from the Epilogue to QUEST: The Life of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, acclaimed author of ON DEATH AND DYING
When Derek Gill approached me, I was ready at last to share this life story, because my work in the last few years has led me not only to a greater understanding of life and death but to a deeper realization of the significance of our early years. Research in the process of time, in death itself, and especially in life after death, has revealed insights that are very important in the bringing up of children, for the way in which we are going to raise our next generations.
This book becomes important only when we have a full understanding of the purpose of life, the significance of our relationships, and the awareness of the extraordinary guidance and help that we receive from an invisible world which very few people perceive. We must also realize the fact that in our lives there are no coincidences. Even the parents we choose do not become ours by coincidence. They, and our siblings, our teachers, the friends who share parts of our life, are all determined by our own choices and are part of the overall plan that directs our life--a plan that will reveal itself only at the end, at that final transition into another existence: that moment we call death.
I believe this book will be seen as even more significant when the story of my later years, and of our research into life after death, is published in the future, and it is seen why that which happened to me had to happen. It will become obvious why I had to be born a triplet...had to experience a total lack of individual identity in a grownup world that was unable to differentiate between my sister and myself. This early loneliness and, at times, self-chosen isolation were preparation for the years to come. I had to find my love objects in birds and animals, in meadows and among hills and trees and wildflowers rather than among individuals. I had to leave home before I was sixteen, had to work through years of hardship and physical deprivation. Thereby I was blessed with experiences I would never otherwise have had. Those years in the French part of Switzerland, inPoland, France, Germany, Belgium and Italy were gifts of awareness, gifts of sharing with other human beings who had survived the war but lost many loved ones under the most tragic of circumstances. By viewing the gas chambers, the concentration camps, the train filled with the baby shoes of murdered children in Maidanek, by talking with the Jewish girl who had lived through the nightmare of seeing her family march to their deaths, I learned that it is our choice, our own personal choice, whether we want to continue living as victims of resentment, negativity, the need for revenge; or whether we elect to leave the negativity behind and view such tragedies as the windstorms of life which can both strengthen us and help us to grow. Such experiences can help others as well, leaving them stronger and more polished and more beautiful, like a rock that has gone through the tumbler.... We must have the courage and honesty to look within ourselves, to identify our fears, greed, guilt and shame, whatever prevents us from using our energy positively. If we are able to follow our own intuition and not be concerned about what others may say or think about us; if we listen to our inner voice and to our fellow human being who is suffering; if we share our love without expectation of reward, we will realize that each of us is student as well as teacher...and our rewards will be manifold and come when we least expect them.
My destiny had to be the United States, where I was free to pursue my own work, my own research and my own form of teaching, none ofwhich would have been possible in any other nation in this world.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Friday, January 29, 2010
Hamilton - 1945-1949
In June every four years at the Annual Conference of the Methodist Church, ministers receive a new appointment by the presiding Bishop and families have to up and move to the new city or town where the church is located. When I was born in March of 1945, my parents were living in the little town of Covington--only 5.7 square miles in total land area. Covington is located in Alleghany County in the far western part of the State, a 45 minute drive to Roanoke's Jefferson Memorial Hospital where I was born and not too far from the Virginia/West Virginia line and in close proximity to The Homestead in Bath County and The Greenbrier in White Sulphur Springs, West Virginia, two fancy places lawyers like to brag about going for retreats. I was pleased to read that Covington's current mayor is not only female but the first African-American mayor of the town. Her name is Stephanie Ross Clark.
The summer of 1945, the Methodist Bishop sent my father to pastor the Methodist churches in Purcellville and Hamilton and that's where I spent the first 4 years of my life. In doing some research, I was surprised to find Hamilton and Purcellville on the state map very close together geographically and situated in the very northeastern tip of the state in Loudoun County. Hamilton, once occupied by several Native American tribes, is only 40 miles west of Washington, D.C. and if you drive 12 miles southeast, you'll be in the town of Middleburg, which is horse country. European settlers arrived there in the 1730s, I guess that's when the natives had to leave.
