Featuring the

Newspaper columns---View from the Tree House,

Poetry---Leaves, A Poet's Place

Quotations---Twigs

of Elizabeth Tree Andrews, former columnist for the Orlando Sentinel, and several other daily and weekly newspapers.

 

"If Elizabeth Andrews wrote it you can be sure it is worth reading."   Pierre-Rene Noth, Editor

 

 

 

View From the Tree House

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A Twig from Tree 

I hold this truth to be Self-evident: I have the right not to remain silent. 

 

 

Andrews on women's unrecognized abilities.

 

   I Sing the Strength of Women

     I sing the strength of women.  The unrecognized courage. Talents untapped.  Wisdom unheralded.  Uniqueness ignored.  Spirituality discounted.

     For over twenty years I have employed women, counseled women, motivated women, and helped women get into businesses of their own.

     I have proclaimed their strength, wept when I couldn't get them to see that strength, and rejoiced when the doors to the back rooms of their minds swung open and the light of self-recognition and personal power poured in.

     I believe women possess one-half of the world's brains, creativity, insights, wisdom, problem-solving abilities, decision-making abilities, and the ability to implement loving, concerned solutions to local, national, and international situations.

     I believe the average, stay-at-home mom who can potty train a two year old, run a home with finesse, and keep a husband happy has enough brains, and mettle to own and operate her own business.

     I believe almost any legal secretary in town has enough brains and ideas to be governor of any state.

     I believe every dedicated, good registered nurse has enough brains to become a doctor.

     I believe many clergymen's wives, and most clergymen's female parishioners have enough brains and spiritual fortitude to build their own churches, and that they often asks themselves if a God of Love made women spiritually inferior to men.     

     I believe older women who served home and family long and well have enough brains to resolve the biggest political headache at any city hall.

     I know intelligent, caring men who are confused by "today's woman".

     “What do you women want?” they say to me.  “I don't know whether to open the car door, let her pay for her own lunch, or wait for her to ask me out.  What do you women want, anyway?”

     What most women want these days, my brothers, is for men to start at the top and recognize that God didn't make any junk; that men do not have a male monopoly on God; that women were not created spiritually inferior, intellectually unequal, subservient, silly, or downright stupid.

     She wants the corporate glass ceiling shattered and she wants credit for her ideas and input into corporate problems and solutions.

     Today's woman asks why you think you are supposed to take care of her since she is in good health and capable of taking care of herself.  She asks also what it is you think you are protecting her from.  She knows there are no bears in the back yard and no hostile natives looking for her scalp on the road to the super market.

     Today's free woman sometimes suspects your pseudo-protection is a subconsciously camouflaged attempt to keep her from exercising her talents, self-controlling her world, and realizing her dreams.

     A strong, free woman will always set the men around her free.  She'll free them from any sense of being responsible for her happiness, her well-being.  She'll free them from out-dated gender games that would make of a good man a ridiculous---and often reluctant---Tarzan, and of an intelligent woman a cracker of coconuts, and a sweeper of tree houses.   

     Any free soul wants for others that which it demands for itself: The right to exist without interference; to decide one’s own destiny; to define God for one’s self; to love, to live, to build and dream so long as these things do not interfere in the rights and dreams of others.

    We talk a lot about freedom these days, in America.  We berate other countries for their violations of the rights of women and, granted, there are no laws in American that keep a woman from being president of the United States, or president of her own corporation.

     There is, however, a lingering, suffocating, invisible presence in America as deadly as the worst bio-chemical weapon. Its male name is power. Its female name is unexamined thinking.  Its political name is inequality, and its spiritual name is anathema.

On Moths and Rust

 

It will not matter, all I’ve treasured.

Not by pearls will I be measured

nor that I owned

a great big long gold Cadillac.

When the bell rings and it’s over

and my bones lie ‘neath the clover

none will recall

I had a palace on Cul De Sac.

 

Much we make of matters material

and while we slurp our low-fat cereal

pencil children die as we dine.

I, and you, too, are most guilty

valuing values gold-stained filthy

making sure our outside world is fine.

 

ll the while it is the content

of the soul’s ignored intent

that determines worth…..or nay.

While we’re counting gold and silver

Silent Soul calls with a shiver

Look ye toward a future judging day.

 

Not one pearl can you take with you.

