S3 Ep Welcome Home

Network Sting: MSW Media

Martin: Hello and welcome to the third season of the Martin Sheen Podcast with yours truly, Martin Sheen, of course. And I’m delighted to be back hosting this podcast pilgrimage where the destination is still and always will be the journey itself. Along the way, I plan to share stories and personal memories of some of the many people, places and events that have helped to shape my lifelong happy and continuing struggle as an artist and a man to unite the will of the spirit with the work of the flesh. I also hope to explore poetry as a powerful form of expression and communication by proxy, as it were, and how poetry is such a vital and necessary component of our spirituality and our public discourse. And from time to time, I’ll invite friends, fellow actors, poets, scholars and family members to join our pilgrimage and discuss what inspires their artistic journey. And so, friends, let us continue.

Martin: We are here to walk each other home.

In the spring of 2003, during the hiatus of filming season four of the West Wing, I organized a family reunion of all my siblings to take place in Ireland, celebrating the 100th anniversary of our mother’s birth there on May 22, 1903, in the village of Borrisokane, County Tipperary. Her maiden name was Mary Ann Phelan and she passed away on August 1, 1951 in Dayton, Ohio. She had 12 pregnancies, 10 survived, nine boys and one girl, with six of us still living, including myself. Unfortunately, at the time of this recording, only three remain. But the gathering in Ireland in 2003 included my brothers Carlos, Frank, John, Joe and my sister Carmen, along with my 18 year old grandson Taylor, who was my personal assistant at the time, and my old dear friend and fellow actor Matt Clark, who my Irish cousins just assumed was another one of my many brothers. And indeed I consider him so. My son Ramon made all the travel arrangements and his skills were remarkable. First, he reserved two cars at Shannon airport with automatic transmissions since he knew only Matt among our gang of eight knew how to drive a stick shift. And driving on the opposite side of the road in Ireland was hard enough without the adjustment of learning how to shift gears in the process. Then, somehow Ramon managed to coordinate connecting flights from several different time zones to bring Carlos from Brownsville, Texas, Frank and John from Dayton, Ohio, Carmen from Madrid, Spain, and Joe, Taylor, Matt and myself from Los Angeles, California, all together within one hour of each other at Shannon Airport on the afternoon of May 20, 2003. Several hours later, with the aid of road maps and some careful driving, both cars with our gang arrived safely at our destination the legendary, exquisite village of Terry Glass, not far from Borrisokane. I rented several small houses there in a tourist compound near Patty’s All-Purpose Pub, and Community Center, where we gathered for supper. Since we lived apart from each other in the States, except for a family wedding or funeral, we were seldom ever together in one place for very long. Now here we all were in Ireland to celebrate our mother’s memory with no other agenda. And it was a strangely liberating experience I had not anticipated. Then I realized that maybe what made it so unique was our coming together without our spouses or partners. We were free here to remember each other as we were when our mother passed away. We were so excited to see one another, and though we were all middle aged, we reverted to a childlike behavior in the moment, all talking and laughing at the same time, each of us eager to get in a word edgewise, to make a point or share a personal experience or to clarify some family information. Telling and retelling old family tales newly remembered with added details and reverently remembering those no longer with us. For them, there were songs sung and tears shed, reflecting how much we truly cherished and missed each other, as the great energy of catching up and slowing down carried us through the night and the first phase of our long-anticipated reunion. The next morning I went out for a walk while everybody, not surprising, was still asleep. Terry Glass is a rural village surrounded by farmland, pastures and country roads with little traffic, ideal for a solitary stroll. About a mile down the road I saw a small country school where the children were gathering in the playground before the first class. They were boys and girls, ranging in age from 6 or so to 12 or 13, but they weren’t separated by age or size. Rather, they seemed to congregate together like a single social unit. Suddenly someone blew a whistle, which I assumed was a signal to start the school day. But no, it was a signal to start a game, and everyone lined up with the smaller ones given a head start and the taller ones holding back. And when the whistle sounded again, they all raced from one end of the playground to the other and back again, ending with cheerful shouts and a great deal of laughter. No sooner had they caught their breath when the whistle was heard again and each child moved to what was clearly an assigned place. I sat on a bench on the other side of the road and watched in fascination. There was no fighting, arguing, complaining or bullying, and no injuries. There was only a mutual cooperation, an affectionate care for one another and, dare I say, an enviable joy. Soon enough the whistle sounded again and one of the older lads led the group in some vigorous exercises for a full five minutes, and what happened next took my breath away. A young female teacher appeared with a town crier bell that she rang in a steady cadence, while two lads came forward bearing the tricolor and solemnly approached the flagpole where they attached the ropes and slowly raised the flag. I stood in solidarity as the children sang the national anthem in Gaelic. When the ceremony ended, each child retrieved their book bags and backpacks and entered the school in an orderly fashion. As I trudged back to Terry Glass, wondering how our lives would have been different had we stayed in Ireland in 1973 and raised our family there, I’m still left to wonder. When I arrived back in Terry Glass, I joined the gang for breakfast at Patty’s, and we planned the day. Despite some lingering jet lag fatigue, we decided to make the rounds and call on our cousins, the Phelans, the Berks, the Sullivans, and their families sue scattered around North Tipperary in Coolbawn, Roscrea and Barrisokane Kane, and to invite them to join us the next day for our mother’s birthday Mass and the celebration afterwards at the Yanks Pub and B and B in Borrisokane. My youngest brothers, John and Joe, had never been to Ireland, so this was their introduction to the Irish side of the family that I had managed to stay in touch with since my first visit in 1973, and that afternoon we made a whirlwind tour, visiting our first cousins, Liam, Sean, Teresa, and their family. It was a special joy to see them again and spend time together, however briefly. All three promised to attend the Mass and reception the following day, which indeed they did, despite the fact that it was a workday. I awoke early on the morning of Wednesday, May 22, 2003, while it was still dark, and anxiously looked out the window. To my disappointment, it was raining very hard, but I guess rain should never be a surprise on any given day of any season in any part of this beautiful country. It’s what makes Ireland so green, of course, and the Irish take it in their stride. In fact, they would say “tis a saf’ day” and soon I was resigned to whatever the weather was fine after all, both the mass and reception would be held indoors. But several hours later the rain had stopped, the sun was shining brightly, and the drive through the countryside to Borrisokane for our primary purpose was simply delightful. By the time we reached St. Peter and Paul’s Catholic Church, every pew was occupied and the Mass commemorating the birth of Mary Ann Phalen 100 years ago, on this date in this small village, began promptly at 10:30am with the powerful hymn On Eagle’s Wings that set the tone for the event with an equal measure of sadness and joy. (singing) “And he will raise you up on Eagle’s wings, bear you on the breath of dawn, make you to shine like the sun and hold you in the palm of his hand.” I began to weep silently as endless forms of childhood memories flooded over me throughout the Mass. Our mother had died suddenly at age 48, halfway through the last century. But I had projected her presence on every aspect of my life since then. She blessed me when I left home at 18 and again at my wedding. I saw her in the audience of every play and film. She was the grandmother at each child’s birth and christening, and the great grandmother for Cassandra, Taylor and Paloma. And she was the ancient widow who mourned my father and her four oldest sons. By the end of the Mass, it occurred to me why I was so determined from the start to organize this affair and see it through on this day, in this century, to this place where she began. It was simply to let her finally rest in peace. Far away the night is falling and the twilight home lights calling and from open door and window they will greet her as she comes. All the years have turned to hours, all the tears to wayside flowers. She is one of those who wander down the village street at home. Thank you, Marianne.

