to the Elks. As I left her office, I promised myself that I would never drink again. Mrs. Wilhelm had believed in me. She had given me another chance. I walked into my room after the meeting to find Lupita sitting on my bed while Georgette struggled to pull on my prized fake suede hip-hugger bell-bottoms. They were stuck at her hips. Everyone on our floor shared clothes, though they usually asked permission first. Georgette hadn’t asked. “Excuse me!” I shouted over the radio just as she triumphantly snapped the top button. “They fit,” Georgette said. She pushed a chair up to the dresser mirror and climbed up to admire herself front and back. “Do you mind if I borrow them?” Lupita was absentmindedly sifting through Georgette’s box of polishes. “Aren’t they a little tight?” I asked. “No, they fit perfectly.” For the sake of making friends with Lupita, I momentarily let it go, wincing as I watched Georgette make furtive dance movements as she watched herself in the mirror. “Be careful,” I warned her as she hopped down from her pedestal. “Those are my favorite pants.” Lupita’s kind of talent was rare and burned bright. The school saw this and was paying for private music lessons, she told us as Georgette picked through nail polishes and pulled out what I thought was a horrible color for Lupita. Lupita humored her, but I could see that she was no fool. The music teacher wasn’t just teaching her to sing. She laughed as she told us about his wandering hands when he put his arms around her to demonstrate abdominal breathing. “So where is your mother from?” I figured I might as well find out the answer directly. Lupita’s stories about being from Venus, her outrageous flirting, and her sudden appearance in the middle of the semester made her a target for rumors. Not only had I heard that this school was her last chance, but there was speculation on her mother’s absence. “Venus,” she said. She was serious. Her claim was not just a flirting device to attract boys. She had to believe this so she wouldn’t fall apart. It was then I remembered the old man and how I used to fly to the moon. I remembered the stone quarry and my mother holding the baby. I remembered my father. I felt lonesome, my stomach scraped by the edge of sorrow. Lupita opened up and we talked about everything—about our fathers, about the ability to fly in dreams.

• From History of the Christian Church: The Complete Set of Eight Volumes (1858)

  By the aid of Staupitz and the old monk, but especially by the continued study of Paul’s Epistles, be was gradually brought to the conviction that the sinner is justified by faith alone, without works of law. He experienced this truth in his heart long before he understood it in all its bearings. He found in it that peace of conscience which he had sought in vain by his monkish exercises. He pondered day and night over the meaning of "the righteousness of God "(Rom. 1:17), and thought that it is the righteous punishment of sinners; but toward the close of his convent life he came to the conclusion that it is the righteousness which God freely gives in Christ to those who believe in him. Righteousness is not to be acquired by man through his own exertions and merits; it is complete and perfect in Christ, and all the sinner has to do is to accept it from Him as a free gift. Justification is that judicial act of God whereby he acquits the sinner of guilt and clothes him with the righteousness of Christ on the sole condition of personal faith which apprehends and appropriates Christ and shows its life and power by good works, as a good tree bringing forth good fruits. For faith in Luther’s system is far more than a mere assent of the mind to the authority of the church: it is a hearty trust and full surrender of the whole man to Christ; it lives and moves in Christ as its element, and is constantly obeying his will and following his example. It is only in connection with this deeper