Not one Angel would dare admit you

for the rules are clear

as rules can be.

Feed my children, all you people

Forget that gleaming high, grand steeple

This you do in fond remembrance of me?

 

By whose yardstick are your treasures?

What god approves such meaningless measures?

Dare you fancy you stand well with me?

What use have I of pearls and bangles?

I seek the soul therein entangled.

You decorate in vain my perfect tree.

 

Then I discarded all my pleasures

In the empty things I’d treasured

Stopped to plant and water one wildflower.

Now there's nothing that can upset me

and when the wagon comes to get me

I’ll raise a grateful fist and shout

"Soul Power!"

Andrews on War

There is no God-of-war

 

Every flag-draped coffin that comes home to

America from Iraq contains the broken body of my son

or daughter for I am an American and I cannot separate

myself from them.

Every death-by-violence reduces me, for the

people of the earth are my family, and I am not

separate from them.

Every mis-guided, murdering Muslim terrorist is

my mis-guided kinsman for I am a daughter of the world

and cannot be separated from it.

I have plundered the great religious man-written

books, and their pages are wet with my tears for many

call us to violence... and, I suspect, our Universal

Creator also weeps and will not be comforted.

God's hand is not on the shoulder-to-air missle,

and a heavenly finger does not rest on a red button.

There is no God of War. There are only men who love

war. War begets power, and power is the essential

aphrodisiac of the god-less. War-mongers give to God

those characteristics that serve their self-interests,

and hearld their self-proclaimed divinity.

I believe---but have no scientific

evidence---that before the beginning, God looked out

upon the world and declared "I will make a world

family out of myself save for one bit of

knowledge---my children must find their own way back

to me. I shall infuse them with a longing for truth, a

desire for beauty, the power of invention, and a great

ability to love one another...and I shall grant them

free-will to do with these things as they choose."

I further believe the men of the universe went

forth and slowly forgot that Light from which they came.

They feared the darkness and their fear was eased only

by power over others, by taking what was
not theirs, and by holding many in bondage to serve
their every need. They required much firewood to hold
back the darkness, so they made of their women,
servants; and of their kinsmen, beggars of bread.
These men of the earth practiced: Associate only
with those you can trust. Trust only those like
yourself. Gather around you only those who agree with
your god-books, those whose god-face reflects your
own, and whose god-mouth spews forth the words you
want to hear.
In the name of their god they charged forth and
declared war on the dis-believers of their personal
gods, and they planted flags deep in the soil of the
heathens. They claimed the riches of their lands;
controlled by force; preached death as the great
avenger; and they prayed to the almighty bomb.
In the course of human events it has never been
necessary to take up arms against family members.
Failing to see our face in all faces, we fear those
not like ourselves and what we fear we must destroy.
Yet, nowhere does a Cosmic parent call us to violence
save in the books written by men who feed upon
violence and pray for power to a self-invented,
violent god.
How grossly idiotic, how childish in
vanity --- two groups of men in different-colored
clothing, charging across a field toward each other,
each group praying to an invented god to help them
blow their brother's head off.
Nowhere in a universe of plenty does a diety of
Love demand the slaughter of members of the world

family that a few might have much while many die

daily for want of a crust of bread.
Is not every man my brother; every woman my
sister; and every child, my concern? Tell me, where
shall I draw the line? Shall I take my Muslim brother
to lunch and, while he is sipping his
All-American soup, shall I say quietly "I am so sorry
but I have to shoot you today. You see, that Koran
book you are so fond of says you get to recline on
green cushions and rich carpets and dwell with bashful
virgins, (Koran, the Merciful, Ch.55) and it condemns
the disbelievers to a fiery hell. Well, I am a
disbeliever. I think your Mohammad was one part
inspired and two parts plagiarist. Therefore, you must

die. We simply do not agree on god-matters."
Or perhaps I should say to my Jewish brothers
"Long have I treasured you and defended you, but they
tell me now that you have great nuclear power, enough
to destory millions of our Muslim family, so I have no
choice but to destroy you with my bigger, better
bomb."
Shall I say, also, to the daughters of my own
flesh "Take up your rifle proudly. Dam all the
brothers who have for centuries mistreated you and your sisters. Look deep across time. Men are incapable of granting you equality, especially in god-matters. They
pray to a male god. They are dangerous. Aim for the
heart. Kill them."
I cannot. I have trained no little one to fear
and hate, and I weep when calling  that  individual a hero whose medals are speckled with the blood of a world-family member.
And a God of Love will, no doubt, continue to weep

and watch as we destroy ourselves.
Darkness and violence will spread across the
earth, the stench of bombs and rotting corpses will
foul the air, and the ricochet of gunfire shall become
the people's song.
Finally, in the grey-white ash of the morning,
when no tree lives and no birds sing, my pen will be
silent, for all the people of the world are my family
and I cannot separate myself from them.