The few memories I have of Hamilton are of the big white parsonage we lived in, the porch, the expansive front lawn that provided plenty of room to run and play, and a hammock tied between two trees in the side yard, perfect for afternoon naps. I loved to feel the way the hammock would sway back and forth in the gentle breeze on warm summer days. In exploring this new world one day I came upon a large dog who I probably tried to pet. Instead he bit me, leaving a scar on my left hand just below my thumb.
When I was grown, I found 2 pictures taken of me in Hamilton--in one I am a toddler sitting alone in the sliding green and white rocker on the front porch and frowning at whoever is taking my picture. In another, I am dressed in an Easter bonnet and suit, standing alone in the front yard. I wasn't smiling then either. I learned in Hamilton that the world was not a safe place -- dogs could bite. Even though I had a brother who was 5 years older than me, I have no memories of him in Hamilton. I have saved a photo of him laughing naked in a bathtub outside in the yard.
The summer of 1945, the Methodist Bishop sent my father to pastor the Methodist churches in Purcellville and Hamilton and that's where I spent the first 4 years of my life. In doing some research, I was surprised to find Hamilton and Purcellville on the state map very close together geographically and situated in the very northeastern tip of the state in Loudoun County. Hamilton, once occupied by several Native American tribes, is only 40 miles west of Washington, D.C. and if you drive 12 miles southeast, you'll be in the town of Middleburg, which is horse country. European settlers arrived there in the 1730s, I guess that's when the natives had to leave.
The few memories I have of Hamilton are of the big white parsonage we lived in, the porch, the expansive front lawn that provided plenty of room to run and play, and a hammock tied between two trees in the side yard, perfect for afternoon naps. I loved to feel the way the hammock would sway back and forth in the gentle breeze on warm summer days. In exploring this new world one day I came upon a large dog who I probably tried to pet. Instead he bit me, leaving a scar on my left hand just below my thumb.
When I was grown, I found 2 pictures taken of me in Hamilton--in one I am a toddler sitting alone in the sliding green and white rocker on the front porch and frowning at whoever is taking my picture. In another, I am dressed in an Easter bonnet and suit, standing alone in the front yard. I wasn't smiling then either. I learned in Hamilton that the world was not a safe place -- dogs could bite. Even though I had a brother who was 5 years older than me, I have no memories of him in Hamilton. I have saved a photo of him laughing naked in a bathtub outside in the yard.
Roanoke
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
In the early afternoon of the 21st day of March, 1945 I was born in Jefferson Memorial Hospital in Roanoke, Virginia to Reverend Gilliam Claude Bentley and Alma Kathryn Creighton Bentley. I still have my baby book somewhere and in it a lock of curly hair, a memento of the curly locks which mother said I kept until I had German Measles when I lost all the curl.
Roanoke is located just west of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the middle of the Roanoke Valley in the southwestern part of the state. It covers only about 42 square miles. Many of the Bentley relatives lived in Roanoke, and sometimes we'd visit them during the summer month of August. The streets were steep like those in San Francisco because the City was so close to the mountains and many of the streets were hilly. I remember riding in our car on Melrose Avenue and Orange Avenue on the way to visit aunts and uncles who must have lived on those streets or somewhere close to them. They told us that Roanoke had a big star on top of Mill Mountain that lit up the night sky. Roanoke was called the Star City because it was the only city in Virginia that had a big star on one of its mountains. It also had a zoo. I guess folks didn't have much to brag about in Roanoke. A lot of the men worked on the railroad or in the coal mines. Other industries included textiles and furniture manufacturing.
I liked visiting Uncle Roy and Aunt Elizabeth. Their home felt safe. Aunt Elizabeth was a real sweet lady who seemed to be glad to see us whenever we visited. I can still see her smiling and conversing with mother while standing over her kitchen stove stirring a pot of goodies right from her garden. Her butter beans, juicy ripe tomatoes, crunchy cucumbers, corn on the cob, and canteloupe were my favorites. KB and I loved running between the rows of corn behind their house. Uncle Roy and Aunt Elizabeth had a son and daughter, Clayton and Carolyn, who were older than we were. I remember an old upright piano that Aunt Elizabeth said her daughter Carolyn could play. Carolyn still lives in Roanoke. Their son Clayton moved to Richmond where he retired from Dominion Power Company. Even though he lives in Richmond, I have never visited him. I called him once to learn what had happened in his family. He never did call me back. It seems strange that you can have relatives living in the same city you live in but you never see them.
