LOVEWALK AWAKENING

Act Three Begins A New Year

2012-01-31T16:48:00.000-08:00

Moving on, they say, moving on. Don’t get stuck in the mud of circulatory thinking. Don’t spin your wheels. Keep the conversation going.

And so, in 2012 we have. But then isn’t all of life a moving on, or else, a territorial leap from here to there? Isn’t that what happens when you fall in love? We began our life together like that over 31 years ago. Two hearts leaping ahead into the future, beginning something uniquely ours in the universe, an Anthony family tree built from scattered branches.

It all began last May, when we fell in love with the mountains. The ocean views of Santa Cruz could no longer hold sway. We looked and kept on looking, at ads of houses and lands. We had so many questions, doubts and fears, least of all the pile of funds you should have accumulated. But we did have some, so we boldly proclaimed our desire, and earnestly prayed for God’s guidance.

Then one day a friend named Terri and I were actually standing in a vacant house, and me, proclaiming it was mine, feeling like a conqueror. That began a ritual chase that ended on an auction block, far from our reach. Our daughter Aimee was our real estate guide, and apologized for the roller coaster ride of emotions: now you have it, now you don’t. Next was taking the step of making an offer on a charming house for a great price. Aimee called it a “classy Tahoe style cabin”, and was excited for another possibility on our horizon. Since it was in a short sale category we were warned of endless days ahead.

We endured the interim, punctuated by the silence of the unknown: would they accept our offer, and if they didn’t, what next? But then we started to preempt any negative possibility by looking at some more houses. John kept coming back to one that had dropped in price from $260,000 to $154,000, all 2600 square feet of it! My first reaction was: way too big!! All I wanted was a little cabin in the woods, etc.

But we had to investigate, and called Aimee for her input. As we three compared the two homes, it became obvious that this one was so much better for our family and for growing older needs. Boom! We put in another offer, and were accepted, much to our surprise, because there were quite a few other offers in the mix.

Though it had gone into foreclosure, the house had “good bones” and was still pretty much in move-in condition. Then began another wait, and much counsel about the type of loan we should get. The Lord led us step by step, through a steep learning curve, and we moved from our 850 square foot apartment on Sunday, Jan. 8^th, with quite a few helping hands and feet. Our son-in-law Tom had made a beautiful mantle for the stone fireplace, and installed it and a new window in our office/craft room in one day!! Lucy, Tim and the boys were on hand to ease the transition. Together we lovingly endured the mounds of boxes, the chaos and the endless questions of where things should go, and me mumbling answers like: don’t know, not sure, maybe here. John and I crashed very early that first evening at 8:30 pm, and said goodnight to our company.

Three weeks have passed, and my friend Terri came by, marveling that it seemed like we had been there for years. Curtains were hung, some pictures and plants filled in the spaces, the kitchen was functioning, and the fire was dancing on the hearth, but we were still waking up in a state of shock, and saying: Do we still live here? Is this the place we will call home from now on?

And yet we had been preparing for this moment for 15 years and were as ready as we could be.

The curtain has just ascended and Act Three is about to begin.

Why Poetry is Meant to be Read Aloud

2011-08-28T13:30:00.000-07:00

Voice is spirit. The human voice, hammered out by the human tongue, is the physical expression of the human spirit. Language is a complex pattern of symbols to which we have assigned sounds. Words are abstractions, but when fleshed out by the voice, nuanced with emotions, create meaningful sounds akin to musical compositions. The effect of one person’s voice upon another’s soul is profound, and can alter our perception of that person for good or evil. Through the power of spoken words, we interpret meaning through emotion and are able to impact someone’s imagination much like heated patterns make an impression on wax. The creative force of the imagination can make a new world that frees us from the confines of physical space and time, and transport us to realms of beauty or terror of something or someone beyond ourselves.

Thought is abstract. We think in terms of symbols to which we assign sounds that in turn alter meaning or intention. As we think we hear the inner voice of our soul speaking to us, reflecting, questioning, assigning value, judging, and deciding our actions. This inner voice must break the sound barrier, and eventually be heard. Those who cannot speak will find other ways to communicate because the desire to be heard is as strong as the desire to live. We long to be known, and make known what lies within us, to build a bridge of understanding between us, strong enough to cross the chasm of separation, and find acceptance.

May Love be the only language that we speak, and the only voice we hear. Don’t forget to read some poem, recite a prayer, or work of literature aloud to someone you love and wish to bless.

“Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not Love, I have become as sounding brass, and a clanging cymbal”. (ICor.13)

Wisdom Waits

2011-07-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

I have been slowly reading the books of Wisdom and it is true, "the words of the wise are like goads".
Praying and remembering Psalm 103, will condense our thoughts into open channels for prayer and deeper meditation and God reality.
The poet Emily Dickinson wrote: "I dwell in Possibility, a fairer house then Prose." (Poem #657)

Wisdom.
Wisdom waits
and lets the story unfold.
It doesn't pounce on an event
to pronounce it curse or blessing.
It understands that there is mystery
as layers of time are removed
in the shaping of our lives.
Wisdom waits
in the Land of Possibility,
allowing seeds of faith
to germinate
and teaches us
how to discover truths
hidden under each disguise
worn by the Loving Face of God.
Wisdom waits
with us, showing
how we can live
in not knowing.

When Kingdoms Collide

2011-02-27T10:56:00.000-08:00

Lichen painting a pattern on a Santa Cruz seawall

"The brutalities of progress are called revolutions. When they are over we realize this: that the human race has been roughly handled, but that it has advanced."
(the bishop speaking in Les Miserables by Victor Hugo)

A paradigm shift happens when "a series of peaceful interludes is punctuated by intellectually violent revolutions whereby one conceptual world is replaced by another". (Thomas Kuhn)
And of course, turmoil must follow, whether it is emotional, spiritual or political. Change is inevitable, and is the only true constant.
(Gr. para (beside)+ deigma (pattern, example, or sample)
We cannot live without a paradigm , a thought pattern, a framework of philosophy.

We have watched the tumultuous political shiftings of governments in Tunisia, Egypt, and now Libya displayed in living bloody color. More may yet unravel. And we watch with sympathetic wonder at both young and old who are emboldened to demonstrate their outrage at decades of injustice. One Libyan said that all he wanted to do was to live like a human being. The unanimous cry we hear is for Democracy, but not on our terms. Fair enough. We can only recommend and lead the fray into the chaos we call liberty, and the guarantee of human rights. They don't want our "shock and awe" kind of military intervention, thank you. They are willing to spill their own blood to gain the treasures of freedom, and raise their own flag in the battle. Those who are politically cynical have said they know the United States really doesn't give a damn about them, but has only wanted their oil. How else can we explain the years of courting these dictatorships in return for supplying our addiction?? Our familiar recompense was to supply them with weapons to strengthen their military arm. Those who are more naive have wanted us to come and rescue them. Perhaps and finally, this form of government we call a Democratic Republic is the very best that man has ever devised to offer the world.
We rest our case.

These are countries who have lived through a prohibition of progress based on an ideology that fears freedom of religion, of conscience, of women being educated, of technology, and sees only evil in these liberties, calling them the work of the "Great Satan". They are some 60 years behind the developing world, and have been denied basic human liberties, and above all, their human dignity. We can hardly appreciate their extraordinary moment in history, their rising up together, their storming the barricades. "Power to the people" is the tidal wave that is crashing now on every shore, even our own. But we can applaud their struggle to be recognized as a people by the global community of the 21st Century. Because we cannot yet predict the outcome of these conflicts, we may fear what kind of people will finally emerge. Will they turn their horns of power upon us, and rend our gut, we who introduced them to the potent wine of liberty and progress??

Christians proclaim a "gospel of the Kingdom" to a world constantly striving to gain power, one people over another, one nation against another, one kingdom over another. Our King was crucified because His Kingdom was not of this world, and wasn't even recognized or desired by His own people. He warned them that this Kingdom of God would be taken from them and given to a people who would cultivate it and bear its fruits. He chose not to use angelic armies, or human weapons to defend His authority. His earthly throne was a cross that bore witness to his true identity. From it he decreed only forgiveness and mercy.
His Kingdom of Love and Peace will one day reign over all the kingdoms of this world. We pray for his Kingdom to come, and be the final end of all human progress.
This is our hope during times of revolution and change.

Wash and Wear the New Year On

2011-01-13T17:51:00.000-08:00

Time has moved us inches forward,
in a motion much against our will.

Try to live in a dimension that keeps moving
further away from you.

You freeze a fibrous image
Into color-coated memories,
When once you were or seemed before
All traces vanish.
Nothing holds you to the core.

The heart 's rhythm is bound
To such a delicate perch.
You dream a dance around the sun
Stepping past each season,
and the feet will follow
Just a little while.
The vial of trickling sands can trick you
to delay the once forever power of the day,
And stream it into empty hours.
Trouble soon will shake the brittle moments down
Before the overturning hand begins again.

Lolling at the ocean's edge,
By time's distorted mirror,
We are mesmerized.
Much like a trance
It fills the horizons of our eyes.

Caught within its tumbler

Of timeless turning
We float past the familiar
And rest our hopes upon a heaving skin
that covers the unknown.

At times we wade
Through waves of yearning
Pushing toward tomorrow's meaning
And lose the gift of knowing
What is now is bathed in light
And borders all our present,
Is speaking from eternal space,
And guiding to the one true place
that has no end.

How to Spend Christmas

2010-12-20T09:20:00.000-08:00

CHRISTMAS LOVE

- paraphrase of 1 Corinthians 13

If I decorate my house perfectly with plaid bows, strands of twinkling lights and shiny balls, but do not show love to my family, I'm just another decorator.

If I slave away in the kitchen, baking dozens of Christmas cookies, preparing gourmet meals and arranging a beautifully adorned table at
mealtime, but do not show love to my family, I'm just another cook.

If I work at the soup kitchen, carol in the nursing home and give all that I have to charity, but do not show love to my family, it profits me nothing.

If I trim the spruce with shimmering angels and crocheted snowflakes, attend a myriad of holiday parties and sing in the choir's cantata but do not focus on Christ, I have missed the point.

Love stops the cooking to hug the child.

Love sets aside the decorating to kiss the spouse.

Love is kind, though harried and tired.

Love doesn't envy another's home that has coordinated Christmas china and table linens.
Love doesn't yell at the kids to get out of the way.

Love doesn't give only to those who are able to give in return but rejoices in giving to those who can't.

Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. Video games will break, pearl necklaces will be lost, golf clubs will rust, but giving the gift of LOVE will endure.

-Author Unknown

A Talk with Ranger John

2010-11-27T17:04:00.000-08:00

My Time in Yosemite

How can I describe the effects of pure beauty?

There were times, including the 50 minute drive home, that I would just stop and absorb the scenery. Most mornings on the drive to the Valley, I would stop somewhere along the road and get out for a short walk. I couldn’t help expressing my love for the mountains, the air, the wildlife, trees, and flowers.