 

View from The Tree House

Andrews on Abortion 

 

She Shall Have Music

"I have something to tell you." she said, the sound of long distance reminding me of the miles and misunderstandings that lay between us.

"I'm pregnant." 

 Joy flooded every singing cell of my body. I could smell the baby powder, see the crib with its butterfly chimes floating above it, hear the demanding cry of a hungry infant.

Maybe she would come home, I thought. Her sister and I would care for her, see that she had the right food and all her vitamins. We'd buy booies and baby gowns, and help her with the doctor bill.

Maybe it would be a boy. Having been one of three girls, she'd probably like that. I'd like a little girl just like her mother with wide blue eyes and flowing blond hair.

My arms could already feel that small weight. I'd drag out that ridiculous rocker, repair its broken leg, and I'd hold my first grandchild and sing again "Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross, to see a fine lady upon a white horse..."

"He wants to get married...but I want to have an abortion."

The phone grew heavy and cold in my hand. Reality returned with all its gray truths. This child would be born to two children. My daughter did not work because her lover thought a woman's place was cooking his meals and cleaning his home. He adored her.

He also adored long hours before the television set, short hours (if any) at work, beer, and dogs.

Often there was not enough to feed the two of them and what there was they shared with the dogs. I suspected they were drawing welfare but my daughter never mentioned it, knowing how I despise the word and all that it implies.

How do you encourage  the birth of a child that in all

probability will be raised by already over-taxed taxpayers?

How do you condone terminating the beginnings of life when

everything in you is moved to awe by the simple growth of a blade of grass?

Grown children bring their  pain and their problems home like

duffel bags of dirty laundry. They dash off to renew old

friendships and leave you to sort through the mess and maybe

find something they can use again.

I refused to sort through my daughter's problem, and although I encouraged her to examine all her feelings and the possible results of her actions, I refrained from telling her what I thought she ought to do.

I sat in the waiting room of the Planned Parenthood Center

and found a bitter irony in the word "planned". They had

counseled my daughter throughly prior to scheduling her

abortion: Is this what you really want to do? Is this your

decision? Your mother's? Your boyfriend's?

I found no fault in anything they were doing for her and I experienced relief and gratitude to the many women's groups that had ensured the safety and simplicity of abortion. If it must be done, let it be done with some measure of safety, dignity, and public removal of total blame for the woman.

There were 19 chairs, three couches, four smoke stands, and a coat rack in the waiting room. The hours crawled with turtle slowness.

"You want some more coffee?" someone asked. "No," I said, "I  want to talk with the doctor."

The nurse was immaculate and polite but firm. I was frightened, frustrated, and firmer.

"Lady", I said, "if you don't let me talk with the doctor for two minutes when he is finished with my daughter, I am going to call a reporter, go down in front of this building and call you people dirty names."

The doctor's face was kind, his shoulders stooped as he went on washing his hands. i wondered if the bloody water was from my daughter.

"I want to know what the baby was and what you did with the fetus." I said.

"you're better off not knowing." he replied. "It was your daughter's decision."

"Who are you to tell me what I should and should not know?" I was trembling and trying unsuccessfully to keep from crying. 

"It was a girl. We have medical ways of disposing of the fetus. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like you to get out of my way. I have work to do."

She convalesced for a week before returning to New York. Her youthful body was slim again and showed no sign of its internal scars. Her blue eyes were soft and clear, but something older and different had settled about her shoulders.

When her plane lifted into the cold December sky I made my way blindly through the parking lot and leaned against my car. 

Something was broken that all the king's horses and all the king's men could not repair. Something for her...and for me.

Stars twinkled in the sky and here and there a small one flickered to stay lit. From the hollow reaches of space a half-sung lullby haunted me. "Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes. She shall have music where-ever she goes." 

 

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