We also visited Aunt Elma, who was my favorite aunt. She had red hair and was plump, frisky, fun and jolly. She lived in a brick house on a Roanoke hillside with her husband Uncle Fred. They didn't have any children which may be the reason she always seemed so glad to see us. When I think of Aunt Elma, I remember her laughter. She had a high pitched laugh and a low alto voice. In the summertime when it was so hot, she would mix up tall glasses of pink lemonade. Even now in the summertime, I buy pink lemonade because I used to enjoy drinking it so much at Aunt Elma's house. Once while we were visiting Aunt Elma, I got real sick, but her glasses of ice cold pink lemonade seemed to make me feel better. It was explained to us children that Uncle Fred drank a lot. He was a veteran of World War II, and I guess it messed him up pretty bad because he couldn't stop drinking. I think he drank himself to death. His drinking didn't seem to dampen Aunt Elma's spirits. She dressed nice and worked as a clerk in a department store. Once she gave me some really old books that were bound with leather--classics from authors like Victor Hugo. I don't know why she gave them to me, but I kept them for a long time and then I gave them to Goodwill like practically everything else that has been given to me.
The last house we'd visit before we returned home was where our cousin Dexter lived. Dexter and I were the same age, but he had a crush on KB. His mother Aunt Halene was Southern Baptist and distant. I remember how she used to smack her lips and roll her tongue around her lower lip. I sensed that her religious inclinations somehow weighed the family down. Dexter had two brothers already grown and gone by the time of our summer visits. My father told us that one year his brother William, Dexter's father, who worked on the railroad, had spent all his money on women and drink and had nothing left for Christmas presents. Pop sent him some money so he could buy Christmas presents for his family. He was a heavy drinker and one day after puking his guts out behind the house, he came to his senses and stopped drinking cold turkey. He never took another drink after that. Dexter married a girl named Mary and they had two boys, but after Dexter came back from Vietnam, they got divorced. Dexter's behavior became strange. He had been in combat in the Army. He was never right after that. He was hypervigilant and made everyone uncomfortable around him. You could sense that he was always on edge, always alert as if any minute something terrible was about to happen. He loved to listen to classical music and he talked a lot about Jesus and religion. After his parents died and he divorced, his wife got custody of their sons, so that he was living by himself in Roanoke. I drove over to visit him once and invited him to come to Richmond to visit us. I felt anxious being in the car with him, but I knew he was lonely and felt sorry for the way things had turned out in his life. Eventually I learned he left Roanoke and moved to North Carolina. His older brother Warren had moved to California. I think he wanted to be close to his other brother Fred who was president of Mars Hill College.
I was told that he had always been closer to Fred than to Warren. Fred was a bright and shining star in the Bentley family. When he became president of Mars Hill College in western North Carolina in 1966, he was the youngest college president in the nation. According to historical notes about the college, Dr. Fred Bentley "guided Mars Hill to accreditation as a senior college, led faculty development and curriculum innovation, and fostered numerous other educational and physical advances. After almost 30 years in the presidency, he retired in February 1996." Once he came to visit me and I took him to the Omni Hotel in downtown Richmond. We sat together over a late night meal. In addition to being president of a college, he was also a fine self-taught artist and made wood carvings as a hobby. It just came natural to him. I thought it would be nice to own a piece of his art sometime. When he told me that he didn't see anything wrong with a father having a "loving sexual relationship with his daughter," I froze on the inside and just wanted to go home. I walked with him to his car, he kissed me on the lips, and I left him with a sad feeling wondering if he did that to his daughter. I decided right then I would never to see him again.
This summer when I stayed in South Carolina to take care of Mother while Brother had surgery to repair an aneurysm on his aorta, she told me that Fred had carved the front doors of Mars Hill College. He is dead now and Warren is the only living member of that part of the Bentley clan.
Late one Saturday night 4 years ago, the phone rang. It was the Sheriff from North Carolina.
"Are you Judith Bentley?"
"Yes I am. Why are you calling?"
"Your cousin Dexter was found dead in his house and I need to know what to do with the body."
What a shock. I tried to think what to say. "Where are you now?"
