Despite the pace of the season, the personal challenges it brings this year, there is this sense that I must be about the business for which I am gifted, my writing. So, back to the blog. In the midst of dusting a bookshelf so I can place my overflowing books at the very top (not necessarily a wise thing in earthquake prone Alaska) I came across one of the many journals I have started at various times. Perhaps you know the ones, those that have a few pages that rail against some personal or societal imperfection--generally the former for me--but rarely are sustained.
Similar in appearance is the one I found, but its pages were a blessing so often looked for but not always found this time of year. I took this on a journey, wrote one page, and then abandoned it. Finding it today, however, it is clear to me that the orchestration of our lives is hardly random and even less devoid of meaning at any and all times.
As many of you know, my mother died just a few weeks ago. Deterred at times by my own mourning and the demands of the season we place upon ourselves, understandably and otherwise, I have written nothing of my thoughts of this time of healing.
Perhaps what is written below will suffice for now. It was written on December 14, 2004 in Iron Mountain, Michigan while at my mother's house:
The first gift is realizing that all situations, challenges, choices are best faced with an attitude of love. It seems as though the chaos, the pain of loss, the overwhelming emotional challenge of facing death is best navigated with Love as a companion. When Love is captain of the voyage through grief, the journey brings even more gifts. Strength, generosity, patience, hope, and blessed peace.
To find myself with gratitude without guilt, sorrow sanctified by faith (however fragile) and fear crushed by empowerment is nearly overwhelming, joyful even. To have the blessed assurance that God's timing is oddly perfect, that good fruits have already been gleaned from a harvest of loss makes my heart sing.
Rest in peace, dear daddy, deeper in the heart of the Father of us all.
And thank-you, for pointing me toward Him and for teaching me to love.
As I breathe back the mist of tears that surface in my eyes, I would like to dedicate this return to blogging to all those with loved ones whose earthly journeys ended this year. Our shared pain of such loss is so poignant in this time of remembering the abundant grace of Love, whose birth on our planet we celebrate.
As I navigate my first Christmas as an orphan, I feel lucky to have been adopted by my community of faith, my friends, my family. The arms of comfort, bewilderment, sorrow and hope that have surrounded me in this time astound me with the affirmation that what endures is Love that is timeless, whole, and sustains us all in endless communion. The assurance of what I know to be true is the great legacy of two parents whose profound gift to me was a nurtured faith and the ability to express it.
I will honor that all my life.
Monday, December 20, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Distilling
The biggest challenge for me in writing is not at all in not knowing what to say, but in distilling my way of saying it. This has been so apparent in the crafting of my "reflection" on last weekend's scripture readings, my recent testimony at the AFACT municipal budget forum, and in any attempt to work on the novel I have been writing for several years. 15 lean and clean minutes can be agonizing when the urgency and necessity of what you are saying seems as if it is being wrenched and sifted from your mind, heart and soul in the act of writing it down. It is more like down and dirty hours for several minutes of spoken words. Maybe "digestion" is a more accurate term. Its movement, literally, is not to produce crap, but to sustain life.
The smaller challenge is to take the 15lean and just let it be what it is to be, without editing so much in my head before I type it out on the keyboard. But I will spare you what sometimes becomes a self-indulgent rant when stream of consciousness goes awry. Well, maybe not.
Writing makes room for the other, even in the privacy of journal, there is an audience. That could be any one from God to some psychotic voice. Writing is self speaking to Self, and "other" is illusion. Of course, in a world of relationship, where our autonomy and independence is prized this does not appear to be so. What writing seeks is a way to connect on some level with another--another human being, hopefully. The beautiful thoughts that each of us have, regardless of how that are expressed, should be shared in this manner--if only with another one.
A basic yearning and need in human beings is to communicate with others, evident in the the crude grunts of our ancestors to the fascinating connections we make electronically with each other. We now have myriad options to get our words, no matter how mundane, out there. What a wonderful opportunity and a sacred trust. Perhaps then, when it comes to what we give to the world, we could spend a little more time distilling our words and being careful to remember the true purpose of digestion.
The smaller challenge is to take the 15lean and just let it be what it is to be, without editing so much in my head before I type it out on the keyboard. But I will spare you what sometimes becomes a self-indulgent rant when stream of consciousness goes awry. Well, maybe not.
Writing makes room for the other, even in the privacy of journal, there is an audience. That could be any one from God to some psychotic voice. Writing is self speaking to Self, and "other" is illusion. Of course, in a world of relationship, where our autonomy and independence is prized this does not appear to be so. What writing seeks is a way to connect on some level with another--another human being, hopefully. The beautiful thoughts that each of us have, regardless of how that are expressed, should be shared in this manner--if only with another one.
A basic yearning and need in human beings is to communicate with others, evident in the the crude grunts of our ancestors to the fascinating connections we make electronically with each other. We now have myriad options to get our words, no matter how mundane, out there. What a wonderful opportunity and a sacred trust. Perhaps then, when it comes to what we give to the world, we could spend a little more time distilling our words and being careful to remember the true purpose of digestion.
Monday, September 20, 2010
Legit
Of all the legitimate excuses to neglect daily writing (at least on an blog site) the limited access to a keyboard other than the one on my phone is perhaps understandable. Still, the notebook I brought with me on this two week trip to the land of my birth and early growth still sits in the backpack. Now, as my vacation winds down and I am left with the necessary task of packing all the goodies of this experience (not just the material ones) I find myself beginning to reclaim the life I live in Alaska. That life entails not just the day to day details of keeping myself alive and reasonably intact, but is rich in relationship to meaningful work, play and most importantly love of family, friends, the physical environment and of course the self that I have created there. It is no different from the self that I created here in the quiet and remote places of Wisconsin and Michigan, for my soul knew its earliest yearnings in this land and when I come here again and again the panorama of my life is set before me and I know that I am truly blessed.
Yesterday while driving from the rolling farmlands of central Wisconsin to the more heavily treed knolls of the north, Aron remarked that what was missing from the backdrop of colorful leaves was the omnipresent mountain vistas in Alaska. Still, he said, Lake Superior is like nothing else, like nothing Alaska offers in all its grandeur and awesomeness. It brings me joy to hear him say that for the lake is as much a part of who I am as the genes of my ancestors who worked in this land and built lives that would eventually entail my entrance on this physical plane. That deep connection stirs in me when I stand at the shores of this grand majesty and reflect on the millions of others whose lives are linked in this dark and wild inland sea that is not sea--but so very similar in its expansiveness. It's unforgiving waters are the graves of many who were caught by its power and its waves are the delight of those who have been fondled in its cool refreshment. It is the resting place (if such a place can ever be called that) for the ashes of many mortal beloved whose bodies have yielded to the eternal yearnings of the soul. My brother's are here and hopefully someday mine will be as well. And so, above all, this place is Holy.
While I yearn to return to the place where my heart took wing and grew in the lush and harsher realm of Alaska, a part of it remains here, with both my ancestors and my progeny. So my leaving is bittersweet, as all leavings must be. And the vague tears that form in my eyes and the tightening that gathers like afternoon clouds in my throat are like all things of the heart and the soul--legit.
Yesterday while driving from the rolling farmlands of central Wisconsin to the more heavily treed knolls of the north, Aron remarked that what was missing from the backdrop of colorful leaves was the omnipresent mountain vistas in Alaska. Still, he said, Lake Superior is like nothing else, like nothing Alaska offers in all its grandeur and awesomeness. It brings me joy to hear him say that for the lake is as much a part of who I am as the genes of my ancestors who worked in this land and built lives that would eventually entail my entrance on this physical plane. That deep connection stirs in me when I stand at the shores of this grand majesty and reflect on the millions of others whose lives are linked in this dark and wild inland sea that is not sea--but so very similar in its expansiveness. It's unforgiving waters are the graves of many who were caught by its power and its waves are the delight of those who have been fondled in its cool refreshment. It is the resting place (if such a place can ever be called that) for the ashes of many mortal beloved whose bodies have yielded to the eternal yearnings of the soul. My brother's are here and hopefully someday mine will be as well. And so, above all, this place is Holy.
While I yearn to return to the place where my heart took wing and grew in the lush and harsher realm of Alaska, a part of it remains here, with both my ancestors and my progeny. So my leaving is bittersweet, as all leavings must be. And the vague tears that form in my eyes and the tightening that gathers like afternoon clouds in my throat are like all things of the heart and the soul--legit.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Not exactly what I had in mind
A part of me feels guilty for having neglected the 15 lean daily here, but then again, I am really accountable to no one but myself. To say it is a certain amount of busyness that has overtaken my life and prevented me from sitting in front of the computer to write would be a lie, again to myself. I have sat in front of this computer for too many hours in the last three weeks, posting the mundane details of my life, exchanging discourse with those who both share and oppose my position on various topics. Never would I say they have been a waste of time. I do not waste time, I simply use it like everyone else, perhaps not always wisely, but nonetheless time moves no more quickly for me than it does for anyone else. In a sense, it is all illusion anyway, this passage of a thing we call time.
What matters is this moment, the now of my present thought, the odd crackle of neurons firing in my brain to breathe, to think, to move my fingers across a keyboard to elicit the magic of words, the transmission of thought in language both common and obscure. This always amazes me, and even when I neglect to record the vagaries and details of this gift I call my life, I still am amazed at my own consciousness and a myriad other things as well.