I worked in the heart of Yosemite Valley with 16 other Campground Rangers. We oversaw the Campground Office located in Curry Village at the base of Glacier Point. In addition we took turns working in one of the campgrounds: Camp 4 (or Sunnyside), Upper, Lower and North Pines and Backpackers Camp. My work life could not have been better. Our job was to make sure the visitor’s vacation was going well and to answer 100s of questions daily. It is estimated that in a normal day we would speak to 150 +people. If you don’t like people and especially foreigners, it’s not the job for you. Working along side the Yosemite National Park Rangers taught me how important it was to show courtesy with the public, always.

Lunchtime would be one of the day’s highlights. I sat outside our campground office and could see Yosemite Falls, Half Dome, the Royal Arches and Glacier Point. A pretty nice lunchroom!! Visiting deer, brown bears, of course squirrels and crows were nearly a daily occurrence.

The stress level was about as low as could be registered. I learned well that any mistake I made, the other rangers had made as well and it was not a big deal; after all, it was only campsites we were dealing with.

There were many “I don’t believe it” moments. When someone would come into the campground office on one of the busiest weekends of the year, and possibly 200,000 people would be in the most visited park in the world, they would come up to the counter saying they needed a campsite and couldn’t believe we were booked solid for 5 months. Then they would get upset and tell us that they just drove 10 days to get there, and couldn’t understand why we didn’t have a campsite for them. Go figure? Our mantra at that point was: “Lack of planning of your part does not constitute an emergency on my part”.

One of the joys we experienced often would especially be with Europeans who were taught about Yosemite in their schools. They had been planning and dreaming about coming for years and now they were actually there. They always said, “It’s much better than I imagined” and would want to take a photo with us.

As a child living in Colorado my father loved the out of doors, and as a result I also fell in love with nature and the mountains. I decided in High School to become a Park Ranger. It took 42 years to see this dream come true. Out of 1000s of applicants for this position, I was chosen. As I learned later on, they don’t hire new people often.

I return next April for 6 months. It’s called seasonal work with good unemployment benefits in-between. I get to use my Spanish often, every now and then my limited Chinese, and even a couple of times, my baby Hungarian. 3 out of 4 visitors are from outside the USA from about every country on earth.

At times I felt like John Muir did and would just break out in song or praise to God for being in such beautiful surroundings.

One additional blessing was getting to know the volunteer campground host staff. They come and live in the campgrounds for 1 – 6 months at a time. I met some pretty amazing people among them and also among the vacationing campers. I met people from ALL walks of life and had lots of enjoyable conversations, and am looking forward to next season.

OPEN LETTER TO MY FRIENDS

2010-10-18T15:12:00.000-07:00

Dear friends who can’t abide “going to church”, or have found it boring, hypocritical, too religious, or too much like a business just wanting your money....

Imagine a church without liturgy, paid professional clergy, building fund or programs.

Imagine a church that isn’t cloned from a business corporation model but is an organism that grows according to a divinely imprinted genetic code, and functions from the life flowing within its members.

Imagine a church that is not like a high-powered train going full speed ahead on the old tracks laid down generations before it, but instead is a group of pilgrims going out for a walk, on a journey together, attentive to each other and the world around them, and to the God they love and serve.

Imagine a church that gathers around the person of Jesus, and doesn’t treat Him as an honored guest, or settles for an occasional visitation, but realizes that He is present with them, is the very center of their communal life, and honors Him as the Head, the one directing their activities.

Imagine a church where no one person takes center stage, but flows into a relationship of “one-anothering”, where each member has the freedom to pray, to sing, to share a word of scripture, in an atmosphere of openness and spontaneity.

Imagine a church that is not performance-driven, where you are not bound as a passive audience, but instead fosters a transformational dynamic, because each member can only grow spiritually by functioning in the Body.

Imagine a church that is not time-driven, not serving fast food, not addicted to sound bites, but serves each member a healthy portion of truth, love, and grace.

Imagine a church that is a healthy, caring family, one that is not dysfunctional, or disconnected, not afraid of real intimacy, but able to express love and affection for each brother and sister.

Too simple, or not realistic, or not happening, you say??

It is happening now, where ever the name and person of Jesus is honored and praised.

If you're thirsty, come and taste the new wine being poured into new wine skins.

(These are my thoughts after reading Frank Viola’s book, Re-imagining Church)

Mary Stewart Anthony

A TALE OF TWO PILGRIMS

2010-10-10T13:42:00.000-07:00


READING IN HIS FAVORITE CHAIR

In the 10th year of the 21st Century, there lived a man named John.
He has completed 61 years of his earthly life, walking with God his Father, his Elder Brother, Jesus, and his counselor, the Holy Spirit.
John had recently been transferred to Yosemite Valley, the "Range of Light". God had said, "Friend, come up higher". It was not a perfect place, like the garden of our beginnings, but a place where God's Glory had been gathered together into granite towers of grandeur.

There he was appointed to be a guardian of its beauty, to build an altar of worship, and to dig a well of living water as a sign of covenant to God's Faithfulness.
Since it was not good for him to be alone, he also enjoyed the companionship of his wife Mary. They are pilgrims on a journey together, to a city whose builder and maker is God. Their life together is forming a temple, invisible to man, and not made by human hands, as a dwelling place for His Spirit, and an entrance into His eternal Kingdom.
They are living under trails of His Glory,
and watching under veils of His Light.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY MY BELOVED JOHN. 10/11/10

Living on the Edge of Empty

2010-10-02T13:19:00.000-07:00

These are thoughts I've had on a lifestyle I can understand now because I once lived it.

"Living on the edge of empty" means not being concerned with taking time to be fully prepared and ready. It's more important to keep on going, no matter how much "go power" you have left. It is enough to have just enough to keep moving, not watching the dial, but just the road ahead, and the goal to reach, pushing past your last known extremity. You stop long enough to replenish, and don't mind running out, or being on empty. You keep on hoping there will be enough and there usually is. Becoming "empty" is not a problem, or a worry. Push the dial below empty as long as you can. You don't calculate it may cause you to stop. Let everything run out to a zero. It's not a catastrophe. Tomorrow is another day. No need to be on "full", or be "full on", or even feel full. I thought it was better to be slightly hungry all the time. Nothing wrong with that. Though I must admit I never liked to have an empty fridge, or a bare cupboard, because I grew up in poverty. A different extremity.

I lived this way as a single woman, and also as a single mother. I was often on the verge of collapse because I didn't know my limits. Now I have a companion who constrains me as we journey on together. He has helped me to slow down, and think about the next steps. He has probably saved my life, or at least has added years to my life. So, it's a life process that goes from extremity to moderation. It may not bring a rush of adrenalin but it has brought order from chaos, and peace of mind.
Does that mean I give up spontaneity, a very important part of creativity??? Never! May necessity ever be the mother of inventions.
Does that mean that I've stopped flying by the seat of my pants? Yes, a little, and maybe a lottle.
I still like life a little bit edgy, and find that life has its exciting turns, edges and presents us with new vistas. Don't want it to ever be "cookie cutter predictable". Oh no. Living by Faith never is. There's adventure enough to make every day exciting, if only we stop to listen, watch, and learn what's really going on around us.
Here's to every season that brings us to turning points.

Receiving the Gift of Silence in the 21st Century

2010-09-27T15:24:00.000-07:00

SILENCE: the secret food of the soul

Just as we need air to breathe in oxygen, to feed our brains, lungs, and heart, so we need silence to permeate the soul and give it breath. We yearn for a purer climate, and crave an unspoiled atmosphere in order to experience the greater reality beyond our sensory perceptions. There are spiritual counterparts to our ordinary ways of seeing, hearing, smelling, touching, and tasting. There is a place where we can cultivate and train them to apprehend that reality.

Silence is the secret place where we may eat the bread of Divine Presence, but only if we are willing to pay the price for entrance. This is a food we “know not of”, though it has been prepared for us. Fear blocks us from discovering that entrance, the fear of being alone and shut in with a cacophony of voices threatening to tell us who we really are. Silence is the only place where we can shut them up, and reduce them to a drone of background noise. Then we are free to learn the art of listening for the soul’s true voice. This is a crucial step, as crucial as learning to breathe deeply in order to relax a tired mind and body. As you learn to listen, you become a receiver; as you learn to be a receiver, you become a transmitter.

What happens when we first see a natural phenomenon like the Grand Canyon? These are measurements too vast for us to fathom all at once. It takes time to scale the chasm’s depth, to follow the long, unending walls, and scan the horizon spread above them. We are drawn into a physical immensity that shatters the ordinary boundaries of time and space. Our truest self, the soul, can only bow in awe. The journey follows a path where we must descend a mile down into the deepest place we have ever known.

The silence that lives at the canyon’s bottom is primordial. We step into a desert that dissolves us in its heat, but the surround-sound of silence, where even birds do not sing, where the cicada filters the air to a low hum, where a creek whispers mercy under the pale green umbrella of Cottonwoods, stills us, stops us, and distills our thoughts into a deep well of quietness. All our senses are primed into a sweet expectancy. We were made to live in community with our natural habitat. The sense of separation we have long endured, imposed by pressures to perform in the drama of modern life, falls away. We are free to expose our wounds to the sweet air of silence and feel a healing balm removing barbs of pain. Now we are assured that whatever is not made of Love cannot live here.

Learning that we are part of something so much greater than ourselves brings us into the “Shalom” of inner harmony. Our eyes have seen a vision of the outer world that causes the reservoir of our inner world to be flooded with the beauty of this realm. We learn to walk along much smaller, and make our steps much slower. Now we can accept with humility the gift of human frailty, as we are dwarfed beneath such grandeur. A new perspective has radically altered the canvas of our self-image and self- homage, and it is newly framed by golden moments we have gathered from nature’s riches.

The many selves that once had ruled us, fracturing us into endless role-playing, and changing costumes through countless distractions, have been subdued into union with our truest self, our soul. We have gained the prize of an eternal possession, the only one we may keep when it is time to journey on beyond this vale of tears and delight. The deep well of silence has washed us from our own idolatry, and removed the veils of pretense and pride. Two worlds have met, and in communion, kissed each other. We are born free and clear. God comes now, by invitation only, and is pleased to dwell within us.

Who are the "People of the Book"?

2010-09-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

I guess it's time to enter into the current dialogue concerning the Muslim faith and its place in history. We as Americans need to understand some fundamental spiritual differences that cause hostilities.

   Muslims refer to Christians as "People of the Book" in the Koran. Actually, the opposite is true. They are the "People of the Book". Why? Because they consider their book sacred and holy, and the language of Arabic it is written in, as sacred and holy.

   Well, don't Christian and Jews consider the Bible to be sacred and holy? Yes, but not as an object to be venerated. If we leave it on the floor, or it falls there, we don't go into an apoplexy. If our darling little child tears up a page, or scribbles on it with a crayon, we haven't committed a grave sin of carelessness. The Bible has also been translated into almost as many languages as have been recorded. We don't have to learn Hebrew, Greek or Latin, nor do we consider these languages sacred in any way.