"I'm in his house."
"How did you get my number?"
"I found it in his address book."
"Well, read through the book, and I'll see if I can remember someone you can call."
When he got to the name Mary, I told him to call her. She was Dexter's ex-wife. I thought his sons would want to know their father had died alone in his house. He was a sweet guy when he was young. War does terrible things to a man's mind and some men never recover to make it back to civil society.
I found a portion of his obituary in the archives of the Roanoke newspaper.
Bentley, Dexter Lee - Mr. Dexter Lee Bentley, 61, of Germanton, N.C., died Thursday, September 21, 2006 at his home. He was born February 13, 1945 in Roanoke, ....
Published in the Roanoke Times on 9/27/2006
The law firm where I work has an office in Roanoke. Sometimes the firm sends me to some of its other offices. They haven't sent me to Roanoke yet. That's probably the only reason I'd ever go back. It is a mystery to me now our summer visits to Roanoke never included my brother. I cannot remember a single time that he ever went with us.
Judith J. Bentley
In the early afternoon of the 21st day of March, 1945 I was born in Jefferson Memorial Hospital in Roanoke, Virginia to Reverend Gilliam Claude Bentley and Alma Kathryn Creighton Bentley. I still have my baby book somewhere and in it a lock of curly hair, a memento of the curly locks which mother said I kept until I had German Measles when I lost all the curl.
Roanoke is located just west of the Blue Ridge Mountains in the middle of the Roanoke Valley in the southwestern part of the state. It covers only about 42 square miles. Many of the Bentley relatives lived in Roanoke, and sometimes we'd visit them during the summer month of August. The streets were steep like those in San Francisco because the City was so close to the mountains and many of the streets were hilly. I remember riding in our car on Melrose Avenue and Orange Avenue on the way to visit aunts and uncles who must have lived on those streets or somewhere close to them. They told us that Roanoke had a big star on top of Mill Mountain that lit up the night sky. Roanoke was called the Star City because it was the only city in Virginia that had a big star on one of its mountains. It also had a zoo. I guess folks didn't have much to brag about in Roanoke. A lot of the men worked on the railroad or in the coal mines. Other industries included textiles and furniture manufacturing.
I liked visiting Uncle Roy and Aunt Elizabeth. Their home felt safe. Aunt Elizabeth was a real sweet lady who seemed to be glad to see us whenever we visited. I can still see her smiling and conversing with mother while standing over her kitchen stove stirring a pot of goodies right from her garden. Her butter beans, juicy ripe tomatoes, crunchy cucumbers, corn on the cob, and canteloupe were my favorites. KB and I loved running between the rows of corn behind their house. Uncle Roy and Aunt Elizabeth had a son and daughter, Clayton and Carolyn, who were older than we were. I remember an old upright piano that Aunt Elizabeth said her daughter Carolyn could play. Carolyn still lives in Roanoke. Their son Clayton moved to Richmond where he retired from Dominion Power Company. Even though he lives in Richmond, I have never visited him. I called him once to learn what had happened in his family. He never did call me back. It seems strange that you can have relatives living in the same city you live in but you never see them.
We also visited Aunt Elma, who was my favorite aunt. She had red hair and was plump, frisky, fun and jolly. She lived in a brick house on a Roanoke hillside with her husband Uncle Fred. They didn't have any children which may be the reason she always seemed so glad to see us. When I think of Aunt Elma, I remember her laughter. She had a high pitched laugh and a low alto voice. In the summertime when it was so hot, she would mix up tall glasses of pink lemonade. Even now in the summertime, I buy pink lemonade because I used to enjoy drinking it so much at Aunt Elma's house. Once while we were visiting Aunt Elma, I got real sick, but her glasses of ice cold pink lemonade seemed to make me feel better. It was explained to us children that Uncle Fred drank a lot. He was a veteran of World War II, and I guess it messed him up pretty bad because he couldn't stop drinking. I think he drank himself to death. His drinking didn't seem to dampen Aunt Elma's spirits. She dressed nice and worked as a clerk in a department store. Once she gave me some really old books that were bound with leather--classics from authors like Victor Hugo. I don't know why she gave them to me, but I kept them for a long time and then I gave them to Goodwill like practically everything else that has been given to me.