This consciousness brings a certain amount of joy and peace, a certainty in the rightness of the world as it is sustained moment to moment by the One who holds it all, and always will. That I cannot elicit any adequate language to even begin to describe this Reality is not at all disconcerting, because I can touch It, be immersed in It, live and move and have my being in It. And that is enough, for now, and for the 15 lean minutes it took to write this.
What matters is this moment, the now of my present thought, the odd crackle of neurons firing in my brain to breathe, to think, to move my fingers across a keyboard to elicit the magic of words, the transmission of thought in language both common and obscure. This always amazes me, and even when I neglect to record the vagaries and details of this gift I call my life, I still am amazed at my own consciousness and a myriad other things as well.
This consciousness brings a certain amount of joy and peace, a certainty in the rightness of the world as it is sustained moment to moment by the One who holds it all, and always will. That I cannot elicit any adequate language to even begin to describe this Reality is not at all disconcerting, because I can touch It, be immersed in It, live and move and have my being in It. And that is enough, for now, and for the 15 lean minutes it took to write this.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Mea Culpa, part deux
Yesterday I posted a picture on my facebook page of my most recent love--a 2010 Chevy Tahoe--a deep red with dark gray interior. Generally the vehicles that get my pulse racing are not SUVs, but hey, this one is su-weet, and I am a truck lover by nature; and the Tahoe, despite its appearance, is just a truck.
What was not so sweet was the picture of me standing next to it. I have been loathe to let anyone photograph me, a phenomenon that increasingly reminds me of how much like my mother I am beginning to look, and how she too would avoid cameras for the same reason I am now doing--because of my weight. It doesn't help that my thin, young, beautiful daughter is in the picture and I find myself with a clearer picture of how my mother might have felt 35 years ago when I was Jasmine's age, and my mother was the same age I am now--or close enough. It's tempting to blame genetics or the environment in which I was raised, or any number of things I cited in an earlier post with a similar title, but I won't do that.
What I will do is whatever is necessary to improve both my health and appearance. It shocks me to see this photo, not just because of my weight but also for the fact that I find myself second guessing my decision to let my hair go "au naturel"--another genetic propensity I have for being "prematurely" gray. In a youth obsessed culture, it seems rather bold and defiant to sport white hair (and it is white!) What also seems bold and defiant is a decision to mix it up with a little punk color--something I intend to do before I leave for a visit with my family in Michigan and Wisconsin next month. I'm thinking a color to match that Tahoe would be awesome.
And so it is rather fun to think of my head as a canvas for a palette of color. If age and experience give me nothing else they have given me a sense of not caring too much about what people think of me, still the fact that this photograph unnerves me is telling. And so, I apologize to myself for letting my self-esteem suffer because of snapshot taken in a moment when I forgot my appearance and reflected my joy over an automobile. I apologize to myself for a brief lapse of letting myself believe that a two-dimensional image could even begin to reflect the multi-dimensional human being that I am. I apologize to God for even the slightest disdain for the marvelous workings of even the mechanisms of biology that made me store fat, and grow once jet black hair that is now nearly pure white.
I think this is a great metaphor for my life. Black absorbs all light, reflecting nothing back; white reflects all. When young I was like a sponge, learning and absorbing and taking within my mind, heart and soul, whatever the world would offer. As my hair lost its pigmentation (it began in my early twenties) I felt as if I was losing my identity and perhaps in desiring to hold onto myself I made myself larger to compensate. Now it seems all that knowledge, wisdom and experience is something I wish to give back to the world, with it too the shedding of the excess protection I built around a fragile self that could be so easily bruised by this same world.
In the movie "The Ten Commandments" Moses goes up the mountain with a headful of brown hair, and descends with a crown of white. I have always loved that image, and certainly it is a metaphorical statement of the wisdom of those with hoary heads (but not all are wise!)
Still, like the scars we obtain on the battlefield of life, we are shaped and colored (or uncolored) by our experiences. As we age we can continue to grasp and cling to the objects, the beliefs, the identities that once formed us, or we can let go. But not just let go in some resigned way, but intentionally give back what has been given us with joy. Still, if fate and finances conspire to make that Tahoe mine, I'm gonna hold on baby, and ROCK IT, just like I do this amazing hair!
What was not so sweet was the picture of me standing next to it. I have been loathe to let anyone photograph me, a phenomenon that increasingly reminds me of how much like my mother I am beginning to look, and how she too would avoid cameras for the same reason I am now doing--because of my weight. It doesn't help that my thin, young, beautiful daughter is in the picture and I find myself with a clearer picture of how my mother might have felt 35 years ago when I was Jasmine's age, and my mother was the same age I am now--or close enough. It's tempting to blame genetics or the environment in which I was raised, or any number of things I cited in an earlier post with a similar title, but I won't do that.
What I will do is whatever is necessary to improve both my health and appearance. It shocks me to see this photo, not just because of my weight but also for the fact that I find myself second guessing my decision to let my hair go "au naturel"--another genetic propensity I have for being "prematurely" gray. In a youth obsessed culture, it seems rather bold and defiant to sport white hair (and it is white!) What also seems bold and defiant is a decision to mix it up with a little punk color--something I intend to do before I leave for a visit with my family in Michigan and Wisconsin next month. I'm thinking a color to match that Tahoe would be awesome.
And so it is rather fun to think of my head as a canvas for a palette of color. If age and experience give me nothing else they have given me a sense of not caring too much about what people think of me, still the fact that this photograph unnerves me is telling. And so, I apologize to myself for letting my self-esteem suffer because of snapshot taken in a moment when I forgot my appearance and reflected my joy over an automobile. I apologize to myself for a brief lapse of letting myself believe that a two-dimensional image could even begin to reflect the multi-dimensional human being that I am. I apologize to God for even the slightest disdain for the marvelous workings of even the mechanisms of biology that made me store fat, and grow once jet black hair that is now nearly pure white.
I think this is a great metaphor for my life. Black absorbs all light, reflecting nothing back; white reflects all. When young I was like a sponge, learning and absorbing and taking within my mind, heart and soul, whatever the world would offer. As my hair lost its pigmentation (it began in my early twenties) I felt as if I was losing my identity and perhaps in desiring to hold onto myself I made myself larger to compensate. Now it seems all that knowledge, wisdom and experience is something I wish to give back to the world, with it too the shedding of the excess protection I built around a fragile self that could be so easily bruised by this same world.
In the movie "The Ten Commandments" Moses goes up the mountain with a headful of brown hair, and descends with a crown of white. I have always loved that image, and certainly it is a metaphorical statement of the wisdom of those with hoary heads (but not all are wise!)
Still, like the scars we obtain on the battlefield of life, we are shaped and colored (or uncolored) by our experiences. As we age we can continue to grasp and cling to the objects, the beliefs, the identities that once formed us, or we can let go. But not just let go in some resigned way, but intentionally give back what has been given us with joy. Still, if fate and finances conspire to make that Tahoe mine, I'm gonna hold on baby, and ROCK IT, just like I do this amazing hair!
Monday, August 2, 2010
The wisdom of demented flies
Above the coffee table in my living room, a solitary common house fly traces ellipses in the air. He (she) has done this for several days now, frequently and briefly knocked off course by the comings and goings of the people and animals who live with me. There is something oddly comforting in this sometimes erratic circling and something profoundly meditative. This evening I sat and watched for a half hour as patterns of circles and ovals emerged, mesmerized that they most often repeated in a figure eight.
Last night this lonely one briefly tangled with another of its species, but that one seems to have disappeared, as did the large moth attracted to the television's light. Moving as it does, as if searching for something; missing, it appears, its sense of direction. As its insect brain seems to have lost its instinct to eat and reproduce it waits only to die. Still I wonder why it would choose (if a fly indeed chooses anything) to spend its last days circling above my coffee table. Yesterday a part of me was tempted to shorten this final stage but tonight its tenuous hold on life seems rather precious and sacred as I mourn the far more precious and sacred life of my friend, Phyllis Ramirez.
It is oddly comforting to watch the movement of this tiny creature, who when it finally falls to the earth it has come from, will be noticed by the One who created it. If sparrows, then why not common house flies? It occurs to me that in this miniscule organism is all the wisdom of the universe or at least that portion of wisdom that creates both flies and the air that bears them on their little wings. Why else does this creature, with his dying energy, trace the symbolic ellipse of infinity?
Last night this lonely one briefly tangled with another of its species, but that one seems to have disappeared, as did the large moth attracted to the television's light. Moving as it does, as if searching for something; missing, it appears, its sense of direction. As its insect brain seems to have lost its instinct to eat and reproduce it waits only to die. Still I wonder why it would choose (if a fly indeed chooses anything) to spend its last days circling above my coffee table. Yesterday a part of me was tempted to shorten this final stage but tonight its tenuous hold on life seems rather precious and sacred as I mourn the far more precious and sacred life of my friend, Phyllis Ramirez.