   Mohamed gave his people the Koran because he was convinced that the Hebrew scriptures, and the New Testament translations from Greek were corrupted. So, he "corrected" the errors, after he had received a revelation of the Koran from an angel he called Gabriel that appeared to him in a cave.
Some of the major errors were the following:
1) God has no son.
2) Jesus did not die on the cross. Someone else did in his place.
3) Therefore there is no act of Redemption, no need for a Savior, and no Resurrection from the Dead.
4)Ishmael is Abraham's son of promise, and he was the one he brought to Mt. Moriah to be a burnt
offering.

   I remember being proselytized by a Muslim neighbor I had befriended. She sat me down on her couch and rapid-fired her doctrine at me, and these were the very points she covered. It was enlightening, and caused me to search the scriptures for any specific promise to her people. Isaiah wrote that God calls Egypt "His People", and God abundantly blessed the Arab nations. However, it was through Isaac's line, and the Hebrew nation that the Messiah was promised.
   I sensed her frustration in being viewed as a second-class citizen in Israel. She was a Palestinian and had Arafat's picture on her wall. He was very much her hero and liberator. We were able to have a dialogue of sorts, but she remained adamant in her position, though she did introduce me to her friends as a "good woman".

   I'm not addressing the issues of doctrine, but merely the concept of a sacred book that can't be stepped upon, defaced, or maltreated in any way. The punishment is swift and deadly!! This is where the difference lies. We are not "People of the Book" as they call us. We are the People of God. The person of God, and His son, Jesus, receive our veneration and allegiance. The Cross has been trampled on, the Bible has been burned and defaced (along with the people who carried them). Churches have been ransacked and dishonored, burned and torn down (along with the people inside them). But these things, these objects, are merely symbols that distinguish Christians from other faiths. The relationship we have with God as our Father, through His Son, Jesus is what we hold as sacred.

Wordless Prayer

2010-08-23T14:16:00.000-07:00

I sit open-souled in a soft white chair,
suspended, groping for a pendulum of hope.
my mouth, silenced by your grief.

I need words like rain
to fall like mists of mercy,
like tender dew from heaven
to undo the hard edges of your pain.

And then they came,
carried by the salted waters of the heart,
breaking open the shuttered eyes,
and smothering the lips,
because they are still too soft
to be spoken.

I know the Father
of all that is Light
has heard
my wordless prayer.

Churchianity: A Surrogate Bride of Christ?

2010-07-18T15:07:00.000-07:00

This is an image of Lower Yosemite Falls, a picture of God's Power, allowed to run free, and of his beauty, unspoiled by man. That's why people are drawn to this place. It has an unearthly, even an eternal quality. We also watched two men dare to walk back and forth on a wire strung above these falls, determined to be conquerors, above the fray. For twenty minutes frail humanity displayed an unearthly courage.

A lot can happen in twenty minutes and in twenty centuries.
Oh yeah. Especially to the Church, the Body of Christ, His Bride-to-be, on earth.

What I am struggling with right now is NOT Obamacare, and other issues of social insanity; I am struggling with the issues of Corporate Christianity as practiced in the world of Mega-Churchianity.
What in the world does it mean to be a 21st C. Christian in America? Where do I belong? How then shall I live?

Biblical Reality tells us that the Church is a Community, based on mutuality, respect and love, not a Corporation based on top-dog-ism or one-up-man-ship.
Hal Miller says it well:
"Unfortunately the metaphor that dominates most of American Christianity doesn't help us much; we usually envision the church as a corporation. The pastor is the CEO, there are committees and boards. Evangelism is the manufacturing process by which we make our product, and sales can be charted, compared, and forecast. Of course this...goes on in a growth economy so that any[church]...whose annual sales figures aren't up from last year's is in trouble." ( p. 97 of "Reimagining Church" by F. Viola)

This may seem unduly cynical to some. But consider this. God did not send his Son Jesus to make a business contract with human beings. It was a last ditch plea for Reconciliation to the Father, a final Restoration of the Imago Dei in humanity, resulting in a New Creation", and a New Covenant of Grace and Mercy.
" The church, then, not only is called to proclaim the Gospel. but to EMBODY it by its communitarian life. Unfortunately, the church in the west is dominated by individualistic, anti-communal forces. Its obsession with consumerism, individualism, and materialism has kept it from fulfilling God's ultimate intention." (p.147, Viola)

I keep thinking of China, where John and I lived for two years. The Church there is exploding through the house church paradigm, by necessity, and also by preference. They are a culture trained to think as a group, rather than as individuals. I also remember the teachings of Watchman Nee, their great prophet and martyr. As a young Jesus Person in the 70s, his words became our watchwords. Could it be that God may raise up the church in China to remind us of what it meant to be a 1st C. Christian?

And what if His eternal purposes were as simple as these?:

From the beginning, God wanted a Bride to marry, a house to live in, a family to enjoy, and a visible body through which to express Himself." (p.147, Viola)

And then there is the question of, who's in charge?
Just as in any religious institution, like Judaism, Catholicism, and Protestantism, we have accepted the idea of paying or supporting a group of religious specialists to take our place, and carry the spiritual burden of feeding the flock of God. Remember the Israelites pleading with Moses to not let God speak to them anymore lest they die?

We have divided the spoils of leadership into a caste system of clergy and laity, professional and amateur. There is status, position, and title to be awarded within the institutional church today. However Jesus said specifically that we were NOT to be cast in that image, but rather to become servants, and even more outrageously, as children. Leadership in the Kingdom is an upside down paradigm, based on character and inner spiritual power, or the "dunamis" of the Spirit. And our individualism has created a "House Divided", a myriad of denominations. We know that the author of confusion is not God. We are like an old leaking wineskin that cannot take any more patches, please.

I see the Church standing the human community as an Embassy, representing the Kingdom of Heaven still invisible to mortal eyes. We, who already have our citizenship papers in order, are Ambassadors for that unseen Kingdom, opening the doors so that all may enter, find forgiveness for their sin, and shelter from the oppression and injustices of this world.

"Our Father, which art in heaven, your Kingdom come..."

Books to read: Reimagining Church by Frank Viola;
Pagan Christianity by George Barna and F. Viola

John Muir: 19th Century Beatnik, Mystic and Romantic

2010-07-05T14:06:00.000-07:00

   We have been transplanted for a season to the sacred mountains of John's Muir's Yosemite. He is an old-fashioned planetary hero, the kind who engenders legends, and a timeless traveler through the lands he helped preserve for generations to enjoy. The great granite halls of Yosemite are not haunted by Muir, but rather echo his God songs of praise.

   Muir recorded in poetic prose the lessons given by trees, rivers, mountains, and glaciers. As its devoted student of the "school of the wilderness", Muir became the eyes and ears of the land he loved, and caused others to learn the beauty of its lessons. Even as a young boy growing up in Scotland, he was filled with "derring-do", and obsessed with expressing his inherent love of wildness. He saw almost a virginal purity in it. Early on he exhibited extraordinary skills as a climber, which he would later use to their fullest, and which consequently saved his life at times.

   After a welding accident which temporarily blinded him, John turned his back on normal society, education and career, and called himself nothing more than a "tramp" or wanderer. In reality, he was a Botanist, a scientific pioneer, a shepherd, a sawyer, a mountaineer, an explorer, a wilderness conservationist, a writer and an occasional nature guide. He has many a story to tell of conquest and discovery, of rapture and of grief. His passion was to see, to listen, to revere "all things wild" before the machinery of civilization, saddled with the curse of competition, instead of God's intended spirit of cooperation, would trample them, as sheep had savaged the grasses of Yosemite's valley.

   "If my soul could get away from this so-called prison...my first ramble would not be among the volcanoes of the moon...I should hover about the beauty of our own good star...I should study Nature's laws in all their crossings and unions...And I should go to the very center of our globe, and read the whole page from the beginning."

After reading his life and writings, I have come to the conclusion that John Muir is a rare kind of genius, a Renaissance man, and someone worthy of renewed attention as we grapple with 21st century issues. His work was to preserve Yosemite for our enjoyment, and our spiritual connection with nature. He was convinced of the healing qualities of its beauty and simplicity.
Since we have entered the global age, our challenge and our legacy is to preserve the entire planet.
May God give us a passion to preserve this beautiful "star" of the universe.

   Recommended reading:
"Son of the Wilderness", a biography, and "Story of my Boyhood", an autobiography

Marriage in the Bank

2010-05-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

Investment strategies: Either Marriage on the rocks or Marriage in the bank.
Irreconcilable differences or a union of mutual interests that grows and is compounded daily.
We can bank on our marriage, or bankrupt it, and let it go bust.
Since John and I value the gift of our marriage, we invest in it heavily.
He and I had both bankrupted our first marriages. They were failed estates.
We lost our investments and went belly up.
Our hearts were tied to the millstones of sorrow and shame, and sank.

I used to think that marriage was a right, not a privilege.
It is a privileged responsibility to share your life with someone, and taking it even further,
to commit to them for the remainder of your lives together.
Commitment raises it to a level of real importance, of incalculable worth.
It becomes a shelter and a refuge for others who are drifting.
Children and their children are comforted. Family and Friends are uplifted.
My brother John just celebrated his 50th Wedding Anniversary.What an achievement!
My husband John and I just celebrated our 30th.
We have much to wonder at and ponder over at this milestone on our journey.
What to pass on??

An invisible inheritance. A living legacy. A timeless trust.

The most valuable investment strategy is taking time, giving time, and making time together.
Time is the only resource we really have. And that is a gift from our Creator. An unknown quantity.
Have you wasted it, spent it like mad, thrown it to the winds, or buried it like a dog buries his bone?
I have, and still have to rescue it from the thoughtless grind of meanderings, of tooth and nail habits that inhibit spontaneity, of worries that spill into tomorrow, of guilt that shadows our missteps from the past, slowing our footsteps into the present.

Love is the principal. Time is the regular investment, coupled with interest. The mutual gain is honor, respect and loyalty, the hallmarks of a true and enduring friendship.
Courtesy is the oil that makes our marriage shine.
I am blessed that I am his and he is mine.

Where Were You When Iceland Burned?

2010-05-01T16:40:00.000-07:00

We were on our way to celebrate 30 years of matrimony in France. You know, Paris in the Springtime.
A month of romantic moments, culinary delights, and artistic inspiration went up in smoke.

Wresting beauty from ashes, after watching an exquisite dream get buried in the debris of fiery winds; and hoping to find some meaningful remnants, is as solemn as an act of God. No need to rescue it. Wait for it to rise. Nothing can obliterate what is truly beautiful. It will take another form, shake free from ashes, and reveal a still-beating heart.