conception of faith that his doctrine of justification can be appreciated. Disconnected from it, it is a pernicious error. The Pauline doctrine of justification as set forth in the Epistles to the Romans and Galatians, had never before been clearly and fully understood, not even by Augustin and Bernard, who confound justification with sanctification.137 Herein lies the difference between the Catholic and the Protestant conception. In the Catholic system justification (dikaivwsi") is a gradual process conditioned by faith and good works; in the Protestant system it is a single act of God, followed by sanctification. It is based upon the merits of Christ, conditioned by faith, and manifested by good works.138 This experience acted like a new revelation on Luther. It shed light upon the whole Bible and made it to him a book of life and comfort. He felt relieved of the terrible load of guilt by an act of free grace. He was led out of the dark prison house of self-inflicted penance into the daylight and fresh air of God’s redeeming love. Justification broke the fetters of legalistic slavery, and filled him with the joy and peace of the state of adoption; it opened to him the very gates of heaven.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘Quickly, good sir, step into that bath whilst it is still warm.’ He willingly obeyed, without waiting to be bidden twice. His whole body was refreshed by its warmth, and he felt as if he were returning from death to life. The lady had him supplied with clothes that had once belonged to her husband, who had died quite recently, and when he put them on they fitted him to perfection. As he awaited further instructions from the lady, he fell to thanking God and Saint Julian for rescuing him from the cruel night he had been expecting, and leading him to what appeared a good lodging. Meanwhile the lady had taken a brief rest, having first ordered a huge fire to be lit in one of the rooms, to which she presently came, asking what had become of the gentleman. ‘He’s dressed, ma’am,’ replied the maid, ‘and he’s ever so handsome, and seems a very decent and respectable person.’ ‘Then go and call him,’ said the woman, ‘and tell him to come here by the fire and have some supper, for I know he has not had anything to eat.’ On entering the room, Rinaldo, judging from her appearance that she was a lady of quality, greeted her with due reverence and thanked her with all the eloquence at his command for the kindness she had done him. When she saw him and heard him speak, the lady concluded that her maid had been right, and she welcomed him cordially, installed him in a comfortable chair beside her own in front of the fire, and asked him what had happened and how he came to be there, whereupon Rinaldo told her the whole story in detail. The lady had already heard bits of the story after the arrival of Rinaldo’s servant at the castle, and so she fully believed everything he told her. She in turn told him what she knew about his servant, adding that it would be easy enough to find him next morning. But by now the table was laid for supper, and Rinaldo, after washing his hands with the lady, accepted her invitation to sit down and eat at her side. He was a fine, tall, handsome fellow in the prime of manhood, with impeccably good manners, and the lady cast many an appreciative glance in his direction. As she had been expecting to sleep with the Marquis, her carnal instincts were already aroused, and after supper she got up from the table and consulted with her maid to find out whether she thought it a good idea, since the Marquis had let her down, to make use of this unexpected gift of Fortune. The maid, knowing what her mistress had in mind, encouraged her for all she was worth, with the result that the lady returned to Rinaldo, whom she had left standing alone by the fire, and began to ogle him, saying: ‘Come, Rinaldo, why are you looking so unhappy?