Martin: I’m going to take a brief pause here, but please stay with us. I have more to share with you.

Martin: And we’re back.

Martin: Consider this by Henry David Thoreau.

Don’t underrate the value of fact. One day a fact will flower into truth.

Martin: Here now Footsteps of Angels by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

When the hours of day are numbered and the voices of the night wake the better soul that slumbered to a holy calm delight Ere the evening lamps are lighted and like phantoms grim and tall, shadows from the fitful firelight dance upon the parlor wall. Then the forms of the departed enter at the open door. The beloved, the true hearted. come to visit me once more. He, the young and strong, who cherished noble longings for the strife. By the roadside fell and perished weary with the march of life. They the holy ones and weakly who the cross of suffering bore, folded their pale hands so meekly, spake with us on earth no more. And with them the being beatitudes who unto my youth was given, more than all things else to love me, and is now a saint in heaven. With a slow and noiseless footstep comes that messenger divine. Takes the vacant chair beside me, lays her gentle hand in mine. And she sits and gazes at me with those deep and tender eyes, like the stars so still and saint like, looking downward from the skies. Uttered not yet comprehended is the spirit’s voiceless prayer. Soft rebukes in blessings ended breathing from her lips of air. Oh, though soft, depressed and lonely, all my fears are laid aside if I but remember only such as these have lived and died.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was an American poet and educator. He is known for his style of lyric poetry, presenting stories of mythology and legend, such as The Song of Hiawatha and The Village Blacksmith. He was born on February 27, 1807 in Portland, Maine, and died on March 24, 1882 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was 75 years old.