   In fact, it all began with an act of God. The volcano with an unspeakable name, on a glacier in Iceland, broke through the ice and spewed a torrential rain of ash over Europe. This, after 190 years of silence!! It really caused us to pause, and a slew of airplanes to stay on the ground. An enormous cloud of chaos swept through the crowded European airports. Important appointments were missed, plans were disrupted, vacations vanished into ashen air, as people were caught in the web of the no-fly zone. Global commerce was halted. That meant flowers wilting on the tarmac, food spoiling in freight boxes, jobs on hold, and money frozen. Everyone and everything was told to wait, and wait, and wait, until it was safe to move again.

   It was a stunning reminder that we are not in control. And we do need reminding.

   And so we canceled our Anniversary trip to France, after my husband John's work of a year and a half, planning for it. He had scoured the countryside and cities on maps, secured hotel bookings, and formed the itinerary. It was impressive to see on paper. Why should we cancel it completely, instead of just delaying it?? For us, it was both simple and profound. A powerful force of nature had cut across the landscape of our dreams, and we just bowed to the moment.

Searching for Beauty in the wasteland of disappointment causes us to climb to the watchtower, where our vision can stretched past present limitations. A broader canvas is ready to be painted. Hope ripples through the heart, and we find the strength to start again.

   So much of our soul had been wrapped up in this dream getaway. John was excited to visit Giverney, and see Monet's ( his favorite artist), garden in the flesh, and take a million photos of Paris blooming in the spring (he's an awesome photographer). He longed to taste the vast array of cheeses and food delicacies like real onion soup, croissants and French coffee. I looked forward to sampling the fresh loaves of bread, the pastries, of days spent roaming through endless cathedrals, the Louvre, and visiting Rouen where my childhood heroine, Joan of Arc, was burned at the stake as a witch. And, of course I longed to speak French again, as I had done in my college days, when I thought I was French.

   On Monday, the day before, we were literally all packed and ready to go! But timing is everything in life, and this just wasn't our time for a romantic French holiday! The suitcases were left filled, and we settled into a brief mourning, of rearranging our priorities, of wondering why now and what was next.

   John is so wise. He said we should walk and not run. Meaning, let's not rush to fill in the void. And so we took slow steps forward, in between sighing over the disappointment of it all. Then John remembered that our granddaughter Rebekah (age 19) had wanted us and her family to tour her college campus, Simpson University in Redding, California. John found a cabin to rent (it had to have a wood-burning stove) near Mt. Shasta, a beautiful snow-covered quiet volcano, and one her mother Aimee (age 18), John and I had climbed in 1983. It was wonderful to see our old field of conquest again. Rebekah stayed with us between her final exams, and her family joined us for two days. We talked about her future and our past, played croquet with all the grandchildren, shared meals and movies, went canoeing and boat paddling on the small lake nearby, took long walks among the tall pines, and had a blast being together. Of course, John and I had time of romance, simple, homespun American-style, alone.

The family hearth burned ever so brightly. And our hearts were healed.

A Sky Telegram to my Irish Mother

2010-03-23T15:45:00.000-07:00

She was born on Easter Sunday, 1910, and died in early March of 1998, just before her 89th birthday on March 27. That's a long time to be part of the 20th century! Long enough to see the birth of airplanes, cars, telephones, radios, televisions, spaceships, computers, and cell phones. Enough to make your head spin, and your heart ache for the old turf fire, and the green hills of home.

Susan Teresa McBride was raised in Northern Ireland during the time of the Easter Uprising, the birth of the IRA and the scourge of the Black and Tans. Her main problem was her religion, being born a Roman Catholic. She was a bloody papist who lived in British Protestant Ireland. Another black mark against her was that she spoke a forbidden language, Gaelic. The Dividing Walls of generational hatred rose up all around her. The boundaries had been fixed, and death or mutilation were the rewards of those who dared to cross over.

Her family and friends enabled her to escape the violence they gently called the "Troubles". She came to America via Canada with two sisters, and married into a Protestant German-American family, newly immigrated just one generation. But Susan never forgot Ireland, her family, and her turf farm there. New York City became her adopted homeland, not far from Ellis Island and its statue proclaiming safe refuge to the persecuted and liberty to the oppressed.
She raised eight children, after having lost three in miscarriage. Her faith in God sustained her through the tough times, and the challenges of living with an alcoholic. That faith was transferred to my father at the end of his life, and he ended well. They lived out his days together, after he had suffered a stroke, and renewed their marriage vows before he died.

I think my mother ended well, too. She became more childlike and helpless, in the care of her daughter Margaret.The fight within her had subsided, as her eye became fixed on her Eternal Home.

Happy Birthday in Heaven, Mom. It's time for a cup of tea, and dancing a little jig!

Baking Bread the SLOW Way

2010-03-02T16:27:00.000-08:00

Making sourdough bread the long SLOW way, is the best way, the "Moro" way, and is based on a cookbook published by Ebury Press, London. This is the opposite of FAST FOOD.

Nani Steele, the fabulous cook of "My Nepenthe" fame was kind enough to give me a child from her mother starter. And I was stoked to begin learning the art of sourdough baking.

I have tried twice, and now understand the process much better. I've made bread before but making sourdough THE SLOW WAY takes it to a new level.

It uses a starter in place of yeast, which allows it to rise slowly. Baking it in a VERY HOT oven gives it the crunchy crust. Using a good amount of salt to counteract the sour taste is unusual. The loaf pictured above was made in a dutch oven, which worked, but wasn't the best choice. Next time I'll use two pans.

The recipe comes with a warning: THIS TAKES TIME, as in TWO days!! Don't freak out yet. Just wade through the steps, and dive in!

Before you can begin this at all, take out your starter from the fridge, throw away the brownish liquid, and feed it. Let it stay at room temperature, and check to see that it is smelling strong, with lots of bubble action.

STAGE ONE: Friday night before you go to bed

3 1/2 cups unbleached four, organic if possible,

2 1/2 cups water,

1 1/8 cup starter

Whisk together in a large bowl until smooth, cover and leave overnight, away from drafts.

Since it was still cold weather, I heated the oven for 5 min on low., shut it off , and placed the bowl inside.

Remember to feed the starter with 1 cup flour, 1 1/4 cup water, and stir. Let it sit out a while before putting back in fridge.

STAGE TWO: Saturday morning, sometime before noon.

Stir in 3 1/2 cups of flour into the bubbly mass that's been fermenting overnight. Stir and then give 5 minutes for resting the dough before second stirring. Add 2-3 teaspoons of sea salt.

No need to knead this dough. It is quite wet, but comes together nicely as you gently fold it, careful not to break all the bubbles from the rising.

Divide the dough into oiled and floured pans, no more than 2/3 full, and let rise again uncovered for another 3-5 hours, or longer, until risen just over the top of the pan. This is a most crucial step.

During the last hour of the final rising, preheat the oven to 450 degrees!

Adding a pan of water to create a steam bath underneath the pans helps create the artisan crust!

Bake for 30 minutes, and then remove the bread from the tins, and bake for another 10 -15 minutes. Look for the crust to be brown and hard. Tap bottoms to see if they sound hollow. Transfer to cooling racks, and try to wait before cutting into them. Hardest part.

You'll never feel the same about breadmaking again.

Bon chance, mes amies!

An Asian Brunch for Love's Sake

2010-02-27T11:51:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I become brain dead when it comes to cooking breakfast or brunch. You know, staring at cookbooks as if they were Math problems. Granola and yogurt doesn't cut it.
My MAC is my new cookbook. Suddenly an old recipe comes bobbing up to the surface. I fished it out, did a quick google check and put it back into my repertoire. Mine came in the form of a Chinese dish called "Egg Foo Yung with mushroom sauce" recently. Since I can't eat eggs in most forms, and my husband loves the yucky runny kinds, I was able to re-concoct this one for Love's sake. He heard the word, "egg" and his heart skipped a beat. I went to work promising him he wouldn't be disappointed. He wasn't.

Basic Ingredients:
fresh soy bean sprouts, eggs, green onions, mushrooms, corn starch, soy sauce, chicken stock, dry sherry
Spray your favorite saute pan with oil or use 2TB sesame oil.
Saute 2-3 diced green onions and mix with bean sprouts (enough to cover your pan)
Whisk 2 TB soy sauce into 3-4 eggs or 1 cup egg substitute.
Pour over sprouts and onions. Cook using medium heat. You are making a thin egg pancake.
While it's getting nice and brown, saute 6 sliced mushrooms separately in 1TB canola or olive oil.
Mix 1Tb corn starch or flour in water or a little chicken stock if handy. Add to cooked mushrooms.
Add 1/4 cup sherry to the mixture and let simmer and thicken.
Fold your egg pancake in half and serve with sauce.
For extra garnish I may add chopped green onions, and dry roasted noodles.
Now that's the way to eat eggs!! (for people like me)
This definitely was a win-win one.

This can become a quick dinner if you add rice and steamed edamame, or zucchini.
Sometimes I add diced sweet red peppers to the sprouts and onions for a more colorful look.

Rainy Day Supper

2010-01-19T21:03:00.000-08:00

French Lentil Soup

I prefer to use organic French Lentils that are light green and delicate. They are quick cooking as well.
Most ingredients I use are organic. My daughter Lucy has been educating me on health food.
This was a humongous pot, be prepared. Enough to freeze and save.

After washing about 4 cups, I use a carton of Trader Joe's Organic Chicken broth and enough water to cover. Then I chopped half an onion, 4 or 5 stalks of celery, 3/4 lb of baby carrots, squeezed 2 fat garlic buds, and sauteed them in 1/4 cup olive oil. After softening I "bathed them in swich liqueur"(Canterbury Tales). Approx. 1/3 cup of cream sherry. I experimented with adding sun-dried tomatoes because I read that canned tomatoes are not as healthful. That wasn't a good move until I added 1 cup of tomato sauce to the soup. Much better. They had an acidic taste and needed a sweeter base methinks. The spices are 2 tsp. each of oregano, and basil, Mrs. Dash herb/garlic mix, 1 tsp. curry, and Tamari soy sauce to taste. I also added Saag's non-nitrate chicken sausage slices.
Twas hearty, and very filling. The fresh bread added the "piece de resistance".Too good for words.
Bread and I see eye to eye.

How to Sharpen your TOB Skills

2010-01-19T16:18:00.000-08:00

I adapted this article from a post by Dr. Mercola, who is on the far end of the health food frontier, and am going to incorporate some of his ideas. His website is www.mercola.com

Thinking outside the box (TOB) means approaching problems in new, innovative ways and conceptualizing problems differently.

1. Study another industry: Go to the library and pick up a trade magazine in an industry other than your own, or grab a few books from the library, and learn about how things are done in other industries. I often talk with John about construction details, and we regularly watch TED TALKS.

2. Learn about another religion: Religions are the way that humans organize and understand their relationships not only with the supernatural or divine but with each other. Learning about how such relations are structured can teach you a lot about how people relate to each other and the world around them. This is the compassionate way to break the barrier of prejudice (meaning pre-judging), and learn to listen to another point of view.