• From The Well of Loneliness (1928)

  The erstwhile resentment that she had felt towards Valérie Seymour was fading completely. So pleasant it was to be made to feel welcome by all these clever and interesting people—and clever they were there was no denying; in Valérie’s salon the percentage of brains was generally well above the average. For together with those who themselves being normal, had long put intellects above bodies, were writers, painters, musicians and scholars, men and women who, set apart from their birth, had determined to hack out a niche in existence. Many of them had already arrived, while some were still rather painfully hacking; not a few would fall by the way, it is true, but as they fell others would take their places. Over the bodies of prostrate comrades those others must fall in their turn or go on hacking—for them there was no compromise with life, they were lashed by the whip of self-preservation. There was Pat who had lost her Arabella to the golden charms of Grigg and the Lido. Pat, who, originally hailing from Boston, still vaguely suggested a new England schoolmarm. Pat, whose libido apart from the flesh, flowed into entomological channels—one had to look twice to discern that her ankles were too strong and too heavy for those of a female. There was Jamie, very much more pronounced; Jamie who had come to Paris from the Highlands; a trifle unhinged because of the music that besieged her soul and fought for expression through her stiff and scholarly compositions. Loose limbed, raw boned and short sighted she was; and since she could seldom afford new glasses, her eyes were red-rimmed and strained in expression, and she poked her head badly, for ever peering. Her tow-coloured mop was bobbed by her friend, the fringe being only too often uneven.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  He was the one who had stolen: he had stolen my mother’s life and was attempting to steal my reputation. I stuttered, but nothing came out. “This is what I think about this letter,” Mrs. Wilhelm told me. She tore it into pieces and threw them in the trash can. I was both relieved and surprised. I had never believed it possible to be trusted over the word of a white man who belonged to the Elks. As I left her office, I promised myself that I would never drink again. Mrs. Wilhelm had believed in me. She had given me another chance. I walked into my room after the meeting to find Lupita sitting on my bed while Georgette struggled to pull on my prized fake suede hip-hugger bell-bottoms. They were stuck at her hips. Everyone on our floor shared clothes, though they usually asked permission first. Georgette hadn’t asked. “Excuse me!” I shouted over the radio just as she triumphantly snapped the top button. “They fit,” Georgette said. She pushed a chair up to the dresser mirror and climbed up to admire herself front and back. “Do you mind if I borrow them?” Lupita was absentmindedly sifting through Georgette’s box of polishes. “Aren’t they a little tight?” I asked. “No, they fit perfectly.” For the sake of making friends with Lupita, I momentarily let it go, wincing as I watched Georgette make furtive dance movements as she watched herself in the mirror. “Be careful,” I warned her as she hopped down from her pedestal. “Those are my favorite pants.” Lupita’s kind of talent was rare and burned bright. The school saw this and was paying for private music lessons, she told us as Georgette picked through nail polishes and pulled out what I thought was a horrible color for Lupita. Lupita humored her, but I could see that she was no fool. The music teacher wasn’t just teaching her to sing. She laughed as she told us about his wandering hands when he put his arms around her to demonstrate abdominal breathing. “So where is your mother from?” I figured I might as well find out the answer directly. Lupita’s stories about being from Venus, her outrageous flirting, and her sudden appearance in the middle of the semester made her a target for rumors. Not only had I heard that this school was her last chance, but there was speculation on her mother’s absence. “Venus,” she said. She was serious. Her claim was not just a flirting device to attract boys. She had to believe this so she wouldn’t fall apart. It was then I remembered the old man and how I used to fly to the moon. I remembered the stone quarry and my mother holding the baby. I remembered my father. I felt lonesome, my stomach scraped by the edge of sorrow. Lupita opened up and we talked about everything—about our fathers, about the ability to fly in dreams.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  Much like the night I witnessed the healer become a poem in a far-away country (though in spirit nothing is ever far away), the spirit of poetry came to me. To imagine the spirit of poetry is much like imagining the shape and size of the knowing. It is a kind of resurrection light; it is the tall ancestor spirit who has been with me since the beginning, or a bear or a hummingbird. It is a hundred horses running the land in a soft mist, or it is a woman undressing for her beloved in firelight. It is none of these things. It is more than everything. “You’re coming with me, poor thing. You don’t know how to listen. You don’t know how to speak. You don’t know how to sing. I will teach you.” I followed poetry. AFTERWORD The panic followed me for many years. In the beginning it almost took my life. Like a comet hurtling on a journey through a sky path, I lost particles and let go of that which did not support me. One winter dusk, thirty years later, I paddled an outrigger canoe in deep turquoise waters off the shore of Maunalua Bay on the beloved island of O‘ahu in the Hawaiian Islands. I noticed how my thoughts had become like waves, rising and falling without anxiety or urgency to them. And I realized that I had let go of the remnant tentacles of panic that had been planted in me years ago, when I was a young mother, lost in the middle of traffic. I let it go. I let it go in beauty, with love, in the spirit of vnvketkv , aloha or compassion. I let my thoughts of forgiveness for myself and for others in the story follow the waves of the ocean in prayer. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS This boo k is a journey of several years. I thank my editor at Norton, Jill Bialosky, for her faith, belief, and patience. Two important American writers made this book possible: the storyteller, poet, and artist N. Scott Momaday and the Laguna Pueblo writer, artist, and prophet Leslie Silko. A 2008 Rasmussen Fellowship from United States Artists, the NEA, and the Barbara Deming Fund provided financial assistance. For editing and advice with the story along the way: Laura Coltelli, Sharon Oard Warner, Lurline Wailana McGregor, Tanaya Winder, Sarita London, Tony James, John Crawford, William Pitt Root, Pam Uschuk, Candyce Childers, Dennis Mathis, Cynthia Hess, Pam Kingsbury, Gayle Elliott, and Charlie Hill. For assistance with photographs: Patrick Carr. With special thanks to my cousin George Coser, Jr., who shares stories with other tribal members and me to ensure that we continue; and to the knowing and my ancestors for their teachings and insights. I thank my many teachers from the many directions, in all their many forms. Mvto, mvto. I thank my mother, Wynema Jewell Baker, and my father, Allen W.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  I was free. Free. Free. I carried that dream back through several layers of consciousness, to where I stood in the future, with a stack of poems and a saxophone in my hands. That night I wrote this poem. It is one of my first poems. I release you, my beautiful and terrible fear. I release you. You were my beloved and hated twin, but now, I don’t know you as myself. I release you with all the pain I would know at the death of my children. You are not my blood anymore. I give you back to the soldiers who burned down my home, beheaded my children, raped and sodomized my brothers and sisters. I give you back to those who stole the food from our plates when we were starving. I release you, fear, because you hold these scenes in front of me and I was born with eyes that can never close. I release you I release you I release you I release you I am not afraid to be angry. I am not afraid to rejoice. I am not afraid to be black. I am not afraid to be white. I am not afraid to be hungry. I am not afraid to be full. I am not afraid to be hated. I am not afraid to be loved. To be loved, to be loved, fear. Oh, you have choked me, but I gave you the leash. You have gutted me, but I gave you the knife. You have devoured me, but I laid myself across the fire. I take myself back, fear. You are not my shadow any longer. I won’t hold you in my hands. You can’t live in my eyes, my ears, my voice my belly, or in my heart my heart my heart my heart But come here, fear I am alive and you are so afraid of dying. It was the spirit of poetry who reached out and found me as I stood there at the doorway between panic and love. There are many such doorways in our lives. Some are small and hidden in the ordinary. Others are gaping and obvious, like the car wreck we walk away from, meeting someone and falling in love, or an earthquake followed by a tsunami. When we walk through them to the other side, everything changes. I had come this far without the elegance of speech. I didn’t have the physical handicap of stuttering, but I could not speak coherently. I stuttered in my mind. I could not express my perception of the sacred. I could speak everyday language: Please pass the salt. I would like . . . When are we going . . . I’ll meet you there. I wanted the intricate and metaphorical language of my ancestors to pass through to my language, my life.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Arriguccio was left standing there, gazing into space like an idiot, and not knowing whether the things he had done were real or part of a dream. However, he said no more about it, but left his wife in peace, so that not only had she kept her wits about her and avoided the immediate danger, but she had also made it possible, from then on, to enjoy herself to her heart’s content without any fear of her husband. NINTH STORYLydia, wife of Nicostratos, falls in love with Pyrrhus, who sets her three tasks as a proof of her sincerity. She performs all three, in addition to which she makes love to Pyrrhus in her husband’s presence, causing Nicostratos to believe that his eyes have been deceiving him. Neifile’s story was so much to their liking that the ladies could not be restrained from laughing and talking about it, even though the king, who had ordered Panfilo to narrate his own tale, called upon them several times to be silent. But as soon as they were quiet, Panfilo began as follows: Venerable ladies, it is my conviction that there is no enterprise, however perilous or difficult it may be, that those who are fervently in love will not have the courage to undertake. And although this has been proved in many of the stories we have heard, nevertheless I believe that I can prove it better still with the one I now propose to relate, in which you will hear of a lady whose deeds were far more favoured by Fortune than tempered by common sense. Consequently I would not advise any of you to take the risk of following her example, seeing that Fortune is not always so kindly disposed, and that all men are not equally gullible. In Argos,1 that most ancient city of Greece, whose kings brought it universal renown out of all proportion to its size, there was once a noble lord, Nicostratos by name, upon whom, on the threshold of old age, Fortune bestowed a wife of great distinction, no less bold than she was beautiful, whose name was Lydia.2 Being a wealthy patrician, Nicostratos kept a large number of servants, hawks and hounds, and was passionately fond of hunting. One of his retainers, whose name was Pyrrhus, was a sprightly and elegant young man, handsomely proportioned, and skilled in every activity he chose to pursue, and Nicostratos loved and trusted him above all others. With this young man, Lydia fell desperately in love, to such an extent that her thoughts were fixed upon him alone at every hour of the day and night. But Pyrrhus, either failing or not desiring to notice, showed a total lack of interest in her love, which filled the lady’s heart with unspeakable sorrow. But being determined at all costs to acquaint him with her feelings, she summoned a maid of hers, named Lusca,3 whom she was able to trust implicitly, and said to her:

• From The Decameron (1353)

  They arose as soon as dawn began to break, for the lady was anxious not to give cause for scandal. Having provided him with some very old clothes and filled his purse with money, she then explained which road he must take on entering the fortress in order to find his servant, and finally she let him out by the postern through which he had entered, imploring him to keep their encounter a secret. As soon as it was broad day and the gates were opened, he entered the castle, giving the impression he was arriving from a distance, and rooted out his servant. Having changed into the clothes that were in his portmanteau, he was about to mount his servant’s horse, when as if by some divine miracle the three brigands were brought into the castle, after being arrested for another crime they had committed shortly after robbing him on the previous evening. They had made a voluntary confession, and consequently Rinaldo’s horse, clothing and money were restored to him, and all he lost was a pair of garters, which the robbers were unable to account for. Thus it was that Rinaldo, giving thanks to God and Saint Julian, mounted his horse and returned home safe and sound, whilst the three robbers went next day to dangle their heels in the north wind. THIRD STORYThree young men squander their fortunes, reducing themselves to penury. A nephew of theirs, left penniless, is on his way home when he falls in with an abbot, whom he discovers to be the daughter of the King of England. She later marries him and makes good all the losses suffered by his uncles, restoring them to positions of honour. The whole company, men and ladies alike, listened with admiration to the adventures of Rinaldo d’Asti, commending his piety and giving thanks to God and Saint Julian, who had come to his rescue in the hour of his greatest need. Nor, moreover, was the lady considered to have acted foolishly (even though nobody openly said so) for the way she had accepted the blessing that God had left on her doorstep. And while everyone was busy talking, with half-suppressed mirth, about the pleasant night the lady had spent, Pampinea, finding herself next to Filostrato and realizing rightly that it would be her turn to speak next, collected her thoughts together and started planning what to say. And upon receiving the queen’s command, she began, in a manner no less confident than it was lively, to speak as follows:

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  Or drag you down with their immense sadness at being abandoned. I felt like I had left my dreams of being an artist in Santa Fe. My husband felt the same way, so we packed up the children and returned. In Santa Fe we’d get together with our Indian school friends and visit, and while we discussed the state of Indian affairs, tribal aesthetics, and our aspirations at our kitchen tables or studios, we’d paint, draw, and make notes. I made ribbon shirts for extra income, and even tried out for the part of Ophelia in Hamlet for the Santa Fe Community Theater, for which I was made understudy. Otherwise things were the same. Every day my husband went looking for work and came back with nothing. I worked as a carhop and an attendant at a health spa. One day I accompanied my husband to check on a job at a Cerrillos Road gas station. The supervisor came out to the car, looked in past my husband, and told me I was hired, though I wasn’t the one who’d come dressed for the job interview. I was wearing jean cutoffs and a T-shirt. I took the job pumping gas, filling tires, and cleaning windshields. I also made a miniskirt in the oil company’s colors, which became my uniform. Lines of cars waited their turn for me to pump gas. The name of the station was changed to Mini-Serve Gas Mart. Months later, when I quit to begin training at the city hospital to be a nursing assistant, the supervisor said I was the best worker he had ever had. After that, he only hired women. I paid half my paycheck to the babysitter every payday. One day when I was putting the clothes in piles to take to the laundromat, I discovered a love letter from my husband to the babysitter. I’d been paying her to take care of him. At least she kept the house clean, something he didn’t do before I hired her. But the betrayal marked the end. I didn’t see it at first, but I was set free. I left him. Because of my hospital work, I decided to go to the university to study premed. I got help from the Eight Northern Pueblos Talent Search, an educational agency. Without their aid I would never have found my way the fifty miles south to Albuquerque to gain entrance to the University of New Mexico. I was assisted in getting money from my tribe for my studies. I stayed with the Martins, a Hopi family, until I could rent an apartment for my son and me. My stepdaughter stayed with her father. He would not allow me to adopt her. [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] Not long after I began my studies at the university, my stepfather ordered the youngest child, my brother Boyd, out of the house. He wasn’t quite fourteen. It wasn’t the first time.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  ‘My father’s name,’ said Giannotto, ‘can now be safely revealed, since I no longer have anything to fear from its disclosure. He was called (and if he is still alive he is still called) Arrighetto Capece, and my own name is not Giannotto but Giusfredi. Furthermore, I have not the slightest doubt that if I were a free man, I could return to Sicily and occupy, even now, a position of the highest importance.’ The good man asked no more questions, but at the first opportunity he referred the whole matter to Currado. And although, as he listened, Currado put on a show of indifference for the gaoler’s benefit, he went straight to Madonna Beritola and asked her in a pleasant manner whether she and Arrighetto had ever had a son called Giusfredi. Bursting into tears the woman replied that if the older of her two sons was still alive, this indeed would be his name, and that he would now be twenty-two years old. On hearing this, Currado concluded that the young man must be telling the truth, and it occurred to him that, in this case, he was in a position to perform an act of clemency that would repair both his own and his daughter’s honour, namely to offer her to him in marriage. He therefore arranged a secret interview with Giannotto, in the course of which he interrogated him in detail on the whole of his past life. And having confirmed beyond any doubt that he was indeed Giusfredi, the son of Arrighetto Capece, he said: ‘Giannotto, you are aware how great an injury you have done to me in the person of my own daughter. I treated you as a friend, and it was your duty as my servant never to do anything that would undermine my honour, or that of my family. Many another man, in my place, would have had you ignominiously put to death, but I could not bring myself to do such a thing. Now, since what you say is true, and you are a man of gentle birth, I desire with your consent to put an end to your suffering and release you from your wretched, captive existence, at the same time restoring both your own reputation and mine. As you are aware, my daughter Spina, for whom you formed so loving but improper an attachment, is a widow, and she has a good, large dowry. You are acquainted with her ways, and with her father and mother; of your own present condition, I say nothing. Therefore, if you are agreeable, I am willing to convert a dishonourable friendship into an honourable marriage, and allow you to live with her here in my house for as long as you wish to remain, as though you were my own son.’