The last house we'd visit before we returned home was where our cousin Dexter lived. Dexter and I were the same age, but he had a crush on KB. His mother Aunt Halene was Southern Baptist and distant. I remember how she used to smack her lips and roll her tongue around her lower lip. I sensed that her religious inclinations somehow weighed the family down. Dexter had two brothers already grown and gone by the time of our summer visits. My father told us that one year his brother William, Dexter's father, who worked on the railroad, had spent all his money on women and drink and had nothing left for Christmas presents. Pop sent him some money so he could buy Christmas presents for his family. He was a heavy drinker and one day after puking his guts out behind the house, he came to his senses and stopped drinking cold turkey. He never took another drink after that. Dexter married a girl named Mary and they had two boys, but after Dexter came back from Vietnam, they got divorced. Dexter's behavior became strange. He had been in combat in the Army. He was never right after that. He was hypervigilant and made everyone uncomfortable around him. You could sense that he was always on edge, always alert as if any minute something terrible was about to happen. He loved to listen to classical music and he talked a lot about Jesus and religion. After his parents died and he divorced, his wife got custody of their sons, so that he was living by himself in Roanoke. I drove over to visit him once and invited him to come to Richmond to visit us. I felt anxious being in the car with him, but I knew he was lonely and felt sorry for the way things had turned out in his life. Eventually I learned he left Roanoke and moved to North Carolina. His older brother Warren had moved to California. I think he wanted to be close to his other brother Fred who was president of Mars Hill College.
I was told that he had always been closer to Fred than to Warren. Fred was a bright and shining star in the Bentley family. When he became president of Mars Hill College in western North Carolina in 1966, he was the youngest college president in the nation. According to historical notes about the college, Dr. Fred Bentley "guided Mars Hill to accreditation as a senior college, led faculty development and curriculum innovation, and fostered numerous other educational and physical advances. After almost 30 years in the presidency, he retired in February 1996." Once he came to visit me and I took him to the Omni Hotel in downtown Richmond. We sat together over a late night meal. In addition to being president of a college, he was also a fine self-taught artist and made wood carvings as a hobby. It just came natural to him. I thought it would be nice to own a piece of his art sometime. When he told me that he didn't see anything wrong with a father having a "loving sexual relationship with his daughter," I froze on the inside and just wanted to go home. I walked with him to his car, he kissed me on the lips, and I left him with a sad feeling wondering if he did that to his daughter. I decided right then I would never to see him again.
This summer when I stayed in South Carolina to take care of Mother while Brother had surgery to repair an aneurysm on his aorta, she told me that Fred had carved the front doors of Mars Hill College. He is dead now and Warren is the only living member of that part of the Bentley clan.
Late one Saturday night 4 years ago, the phone rang. It was the Sheriff from North Carolina.
"Are you Judith Bentley?"
"Yes I am. Why are you calling?"
"Your cousin Dexter was found dead in his house and I need to know what to do with the body."
What a shock. I tried to think what to say. "Where are you now?"
"I'm in his house."
"How did you get my number?"
"I found it in his address book."
"Well, read through the book, and I'll see if I can remember someone you can call."
When he got to the name Mary, I told him to call her. She was Dexter's ex-wife. I thought his sons would want to know their father had died alone in his house. He was a sweet guy when he was young. War does terrible things to a man's mind and some men never recover to make it back to civil society.
I found a portion of his obituary in the archives of the Roanoke newspaper.
Bentley, Dexter Lee - Mr. Dexter Lee Bentley, 61, of Germanton, N.C., died Thursday, September 21, 2006 at his home. He was born February 13, 1945 in Roanoke, ....
Published in the Roanoke Times on 9/27/2006
The law firm where I work has an office in Roanoke. Sometimes the firm sends me to some of its other offices. They haven't sent me to Roanoke yet. That's probably the only reason I'd ever go back. It is a mystery to me now our summer visits to Roanoke never included my brother. I cannot remember a single time that he ever went with us.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
At Winter's End
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
At Winter's end through a field of mud
we made our final way to the river
where trees, bent and gnawed by beavers,
leaned into death like ghosts
stripped of their once glad breath.
