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<\/p>\njudy hogan is an 81-year-old environmental activist, writer, and teacher. over the past few decades, she has fought a myriad of different environmental justice issues affecting her community in chatham county, n.c. right now, she is leading an effort against duke energy dumping and incinerating coal ash in her town. she publishes books and poetry and teaches writing classes twice a week as well.<\/p>\n
this series is accompanied by selected poems from hogan\u2019s most recently published book, called \u201cshadows,\u201d which is autobiographical about her daily life. i took a more free-form, artistic approach with this caption style because i want judy hogan to speak for herself: <\/p>\n
“for me it\u2019s shadows. every day i walk across<\/p>\n
the dam, i watch for my shadow marching<\/p>\n
below me, down the hill, and some days,<\/p>\n
when the wind is still, even across the water<\/p>\n
and up the hill at the other end of the earthen<\/p>\n
dam that creates jordan lake. in the painting<\/p>\n
there is one small human figure surrounded<\/p>\n
by rushing water, darkly threatening clouds,<\/p>\n
with only a small window of blue that could<\/p>\n
be sky but is probably water. that little<\/p>\n
shadow is very persistent as she trudges<\/p>\n
along. even in a wind, she doesn\u2019t hesitate,<\/p>\n
pulls her hood up to protect her neck and<\/p>\n
ears. a step at a time a great distance can<\/p>\n
prove possible. but, oh for the courage<\/p>\n
to believe in that shadow. i like to think<\/p>\n
that when i\u2019m gone, and even if storm clouds<\/p>\n
dominate, and water boils and foams, and<\/p>\n
wind is cruel and relentless, that my shadow\u2013<\/p>\n
all that is left of me and whatever words<\/p>\n
on paper survive my death\u2013will keep on<\/p>\n
walking with firm steps, seeing more than<\/p>\n
i can see now, accepting storms, even<\/p>\n
lightning, but refusing to be dismissed,<\/p>\n
ignored, or turned aside\u2013something eternal<\/p>\n
or stubborn, or so part of the nature of<\/p>\n
things that it simply won\u2019t let go.”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
“how to tell it? i have a new friend<\/p>\n
in the midst of my aging, when new<\/p>\n
friends are rare. she\u2019s a bird-watcher.<\/p>\n
i\u2019m a people-watcher. what i learn,<\/p>\n
i scarcely know until i put it in my<\/p>\n
books. some mistrust other people<\/p>\n
first and foremost. i attend to them<\/p>\n
with my mind open. she talked to<\/p>\n
my dog, and wag listened. wag is<\/p>\n
tolerant now of other people but<\/p>\n
skeptical, too. it takes time for her<\/p>\n
to trust, but the bird-watcher turned<\/p>\n
out to be a dog-whisperer and spoke<\/p>\n
wag\u2019s language, baffling to me. mind<\/p>\n
over matter maybe. wag would stop,<\/p>\n
hesitate, and then touch her nose to<\/p>\n
the outstretched hand. me she pulled<\/p>\n
in, too, to tell of the sixteen eagle<\/p>\n
nests around our jordan lake. i<\/p>\n
asked how they would have fared<\/p>\n
during our hurricane. she said they<\/p>\n
have favorite places to hunker down<\/p>\n
during storms, but we had four days<\/p>\n
of wind and rain, so she\u2019s checking<\/p>\n
on them. she watches for them to<\/p>\n
fly by, way up there and catches<\/p>\n
them in her camera the way she<\/p>\n
caught wag and me as we walked<\/p>\n
toward her, both smiling, she says.”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
![\"\"](\"\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/03\/20181207_tobin_judy-3.jpg\")
<\/p>\n
“erik erikson said ghandi found his<\/p>\n
true identity when he was fifty. i<\/p>\n
was seventy, still healthy, writing<\/p>\n
and publishing books, teaching writers,<\/p>\n
a small farmer with a flock of white<\/p>\n
rock hens, and a leader in my<\/p>\n