• From Trash (1988)

  What would help Billy and Cass, or Roxanne, or even me? I stretch up again, start the kata over, watching my form in the mirrored windows, the pattern of my body twisting, rising, kicking, and coming back around to start again. I start again, finish the form, and start a third time. Sweat runs into my eyes, and my muscles go loose and fluid. The magic starts in my belly, and the kata becomes smooth, the feel of it more like sex than anything else. My fear goes out of me, my grief. What did I imagine was wrong with me anyway? The first night I’d slept with Cass, I’d rolled over and laughed out loud when we’d finished making love. “Goddamn!” I’d yelled. “I love my life.” Cass had laughed back into my face, pulling me down to start all over again. “Goddamn,” I whisper now, and start the kata over a fourth time. Liquid and gold, my knees come up and my fists punch out. The kata, the dance, takes me up, makes me over. I let go of Liz and Judy and all of them. I come back into stance, with my hair loose and damp on my neck, the smell of my own body like wine in the morning sun. “Goddamn!” I hiss the word between my teeth and look up to see myself standing with my head back and face glowing in the reflected windows. The whisper carries distinctly in the morning quiet. I can almost see the ripple of it in the grass. “Goddamn.” Compassion I n the last days Mama’s mouth cracked and bled. Pearly blisters spread down her chin to her throat. The nurses moved her to a room with a sink by the bed and a stern command to wash up every time you touched her. “Herpes,” Mavis, the floor nurse, told me. “Contagious at this stage.” I held Mama’s free hand anyway, stepping away every time the doctor came in to wash with the soap the hospital provided. Mavis let me have a bottle of her own lotion when my fingers began to dry and the skin along my thumbs split. “Aloe vera and olive oil,” she told me. “Use it on your mama, too.” I took the bottle over to rub it into the paper-thin skin on the backs of Mama’s hands. She barely seemed to notice, though a couple of her veins had leaked enough to make swollen, blue-black blotches. Mama’s eyes tracked past me and even as I rubbed one hand, the fingers of the other reached for the morphine pump. That drip, that precious drip. Mama no longer hissed and gasped with every breath. Now she murmured and whispered, sang a little, even said recognizable names sometimes—my sisters, her sisters, and people long dead.

• From Crazy Brave (2012)