3. Take a class: Learning a new topic will not only teach you a new set of facts and figures, it will teach you a new way of looking at and making sense of aspects of your everyday life or of the society or natural world you live in It's been a while (50 years) since I've studied French, Have tapes, will listen before our trip to France this Spring. Will take a Writing workshop, and learn how to make collages.

4. Read a novel in an unfamiliar genre: Try reading something you’d never have touched otherwise -- if you read literary fiction, try a mystery or science fiction novel; if you read a lot of detective novels, try a romance; and so on. Pay attention not only to the story but to the particular problems the author has to deal with. I'm so picky about what I read. This one is hard, but I relish the idea of changing genres.

5. Write a poem: While most problem-solving leans heavily on your brain’s logical centers, poetry neatly bridges your more rational left-brain thought processes and your more creative right-brain processes. This is easy for me, and I have one in the cooker.

6. Draw a picture: Drawing a picture is even more right-brained, and can help break your logical left-brain’s hold on a problem the same way a poem can. I would love to take a sketch book and do some watercolors in France. I have very little confidence here.

7. Turn it upside down: Turning something upside-down, whether physically by flipping a piece of paper around or metaphorically by re-imagining it can help you see patterns that wouldn’t otherwise be apparent. Love doing this, and maybe too experimental for my own good.

8. Work backwards: Just like turning a thing upside down, working backwards breaks your brain’s normal conception of causality. I guess I've done this with mistakes in knitting.

9. Ask a child for advice: Children think and speak with an ignorance of convention that is often helpful. Love this one. Childlikeness, openness, wonder. Don't want to lose that. Listened to my own children, and have learned a lot.

10. Invite randomness: Embracing mistakes and incorporating them into your projects, developing strategies that allow for random input, working amid chaotic juxtapositions of sound and form -- all of these can help you to move beyond everyday patterns of thinking into the sublime. Oh man, have I done this one, out of sheer desperation. There have been some wonderful discoveries.

11. Take a shower: There’s some kind of weird psychic link between showering and creativity. Who knows why? So maybe when the status quo response to some circumstance just isn’t working, try taking a shower and see if something remarkable doesn’t occur to you! I love to take walks by the ocean. Cleansing the mind, refreshing the soul. Used to love to take baths for those reasons.

Christmas and the Avatar

2010-01-05T13:23:00.000-08:00

What is an avatar? The word is from ancient Sanskrit, "ava+ tarati" literally means "he crosses through", and is used to describe a "descent of a deity from heaven". An avatar may also be an embodiment of a quality or a concept; an archetype, and is also used to describe the temporary manifestation or aspect of a continuing entity. Why was"nektar" a necessary drink for the gods ?
Because "nek"=death and "tar"=overcoming by passing through meant it was actually a cocktail to secure their immortality.

   During the Christmas season John and I decided to do something we have rarely ever done. We went to a movie theater and watched the much touted Avatar a "trompe l'oeil" in 3D, a graphic designer's dream world, filled with fantastical imagery. Like Star Wars, it will become a cultural icon. This sci-fi masterpiece used modern technology to caste a new spin on the definition of avatar by creating a new species, combining human DNA with that of the Na'vi, a primitive tribe inhabiting an untamed frontier wilderness, on a moon called Pandora. Like the myth, this world would unleash a terrible mix of humanity's most evil desires.

   These tall elegant blue-green avatars are commissioned to infiltrate the Na'vi, learn their ways in order to subdue and subjugate them. Why the invasion? Their planet has a substance, ironically called "unobtanium", that these "sky people"(the scientists and soldiers who came on space ships) need to save the planet earth from a path of self-destruction. ("They have killed their mother, There is no green left", thus said the avatar).

   Jake, a disabled marine, an unlikely member of this group, guides his avatar through mesmerizing jungle terrain, and beats back ferocious animals before he encounters his first native. Instead of killing him, the beautiful amazon saves him from the jaws of death, and watches as he is mysteriously anointed by her people's deity. It is a sign she can't ignore, and so brings him to her sacred tribal home, where she is told to teach him their ways. One important lesson for this avatar to learn is the sacred connection of all living things within her world. And this particular earthling, crippled by war, who has perhaps lived through a catastrophic polar ice melt, toxic air pollution, and ever increasing desertification is more than just listening. The film takes us far enough into the future so we too can have a hindsight experience. It's 2154, and a mining colony has been established to get what they need to survive, with or without the native's cooperation.

    A crisis slowly evolves through the avatar's relationship. What had seemed like a dream world at first becomes his new reality and Jake has a paradigm shift of values which forces him to make a decision, and even risk his life. A war of worlds ensues. The story is not new, and even lacks a cohesive plot. But Cameron is more a messenger than a storyteller. He has the military personnel use some familiar phrases like, "Shock and awe", and "we'll fight terror with terror".

   So does Avatar have a compelling message for us at the dawn of the 21st Century?
We are confronted with a multi-dimensional dilemma, that of building up the machinery for modern warfare to deal with terror threats, of a planet that is in peril because of our ignorance and neglect, of the questionable ethics for nation building, and of a media-driven government and political power brokers, of genocide, poverty and global hunger.
"Violence is the behavior pattern of Power in the modern world, and violence has its own etiquette and ritual, and its own morality". (Howard Thurman)

   Every year we welcome back Christmas and its message of Peace. The angelic message relayed to humble shepherds, and to us as common man, has yet to be realized. "Peace on earth to men of good will". Though there are several analogies, Jesus did not come as our avatar. He came to us as a helpless baby, born into humble circumstance, not as a full-blown deity. He lived and suffered here as a human being, was murdered by his own people, and cut down in the prime of his life. He chose the way of love, truth and non-violence. He told Pilate, the Roman governor, that his kingdom was not of this world, and that his followers would not fight to save him. He was anointed by the Holy Spirit, and used his power to heal and deliver people from demonic forces. He was not a warrior King, but a Prince of Peace.

     Jesus, the second Adam, the Son of God, stepped into the line of sinners, received the sentence of death, pronounced upon our parents in the garden of Eden. But Jesus, the new Adam, was innocent
of sin, so death could not hold him. He had no nektar to drink, but fully tasted the bitterness of a cruel death. Now he represents us in heaven, and has promised to come back, not as our avatar, but as our brother, bringing true peace on earth.
Maranatha.

The two-faced god of time

2010-01-01T14:31:00.000-08:00

Janus is the Roman god of gates and doorways, depicted with two faces that look forward and backward. His name is taken from the Latin, inanus, meaning archway or doorway, and gives us our month of January.

And so we begin 2010 by looking back with great yearning, nostalgia, and thankfulness. The past decade, a string of ten years, has been woven into our tapestry. Watch how they add deeper shades of color and meaning to our unfolding story.

So much treasure has been given, which we will store carefully. Some things have been taken away, and leave us with empty spaces. Yet, this too may be another kind of treasure. Every living thing must be trained, trimmed, cut back, to make room for more light and new growth. And so we endure the pain, the loss, and leave the questions that remain, unanswered. Mistakes can be incorporated and find a place alongside successes. Somehow their hidden meaning will be grasped, if only we will go on.

And so we lock the gate of the past year, and put the key in a secret place. The cycle is closed by the time that has been spent, but remains open to probings from the heart. It is sacred now because it lives enshrined in memory. Every word spoken, both kind and cruel, every thought that trembled with potential for good or evil, every deed done or not done, has been recorded, written by our flesh and blood, bone and marrow. They can be buried but cannot be erased.

And now we walk through the doorway of today into the future, looking forward with a new resolve. It will be better because we carry treasure, the jewels of wisdom reaped from the past. The new words we have learned interpret the unknown into the familiar. We can do this. We can speak the language of tomorrow. Time is only a measurement of our days and nights, but it cannot contain us forever.
Hope carries us, Faith strengthens us, and Love lifts us.

God Loves us. And I know for sure that "My rescued life, [is] a song". (Psalm 71, the Message)

"All Shook Up", or Why Metaphor Matters.

2009-12-24T11:14:00.000-08:00

One of our favorite podcasts is TED TALKS, and I was unusually "shook up" by a recent one given by James Geary. Using the metaphor popularized by none other than Elvis Presley, he managed to pin my mind down to the mat, and made me listen, over and over again about why metaphor matters.
RW Emerson says that "Language is fossil poetry". Geary says it was metaphor before it was poetry.

As a writer, I constantly probe the mystery of language. Poetry thrills me. Philology lures me to the very edge of discovering how word formations spring from ancient roots.

He convinced me how essential Metaphor is to learning, communicating and inventing.
Geary says we utter about six metaphors a minute. Like microbes, metaphors live their invisible secret life all around us, and are as ubiquitous. They are the very fabric of our thought process as we are constantly comparing what we know with what we don't know.

He uses Aristotle's definition of metaphor: a process of giving a thing a name that belongs to something else, or to say it mathematically, x = y.
We are wired to understand one concept in terms of another. Metaphor is a way of thinking before it is a way with words.
"Love is a many-splendored thing" We give Love, an abstract term, some flesh and blood by dressing it with a whole network of analogies. (ie., looking and admiring a valuable, priceless jewel with many light-catching facets)
"The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas" from "The Highwayman" depicts the moon as a storm-tossed ship, being buffeted by wild waves of clouds.
"Juliet is the sun" is the way Shakespeare describes his tragic heroine. And so what belongs to the sun now belongs to Juliet: light, radiance, warmth, constancy, etc.)

Geary goes on to explain how we make and/or understand metaphors:
1) by pattern recognition or creation of new patterns
2) by conceptual synesthesia (experiencing one sense organ thru another sense organ, i.e., colored hearing, or musical vision)
3) cognitive dissonance (we cannot ignore the literal meaning of words, and neither can we ignore the metaphorical meaning of words. i.e., "some jobs are jails" is literally false and metaphorically true.

Geary quotes from another authority, Einstein:
"Combinatory play seems to be the essential feature in productive thought." (i.e., to unleash the mind's creative energy, multiply metaphor by the square of the speed of light.)
Metaphorical thinking is like a flint, striking a spark, and shaking up the mind into new patterns.

If that wasn't enough authority, Geary also quotes from Descartes, "Je pense donc je suis, otherwise known as, Ego cogito, ergo sum".
" co + agitare" can be translated, "I shake things together, therefore I am really thinking, and am really alive". Geary likened our minds to a plastic snow dome which needs to be shaken up in order to be transformed into a thing of beauty.
I am thankful for the moments in my life of being "all shook up".

When this soup's on, it's not a "soupcon".

2009-11-19T18:11:00.000-08:00

This is a french word meaning "a touch, a hint of, a slight trace, a small amount", from the OF word, sospecon=suspicion.
This soup is anything but that. It's usually called 13 or 15 bean soup, and is meant for the season of soups, winter. I bought a mix from my local grocer called Sunset Soup Mix, pictured below.

Ingredients: Dark Red kidney beans, green and yellow split peas, green and red lentils, great Northern beans, pinto beans,
navy beans, black beans, red chili beans, azuki beans, and the
lovely barley. (13!) ALL ORGANIC!!