community. at eighty, i take that<\/p>\n
diversity of tasks for granted. i don\u2019t<\/p>\n
debate. it is a balancing act, and<\/p>\n
my balance ability is distressed<\/p>\n
by my age. still, i rake and dig.<\/p>\n
i hold onto tree branches and my<\/p>\n
chain-link fence. i\u2019ve said i\u2019m<\/p>\n
both penelope and odysseus. i<\/p>\n
did have my once-in-a-lifetime<\/p>\n
love\u2013across the ocean, despite<\/p>\n
the language barrier, and our<\/p>\n
different lifestyles. we fought,<\/p>\n
but we held on. he became one<\/p>\n
of homer\u2019s shades, reduced to<\/p>\n
shadows in the underworld, but<\/p>\n
still alive, still speaking and<\/p>\n
foretelling the planet\u2019s future if<\/p>\n
we don\u2019t attend to the signs. i\u2019ll<\/p>\n
be a shade, too, before too many<\/p>\n
years have passed. some of that<\/p>\n
is beyond my control, and some<\/p>\n
is up to me. the doctors urged<\/p>\n
a cane four years ago, but i said<\/p>\n
no. \u201ci can\u2019t farm with a cane.\u201d<\/p>\n
they said medicine, but i was<\/p>\n
wary of the side-effects, the<\/p>\n
medicine worse than the complaint.<\/p>\n
my body heals while i sleep.<\/p>\n
it puts me to sleep a lot. but my<\/p>\n
aches and pains go away. i tell<\/p>\n
them i have good telemeres.<\/p>\n
they listen. the symptoms which<\/p>\n
puzzled them have disappeared.<\/p>\n
eighty isn\u2019t so bad if you accept<\/p>\n
that your pace will be slower\u2026<\/p>\n
no, i\u2019m not a shade yet, and life<\/p>\n
still pulls surprises out of my<\/p>\n
lucky grab bag. i can\u2019t complain.”<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n “i was afraid my heart would rebel<\/p>\n and keep me from leading a workshop<\/p>\n on writing poetry. my friend had said<\/p>\n to rest more. i had things to do,<\/p>\n but i did stop to rest. then six people<\/p>\n came to learn what i knew about<\/p>\n poetry. \u201cwhat is a poem?\u201d i asked.<\/p>\n they suggested it was condensed<\/p>\n words, that it was like a stream running<\/p>\n through the soul. i told them the<\/p>\n fourth grader\u2019s understanding: \u201ca poet<\/p>\n is someone who writes poetry, someone<\/p>\n who loves all living things.\u201d i told<\/p>\n them about homer\u2019s muse, about<\/p>\n the old testament prophets who<\/p>\n cried: \u201cthe word of the lord came<\/p>\n to me.\u201d about how words could seem<\/p>\n to take off, and the deeper mind to<\/p>\n throw up words we weren\u2019t expecting.<\/p>\n i mentioned jacques maritain\u2019s hexis\u2013<\/p>\n a gift we have in our unconscious<\/p>\n that we need to take care of and<\/p>\n listen to. if the poem starts in the<\/p>\n grocery store, make more room<\/p>\n in your life for the muse. then i<\/p>\n asked them to write a simple poem,<\/p>\n and they all did, even the librarian.<\/p>\n to my surprise, they all read their<\/p>\n new poems. they trusted me and<\/p>\n each other enough on very short<\/p>\n acquaintance. my heart behaved and<\/p>\n was quieted. another unexpected gift.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “some see the world as a dangerous place.<\/p>\n i don\u2019t. one says, \u201cyou see it as a safe place.\u201d<\/p>\n i say, \u201cno, but i see it differently. i know<\/p>\n there are dangers, but i\u2019m focused on trying<\/p>\n to be in tune with the grain of the universe,<\/p>\n with the way it\u2019s made. i follow my deep<\/p>\n intuition, even when it doesn\u2019t make sense.<\/p>\n it makes me accident-unlikely. i may have<\/p>\n accidents, but usually they\u2019re not as bad as<\/p>\n they could have been. so, yes, i had that flat<\/p>\n tire on thursday, but it happened in my<\/p>\n front yard. i drove it across the road and<\/p>\n turned. when it was still bad, i pulled over<\/p>\n and stopped to look. i had a very flat right<\/p>\n front tire. or i have car trouble as i pull into<\/p>\n a service station. i work toward peace<\/p>\n with my neighbors and fight for all of us<\/p>\n for cleaner air and water. they respect me<\/p>\n and protect me. i\u2019ve never been harmed<\/p>\n by my neighbors, and i\u2019ve often been<\/p>\n helped. you don\u2019t need to worry about them<\/p>\n harming me.