It is oddly comforting to watch the movement of this tiny creature, who when it finally falls to the earth it has come from, will be noticed by the One who created it. If sparrows, then why not common house flies? It occurs to me that in this miniscule organism is all the wisdom of the universe or at least that portion of wisdom that creates both flies and the air that bears them on their little wings. Why else does this creature, with his dying energy, trace the symbolic ellipse of infinity?
Mea Culpa
For all my fans who have eagerly awaited my daily posts, I apologize for neglecting this important work for four days. No excuses, but certainly it is not for lack of topics on which to write. This morning while on the treadmill--which I have learned to love in this summer of much rain--I was thinking of my friend and pastor, Fr. Fred, who recently had surgery on his ankle. I think he has been in pain with this thing for quite a few years, and after battling with his insurance company, finally got the surgery he needed. I believe they fused his ankle bones in some way, which sounds like the short term with this could be quite challenging, but ultimately will give him relief and will enable him to walk longer distances and be able to stand for longer periods of time. I honestly don't know, but my prayers are with him for healing.
My ankles are fine, they are beautiful, they work well, and honestly, while I sometimes have hip pain, back pain, knee pain, my ankles are miracuously pain free. I intend to keep them that way, which is why I was on the treadmill this morning.
For what seems like an eternity I have struggled with excess weight. It seemed to begin with my first pregnancy where I gained 50 pounds and lost about 40 of that until my next pregnancy, where I only gained 40 pounds, but lost 30, and you can see where this is going.... My "baby" is 14 years old but my weight has actually increased over the course of her lifetime. What is miraculous is that I am still relatively fit, able to walk comfortably at a 4mph pace, lift light weights repeatedly without pain, and do at least a few crunches. Okay, it's a beginning, one I have made too many times to count.
As I stated when I began this blog, my intention was to seek leanness of body, and I have begun that in earnest again. Going public with this is a bit scary, but not too, as I don't think anyone is reading these posts anyway. Still, if you think I am going to post my "beginning" weight, you're out of your mind, because numbers are just that. They carry no real "weight" however they can become huge stumbling blocks in an attempt to become healthy. At this point in my life, health is more of an issue, not because I have any real health challenges (although I would not know it since I haven't been to a doctor in 13 years--no health insurance) but precisely because I don't want any.
Back to the treadmill...I am so grateful to have a body that has served me so well for 52+ years, a body that bore and nourished 5 amazingly healthy children from their conception to well into their second year of life. I have a few stretch marks, 3 Cesarean scars across my lower abdomen and all the strange things that appear as the years pass. This is all so miraculous and amazing that I often wonder why I couldn't keep this in mind as I was eating what I did not really desire, when what I desired could not be ascertained quickly enough to prevent that.
It is fashionable in this country where half the adult population (and the kids too increasingly) are overweight or obese, to blame fast food, fast paced lifestyles, anything but ourselves. We go after the demons of agri-business, the purveyors of tasty and fat-laden fare, our eating companions, our unhappy lives, our genetics, our cave man propensity for feasting and famine, anything but ourselves. Or worse, if we do go after ourselves we do it with such deep self-loathing that we mire ourselves in hopelessness and despair.
ENOUGH! Maybe this is a word those of us who struggle with weight or any overindulgence issue should tattoo in our brains, repeat it as mantra, engrave it on the hands of our God so that when we seek Him we will see that all that we have been given is ENOUGH! Perhaps the trouble is that we do not seek Him nearly as often as we should when the temptation to abuse these bodies He has so graciously given to us. The why of that is perhaps the most elusive thing, especially for one who believes to the depths of my soul that the only true satisfaction in life is loving well, and loving well first and foremost the One who IS love. I am tempted to say it is a certain lack of faith that keeps me believing this is all too trivial for the immensity of God, but ironically, just as I was about to write that, my ipod began playing "Faith Like a Child" by Jars of Clay (the live version where the audience sings that line!)
Amazing!
I began a novel a few years ago with this elusive search for peace with food as its main topic. I intend to continue, and when I appear on the Colbert Report--significantly thinner than I am today--to promote it you will all wish you had read my blog!
My ankles are fine, they are beautiful, they work well, and honestly, while I sometimes have hip pain, back pain, knee pain, my ankles are miracuously pain free. I intend to keep them that way, which is why I was on the treadmill this morning.
For what seems like an eternity I have struggled with excess weight. It seemed to begin with my first pregnancy where I gained 50 pounds and lost about 40 of that until my next pregnancy, where I only gained 40 pounds, but lost 30, and you can see where this is going.... My "baby" is 14 years old but my weight has actually increased over the course of her lifetime. What is miraculous is that I am still relatively fit, able to walk comfortably at a 4mph pace, lift light weights repeatedly without pain, and do at least a few crunches. Okay, it's a beginning, one I have made too many times to count.
As I stated when I began this blog, my intention was to seek leanness of body, and I have begun that in earnest again. Going public with this is a bit scary, but not too, as I don't think anyone is reading these posts anyway. Still, if you think I am going to post my "beginning" weight, you're out of your mind, because numbers are just that. They carry no real "weight" however they can become huge stumbling blocks in an attempt to become healthy. At this point in my life, health is more of an issue, not because I have any real health challenges (although I would not know it since I haven't been to a doctor in 13 years--no health insurance) but precisely because I don't want any.
Back to the treadmill...I am so grateful to have a body that has served me so well for 52+ years, a body that bore and nourished 5 amazingly healthy children from their conception to well into their second year of life. I have a few stretch marks, 3 Cesarean scars across my lower abdomen and all the strange things that appear as the years pass. This is all so miraculous and amazing that I often wonder why I couldn't keep this in mind as I was eating what I did not really desire, when what I desired could not be ascertained quickly enough to prevent that.
It is fashionable in this country where half the adult population (and the kids too increasingly) are overweight or obese, to blame fast food, fast paced lifestyles, anything but ourselves. We go after the demons of agri-business, the purveyors of tasty and fat-laden fare, our eating companions, our unhappy lives, our genetics, our cave man propensity for feasting and famine, anything but ourselves. Or worse, if we do go after ourselves we do it with such deep self-loathing that we mire ourselves in hopelessness and despair.
ENOUGH! Maybe this is a word those of us who struggle with weight or any overindulgence issue should tattoo in our brains, repeat it as mantra, engrave it on the hands of our God so that when we seek Him we will see that all that we have been given is ENOUGH! Perhaps the trouble is that we do not seek Him nearly as often as we should when the temptation to abuse these bodies He has so graciously given to us. The why of that is perhaps the most elusive thing, especially for one who believes to the depths of my soul that the only true satisfaction in life is loving well, and loving well first and foremost the One who IS love. I am tempted to say it is a certain lack of faith that keeps me believing this is all too trivial for the immensity of God, but ironically, just as I was about to write that, my ipod began playing "Faith Like a Child" by Jars of Clay (the live version where the audience sings that line!)
Amazing!
I began a novel a few years ago with this elusive search for peace with food as its main topic. I intend to continue, and when I appear on the Colbert Report--significantly thinner than I am today--to promote it you will all wish you had read my blog!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
En vino, veritas
Okay, I probably have the spelling wrong, but basically this translates to "in wine, there is truth." Tonight I spent several hours with some of the people who are involved in the community organizing ministry of St. Anthony parish. It was the occasion of seven years since the inception of this ministry and some of the people who have been there since the beginning were in attendance.
The truth that is in the wine is how much I love these folks, some I have known for years and some for only a few months. One of those long timers is my friend, Donna, who I met over 26 years ago when we were pregnant with our sons, my first, her last. We reminsced about not only our involvement with this particular ministry but how we collaborated on a variety of projects, some serious, some anything but. Perhaps the most hilarious was the time about 20 of the women of our parish dressed as priests for a Halloween party, much to the dismay and annoyance of our associate pastor at the time.
The gift of a life, even of 52 years, is the great number of friends that God has given me, people who sometimes know my soul better than I do. Donna is one of those friends. We have been through much in the 26 years that we have been friends, but what is amazing and for what I am so truly grateful is that we are still friends. She has taught me so much, been a wonderful example of mother, sister, friend, fellow Christian, fellow seeker of truth. I have been blessed to be present as two of her grandchildren have come into the world, and also to offer a word or two as her dear husband left it. Laughter, tears, joy, pain, these are the true treasures of friendship. Their weight and eternal value cannot be underestimated. She has inspired, challenged and instructed me, much like a big sister.
On occasions such as this evening it is good to remember those who have taken us to places we couldn't have imagined years ago, not so much the physical locations, but the deep recesses within each of us where we are called to become more than we presently are, to stretch ourselves to embrace change or adversity, to make room for others and whatever they bring to us. It is only in opening ourselves to this summoning of strength within us that we grow as human beings. I have learned that while it seems to be easier initially to run from such challenges, to retreat to the familiar sense of self that we have, it leaves us weaker, smaller, less engaged and defensive. Growth is painful, but more painful is stagnation, status quo, an illusion of power that we never actually possessed.
And now, 15 minutes have passed. I am tired. En vino, veritas, and en vino whatever is the latin word for sleepiness. Good night!
The truth that is in the wine is how much I love these folks, some I have known for years and some for only a few months. One of those long timers is my friend, Donna, who I met over 26 years ago when we were pregnant with our sons, my first, her last. We reminsced about not only our involvement with this particular ministry but how we collaborated on a variety of projects, some serious, some anything but. Perhaps the most hilarious was the time about 20 of the women of our parish dressed as priests for a Halloween party, much to the dismay and annoyance of our associate pastor at the time.
