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!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
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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