Martin: The following is a selection from the book Blessed Among Us by Robert Ellsberg. The book is filled with daily reflections that explore the lives of saints as well as ordinary men and women with extraordinary stories of courage and spiritual awakening.

Father Daniel Egan. Daniel Egan was a Bronx native who joined the Franciscan Friars of the Atonement in 1935 and was ordained a priest. A turning point in his Life came in 1952 as he was preaching in a church and noticed a woman in grave distress. She confessed she was a drug addict struggling to kick her habit. Though Egan called every hospital in town, none would admit her. She was shrugged off as a criminal. He decided at that moment that he must open a house for women like this. That was the inspiration for Village Haven, a halfway house for women addicts located across the street from the Woman’s House of Detention in downtown Manhattan. The location was no accident, as Egan discovered most of the women in the city jail were drug addicts. And yet few resources at the time were dedicated to recovery from addiction. Most authorities, even medical professionals, wrote off such addicts as hopeless cases. Father Egan believed otherwise. Eventually, Father Egan received permission from his order to dedicate himself full time to working with addicts. And he became such an expert in the field, he was dubbed the junkie priest, a name he happily adopted. Father Daniel Egan died on February 10, 2000. His quote “If we had the vision of faith, we would see beneath every behavior, no matter how repulsive, beneath every bodily appearance, no matter how dirty or deformed, a priceless dignity and a value that makes all material facts and scientific technologies fade into insignificance.” Father, Daniel Egan was 85 years old.

Robert Ellsberg is an American publisher specializing in religious and spiritual exploration. He is editor in chief and publisher of Orbis Books. He lives and works in upstate New York with his wife.

Martin: Stay tuned. We’ll be right back.

Martin: Welcome back. Thanks for staying with me.

Martin: And now, Afternoon on a Hill, a child’s poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay.

I will be the gladdest thing under the sun. I will touch a hundred flowers and not pick one. I will look at cliffs and clouds with quiet eyes. Watch the wind bow down the grass and the grass rise. And when lights begin to show up from the town, I will mark which one must be mine and then start down.

Edna St. Vincent Millay was born February 22, 1892, in Rockland, Maine. She was an American lyrical poet and playwright who won the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1923, and she was the first woman to win the award. Ms. Millay was highly regarded during much of her lifetime. She died October 19, 1950, in Austerlitz, New York. Edna St. Vincent Millay was 58 years old.

Martin: Consider This, if we are all made in the image and likeness of God, then it can be said that each and every one of us is a self-portrait of the Creator. Which leads me to the story of the third-grade schoolteacher who told her art class one day to draw anything they wanted, just let your imagination carry your away, she said. And they all did so. By and by, when the teacher made the rounds, stopping here and there to congratulate this and that child, she suddenly stopped at one little girl’s desk and said, excuse me, sweetheart, what are you drawing? The little girl said, I’m drawing a picture of God. Oh well, the teacher said, you know, no one knows what God looks like. The little girl replied, they will in a minute.

Martin: I invite you to delve further into the works of the poets I shared with you, and I hope you seek out writers and poets whose work speaks to your hearts and minds with the power to inspire your life. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve heard here, please subscribe to my podcast, The Martin Sheen Podcast with your host, yours truly, Martin Sheen. Of course, wherever you find your podcasts. Yeah, I still have to say that. You can find a complete list of the poets and titles of their poems that I’ve chosen at our website themartensheenpodcast.com

I want to thank the people who make this podcast possible. Our producer and research assistant, Renee Estevez, whose explanation of the Internet really gets me thinking… What’s for lunch?  And our sound engineer and editor, Bruce Greenspan, the man behind these rich and seamless recordings with the much-deserved nickname the Sound Surgeon. And I especially want to thank you, our listeners, for joining me.

And so, friends, we part with the prayer from Tagore.

We are called to lift up this nation and all its people to that place where the heart is without fear and, the head is held high. Where knowledge is free, where the world has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls, where words come out from the depths of truth and tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection, where the clear stream of reason has not lost its way into the dreary desert sands of dead habit, where the mind is led forward by thee into ever widening thought and action, into that heaven of, freedom dear Father, let our country awake. Amen.

Renee: The Martin Sheen Podcast all rights reserved. No part of this podcast may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form without prior written consent of the author and TE Productions.

The story “We Are Here to Walk Each Other Home” by Ramon Gerard Estevez, AKA Martin Sheen is included here by copyright permission of the author.

The hymn “On Eagle’s Wings” by Michael Joncas was included in this podcast by copyright permission of Orbus Publications, who we thank for its use.

Blessed Among Us, Father Daniel Egan by Robert Ellsberg is included in this podcast with granted copyright permission of the author, who we thank for this opportunity to share his work.