I soaked 2 cups overnight, and then rinsed them well next morning, added 4 cups of vegetable broth, a large can of tomato chunks, sliced & peeled 6 carrots, and spices like cumin, rosemary, oregano, sea salt, and any herbs you care to use. While it was on the slow boil, I sauteed 4 stalks of celery, 1/2 large onion, squeezed 4 cloves of garlic (freezing garlic makes it squeeze easily....an eg. of onomatopoeia?), and added all that good stuff.
Then I sliced 8 cooked chicken/apple sausages (Skaags is a no nitrate brand), added those, and finally crowned it all with a 1/2 cup of sherry.

This is a slowly simmering soup, so give it 3-4 hours of time. The longer, the better. The barley thickens it nicely as it bubbles along.

Of course, such a heartwarming soup must have freshly made whole wheat bread to make it a meal for any regular royalty, like you, like your guests who can't believe the smell of your kitchen, and like me, who just enjoys knocking the socks off my husband especially, and a friend, occasionally.

Another hint: this would make a nice gift from your kitchen this Christmas. Just make your own mixture, and place in quart jars with recipe. Voila!
I am planning on making another old-fashioned favorite, "Russian Tea", using "xylitol" instead of sugar.. I've carefully washed each candle jar I've used, and will refashion them into bow-topped ginger jars. Oh the joys of recycling!

American History is Fascinating.

2009-11-18T16:29:00.000-08:00

I have been reading an "ancient" book, written in 1944, called "Christ of the American Road" by E. Stanley Jones, one of my spiritual mentors along the way. He has provoked me once again into thinking through the global cultural dilemma we Americans face in the 21st Century.

Mind you, this IS NOT ABOUT POLITICS AS USUAL. This dilemma is deeply rooted in our way of life and government: it's the deep divide between the sacred and the secular.

What are the foundational philosophies that make up our "American Way" of Life? It's always good to be reminded of our history, and to rediscover our roots. John and I were blown away by the TV series on John Adams, and the founding of our nation. It was breathtaking to see the risks that were taken, as the tides of fortune and revolution swept over the American landscape from Europe.

Two earthshaking documents were produced; one which honors God, and one which honors man. So, at the risk of being politically incorrect, here I go!

"Is it true that America is humanity's last chance?" As an answer to that, Jones says perhaps it is the "latest" chance. I think that is a fair assessment of this great political experiment. Thomas Mann had said that "Democracy is the political expression of the Christian Faith". This has proven to be a rather naive observation. (Naive comes from the French word meaning "newborn"). Sorry, that's my "logophilia" acting up.

It's also the political expression of capitalism which breeds greed, arrogance, and consumerism. If Democracy is the new American gospel we are exporting, it has carried a lot of kickbacks, in revenues, goods and properties.

Jones says that the credit for the birth of democracy in our culture must be given primarily to the Quakers who founded Pennsylvania. They thought of God as Father, and all men as brothers, equal in God's sight. These concepts caused them to be the first Americans to forbid slavery among their members. President Washington stated that his new government was not founded on the Christian religion. So, even though Christianity gave birth to Democracy, these two forces were destined to grow further apart.

Jefferson got his ideas about democracy partly from the Christian faith, and partly from the French secularists. Hamilton stood for the rights of property, and Jefferson stood for the rights of the people, an internal struggle that has never been resolved to this day.

A cartoon of the post WWII era depicted the USA as a ship with Uncle Sam (or Uncle Sham, as an immigrant mistakenly spelled it)) at the helm, speaking to the Christian community, "It is your duty to keep off...the barnacles of greed, selfishness and dishonesty". In other words, we should be "keeping them honest" as Anderson Cooper likes to say. Christianity is likened to an appendage to the state, certainly not welcome alongside the helmsman.

What should be the role of Christians in American society? Are we called to be a spiritual version of Superman, Robo Cop, Batman and Robin, or the Lone Ranger, dressed in clerical robes?

If we are at the top of the heap in world affairs (i.e. the greatest economy, the greatest military power, the greatest proponent of individual freedom), then we are indeed on a slippery ethical

slope.

"The Center does not hold". Wisdom and Reason have no voice. Enough said.

Scars are welcome here

2009-11-05T18:10:00.000-08:00

A new friendship was born the other day. A beautiful young woman accepted our invitation for lunch, and we sat down together, sharing the threads of life that made us separate, and yet united us around the table.
After our meal we sat down to tea, and John went to his job, leaving us to chat in the living room. We did this for an hour or so. She shared the pain of parental disappointment, of a destructive life lived under the Church umbrella, that couldn't shield her from the poison of hypocrisy. She showed me her scars briefly, and shyly, and then she left.
I hope she went feeling wholly loved, and mercifully wrapped in a softer outer garment.
The next morning this song or poem came like a fragrance of her presence.

THE TURNING
I had to turn away from such
an intimacy.
The part I played had not been much
for her to see.

I was the bridge until her turning,
and the footpath towards her yearning.

My heart could follow as she went,
understanding what this moment meant.

She shyly lifted eyes up to his face,
before she melted in his warm embrace.

He was the father of her soul.
She was his daughter after all.

A memorial to the kingdom of Nepenthe and its queen

2009-10-30T19:42:00.000-07:00

I have just finished feasting, and am still savoring tasteful images and recipes from the most breathtakingly beautiful "cook book" I've ever read. Perhaps it is because it is so much more than food that is displayed here. Romney Steele has preserved the unique legacy of precious photos, of long forgotten places and faces, of people I have known and loved personally, all bound together in an elegant treasure chest she calls, "My Nepenthe".

Romney (known as Nani) Steel has crafted a lovely monument of history, rendered in the simple language of reverie, that explores her family's roots, and how visionary people brought the gift of Nepenthe to Big Sur and the world. Nepenthe (no sorrow) is an architectural wonder of a restaurant with an unrivaled view of the coast that has become a world-class tourist must-see place during its 60 year history. People still come to look, to wonder, to drink deeply of the beauty, to dine and to dance on its moon-washed balcony overlooking the ocean. Visitors in the past might have been treated to a fashion parade from the Phoenix Boutique, or to an impromptu folk dance. There are those who would line the stone bleachers festooned with pillows, sipping martinis,watching from a distance the fire dancing in the huge fire pit, or the Fire dancers, and belly dancers who often came to grace the gleaming red-stained dance floor. In the sparkling summer days brightly colored umbrellas shade the diners as they enjoy a classic house specialty called "ambrosia" burgers served with homemade french fries, a bean salad, and fine local wines, creating a French Riviera atmosphere.
Last year Nepenthe withstood the most devastating fire ever to sweep through the Ventana wilderness area. Nani's cousin Kirk, Nepenthe's manager, and staff had to beat back the burning embers from the roof and outlying timbers for one whole night, as the blaze threatened to destroy the inheritance of his beloved grandparents. It remains a place deeply loved and revered by local residents, famed for the overarching hospitality of the owners, Bill and Lolly Fassett, Nani's grandparents. Their original home, called the "log cabin" still sits above the restaurant,and is now home to Erin Gafill and her husband Tom Birmingham.
Nani's book strikingly displays well-photographed food dishes, and their storied recipes right from her grandmother Lolly's table. She has learned one of the great secrets of any kitchen, that the presentation of food is as important as its flavor, and has skillfully woven the food, the fame and the fable that is Nepenthe into an artistic fabric. It is as complex and colorful as any of her Uncle Kaffe Fassett's tapestries, and as hauntingly beautiful as any of her cousin Erin's paintings. Nani's family have each contributed works of art to create a lovely window display, featuring her book, at the Phoenix Gift Shop just below Nepenthe.
She has lovingly traced her family's history and drawn a fascinating story of how these early bohemian, avante-garde pioneers in the art world helped to nurture Lolly's vision, and shape the dream of Nepenthe into a reality.
Nani has called this Kingdom, where she grew up under the loving eyes and smile of Lolly her grandmother, MY NEPENTHE. In a sense she has laid claim to it like no other descendant has, but not selfishly. She has put it on display, like the work of art that it is, for the delight of all her family and friends. Now we may all marvel and partake of its unique beauty.
Thank you Nani for making YOUR Nepenthe OURS, and for bequeathing such a treasure house of memories to the next generation, to your children and to ours.

Please go to http://www.mynepenthethebook.com to follow Nani as she travels with her book for signing events and get your own signed copy.

"Verde te quiero verde"

2009-10-30T16:28:00.000-07:00

Translation from a poem by Garcia Lorca: Green, green I want you, green.
The soup's on and it's TOTALLY GREEN, made from split peas.
The first step is speak to your butcher and say in a very polite manner,
"Show me your best ham shank". Never use ham hocks as they are gritty, fatty and quite meatless. That done, we're ready to cook up this very satisfying, health-generating winter warmer soup. Remember I'm flying the "Organic Annie" flag at my house. (Don't worry it's invisible to ordinary eyes).

1-2 lbs split peas. (from a bulk bin is best)
1 large onion, chopped
3-5 cloves of garlic squished
1 head of celery chopped, using leaves too
1-2 lbs carrots (I cheat and get the smaller ready to eat ones)
1-2 lbs small potatoes, scrubbed well and diced (yukon golds or fingerlings are best)

Wash, and wash, and wash those peas, please, until the water runs clear.
Boil them with vigor, along with the ham shank, and skim away the froth, until they meld into a thick liquid. Remove the shank until you've added everything else.
Then add onion, garlic and celery. I usually cook them first in olive oil until tender, adding spices like a good dose of rosemary, sea salt, a pinch of cayenne, and good oregano. Spices should be fresh if possible, but I use what's at hand.
Then while the soup is simmering add the root veggies. Carefully cut away the meat from the ham shank and add. Let me tell you, I fuss over every ounce of fat, and any imperfection in potatoes. Such a ninny am I. But nature is full of lovely imperfections, which we can use to perfection in cooking.
Then, I add at least a cup of dry sherry, which complements the sweet smokey flavor of this hearty soup. I've long since stopped using cooking sherry as it's way too salty, and too expensive.
How long from start to finish? Maybe 3-4 hours. If you can take the time, don't rush, and let the ingredients do their magic.
Of course, it is best served with freshly baked bread, and then it becomes a meal. ooolala.

My cooking experience dates back some 50 years ago at my then mother-in-law's restaurant in Berkeley when I was a college student. She taught me the basics. When I landed at Nepenthe, Big Sur, some years later, Lolly, the gracious queenly owner, first fed me and my little Aimee at her family table. We were refugees from a commune, and we had no where to go. Later on, I became the "family cook" after being trained in Lolly's kitchen by Fay, another gracious lady who showed me some of her cooking magic.
But then that's another story, and another blog. Coming soon.

The burgeoning creativity of connectivity

2009-10-26T16:37:00.000-07:00

The picture above is a "crazy quilt" I saw at Beverly's and one of my goals in life is to make one like it. This is so elegant and colorful, certainly not crazy, but spilling over with new elements. I love it!!