The gift of a life, even of 52 years, is the great number of friends that God has given me, people who sometimes know my soul better than I do. Donna is one of those friends. We have been through much in the 26 years that we have been friends, but what is amazing and for what I am so truly grateful is that we are still friends. She has taught me so much, been a wonderful example of mother, sister, friend, fellow Christian, fellow seeker of truth. I have been blessed to be present as two of her grandchildren have come into the world, and also to offer a word or two as her dear husband left it. Laughter, tears, joy, pain, these are the true treasures of friendship. Their weight and eternal value cannot be underestimated. She has inspired, challenged and instructed me, much like a big sister.
On occasions such as this evening it is good to remember those who have taken us to places we couldn't have imagined years ago, not so much the physical locations, but the deep recesses within each of us where we are called to become more than we presently are, to stretch ourselves to embrace change or adversity, to make room for others and whatever they bring to us. It is only in opening ourselves to this summoning of strength within us that we grow as human beings. I have learned that while it seems to be easier initially to run from such challenges, to retreat to the familiar sense of self that we have, it leaves us weaker, smaller, less engaged and defensive. Growth is painful, but more painful is stagnation, status quo, an illusion of power that we never actually possessed.
And now, 15 minutes have passed. I am tired. En vino, veritas, and en vino whatever is the latin word for sleepiness. Good night!
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Woman's Work? (or why God is a woman)
Yesterday, a day I did not post, was not a particularly good day. To say that I am prone to periods of ennui (love that word!) is not news to anyone who knows me well. Then again, such feelings of desolation are often vague feelings of loneliness that go away when I am in the presence of people I love--well, perhaps not always, it is sometimes the actions of my family (or lack thereof) that triggers them.
Yesterday's listlessness was probably more a feeling of laziness in the face of overwhelming amounts of housework--any amount of housework is overwhelming to me--and a certain amount of self-pity, as in "why am I the only one who does this crap?" And yet there are millions of people (most likely women) who take on the daily drudgery of keeping chaos at bay, why should I feel so persecuted? It wasn't until I watched "Clean House" (at 9 pm) that I finally got the motivation to empty the dishwasher and put away the dishes that I must wash by hand. With a great sense of irony I realized that the ordering of the chaos is exactly what the creation of the world is all about, and so in some sublime way "keeping house" is divine in nature. Whether true or not, it does help to get through what often seem to be the mindless tasks of cleaning.
And yet, in every instance where I brought a sense of mindfulness to the tasks at hand, they always seemed to have some sort of relevance in the grand scheme of things. They can even become (dare I say?) pleasurable. After all, the universe does not exactly take care of itself. It has not been created and abandoned, at least not in my estimation or observation. Like anything that is brought into being, be it a child, a garden, a work of art or beauty, it must be nurtured, maintained, even repaired if it is to endure and bless the world. And just as the Spirit brooded over water at the dawn of creation, She continues to sustain our very breathing, long before and long after we have take our first and last breaths. In a very real, but unfathomable way "before" and "after" are not even relevant in the realm of Spirit, only now.
That is precisely why mindfulness in the doldrums of life is so essential. We can get lost in the sheer discouragement of believing that the thing we could be doing is far more relevant or important than what we are doing at this particular moment in time. At this particular moment I am typing these words, and what is most fascinating to me is that they are not at all what I intended to write--they really aren't. I believed I was going to write about how all the mundane stuff in my life keeps me from the really significant stuff--how beating back the clutter of day to day is a thankless, boring task that has no cosmic relevance. How wrong I can be.
Curing cancer and securing world peace appear to be more significant achievements in a world that says it values those things, but more often values material success and fame. Yet it is likely those ends will be accomplished by one soul whose mother or father or someone kept their child of monumental achievement clothed, fed, clean, engaged, encouraged and most of all, loved. It was Mother Teresa who said, "do small things with great love." The small thing is what sustains all of creation moment to moment, the small thing, done with the greatest Love. Washing dishes can have tremendous consequences and tremendous power.
Yesterday's listlessness was probably more a feeling of laziness in the face of overwhelming amounts of housework--any amount of housework is overwhelming to me--and a certain amount of self-pity, as in "why am I the only one who does this crap?" And yet there are millions of people (most likely women) who take on the daily drudgery of keeping chaos at bay, why should I feel so persecuted? It wasn't until I watched "Clean House" (at 9 pm) that I finally got the motivation to empty the dishwasher and put away the dishes that I must wash by hand. With a great sense of irony I realized that the ordering of the chaos is exactly what the creation of the world is all about, and so in some sublime way "keeping house" is divine in nature. Whether true or not, it does help to get through what often seem to be the mindless tasks of cleaning.
And yet, in every instance where I brought a sense of mindfulness to the tasks at hand, they always seemed to have some sort of relevance in the grand scheme of things. They can even become (dare I say?) pleasurable. After all, the universe does not exactly take care of itself. It has not been created and abandoned, at least not in my estimation or observation. Like anything that is brought into being, be it a child, a garden, a work of art or beauty, it must be nurtured, maintained, even repaired if it is to endure and bless the world. And just as the Spirit brooded over water at the dawn of creation, She continues to sustain our very breathing, long before and long after we have take our first and last breaths. In a very real, but unfathomable way "before" and "after" are not even relevant in the realm of Spirit, only now.
That is precisely why mindfulness in the doldrums of life is so essential. We can get lost in the sheer discouragement of believing that the thing we could be doing is far more relevant or important than what we are doing at this particular moment in time. At this particular moment I am typing these words, and what is most fascinating to me is that they are not at all what I intended to write--they really aren't. I believed I was going to write about how all the mundane stuff in my life keeps me from the really significant stuff--how beating back the clutter of day to day is a thankless, boring task that has no cosmic relevance. How wrong I can be.
Curing cancer and securing world peace appear to be more significant achievements in a world that says it values those things, but more often values material success and fame. Yet it is likely those ends will be accomplished by one soul whose mother or father or someone kept their child of monumental achievement clothed, fed, clean, engaged, encouraged and most of all, loved. It was Mother Teresa who said, "do small things with great love." The small thing is what sustains all of creation moment to moment, the small thing, done with the greatest Love. Washing dishes can have tremendous consequences and tremendous power.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Of need and greed
After spending the last couple of days setting up and conducting a garage sale, I have decided that I am going to seriously curtail my spending on things I don't need to buy, which is pretty much everything except fresh food. The economic recovery in this country will have to proceed without my contribution to it. I'm going to miss the Fred Meyer Rewards and the 2% rebate from Costco, but those too I can live without. My friend Marge was telling me about a friend of hers who would buy things just to get the reward points at Freddies, and I thought, "how sick is that?" but honestly I must admit I am a sucker for a bargain and when the clearance prices are 70% of their original prices it's hard to keep me out of the store.
I will be spending all that time that I save shopping continuing to clean out this oversized place where I live, and divesting myself of my possessions. My goal in life is to die with as few possessions as I possibly can--and hopefully God will give me a good long time to achieve this. My son Jesse has criteria for buying things, and something he would remind me of when I was visiting him in Juneau. If I saw something I liked and desired he would say, "but do you love it?" I ended up spending very little money on acquisitions on my last trip to that wonderful town, and never missed the things that I didn't buy (in fact I don't remember buying anything.)
What I do remember from that trip is a snowstorm on Easter Sunday morning and watching through the windows of the local Catholic Church a steady fall of huge flakes. I remember hiking in the woods near Douglas, where giant trees are laced with mosses and vines and look like something from an enchanted forest, especially in the steady drizzle that persists in that area and engenders the growth of such amazing arboreal beasts. I remember eating at some wonderful places, sharing meals with my middle son as he neared the end of his last year at UAS.
In Hawaii, the highlight of our trip was not the day spent shopping at Ala Moana shopping center, but the day spent snorkeling at Molokini Crater, seeing sea turtles and tropical fish, coral, even a small shark in the crystalline water off Maui. I remember feeling as if I had jumped into a giant aquarium, warm and salty and amazingly bouyant...I was one of the last people to get back on the boat and I relished the time on the water in the peek-a-boo sunshine, even the sunburn I got for neglecting sunscreen
I must admit though that it was a thrill to go to the very large fabric store in Oahu and marvel at the rows and rows of colorful Hawaiian prints, to run my hand over the cool cottons and bright blends, to be amazed by the variety and the myriad ways that artists rendered flowers and patterns, darkness and light. The biggest challenge for me in curtailing my spending will be staying out of the fabric stores, and I make no promises here.
There is something marvelously freeing in this, something that detaches my soul from its grasping at material treasures and inspires it to cling to heavenly things, and to the One who can give me the strength to let go of what enchants, but does not enrich me.
I have been blessed with wonderful opportunities to "preach" at my parish of St. Anthony by my forward thinking and somewhat rebellious pastor who has recognized my talent for both the written and spoken word. I had hoped to offer a reflection on next week's gospel which is about the man who has an overly abundant harvest and decides to tear down his barns and warehouses and build new ones. It is from this gospel the phrase "eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die" (sometimes used in reference to the time before the Great Depression) is gleaned. For the wealthy landowner, so secure in his harvest, dies on the evening he makes this declaration. What prefaces the story of the rich farmer is a request of Jesus from a man to make his brother share his inheritance. Jesus, however, has something to say about greed.