Over fallen limbs we laid our fears
and talked of what had been eaten away
or heedlessly taken and would not return--
the quiet wreckage, the slow extinctions,
the forever missing things.
Before the rains had set in
or the groundhog had seen his shadow,
the red bird took refuge in the underbrush
and we felt a Presence that had long been sleeping
awaking under cover of night.
Judith J. Bentley
At Winter's end through a field of mud
we made our final way to the river
where trees, bent and gnawed by beavers,
leaned into death like ghosts
stripped of their once glad breath.
Over fallen limbs we laid our fears
and talked of what had been eaten away
or heedlessly taken and would not return--
the quiet wreckage, the slow extinctions,
the forever missing things.
Before the rains had set in
or the groundhog had seen his shadow,
the red bird took refuge in the underbrush
and we felt a Presence that had long been sleeping
awaking under cover of night.
Walking the Pipeline
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
On a clear January morning,
outfitted for the stinging cold
over nearly a frozen river
we walk the pipeline.
What is it that urges us on,
one by one, to the place
on the pipeline
where there is nothing to hold onto?
Attentive to each single step
lest we lose our footing
and fall into the river rushing over us,
gushing over the polished stones--
we push on past the city's homeless
under the bridge, the train's thundering motion,
to a certain harsh energy
only the river knows.
Is it that energy or some encounter?
We can only say we've been outside
walking the pipeline--
we've been here with the river for a time.
Judith J. Bentley
On a clear January morning,
outfitted for the stinging cold
over nearly a frozen river
we walk the pipeline.
What is it that urges us on,
one by one, to the place
on the pipeline
where there is nothing to hold onto?
Attentive to each single step
lest we lose our footing
and fall into the river rushing over us,
gushing over the polished stones--
we push on past the city's homeless
under the bridge, the train's thundering motion,
to a certain harsh energy
only the river knows.
Is it that energy or some encounter?
We can only say we've been outside
walking the pipeline--
we've been here with the river for a time.
River at Belle Isle
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
My body grows cold--
my bones are boulders and rocks;
my blood, the river water.
I am the silent witness
I wait.
The women appear and hesitate.
I watch them
walking on my bones
in search of a firm footing,
something to hold onto.
On the far bank
the cemetery's sleepless eyes watch
and wait to welcome each
into that final footing--
a monument for their bones.
Judith J. Bentley
My body grows cold--
my bones are boulders and rocks;
my blood, the river water.
I am the silent witness
I wait.
The women appear and hesitate.
I watch them
walking on my bones
in search of a firm footing,
something to hold onto.
On the far bank
the cemetery's sleepless eyes watch
and wait to welcome each
into that final footing--
a monument for their bones.
Essence of Cold
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
Winter stretches its white glove
over tracks vanished creatures
have left long ago, reminders
of an earlier season.
Silence settles on the snow
like the grace of God.
River ice washes the ancient stones,
and trees, like a mother's arms.
lean over the land that sleeps.
It is this place, a pony pasture,
that calls us into the company of women
and keeps us there to learn its lesson--
the essence of cold.
Judith J. Bentley
Winter stretches its white glove
over tracks vanished creatures
have left long ago, reminders
of an earlier season.
Silence settles on the snow
like the grace of God.
River ice washes the ancient stones,
and trees, like a mother's arms.
lean over the land that sleeps.
It is this place, a pony pasture,
that calls us into the company of women
and keeps us there to learn its lesson--
the essence of cold.
Friday, January 08, 2010
Winter of '88
Copyright 2010
Judith J. Bentley
When I was 43 years old in the Winter of '88 for forty bucks, I took a seminar through the University of Richmond's Women's Resource Center. It was titled "Nature, Literature and You." It lasted 4 weeks from January 12 through February 2. We met from 10 a.m. til 12:30 p.m. and our "classroom" was the out-of-doors--fields and forests, riverbanks and rocks, parks and wetlands. The seminar provided an opportunity for us to explore our natural world and contemplate our place in it. We read from Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens, Jack London, Doris Lessing, Annie Dillard, Hermann Hess and Carl Sandburg among others. Temple Martin, a sculptor with a Masters in Humanities who had taught at the Collegiate School, was the originator and leader of the class. Her selections for our study and discussion spoke of our spiritual connection to nature and its gifts to us. We were asked to keep a journal and invited to share our writing on the themes Temple assigned us -- essence, cold, perspective and connections.