This is a new season of remembering, and staining it with fresh ink on paper. The magic of words compels me now to cast out the net into the deep, ever widening ocean of friendships and family. It has become a surprising source of inspiration and resurgence of creativity in my life. And then it all became very clear. In order for me to thrive, that I needed to be surrounded by artists, mystics, poets, writers, and anyone allowing their creative juices to flow. It has been a missing ingredient for many years. Fresh streams burgeoning with life keep overflowing into my river. I am becoming soul-richer for it, more confident in my craft, and more motivated.
What this has really caused me to do is to LISTEN more to what people are saying, taking note of what grabs my gut, and what upsets my sensibilities. Introspection is usually construed as negative, but not now. Rather it has translated into WISDOM. No more rushing into open spaces where even angels fear to go. No more frantic efforts to carve out a place on the planet that is called mine. Yes, there are struggles, bumps and rocks along the way, but I am learning to keep an eternal perspective over them.
I am in the NOW, in the flow, and in the KNOW. The magic keeps growing circles of loving words around me. Life is beautifully unfolding.

Fall Fever

2009-10-20T11:38:00.000-07:00

Yes, it happens to me in the Fall!! As energy is being stored ahead, and hidden in potentiality, I get motivated to resurrect things, mostly from dusty (dust is a finer form of ashes) corners. Is it the crispness in the air?? Is it the smell the rain after a long dry spell? But you say, things are dying all around you. How can you talk of a surge of energy? No, things are only leaving, and being flown away to new places. So, it's a new season to be spent in the kitchen.
Today the whirlwind has me making bread to enhance the Chicken soup (also known among foodies as "Jewish Penicillin") Here's a recipe I have created, and my husband swears came down from heaven.

Mary's Piece of Jewish Heaven Chicken soup

Take a 2-2 1/2 lb. chicken breast, bone in , skin on, and let simmer with organic carrots, and celery tops, and onion peels, if handy. Drain and debone. Skim off fat. Then I will add Trader Joe's organic chicken stock to fill out the broth. Add seasonings like sea salt, pepper, Madeira wine (1/2 cup). I cut up some more celery and carrots, add brown rice or noodles (a son gout) and let simmer some more.
The kicker queen of seasonings to all of the above is fresh organic cilantro!! This soup is naked and boringly normal without it, I promise you.
I serve it , crowned with a good amount of fresh cilantro on top, with fresh baked whole wheat bread, and butter.
The smell is compelling and the taste is divine, in an earth Jewish way. Another delightful addition is the matzoh ball.
Enjoy.

The Art of Passing Over

2009-10-14T21:47:00.000-07:00

I used to fear death, I thought. Perhaps what I really feared was the pain of separation, the leaving, the whispering of goodbye, a word contracted from the sweet phrase, "God be with you"... until we meet again. And it is the word "again" that is left throbbing in the throat, for how can we know when that will be.

Last weekend, John and I watched his lovely mother, Betty Lou Anthony, shrivel into a tightly stretched cover of parchment, to become a strange likeness of her former self. She was like a seedpod being made ready for planting into her earth-mother. What she was to become was all locked up in that pitiful remnant of her body. But God's promise of a new life would have to unfold in mystery before His eyes alone. We were not privileged to see it yet.

Betty had chosen to be scourged by chemotherapy. Her blood had been blasted with its killing power. She had endured its stripes, and "though rosy lips and cheeks within his bending sickle's compass [had] come", she endured it all for Love's sake. Why? She loved Brittany, her young granddaughter, even until death. Betty had hoped to guide her safely through the rites of passage into adolescence, as she was the only mother and grandmother Brittany had ever known. Even though Betty had already been suffering from diabetes and arthritis, she risked the small amount of time left to her, hoping to multiply it into years, soon after the death sentence from ovarian cancer had been pronounced.
As I grew familiar with the look of that frail body, and the constant struggle for another breath, Betty slowly became my mother too. Through her both John and I saw my own mother dying. This was another gift to me because I hadn't been able to travel from Colombia to be with her when she passed from this life.
The Art of Passing Over is something we all have to learn, and we will need to be clothed with dignity and courage as we embrace this most mysterious art form. Why should I fear the destruction of mere skin and bone, or the weakness of my body losing strength, beauty, and vitality? As a young person, the mere thought of this used to be an abhorrence. I would cringe at what seemed to be the cruelty of wrinkled skin, limbs that trembled, and the fragility of thinning bones. The elderly seemed to be a mocking skeleton of life, not a vital part of it. I didn't want to ever be numbered with that substrata of humanity. Now that I am graced to grow older, I accept its fate with humility, compassion and even humor. This can't be all I really am though, or can it? Am I somehow evolving from this fragile earth-born identity, that grinds down day by day to dust and ashes, into my true estate? Is yet another butterfly struggling to be made manifest! I have felt my body groan under the sentence of death we have all received, even as I soldier on. How could I leave this abundant panorama of beauty and the people that I love and whose love I treasure? It is a most exquisite sorrow of heart to even think about it. I push past the unending pain of disappointments, the wounds that will not heal, and the multitude of unanswered questions. Will my life have been lived in vain? Will there be no extant meaning to my existence? Should I not "rage against the dying of the light"? And yet that night will surely come, and bring with it the sleep of death.
No, this is not, cannot be, nor will ever be, the end. It is the end of life as we know it. And we know so little about this gift of life, or appreciate it, even as we live it. There is a much greater reality hidden from our eyes. We have had to invent microscopes and telescopes to see what lies beyond our ken. And still there is so much more that evades our understanding. I am convinced that the life which is invisible is the most powerful, and the most real. We will be born again, from this time-warped darkening womb into the light and warmth of an eternal day.
We sang to Betty of the peace that comes from God's presence with us. We drank deeply of an unearthly wine together, and tasted something like the bread of angels. Then we said, "soon it will be our turn, and God be with you, till we meet again".
The morning stars were singing with us as she went.

2009-10-01T14:58:00.000-07:00

Life Lessons from a mayonaisse jar and two cups of coffee
A friend recently sent this to me and it's worth passing on to all my friends.

When things in your life seem almost too much to handle, when 24 hours in a day are not enough, remember the mayonnaise jar and the 2 cups of coffee.

A professor stood before his philosophy class and had some items in front of him. When the class began, he wordlessly picked up a very large and empty mayonnaise jar and proceeded to fill it with golf balls. He then asked the students if the jar was full. They agreed that it was.

The professor then picked up a box of pebbles and poured them into the jar He shook the jar lightly. The pebbles rolled into the open areas between the golf balls. He then asked the students again if the jar was full. They agreed it was.

The professor next picked up a box of sand and poured it into the jar. Of course, the sand filled up everything else. He asked once more if the jar was full. The students responded with an unanimous "yes."

The professor then produced two cups of coffee from under the table and poured the entire contents into the jar effectively filling the empty space between the sand. The students laughed.

"Now," said the professor as the laughter subsided, "I want you to recognize that this jar represents your life. The golf balls are the important things---your family, your children, your health, your friends and your favorite passions---and if everything else was lost and only they remained, your life would still be full.

The pebbles are the other things that matter like your job, your house and your car. The sand is everything else---the small stuff. "If you

put the sand into the jar first," he continued, "there is no room for the pebbles or the golf balls. The same goes for life. If you spend all your time and energy on the small stuff you will never have room for the things that are important to you. "Pay attention to the things that are critical to your happiness. Spend time with your children. Spend time with your parents. Visit with grandparents. Take time to get medical checkups. Take your spouse out to dinner. Play another 18. There will always be time to clean the house and fix the disposal. Take care of the golf balls first---the things that really matter. Set your priorities. The rest is just sand."

One of the students raised her hand and inquired what the coffee represented. The professor smiled and said, "I'm glad you asked."

The coffee just shows you that no matter how full your life may seem, there's always room for a couple of cups of coffee with a friend."

"How I Harnessed the Wind"

2009-09-25T20:33:00.000-07:00

John and I often watch an evening podcast called TED (Technology, Education and Design) talks. It is an academic organization devoted to "ideas worth spreading". These lectures or performances happen at an invitation-only conference held in Long Beach, California. Some topics are so technical that our brains are too slow on the upload. But we keep our camera on the ready for a steady exposure to the streaming in of these light waves. We hear and see people who think beyond the confines of the ordinary, who create new ideas, sights and sounds, who challenge the accepted norms, and inspire us to probe our planet and our universe more deeply.

The other evening we were introduced to William Kankwamba from Malawi, who told us how he had "harnessed the wind". In 2001, a drought brought a great famine to his village, and William's family of 7 siblings (all girls except him), were eating only one meager meal a day. They were simple maize farmers facing slow starvation. He had to drop out of school because of hunger, but William had an even greater hunger for knowledge. He couldn't just accept a future which forecast the loss of his livelihood and his family. Instead went to a library to study science, and was fascinated by Physics. His knowledge of English was very limited but he used illustrations and diagrams to slowly increase his vocabulary. That's when he made his discovery about windmills; 1) they could pump water, and provide irrigation, and 2) they could produce electrical power. He was elated that he had discovered the key to a new future that would change his life and those around him. William went into action and decided to make one himself, based on some of the diagrams.

He visited a local scrap yard for his materials and found a tractor fan, a shock absorber, a bicycle frame and generator, and PVC pipes that he melted to form blades. Of course his family thought he had gone crazy, that is, until William's "invention" produced one light, then four more, then a circuit breaker, and of course, an electric bill which soon followed. Suddenly many people were stopping by to charge their mobile phones. And soon reporters came to view the transformation of the land and its people.

Finally he received an invitation to come to TED talks. William had never before seen a computer, used the internet, flown in a plane or stayed in a hotel before. Now he was being hosted by many "Azungu" (white people), and it felt very strange indeed. But he had a message for his fellow Africans: "I tried, and I made it. God bless you. Trust yourself and believe. Never give up!" This was said in passionate pride for the benefit of his native land.

After telling his story William received a standing ovation from his Azungu audience. John and I also stood up in our hearts applauding this valiant man, because he had reached for the stars, and "harnessed the wind". He had dared to change the sentence of doom into a proclamation for hope and promise.

We had just met a true planetary hero.

"The Shack" Impact, or "Is Aslan on the move again"?

2009-09-16T18:55:00.000-07:00

Annie, a dear friend of mine, recently commented on some observations of our mutual friendships being reborn, after decades of living what seemed to have been another lifetime, in distant lands and other cultures. We are home now, and reconnecting with familiar friends like her and treasuring our every moment with family.
She said that "Aslan continues to move freely about the land". It was such a beautiful way to explain the mystery of God working in our lives. The Lord has allured me once again through the magic markings of a story, to rethink my "Beliefs", to challenge my concepts of "God", and to reassess my role as a "suspect" Christian in this"brand spanking new" century.