As I pondered the word "greed" I thought of it as a contraction for "great need." While this insight may be neither original nor profound (although it seemed quite relevant) it does seem to have merit. The great need we often have in our lives that leads us to desire and acquire is often a deep spiritual need--one we refuse to recognize in a world that tells us that "things" will make us happy. The irony of desiring to possess things is that we are already possessed by One who loves us beyond any measure we could possibly use. So when I ask myself, as my son did, "but do you love this?" I can honestly say that there is very little of my material possessions that I love, and what and who I love most, is the One who has given everything to me.
I will be spending all that time that I save shopping continuing to clean out this oversized place where I live, and divesting myself of my possessions. My goal in life is to die with as few possessions as I possibly can--and hopefully God will give me a good long time to achieve this. My son Jesse has criteria for buying things, and something he would remind me of when I was visiting him in Juneau. If I saw something I liked and desired he would say, "but do you love it?" I ended up spending very little money on acquisitions on my last trip to that wonderful town, and never missed the things that I didn't buy (in fact I don't remember buying anything.)
What I do remember from that trip is a snowstorm on Easter Sunday morning and watching through the windows of the local Catholic Church a steady fall of huge flakes. I remember hiking in the woods near Douglas, where giant trees are laced with mosses and vines and look like something from an enchanted forest, especially in the steady drizzle that persists in that area and engenders the growth of such amazing arboreal beasts. I remember eating at some wonderful places, sharing meals with my middle son as he neared the end of his last year at UAS.
In Hawaii, the highlight of our trip was not the day spent shopping at Ala Moana shopping center, but the day spent snorkeling at Molokini Crater, seeing sea turtles and tropical fish, coral, even a small shark in the crystalline water off Maui. I remember feeling as if I had jumped into a giant aquarium, warm and salty and amazingly bouyant...I was one of the last people to get back on the boat and I relished the time on the water in the peek-a-boo sunshine, even the sunburn I got for neglecting sunscreen
I must admit though that it was a thrill to go to the very large fabric store in Oahu and marvel at the rows and rows of colorful Hawaiian prints, to run my hand over the cool cottons and bright blends, to be amazed by the variety and the myriad ways that artists rendered flowers and patterns, darkness and light. The biggest challenge for me in curtailing my spending will be staying out of the fabric stores, and I make no promises here.
There is something marvelously freeing in this, something that detaches my soul from its grasping at material treasures and inspires it to cling to heavenly things, and to the One who can give me the strength to let go of what enchants, but does not enrich me.
I have been blessed with wonderful opportunities to "preach" at my parish of St. Anthony by my forward thinking and somewhat rebellious pastor who has recognized my talent for both the written and spoken word. I had hoped to offer a reflection on next week's gospel which is about the man who has an overly abundant harvest and decides to tear down his barns and warehouses and build new ones. It is from this gospel the phrase "eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die" (sometimes used in reference to the time before the Great Depression) is gleaned. For the wealthy landowner, so secure in his harvest, dies on the evening he makes this declaration. What prefaces the story of the rich farmer is a request of Jesus from a man to make his brother share his inheritance. Jesus, however, has something to say about greed.
As I pondered the word "greed" I thought of it as a contraction for "great need." While this insight may be neither original nor profound (although it seemed quite relevant) it does seem to have merit. The great need we often have in our lives that leads us to desire and acquire is often a deep spiritual need--one we refuse to recognize in a world that tells us that "things" will make us happy. The irony of desiring to possess things is that we are already possessed by One who loves us beyond any measure we could possibly use. So when I ask myself, as my son did, "but do you love this?" I can honestly say that there is very little of my material possessions that I love, and what and who I love most, is the One who has given everything to me.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Abundance
I spent most of today setting up a garage sale as a fundraiser for my church. Most of the items for sale never belonged to me personally, but to folks for whom we have done estate sales, or were things we aquired with the intention of passing them along anyway. In a business like ours, an auction business, we come across a huge variety and quantity of items, some of which receive little interest at one type of sale, and yet would bring in more money at another. So, they find their way into one of our connex boxes waiting for the day when the ideal buyer might be present at an auction. In many cases, the ideal buyer doesn't show up, so not infrequently we go looking for the right purchaser.
Over the years we have acquired a huge variety of goods, so that in nearly every case, if someone needs something, no doubt we have it. When people ask us what types of items we have auctioned, I like to say, "everything from airplanes to zippers." There are a few things we haven't auctioned, like pornographic materials, certain types of weapons, and perhaps a whole class of things that I wouldn't know much about anyway (use your imagination.) It has been, to say the least, an interesting business.
What impresses me most, however, is not the variety of goods, the various prices they fetch, or even the sheer quantity of them. What always amazes me, especially when some items don't even get a bid, is how blessed we are in this country to have at our disposal (pun intended) such an amazing array of items to make our lives easier, more enjoyable and simply more interesting. I sometimes feel like those mothers of years past who would remind their children to clean their plates, because children, somewhere in the world, were starving. The wealth of the United States is such that we throw away the things that folks in poorer parts of the world would scavenge from dumps to sell in order to buy their next meal--the one after that would require more scrounging, no doubt.
The implications of this for our planet, our future, and the well-being of all the people of this world are huge. The oft-quoted statistic of 6% of the world's population consuming 40% of its resources does not account for the fact that we don't really "consume" much of anything at all, except perhaps food, water and fuel (and we waste incredible amounts of these as well.) Moreover, we discard a tremendous amount of the goods produced with those resources. It is my contention that future societies will mine our garbage dumps for minerals which will be too scarce and too expensive to mine conventionally in their naturally occuring locations--and not just minerals, but a variety of products.
In a very real sense, our auction company recycles many tons of goods each year, not just by keeping usable items out of the landfills by selling them to new users, but also by bringing additional tons of scrap metal, aluminum, wood, and a variety of items to local recyclers. Ultimately though, some things have no market in this country because there aren't enough folks who are willing to repurpose them. Those things we must bring to the local dump. It is what we bring to the dump that most sickens me.
A few years ago I visited the museum at the University of Oregon in Eugene. Because it was the year of the Beijing Summer Olympics there was a fascinating display of photographs from China. While they were all compelling, perhaps the most intriguing were the ones of workers sorting through trash piles that had been barged from the West to China. With what appeared to be amazing efficiency, the detritus of our more privileged existences had been organized into massive piles. It made me think back to my childhood when I wished I could package up my tuna noodle casserole and send it to China. And while we aren't shipping the unwanted dinners of our children overseas, our underutilized and discarded goods are being shipped there, along with our money, to buy back the goods made of our waste.
Over the years we have acquired a huge variety of goods, so that in nearly every case, if someone needs something, no doubt we have it. When people ask us what types of items we have auctioned, I like to say, "everything from airplanes to zippers." There are a few things we haven't auctioned, like pornographic materials, certain types of weapons, and perhaps a whole class of things that I wouldn't know much about anyway (use your imagination.) It has been, to say the least, an interesting business.
What impresses me most, however, is not the variety of goods, the various prices they fetch, or even the sheer quantity of them. What always amazes me, especially when some items don't even get a bid, is how blessed we are in this country to have at our disposal (pun intended) such an amazing array of items to make our lives easier, more enjoyable and simply more interesting. I sometimes feel like those mothers of years past who would remind their children to clean their plates, because children, somewhere in the world, were starving. The wealth of the United States is such that we throw away the things that folks in poorer parts of the world would scavenge from dumps to sell in order to buy their next meal--the one after that would require more scrounging, no doubt.
The implications of this for our planet, our future, and the well-being of all the people of this world are huge. The oft-quoted statistic of 6% of the world's population consuming 40% of its resources does not account for the fact that we don't really "consume" much of anything at all, except perhaps food, water and fuel (and we waste incredible amounts of these as well.) Moreover, we discard a tremendous amount of the goods produced with those resources. It is my contention that future societies will mine our garbage dumps for minerals which will be too scarce and too expensive to mine conventionally in their naturally occuring locations--and not just minerals, but a variety of products.
In a very real sense, our auction company recycles many tons of goods each year, not just by keeping usable items out of the landfills by selling them to new users, but also by bringing additional tons of scrap metal, aluminum, wood, and a variety of items to local recyclers. Ultimately though, some things have no market in this country because there aren't enough folks who are willing to repurpose them. Those things we must bring to the local dump. It is what we bring to the dump that most sickens me.
A few years ago I visited the museum at the University of Oregon in Eugene. Because it was the year of the Beijing Summer Olympics there was a fascinating display of photographs from China. While they were all compelling, perhaps the most intriguing were the ones of workers sorting through trash piles that had been barged from the West to China. With what appeared to be amazing efficiency, the detritus of our more privileged existences had been organized into massive piles. It made me think back to my childhood when I wished I could package up my tuna noodle casserole and send it to China. And while we aren't shipping the unwanted dinners of our children overseas, our underutilized and discarded goods are being shipped there, along with our money, to buy back the goods made of our waste.