  [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] After I left for Indian school my brother Allen, who was next to me in age, was forced from the house. Instead of taking a regular high school academic track, he went to vo-tech to learn auto mechanics. When he was forced onto the street as a young teenager, at least he had a skill and could make a living. My knowing showed my sister, Margaret, as protected from any advances from our stepfather. I could see that my youngest brother, Boyd, would be forced to leave the house like our brother. A palm reader would tell me in the eighties that in the palm of my left hand exists an alternate lifeline. In that line was a girl of sixteen or seventeen. She was dead of a drug overdose on the street of a California city. As I turned back into the dorm at dusk after I watched the family car leave, I knew I was turning toward home. [image "6706.jpg" file=Image00008.jpg] [image "6709.jpg" file=Image00009.jpg] [image "6711.jpg" file=Image00010.jpg] When I started Indian school in Santa Fe in 1967, I was fresh from escaping the emotional winter of my childhood. I had been set free. The famous Quapaw-Cherokee composer Louis Ballard was assigned as my adviser. Though I loved music and singing, I never took a class from him. I’d given up on music. In junior high, when the band teacher wouldn’t allow me to play saxophone because I was female, I quit band. This happened at around the same time my stepfather forbade me to sing. I spent hours hanging out with Ballard in his office and studio. He was warm, affectionate, and liked having a young Oklahoma Creek around. He was like a father to me. When I did return to music, after I was forty, Louis Ballard and I took up right where we had left off. I can still hear his voice urging me on in my creative musical efforts. Around five years ago he passed from this world. I spoke with him about a month before he moved on. He reiterated his belief in me, and I needed that belief. As we spoke, I saw him lifting up his feet and stepping over. Music is direct communication with the sacred. It exists in a virtual invisible realm. There is no border of the corporeal, though words can be carried and lifted by music. As adolescents we defined ourselves primarily by music. At Indian school we were either psychedelic visionaries with Jim Morrison and the Doors or Jimi Hendrix, or we were funky babies singing along with the Temptations, the Supremes, and the Four Tops. Or we danced Top Forty in white boots and bell-bottoms. If you were far, far out, you were a Frank Zappa freak. And then there were the country kings and queens with taped boots, up to the hats with attitude, waving them for Merle Haggard and Loretta Lynn.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  She then told him the whole story from beginning to end, explaining how she, who was his mistress, had let him into the doctor’s house, and how she had unwittingly given him the opiate to drink, and how she had stuffed him inside the trunk thinking him to be dead. After this she told him about the conversation she had overheard between the master-carpenter and the trunk’s owner, thus showing him how Ruggieri had ended up in the house of the money-lenders. Seeing that it was an easy matter to verify her story, the judge first of all inquired of the surgeon whether what she had said about the potion was true, and discovered that it was. He then summoned the carpenter, the owner of the trunk, and the money-lenders, and after listening to a string of tall stories from the money-lenders, he found that they had stolen the trunk during the night and brought it into their house. Finally he sent for Ruggieri and asked him where he had lodged the previous evening. Ruggieri replied that he had no idea where he had lodged, but that he clearly remembered going to lodge with Doctor Mazzeo’s maid, in whose bedroom he had drunk some water because he was very thirsty; what happened to him after that he was unable to say, except that he had woken up in the money-lenders’ house to find himself inside a trunk. The judge was greatly entertained by what he had heard, and made Ruggieri and the maid and the carpenter and the money-lenders repeat their stories several times over. In the end, pronouncing Ruggieri innocent, he ordered the money-lenders to pay a fine of ten gold florins, and set Ruggieri at liberty. You can all imagine what a relief this was for Ruggieri, and of course his mistress was absolutely delighted. She later celebrated his release in the company of Ruggieri himself, and along with the dear maid who had wanted to stick him with a knife, they had many a good laugh about it together. Their love continued to flourish, affording them greater and greater pleasure – which is what I should like to happen to me, except that I would not want to be stuffed inside a trunk. * * * If the earlier stories had saddened the fair ladies’ hearts, this last one of Dioneo’s caused so much merriment, especially the bit about the judge and his little nibble, that it drove away the melancholy engendered by the others.

• From The Decameron (1353)

  Now it chanced that one of the lady's husbandmen had that day lost two of his swine and going in search of them, came, a little after the scholar's departure, to the tower. As he went spying about everywhere if he should see his hogs, he heard the piteous lamentation made of the miserable lady and climbing up as most he might, cried out, 'Who maketh moan there aloft?' The lady knew her husbandman's voice and calling him by name, said to him, 'For God's sake, fetch me my maid and contrive so she may come up hither to me.' Whereupon quoth the man, recognizing her, 'Alack, madam, who hath brought you up yonder? Your maid hath gone seeking you all day; but who had ever thought you could be here?' Then, taking the ladder-poles, he set them up in their place and addressed himself to bind the cross-staves thereto with withy bands.[393] Meanwhile, up came the maid, who no sooner entered the tower than, unable any longer to hold her tongue, she fell to crying out, buffeting herself the while with her hands, 'Alack, sweet my lady, where are you?' The lady, hearing her, answered as loudliest she might, 'O sister mine, I am here aloft. Weep not, but fetch me my clothes quickly.' When the maid heard her speak, she was in a manner all recomforted and with the husbandman's aid, mounting the ladder, which was now well nigh repaired, reached the sollar, where, whenas she saw her lady lying naked on the ground, all forspent and wan, more as she were a half-burnt log than a human being, she thrust her nails into her own face and fell a-weeping over her, no otherwise than as she had been dead. [Footnote 393: Boccaccio appears to have forgotten to mention that Rinieri had broken the rounds of the ladder, when he withdrew it (as stated, p. 394), apparently to place an additional obstacle in the way of the lady's escape.]