\u201d i have a very different<\/p>\n orientation to the world. there are dangers<\/p>\n and evil people. if people are determined<\/p>\n to be my enemy, i stay away from them.<\/p>\n in the meantime, i try to have friendly<\/p>\n relations with everyone, if it\u2019s possible. i\u2019m<\/p>\n outspoken, and some people hate what i say<\/p>\n and can\u2019t forgive me. one day i might be<\/p>\n harmed, but this way to live suits me.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “resting is hard for me. i have so much<\/p>\n i want to do before shadows take me<\/p>\n from this life. maybe<\/p>\n i don\u2019t need to be so inactive. can<\/p>\n i let go fear, slow myself down but<\/p>\n not stop, not let fear put its claws<\/p>\n into my soul, my trust that, if i pay<\/p>\n attention, all will be well.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “beginnings are hardest. in the morning<\/p>\n i sit up slowly, inch my way closer<\/p>\n to a place to hold on, rise carefully,<\/p>\n balance before i walk. i make sure i don\u2019t<\/p>\n go too long without eating and sleep early.<\/p>\n as the day waxes, my confidence returns.<\/p>\n i remember what i need to, see to the hens,<\/p>\n make notes in my diary, in which i tell<\/p>\n the whole story. sometimes i start to fall,<\/p>\n but i catch myself. at the dam i walk<\/p>\n steadily, don\u2019t fear falling. back at<\/p>\n home i\u2019m warmer, shed layers, resume<\/p>\n morning tasks and rituals, with enough<\/p>\n energy for the day. by myself i see the<\/p>\n years of faithful work to leave my legacy<\/p>\n of stories and insights alive behind me.<\/p>\n among others i see their discomfort.<\/p>\n they don\u2019t look at me. they forget<\/p>\n my place in the line-up of poets. i make<\/p>\n them nervous. why? maybe because<\/p>\n i look into death\u2019s face and am not<\/p>\n afraid. how does one find that<\/p>\n particular courage? it arrives in time<\/p>\n to be useful in the last years, but i<\/p>\n realize i\u2019ve practiced going my own way<\/p>\n most of my life, since age twenty-one,<\/p>\n to nearly eighty-one. not dismissing<\/p>\n urgencies that would keep me whole<\/p>\n and safe, not denying love when it<\/p>\n defied logic. those who hated me? i<\/p>\n stayed away, and generally, they did, too.<\/p>\n i sometimes lose things or forget them,<\/p>\n but i\u2019ve never forgotten to safeguard<\/p>\n my soul and keep it whole, no matter<\/p>\n what my circumstances are.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “proust thought time destroyed us,<\/p>\n those hidden memories our only<\/p>\n salvation. for me, time allows<\/p>\n fulfillment, to come into my own,<\/p>\n to learn, to heal, and even to be<\/p>\n recognized and valued. there were<\/p>\n people who hated me, but they<\/p>\n didn\u2019t stop me. my own body<\/p>\n slowed me down, reminded me<\/p>\n i had done well and to think of those<\/p>\n i love. i persuaded my friends<\/p>\n and my doctor to trust my way<\/p>\n of life, my faith in myself; to let<\/p>\n me continue my independent way.<\/p>\n my son and i learned to live<\/p>\n together. we lost some crops,<\/p>\n but harvested bushels of tomatoes.<\/p>\n i made spaghetti sauce and soup.<\/p>\n now there are grapes to make<\/p>\n muscadine jelly, pears to make<\/p>\n preserves. i do my work as a<\/p>\n writer, editor, teacher. i celebrate<\/p>\n jaki, whom i first published<\/p>\n forty-five years ago. i will<\/p>\n teach poetry and story writing.