These are a few of my favorite things
Writing. Sewing. I am not sure which I like to do more, but what I do know is that I don't take enough time in my life to do either to the degree I desire. Years ago before I graduated from high school members of the senior class were asked to fill out a questionnaire asking inane things like favorite foods, TV shows, favorite hang-outs, etc. The purpose of such questions was to formulate some sort of senior book which would inform us who had the prettiest eyes, nicest hair, etc. At the time it seemed like just another ploy of the popular kids to add to their already inflated egos--or their serious lack of self-confidence--I am not sure which. At our 20 year class reunion these forms were given back to us for our entertainment, I presume, but I am certain there were those among us who felt that at the age of 38 we had fallen far short of our lofty goals in life.
My loftiest goal at the time was "to write a best-seller"--something I am always working on, and am certain that it will one happen one day--perhaps these humble musings will be a part of that.
What was interesting to me though, was how some of my "favorite" things had not changed over the past 20 years (now more than 30!) I still love homemade raviolis, though I haven't eaten any really good ones since I moved from Michigan's upper peninsula and those descendants of Italian immigrants who really know how to make delicious pasta dishes--I have to admit though, my dear departed mother-in-law, who was 100% Polish was one of the best "Italian" cooks I've ever known (that's what happens when you marry a man who is 100% Italian, you learn to cook like one.) My favorite type of music back in 1976 was "rock" which if by this I meant 70's rock, then I guess that would now be "alternative" which is now my favorite type of music. My favorite beverage was water, though I am surprised I didn't write "tequila sunrise"--(Note to my children who might be reading this: the legal drinking age was 18, and so was I when this was written.) My favorite hobbies and activities were photography, sewing and dramatics.
The reason I write about this is because today I was looking through my bookshelf, trying to decide what I would like to give away as I am trying to downsize just about everything in my life right now. I came across a book about marketing craft items and the author wrote in the preface how much she loved to sew, how even the mundane task of sewing a button on her husband's coat brought her peace, clarity and a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Interestingly, this afternoon my son invited me to lunch--for which he paid--in the hopes that I would hem a pair of pants for him. I probably would have done it anyway, but it is nice to feel appreciated. It took me less than a half hour to accomplish this task, but I absolutely relished the time and also amazed myself with my mad skills--a fact he concurred when he came to pick them up and asked me if I had hemmed them or not. Apparently he did not notice that the thread I used wasn't exactly the same shade, but the stitching and the hem depth was as good or better than the original (and this was no cheap pair of pants.)
Every time I am in the trailer behind our warehouse that serves as our home, I am in what I guess psychologists would call my "happy place." Sitting at a computer at 11:49 at night doesn't give me quite the same sense of absolute contentment. One seems like play, the other often like work, and yet work is good for the soul as well. One creates something new out of something else, the other, something out of nothing. One is the world of materials; the other ideas--though I suppose these elements are juxtaposed in the creative process so that it is difficult to say exactly what is produced. To take a length of fabric and stitch them together into an article of clothing is not necessarily unlike taking words and weaving them into coherent sentences. Both create a beautiful tapestry that reflects both the materials from which it is made and the skills of the one who created it. Both are endlessly challenging, and two of my favorite things.
My loftiest goal at the time was "to write a best-seller"--something I am always working on, and am certain that it will one happen one day--perhaps these humble musings will be a part of that.
What was interesting to me though, was how some of my "favorite" things had not changed over the past 20 years (now more than 30!) I still love homemade raviolis, though I haven't eaten any really good ones since I moved from Michigan's upper peninsula and those descendants of Italian immigrants who really know how to make delicious pasta dishes--I have to admit though, my dear departed mother-in-law, who was 100% Polish was one of the best "Italian" cooks I've ever known (that's what happens when you marry a man who is 100% Italian, you learn to cook like one.) My favorite type of music back in 1976 was "rock" which if by this I meant 70's rock, then I guess that would now be "alternative" which is now my favorite type of music. My favorite beverage was water, though I am surprised I didn't write "tequila sunrise"--(Note to my children who might be reading this: the legal drinking age was 18, and so was I when this was written.) My favorite hobbies and activities were photography, sewing and dramatics.
The reason I write about this is because today I was looking through my bookshelf, trying to decide what I would like to give away as I am trying to downsize just about everything in my life right now. I came across a book about marketing craft items and the author wrote in the preface how much she loved to sew, how even the mundane task of sewing a button on her husband's coat brought her peace, clarity and a wonderful sense of accomplishment. Interestingly, this afternoon my son invited me to lunch--for which he paid--in the hopes that I would hem a pair of pants for him. I probably would have done it anyway, but it is nice to feel appreciated. It took me less than a half hour to accomplish this task, but I absolutely relished the time and also amazed myself with my mad skills--a fact he concurred when he came to pick them up and asked me if I had hemmed them or not. Apparently he did not notice that the thread I used wasn't exactly the same shade, but the stitching and the hem depth was as good or better than the original (and this was no cheap pair of pants.)
Every time I am in the trailer behind our warehouse that serves as our home, I am in what I guess psychologists would call my "happy place." Sitting at a computer at 11:49 at night doesn't give me quite the same sense of absolute contentment. One seems like play, the other often like work, and yet work is good for the soul as well. One creates something new out of something else, the other, something out of nothing. One is the world of materials; the other ideas--though I suppose these elements are juxtaposed in the creative process so that it is difficult to say exactly what is produced. To take a length of fabric and stitch them together into an article of clothing is not necessarily unlike taking words and weaving them into coherent sentences. Both create a beautiful tapestry that reflects both the materials from which it is made and the skills of the one who created it. Both are endlessly challenging, and two of my favorite things.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The Daily Challenge
Unfortunately two days have passed without my posting, which makes me feel as though this challenge might be more than I can handle. More importantly though, it illustrates to me just how difficult it is to make the personally valuable things a priority in my life.
Monday I spent most of the evening (from 6:30 to midnight) at a public forum with the Planning and Zoning Department of Anchorage which was considering a petition to grant a conditional use permit to allow the establishment of a housing facility for 48 end stage homeless chronic inebriates--a facility that will come within 500 feet of a neighborhood park, hence the need for the zoning variance.
Anyone who knows me well is aware that we live within a stone's throw of a homeless shelter and a soup kitchen in an industrial part of town. Our home is located next to our auction yard, and we have lived here for nearly 12 years and have owned the auction yard for nearly 20 years. Despite the grittiness of the neighborhood, this has been a great place to raise our five children--in fact our youngest, who is 14, doesn't remember the two houses she lived in prior to moving here.
At issue is not the need for such a facility, or even the fact that the neighborhood of Fairview has been overwhelmed by a variety of social service entities, including a large jail. To say that fighting for the quiet enjoyment of my property has been an ongoing issue would be an understatement. It has been a battle against the well-intentioned but misguided humanitarians (many of whom are my friends) who have unfortunately painted Fairview residents as NIMBY's and at the very least, unconcerned with the plight of the unfortunate souls who have ruined their lives with alcohol. The issue is that the purchasers of the property (an old hotel) have been disingenuine in procuring the site on the hopes that the city would grant the variance, which doesn't say much for their ultimate accountability to the neighborhood.
We await the decision of the Commission on August 9th.
As to why I didn't get my lean 15 posted yesterday, well, I have no really good excuse. One indulgence I allow myself is to meet with a few other women from my church for "creative circle" on Tuesday mornings. Yesterday morning I was running a bit late, having been up so late the night before. By mid-afternoon I realized I had not posted, but the evening slipped away before I got the chance, and despite my best efforts to stay awake, fell asleep while watching television.
So, I am here now, and as soon as this is posted, I am off to finish the last of the laundry and to hunt for some items to give to one of the Sisters who is doing craft projects with the Hispanic kids in Kodiak, and then it will probably be near time for bed.
I have been working to put together a large garage sale to benefit my parish of St. Anthony's--a tedious but necessary task, as being owners of an auction business, we have acquired far too much "stuff." This sale will be off-site so things must be reasonably secured for transport, adding a bit more work to an already overwhelming task. It is much like trying to eat the proverbial elephant one bite at a time. I realize how much time has already been wasted on storing and re-storing so much of this stuff. As I said before, part of the purpose of this blog is to generate a new spirit of "leanness" --not just of body and spirit, but of environment as well.
And now my 15 minutes is up. Back to work!
Monday I spent most of the evening (from 6:30 to midnight) at a public forum with the Planning and Zoning Department of Anchorage which was considering a petition to grant a conditional use permit to allow the establishment of a housing facility for 48 end stage homeless chronic inebriates--a facility that will come within 500 feet of a neighborhood park, hence the need for the zoning variance.
Anyone who knows me well is aware that we live within a stone's throw of a homeless shelter and a soup kitchen in an industrial part of town. Our home is located next to our auction yard, and we have lived here for nearly 12 years and have owned the auction yard for nearly 20 years. Despite the grittiness of the neighborhood, this has been a great place to raise our five children--in fact our youngest, who is 14, doesn't remember the two houses she lived in prior to moving here.