We took field trips each Saturday around Richmond, including, of course, "the Rivah," Belle Isle and the Pony Pasture (both in James River Park), the Pipeline in downtown Richmond, and the Roslyn Conference Center in Henrico County. On our last trek through one of Richmond's nature trails, Temple brought a big thermos of hot chocolate to share. We all sat on logs in the woods and drank our hot chocolate in the freezing cold. One of the women in the group was the wife of a Richmond Circuit Court Judge, Willard I. Walker, who had passed away several months before. She shared how she had chosen a huge boulder as a monument for her husband's gravesite. It was an unusual marker for a grave site especially in Hollywood Cemetery where he is buried. I had had the privilege of serving as his personal paralegal on a products liability case. I remember how kind and quiet he was and I also remember his secretary telling me he didn't particularly care for the two plaintiff's attorneys I worked for. He liked me though because I knew the difference between a pre-trial, trial and post-trial pleading unlike the other paralegals at Hunton & Williams. I organized his court file for him in that case which my attorneys lost. It is strange what the mind remembers. I even remember his middle initial after all these years.
During the class I was inspired to write a number of poems and one other member of the group, an excellent photographer whose name was Lucile Miller, took the most amazing photographs of places we had explored. She made the rocks and the water look sensuous like female anatomy. At the end of the class, Temple had the bright idea to exhibit the poems and photographs along with her sculpture and paintings in the Women's Resource Center at the University. I have saved the photographs I took though they are not as good as Lucile's and put them in a scrapbook with my poems. Maybe you will find them one day.
Judith J. Bentley
When I was 43 years old in the Winter of '88 for forty bucks, I took a seminar through the University of Richmond's Women's Resource Center. It was titled "Nature, Literature and You." It lasted 4 weeks from January 12 through February 2. We met from 10 a.m. til 12:30 p.m. and our "classroom" was the out-of-doors--fields and forests, riverbanks and rocks, parks and wetlands. The seminar provided an opportunity for us to explore our natural world and contemplate our place in it. We read from Emily Dickinson, Wallace Stevens, Jack London, Doris Lessing, Annie Dillard, Hermann Hess and Carl Sandburg among others. Temple Martin, a sculptor with a Masters in Humanities who had taught at the Collegiate School, was the originator and leader of the class. Her selections for our study and discussion spoke of our spiritual connection to nature and its gifts to us. We were asked to keep a journal and invited to share our writing on the themes Temple assigned us -- essence, cold, perspective and connections.
We took field trips each Saturday around Richmond, including, of course, "the Rivah," Belle Isle and the Pony Pasture (both in James River Park), the Pipeline in downtown Richmond, and the Roslyn Conference Center in Henrico County. On our last trek through one of Richmond's nature trails, Temple brought a big thermos of hot chocolate to share. We all sat on logs in the woods and drank our hot chocolate in the freezing cold. One of the women in the group was the wife of a Richmond Circuit Court Judge, Willard I. Walker, who had passed away several months before. She shared how she had chosen a huge boulder as a monument for her husband's gravesite. It was an unusual marker for a grave site especially in Hollywood Cemetery where he is buried. I had had the privilege of serving as his personal paralegal on a products liability case. I remember how kind and quiet he was and I also remember his secretary telling me he didn't particularly care for the two plaintiff's attorneys I worked for. He liked me though because I knew the difference between a pre-trial, trial and post-trial pleading unlike the other paralegals at Hunton & Williams. I organized his court file for him in that case which my attorneys lost. It is strange what the mind remembers. I even remember his middle initial after all these years.
During the class I was inspired to write a number of poems and one other member of the group, an excellent photographer whose name was Lucile Miller, took the most amazing photographs of places we had explored. She made the rocks and the water look sensuous like female anatomy. At the end of the class, Temple had the bright idea to exhibit the poems and photographs along with her sculpture and paintings in the Women's Resource Center at the University. I have saved the photographs I took though they are not as good as Lucile's and put them in a scrapbook with my poems. Maybe you will find them one day.
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