<\/p>\n like the moon\u2019s slow, steady<\/p>\n increase of its light, i resume<\/p>\n my own life of work and love.”<\/p>\n “i slowed down, did easy work, nothing<\/p>\n strenuous. the hurricane left us to mop<\/p>\n up and dry out. sun came back, the better<\/p>\n to see the devastation. here, where we<\/p>\n escaped the worst, life was almost normal<\/p>\n despite rivers that flowed upstream, the<\/p>\n milk we couldn\u2019t buy, the flooded roads<\/p>\n we couldn\u2019t pass. i wanted more work.<\/p>\n i made a list i\u2019m crossing off. something<\/p>\n in me wants serious work, to tell some<\/p>\n story more than poetry tells or my<\/p>\n diary. a new book then about aging<\/p>\n and adapting. there is more to tell<\/p>\n than i have admitted so far. at eighty-one,<\/p>\n how many women tell what it\u2019s like,<\/p>\n to lose the capabilities we always assumed,<\/p>\n to have gates closed, but the mind still<\/p>\n open, still able to articulate paradox<\/p>\n and justice, when everything in the human<\/p>\n being or in the state works easily and<\/p>\n smoothly together, each part doing its<\/p>\n own work? mine has been to write, tell<\/p>\n my mind\u2019s story. i\u2019ve written many books,<\/p>\n but there is still more to tell. i will.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “how do i describe my faithfulness to my<\/p>\n deepest knowledge, to what i see but<\/p>\n can\u2019t easily reveal in words. i tried not<\/p>\n to be good as a child is good. i rebelled<\/p>\n against old formulas, trite words. i loved<\/p>\n thoreau\u2019s wisdom: \u201cif i see someone<\/p>\n coming to do me good, i run for my life.\u201d<\/p>\n i rejected that impulse to \u201cdo good.\u201d yet i<\/p>\n have always worked against evil when<\/p>\n i saw it blazing up in corporations, in<\/p>\n those fearful of rocking the boat, or who<\/p>\n were terrified to be seen as bad, as trouble-<\/p>\n makers. so i\u2019ve been castigated, dismissed,<\/p>\n written off. it hasn\u2019t been so bad. some<\/p>\n tender hearts have loved me, and even<\/p>\n tough-spirited strangers have helped me<\/p>\n out. i have a few fans of my books. i<\/p>\n don\u2019t need acclaim, but i do need to feel<\/p>\n loved and acknowledged by those i love<\/p>\n and trust, those who can see with clear<\/p>\n eyes who i am, what i care about. i\u2019ve<\/p>\n been told many times that what i want<\/p>\n is impossible, will never happen. they<\/p>\n say life isn\u2019t like that. you don\u2019t get what<\/p>\n you wish for. in short, the power of evil<\/p>\n is too great. i don\u2019t give up, however,<\/p>\n and then people love me. things begin<\/p>\n to change. what my skeptics have<\/p>\n forgotten is the power of transformation<\/p>\n and what love can do when it\u2019s unleashed,<\/p>\n when we see clearly, when other people\u2019s<\/p>\n minds open like a book that wants to be<\/p>\n read. i can\u2019t make that happen. i can\u2019t<\/p>\n stop it. i can, however, give it my<\/p>\n gratitude and let it go to work.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “milosz helped me see, at age<\/p>\n eighty-one, that our worship of science<\/p>\n and technology, our allowing a dictator<\/p>\n to be elected president, is killing us off.<\/p>\n the big electricity corporation has brought<\/p>\n us a present we couldn\u2019t refuse of seven<\/p>\n million tons of poison. they say they\u2019ll stop<\/p>\n now. they\u2019ve done enough damage. instead,<\/p>\n they\u2019ll burn the coal ash again and kill us<\/p>\n faster. no one stops them. people are<\/p>\n getting sick. they don\u2019t want to fight<\/p>\n any more. they forget: when we fight, we<\/p>\n love each other. we can live with our<\/p>\n differences. black, white, and hispanic;<\/p>\n church-goers and non-church-goers.<\/p>\n andrew says, \u201cyou\u2019ve won a victory.