At issue is not the need for such a facility, or even the fact that the neighborhood of Fairview has been overwhelmed by a variety of social service entities, including a large jail. To say that fighting for the quiet enjoyment of my property has been an ongoing issue would be an understatement. It has been a battle against the well-intentioned but misguided humanitarians (many of whom are my friends) who have unfortunately painted Fairview residents as NIMBY's and at the very least, unconcerned with the plight of the unfortunate souls who have ruined their lives with alcohol. The issue is that the purchasers of the property (an old hotel) have been disingenuine in procuring the site on the hopes that the city would grant the variance, which doesn't say much for their ultimate accountability to the neighborhood.
We await the decision of the Commission on August 9th.
As to why I didn't get my lean 15 posted yesterday, well, I have no really good excuse. One indulgence I allow myself is to meet with a few other women from my church for "creative circle" on Tuesday mornings. Yesterday morning I was running a bit late, having been up so late the night before. By mid-afternoon I realized I had not posted, but the evening slipped away before I got the chance, and despite my best efforts to stay awake, fell asleep while watching television.
So, I am here now, and as soon as this is posted, I am off to finish the last of the laundry and to hunt for some items to give to one of the Sisters who is doing craft projects with the Hispanic kids in Kodiak, and then it will probably be near time for bed.
I have been working to put together a large garage sale to benefit my parish of St. Anthony's--a tedious but necessary task, as being owners of an auction business, we have acquired far too much "stuff." This sale will be off-site so things must be reasonably secured for transport, adding a bit more work to an already overwhelming task. It is much like trying to eat the proverbial elephant one bite at a time. I realize how much time has already been wasted on storing and re-storing so much of this stuff. As I said before, part of the purpose of this blog is to generate a new spirit of "leanness" --not just of body and spirit, but of environment as well.
And now my 15 minutes is up. Back to work!
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Donuts, Juice and Coffee
It is my assumption that some variation of the above is a feature of many places of worship following Sunday services. For me the phrase will always be a reminder of the place where I first heard it, St. Anthony Catholic Church in Anchorage, Alaska.
For nearly 30 years now, I have attended this church in a poorer section of a city that continues to grow in diversity--in fact, a fellow parishioner calls it the most diverse church in the world. At first I thought the phrase presumptuous, but I am quite certain he is probably right. In Anchorage there are nearly 100 languages spoken by the children in our schools, and while the same might not be true of St. Anthony parish, I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't approach something near that.
This morning I sat in my customary spot near the back on the right hand side of this early 70's era church, with its dark walls and insufficient lighting, and marveled, as I always do, at the heavily beaded and fringed strip of caribou hide that I tape to the altar once a month for the Native mass. Next week the intricate, delicate, colorful antependium--for that is what you call a decorative piece that is hung in front of something else--will be replaced by a tapa altar cloth. This is the tradition of the Samoan people who make up a large part of our parish and bless us with their enthusiastic singing and their fresh flower leis for our presiders and the holy objects used in worship. A third culture, the Filipinos, also celebrate a mass once a month, blending prayers and song in both their native tongue and English, and always gather afterwards to share food, as do the Samoan and Native cultures as well.
I imagine that food and fellowship have been linked with worship since early humans cooked their meals over fires and later danced around them to acknowledge an unseen force who created such a powerful element of warmth and destruction. Indeed for Christians, and Catholics in particular, a meal of remembrance that nurtures our souls most naturally leads to a continuance of fellowship by sharing a meal that nourishes body and soul as well.
For me, that began with the community of St. Anthony gathered, as it still does, for donuts, juice and coffee (though the "nourishment" this type of food provides may be dubious) and has evolved to include sharing of the cherished dishes of many cultures, after diverse worship experiences. Such things have both challenged and delighted me, not just because of the culinary dilemmas of eating, say, muktuk, but because breaking bread together, whether in Eucharist, or in its many manifestations of more humble fare, challenges me to live as one with my sisters and brothers of many lands and tongues.
For nearly 30 years now, I have attended this church in a poorer section of a city that continues to grow in diversity--in fact, a fellow parishioner calls it the most diverse church in the world. At first I thought the phrase presumptuous, but I am quite certain he is probably right. In Anchorage there are nearly 100 languages spoken by the children in our schools, and while the same might not be true of St. Anthony parish, I wouldn't be surprised if it doesn't approach something near that.
This morning I sat in my customary spot near the back on the right hand side of this early 70's era church, with its dark walls and insufficient lighting, and marveled, as I always do, at the heavily beaded and fringed strip of caribou hide that I tape to the altar once a month for the Native mass. Next week the intricate, delicate, colorful antependium--for that is what you call a decorative piece that is hung in front of something else--will be replaced by a tapa altar cloth. This is the tradition of the Samoan people who make up a large part of our parish and bless us with their enthusiastic singing and their fresh flower leis for our presiders and the holy objects used in worship. A third culture, the Filipinos, also celebrate a mass once a month, blending prayers and song in both their native tongue and English, and always gather afterwards to share food, as do the Samoan and Native cultures as well.
I imagine that food and fellowship have been linked with worship since early humans cooked their meals over fires and later danced around them to acknowledge an unseen force who created such a powerful element of warmth and destruction. Indeed for Christians, and Catholics in particular, a meal of remembrance that nurtures our souls most naturally leads to a continuance of fellowship by sharing a meal that nourishes body and soul as well.
For me, that began with the community of St. Anthony gathered, as it still does, for donuts, juice and coffee (though the "nourishment" this type of food provides may be dubious) and has evolved to include sharing of the cherished dishes of many cultures, after diverse worship experiences. Such things have both challenged and delighted me, not just because of the culinary dilemmas of eating, say, muktuk, but because breaking bread together, whether in Eucharist, or in its many manifestations of more humble fare, challenges me to live as one with my sisters and brothers of many lands and tongues.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
The Way the Morning Passes
Saturday. Amazingly I wake again at 8:45 having prayed myself back to sleep at 6:15, and for once I feel rested. Perhaps it is because of the windowless dark of my son's room, or the new mattress on his bed that recuperative sleep has blessed me. The light in the hallway hints of not just daylight, but sunlight. Sunny days are pure gift, especially in Alaska where clouds so often dominate the summer sky, and hope for a decent season begins to wane as a solstice sun signals this side of the earth's turning toward darkness. The light, or its lack, is so much a part of our consciousness here.
Bladder full, hunger deep, thirst chafing; reminders to the body to wake, to nurture, to live again another day, despite the raw emotion of the reasons I spend the night in my son's room, and not with my husband in mine. Gratitude for this morning is eclipsed by uncertainty of this day, tomorrow, the future. But the sun is glorious, and choices can always be good.
So breakfast is whole wheat waffles, yogurt, blueberries after dressing in workout gear, and acknowledging that the hanging baskets need water, but they will have to wait. Sunny mornings in Alaska are still cool, even though the sun barely ceases its sojourn in the visible sky, it reigns in this season, even in a season of rain.
Treadmill beckons because I have learned to love the sweat, the pace and mostly the sound of my music, the rhythmic pound of my feet on the belt--no hills, no dust or cars--a strange meditation in the dim garage.
And the husband returns with reason, but no apology, and though the sky is still cloudless, the room brightens as does my soul. The plants still need water, and the dry and warming air will cool sweat and anger and fear. I need sunglasses.
It is a bittersweet task, this watering of baskets, this removing of spent blossoms on the petunias, as if each dead flower is like the seconds of light that tick off the clock that measures our daylight. My children say that summer is over by the 4th of July and in a way they are right. Flowers, in their mad, blooming frenzy under an inexhaustible sun hint of their spent effort, less buds, yellowing foliage.
Meditate. Do not pray words, let words recede, hear breath, birds, the low scraping of the flagpole outside my window that has broken loose of its mooring but is held by wire and by the flag caught on the barbed wire fence. Hear nothing and then Everything.
Write the words of the waning day and of the morning, that passes.
Bladder full, hunger deep, thirst chafing; reminders to the body to wake, to nurture, to live again another day, despite the raw emotion of the reasons I spend the night in my son's room, and not with my husband in mine. Gratitude for this morning is eclipsed by uncertainty of this day, tomorrow, the future. But the sun is glorious, and choices can always be good.
So breakfast is whole wheat waffles, yogurt, blueberries after dressing in workout gear, and acknowledging that the hanging baskets need water, but they will have to wait. Sunny mornings in Alaska are still cool, even though the sun barely ceases its sojourn in the visible sky, it reigns in this season, even in a season of rain.
Treadmill beckons because I have learned to love the sweat, the pace and mostly the sound of my music, the rhythmic pound of my feet on the belt--no hills, no dust or cars--a strange meditation in the dim garage.
And the husband returns with reason, but no apology, and though the sky is still cloudless, the room brightens as does my soul. The plants still need water, and the dry and warming air will cool sweat and anger and fear. I need sunglasses.
It is a bittersweet task, this watering of baskets, this removing of spent blossoms on the petunias, as if each dead flower is like the seconds of light that tick off the clock that measures our daylight. My children say that summer is over by the 4th of July and in a way they are right. Flowers, in their mad, blooming frenzy under an inexhaustible sun hint of their spent effort, less buds, yellowing foliage.
Meditate. Do not pray words, let words recede, hear breath, birds, the low scraping of the flagpole outside my window that has broken loose of its mooring but is held by wire and by the flag caught on the barbed wire fence. Hear nothing and then Everything.
Write the words of the waning day and of the morning, that passes.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Orchestration
What we often call coincidences are, in my opinion, the perfect workings of a universe and a caring God who delights when we see that the incongruities of our lives mesh in a lovely dance of grace.
I had planned a day with my friend Anne--as my husband and children were out of town--to attend a gathering of our local quilting group and later have lunch. She called to say a construction worker had arrived to hang doors in her house and could we postpone or perhaps reschedule our date. Things were hectic at home getting the teens off to Kenai to go fishing with dad, so I was agreeable. Meanwhile my friend Cathie called to invite me to lunch with her daughter and my son and I told her I might arrive later at their chosen restaurant--the Arctic Roadrunner--which is famous for greasy, delicious burgers.
Shortly thereafter Anne called, still interested in lunch, so I told her to meet me at Arctic Roadrunner, but when we arrived, Cathie and company had left, so I suggested we eat at Crostini's, a lovely fresh food place owned by the parents of a young woman with whom I had recently worked on community organizing issues. (I had met Choron and her parents ten years earlier at a party for a mutual friend--an event we both recalled when I learned who her parents were.) Being directionally challenged and encountering road construction detours along the way, I drove past Crostini's once and nearly lost Anne who was following behind.
We had a delightful lunch, myself enjoying the chicken walnut salad for which this little eating spot is renowned. It had been a stressful and emotional week for me and I was sharing with Anne how a friend of mine was in Providence Hospital, apparently dying of a brain tumor. Our mutual friend, Laura, had called me the night before to suggest I go and visit her.
I hate hospitals, I told Anne and when she questioned why, my response of how I always seem to get lost in them, belied the terror and grief I felt at losing, within a month, yet another friend to cancer, in the same year when hypothermia took the life of my good friends' son. Because Anne is truly a soul mate, we talked at length about this, but eventually turned to more lighthearted issues.
As we neared the end of our meal, my friend Bonnie walked in, both of us surprised to see each other at this particular place. She was with another friend and the pastor of my church, Fr. Fred. Both Anne and I were astounded when they came in as they shared they'd never been to this restaurant before--but we are all connected to this young community organizer, Choron. I joined them at their table after Anne left and I asked Fr. Fred about Phyllis, who he visited and annointed the previous evening. I told him that I should go and visit her and then, with a bit of shame, I said "but I am afraid."
The knowing silence that ensued sparkled to sound again with Fr. Fred's remark about the care and concern he experienced with Phyllis' family in that hospital room, and the palpable witness of love Tony had for his dying wife. I resolved and stated that I would visit her.
After taking several wrong turns on the fifth floor I found Phyllis' hospital room, but besides the sleeping figure in the bed, I didn't know anyone in the room. I introduced myself to her son, son-in-law and grandson and despite the sad tenor of the space they were engaging, interesting and made me feel welcome in a decidedly uncomfortable situation. I remarked how young Tony looked like his father and when his sister arrived I was struck by how much she looked like Phyllis, though she had her father's dark features. Other friends arrived and we caught up with each other on the status of children, work, future plans, etc. a bittersweet reunion. Tony, Sr. came with their other daughter, but left the crowded room to wait in the hall.
Phyllis drifted in and out of sleep, but her gaze was intent and strong when she looked at me and though I felt helpless and inadequate in every way before her I hoped to convey to her my love and my concern, my gratitude for our recently burgeoning friendship, and dare I say, the joy that filled my heart to be with her family in this painful time.
Anne came over last night with a bottle of wine and I baked several loaves of banana bread. We talked until 2 am this morning and again marveled at the orchestration of our lives by an unseen hand which moves in so many undetected and unacknowledged ways--especially when we are beginning to feel as if life is all random and chaotic. I am so grateful to God for the gift of that knowledge, that ability to see that the certainty of hope we speak about is more about certainty than hope. I keep this in mind as I steel myself for perhaps the third funeral of this year (perhaps not, there is always hope) and I am again grateful. I am grateful to have the love of many people in my life, to care deeply enough about others to weep in hospital rooms, to embrace sons and daughters I met only an hour before. I am grateful to linger in a hug and tell Tony just before I leave this confounding place, how I have missed him and Phyllis at church and to assure him that we will laugh again. And laugh again we did when our friend called out to tell me that I had walked past the elevators that would take me out of this hospital where I always get lost, but always am found.
I had planned a day with my friend Anne--as my husband and children were out of town--to attend a gathering of our local quilting group and later have lunch. She called to say a construction worker had arrived to hang doors in her house and could we postpone or perhaps reschedule our date. Things were hectic at home getting the teens off to Kenai to go fishing with dad, so I was agreeable. Meanwhile my friend Cathie called to invite me to lunch with her daughter and my son and I told her I might arrive later at their chosen restaurant--the Arctic Roadrunner--which is famous for greasy, delicious burgers.
Shortly thereafter Anne called, still interested in lunch, so I told her to meet me at Arctic Roadrunner, but when we arrived, Cathie and company had left, so I suggested we eat at Crostini's, a lovely fresh food place owned by the parents of a young woman with whom I had recently worked on community organizing issues. (I had met Choron and her parents ten years earlier at a party for a mutual friend--an event we both recalled when I learned who her parents were.) Being directionally challenged and encountering road construction detours along the way, I drove past Crostini's once and nearly lost Anne who was following behind.
We had a delightful lunch, myself enjoying the chicken walnut salad for which this little eating spot is renowned. It had been a stressful and emotional week for me and I was sharing with Anne how a friend of mine was in Providence Hospital, apparently dying of a brain tumor. Our mutual friend, Laura, had called me the night before to suggest I go and visit her.
I hate hospitals, I told Anne and when she questioned why, my response of how I always seem to get lost in them, belied the terror and grief I felt at losing, within a month, yet another friend to cancer, in the same year when hypothermia took the life of my good friends' son. Because Anne is truly a soul mate, we talked at length about this, but eventually turned to more lighthearted issues.
As we neared the end of our meal, my friend Bonnie walked in, both of us surprised to see each other at this particular place. She was with another friend and the pastor of my church, Fr. Fred. Both Anne and I were astounded when they came in as they shared they'd never been to this restaurant before--but we are all connected to this young community organizer, Choron. I joined them at their table after Anne left and I asked Fr. Fred about Phyllis, who he visited and annointed the previous evening. I told him that I should go and visit her and then, with a bit of shame, I said "but I am afraid."
The knowing silence that ensued sparkled to sound again with Fr. Fred's remark about the care and concern he experienced with Phyllis' family in that hospital room, and the palpable witness of love Tony had for his dying wife. I resolved and stated that I would visit her.
After taking several wrong turns on the fifth floor I found Phyllis' hospital room, but besides the sleeping figure in the bed, I didn't know anyone in the room. I introduced myself to her son, son-in-law and grandson and despite the sad tenor of the space they were engaging, interesting and made me feel welcome in a decidedly uncomfortable situation. I remarked how young Tony looked like his father and when his sister arrived I was struck by how much she looked like Phyllis, though she had her father's dark features. Other friends arrived and we caught up with each other on the status of children, work, future plans, etc. a bittersweet reunion. Tony, Sr. came with their other daughter, but left the crowded room to wait in the hall.
Phyllis drifted in and out of sleep, but her gaze was intent and strong when she looked at me and though I felt helpless and inadequate in every way before her I hoped to convey to her my love and my concern, my gratitude for our recently burgeoning friendship, and dare I say, the joy that filled my heart to be with her family in this painful time.
Anne came over last night with a bottle of wine and I baked several loaves of banana bread. We talked until 2 am this morning and again marveled at the orchestration of our lives by an unseen hand which moves in so many undetected and unacknowledged ways--especially when we are beginning to feel as if life is all random and chaotic. I am so grateful to God for the gift of that knowledge, that ability to see that the certainty of hope we speak about is more about certainty than hope. I keep this in mind as I steel myself for perhaps the third funeral of this year (perhaps not, there is always hope) and I am again grateful. I am grateful to have the love of many people in my life, to care deeply enough about others to weep in hospital rooms, to embrace sons and daughters I met only an hour before. I am grateful to linger in a hug and tell Tony just before I leave this confounding place, how I have missed him and Phyllis at church and to assure him that we will laugh again. And laugh again we did when our friend called out to tell me that I had walked past the elevators that would take me out of this hospital where I always get lost, but always am found.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
To achieve, you must begin
I recently attended the Kachemak Bay Writer's Conference in Homer. Powerful, inspirng, and even chastising. An attendee asked Michael Cunningham, our keynote and writer extraordinaire, about discipling oneself to write, and in a mock serious way he said, "young lady, you must write 15 minutes a day"
This will be my fifteen minutes a day, which should be a warning to you, I have no idea what sort of things I shall write--or when, though Michael suggested we write at the same time, if possible. If possible, yeah, I'll be lucky if I write, and I 'll be really lucky if anyone reads this....
This will be my fifteen minutes a day, which should be a warning to you, I have no idea what sort of things I shall write--or when, though Michael suggested we write at the same time, if possible. If possible, yeah, I'll be lucky if I write, and I 'll be really lucky if anyone reads this....
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