<\/p>\n have a victory party.\u201d rhonda says,<\/p>\n \u201cyou\u2019re defying the doctors. i predict<\/p>\n you\u2019ll have a stroke.\u201d she\u2019s angry at her<\/p>\n body\u2019s weakness, and at me, for trusting<\/p>\n myself and challenging doctors, our techno-<\/p>\n masters in a sickening world. the human<\/p>\n body knows how to heal itself. instead, they<\/p>\n give us pills and then more pills, and the<\/p>\n body then is truly sick, won\u2019t fight any more.<\/p>\n milosz lived under the nazis, under stalin.<\/p>\n he fought and he survived. i, too, am<\/p>\n fighting, and i, too, am surviving. love<\/p>\n can conquer. give it a try.”<\/p>\n <\/p>\n “even love has its misunderstandings.<\/p>\n sometimes my son and i knock heads.<\/p>\n we\u2019ve learned to let go when arguments<\/p>\n go nowhere. everyone has her own world<\/p>\n view, her own life story, fears, and dread.<\/p>\n agony is human, but so is joy. we watch<\/p>\n the exultant eagles join the circling vultures.<\/p>\n for one, it\u2019s work-related, for another, it\u2019s<\/p>\n ecstatic. when our hopes and desires<\/p>\n merge, worry disappears. when pain<\/p>\n returns, we are constrained to work free.<\/p>\n i write my troubles down, the better to let<\/p>\n them go. when they reappear, i\u2019m<\/p>\n prepared. we all learn as fast as we can,<\/p>\n which means some more slowly than others.<\/p>\n a lot depends on our heritage and even<\/p>\n more on work we\u2019ve already done to cope<\/p>\n when people hated us, when our loved ones<\/p>\n turned their faces away. the late years<\/p>\n lead to a homecoming or some call it a<\/p>\n home-going. we have some say-so. for<\/p>\n me, there are many rewards in this last<\/p>\n stage, which erik erikson called \u201cego<\/p>\n integrity versus despair.\u201d we find rewards<\/p>\n for our self-defense, our ability to listen<\/p>\n and give a helping hand. people we<\/p>\n scarcely knew turn up to help us. a young<\/p>\n woman wants to study me for clues to<\/p>\n living a benign life as a freedom-fighter.<\/p>\n another woman in her middle years is<\/p>\n drawn to my relaxed humor. most terrible<\/p>\n things draw our tears, but some that can<\/p>\n wrench us later make us laugh. my<\/p>\n doctor, as i eluded the medicines and<\/p>\n survived, calls me trouble, but she\u2019s<\/p>\n smiling. another older woman says we\u2019re<\/p>\n both eccentric, but a good eccentric. my<\/p>\n son is learning to protect garden spiders,<\/p>\n cherish poetry, and love my homemade bread.<\/p>\n i still walk without a cane, urged upon me five<\/p>\n years ago. some work i\u2019ve let go. i rest more,<\/p>\n but i do all i can do\u2013gratefully. look around:<\/p>\n i have students and friends. i\u2019m cherished by<\/p>\n those i want to cherish me. i\u2019m alive and writing<\/p>\n down what my last years are like. already i<\/p>\n inherit that persistence i foresee in my shadow<\/p>\n after i\u2019m gone. she\u2019ll be okay.”<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" judy hogan is an 81-year-old environmental activist and writer who has been fighting issues of environmental justice in chatham county, n.c. for decades, and is now taking on coal ash dumping with little community support.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":9787,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[4900,5196],"tags":[59,714,3226,591],"storyfest_categories":[],"class_list":["post-11908","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-green-living","category-past-storyfest","tag-coal","tag-environmental-justice","tag-north-carolina","tag-storyfest"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n![\"\"](\"\/wp-content\/uploads\/2019\/03\/20181207_tobin_judy-4.jpg\")
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<\/p>\n