Because I have long since stopped jumping on any Christian bandwagon, I waited a year or so before reading "The Shack" by William Paul Young. It had been recommended by my daughter's Pastor who said it was a book about Grace and Forgiveness. That sounded safe enough. But I could tell it had really dug deeply into his soul. So, I bought copies and handed them around, maybe to get some feed back?? John commented on this, and often asked why I hadn't read it yet. Maybe I let myself get distracted by a gypsy time away from home, a disquieted restlessness of spirit that drove me to the brink of exhaustion, or just time spent as a hovering mother, and an ever solicitous grandmother. So much to learn, look at, try my hand at, and understand in this technology-driven matrix we live in.

I couldn't stop reading "The Shack" once I started, and have been rereading it since. Not that it's become like a bible textbook. Oh no. It's an outside-the-box book for an inquiring Christian like myself, who once devoured Philip Yancey's book, "The Jesus I Never Knew". I'm not devouring this one. It's too dense, and too simplistic. But it has uncovered old wounds once delivered by members of Christ's own Body, the Church. The whips were in the hands of performance-driven addicts in His Name, and the lashes were publicly shown to compound our shame and guilt, the dark fruit of living in the Old Testament.

Then, to further aid my understanding, I was given a copy of the author's testimony on CD. That will also take many hearings. He began by reassuring his audience that this story was only a metaphor. This Greek word means "to transfer", to carry. Writers use symbolic transference of meaning from one thing to represent another. (CS Lewis used the figure of Aslan to represent Jesus.) Suddenly it became clear to me that the real story behind the story was far more compelling, and it definitely filled in the blanks. The author needed to hide his pulsating pain under metaphorical wraps after he had stumbled out of his shack to be healed.

William Young was a church kid, an MK, and a PK. He was raised by dedicated parents on the Mission field in New Guinea, but that was also where he was unwittingly initiated into the sexual rituals of a primeval cannibalistic culture. These stone age people became his surrogate family, guardians and teachers, and he often overheard them talking about killing his parents. He didn't know he was a WASP, and thought he was black like them for many years. He had in fact, been raped, his childhood innocence ripped from him like Missy's torn dress, and he had to lead a double life, hidden beneath the slick veneer of a Christian superstar, for many years in the church world. His marriage survived, his kids thrived and he has been revived. Those can only be called miracles of God's grace, and underscore the powerful lessons of the book.

The Shack isn't a theology rewrite, but a cross-cultural testament for wounded Christians, of which I am one, and there are many more like me. The shack is a symbolic place where the author runs headlong into God, and is transformed from an angry, judgmental doubter into a loving, forgiving believer. The story line isn't important here, neither is the literary style. What is transferred to us from the metaphor are imaginative conversations with God, in three distinct Persons, and that is where the trouble begins. This is not a new teaching on how to understand the Trinity. That is too great a mystery for us to take on. Augustine has handed that one down for us in excellent form. But Young approaches God on a very personal, earthy level, which may seem disrespectful to many Christians. However this must all be translated back into the realm of the author's imagination, as it became for him, and for some of us, a denouement, and the catharsis of his struggle to "keep the faith".

Reading this book has made me think of my days spent in a shack on top of a ridge in Big Sur. There, the awesome God of the universe came to me, a spiritually spun out, burnt out hippie. He didn't seem to mind the dust, the cobwebs, or sifting through my mixed theology bag. His glorious Light comforted me in that dark place and He carved a slice of heaven from that patch of earth. I carry its humble message with me now wherever I go.

We recently visited the ridge, and my old shack had been reduced to a pile of boards and rusty nails. The current caretaker assured me that the hand-split redwood shakes we had rescued from an old barn, and used as a covering, had been salvaged again, to grace another building.

Remembering is better than not forgetting

2009-09-07T18:22:00.000-07:00

Eben Haazer is a Hebrew term for "stone of help". Have you ever stacked stones to make a memorial?
It was an ancient custom used to mark an important event. Those who came after would then ask why the stones had been left. The form was not important, because the stones were gathered as found. This primitive rock formation was never meant to be a personal monument. It had nothing to do with self-aggrandizement. The stones were not arranged, or polished, or painted. They simply depicted a special moment in which you had achieved a goal, a victory, or had accomplished something, but not without asking and receiving the help of another person, namely God.
Remembering that we have been helped by God to arrive this very present moment is so important because it gives us hope for the future.

There are giants in the land.

2009-07-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

We were given a family room made of noble redwoods. They gathered us into their majestic hall. We family camped in our Father's house because there was room for us all to be together. We reposed in their sanctuary and watched them filigree the morning sun into greens and gold, the evening stars into gemstones, and breathed the soft air filtering through their branches. They sheltered us among crying crows and blue jay bandits, a joyous cacophony of sound and color..
Redwoods are the planet's ancient rugged ones, spiraling up like watchtowers. They slowly keep growing over a life span thousands of years long. As we look up, dizzy with wonder, they keep etching up against the blue mountain sky. Nature has armored them like dragons with a thick scaly bark to resist death by drought, storms and fire. They wrap their roots around each other to form a foundation, out of which grows a family circle of trees, separate but together. I have even seen one fallen and uprooted, yet crowned by a triumphant young one blooming out of its carcass. When that old colossus fell, how the earth must have trembled! Our time here is just a breath, a mere vapor, in comparison. And yet we have been given the most important heredity of any living being. Our genes are divinely coded: imago Dei. All our lives are spent either in denial or surrender to our fate. We who are so fragile, so ephemeral, walk around like the gods of our own creation until we meet the giants of the land.
We can warm ourselves in a lifelong "bonfire of vanities" or catch on fire with passionate love of God, our fellow creatures and his creation. I was glad to live among his giants and share the glory of this earth with their family and mine.

Walking the Walk with God

2009-07-21T09:10:00.000-07:00

"There is no thrill in walking; it is the test of all the stable qualities". Oswald Chambers
There is no biblical commandment to be spiritual, but rather a call to"Walk before Me".
It's the nobility that comes from being made in the image of God, the "homo sapiens" who can enjoy a familial relationship with his Father.
I remember my running days, the thrill of an aerobic flush, and hyperventilated breathing; running the pump, as it were. My feet had wings. My legs were pumping. My lungs were burning. My heart was racing steadily towards an imaginary finish line. Time was my own and I measured the pace. I raced against it, and moved the goal post as I grew stronger. It was a miracle that I could run a 7 1/2 minute mile after smoking for 15+ years! The Healer had set me free!
After slowing down there came my jogging days : I did 5 miles for my 50th BD, and 6 miles for my 60th. My pace was then about 12-15 minutes per mile. No matter, because I was moving and preparing for the next 10 years. Those walking miles prepared me to climb mountains, and do high altitude backpacking across mountain passes in the Sierra wilderness. It was thrilling to ice and snow climb Mt. Shasta and conquer Mt. Whitney.
Then I spent the next decade in Latin America and China, running a different kind of race. There I was walking alongside others and serving them.
Now at home again, I am walking everywhere I can, mostly because I don't drive anymore, and lack the courage to ride a bike. My balance is a fragile weight toggling my brain, which still needs healing. This doesn't thrill me, but it thrills the heart of my Father to see his child still taking steps, still growing stronger in spirit, still actively engaged with people along the way.
The thrill is not in the walking, but being with my dearest heart's companion and with God.

Written in Plein Air: A tribute to Erin Lee Gafill

2009-07-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

I have just finished reading and pondering Erin Lee Gafill's Little Book of Hope entitled "Drinking from a Cold Spring".
It is a treasure because it has been unearthed from deep places, in real time, and priceless because it is real and true. Erin is an authentic voice that draws its resonance from artesian wells of Big Sur. She writes in an amazingly pure naked style that I like to call "Plein Air Prose". The 19th century Impressionists liked to carry the tools of their trade outdoors: easel, paint, white parasol and chair to catch the subtle light and vision of a certain scene. Erin, a successful Big Sur painter has done that countless times, and enjoyed the challenge and discipline of "plein air" painting. She demystifies the mystique as "the idea that what we paint is what we are-that we are processing visually the same things we are struggling with in our real lives". (p. 67)
When she returned from a retreat in Mexico Erin learned that "colors make me happy", and she changed the decor of her home and made sure to include flowers in every room. Erin is a philosopher in the purest sense of the word, a lover of wisdom. She tells her life in exquisite vignettes, in which the borders are blurred and softened, but punctuated with shafts of priceless wisdom. She has learned that the art of storytelling is the way we transmit wisdom, exalt beauty, proclaim truth, and generate virtue for the next generation. Humanity has been gathering stories since the dawn of civilization. Our inner ear has been shaped to yearn for the story to be told, your story, our story, to know its meaning and purpose, and to make sense of life's mysteries. Erin has scraped away unnecessary layers of words to capture the true shape of things.
"Writing the truth means traveling back in time, unearthing buried secrets, holding up to the light things I am still afraid to talk about, things I still don't understand". (p. 119)
Nothing is too small or humble for her eye not to notice. She is not afraid of nakedness, and lets us watch the inner workings of her soul. That takes enormous courage and confidence. Her painter's eye is the lens through which she has transcribed her experiences. There are abrupt, sharp strokes for pain, soft shadows for sadness, and brilliant swathes of light that wash over us and fill her narratives with peace. There's plenty of fresh air to breathe here, and plenty of fresh water to assuage the thirsting soul.
Erin has communicated her vision with the consummate trained eye of an artist and has truly blessed us with heartfelt scenes of hope..."the words become candles lit one by one in darkness until the darkness is no more. Replacing fear with peace. Replacing darkness with light. Building a bridge for someone to cross over. That's what I want my work to do. I want to light a candle for you so that together we can make our way through the dark places." (p. 120)
Erin is offering her book online through her website : phoenixshopbigsur.com
Check out her blog: the Big Sur Fix
It's a gift for giving, and a gift for keeping.

A Confessional of choices, changes and challenges.

2009-07-01T08:46:00.000-07:00

When you meet them, you never want to leave their presence. It's difficult NOT to be possessive of their friendship. These are the "life enhancers".
"The people who influence us most are not those who buttonhole us and talk to us, but those whose lives are like the stars in heaven and the lilies of the field, perfectly simply and unaffectedly. Those are the lives that mold us." (Oswald.Chambers)
They are not trying to be anything...just people who build us, who enlarge our souls, who come alongside us and give us courage to try again, who believe in us. They are unconscious of their influence, and unaware of their rarity.
Around them, I can only be an aspirant, still making vows.
In contrast, there are the multitude of "lawnmowers", the noisemakers, busily enhancing their own small plot of life. They are competitive and eager to parade their lifestyle for the sake of neighborly envy. Because their lives are circumscribed by a self-absorption that haunts them, and shadows their vision, they get hemmed in and root-bound. They build fences around themselves that protrude like retractable claws, and shield them from self-examination.
The potter has thrown me new upon his wheel. I feel the molding now and yield my soul to a new softness, through absorbing waters of renewal.
"Well-poisoners" live at the bottom of the barrel. They are the slick and sneaky naysayers who speed-speak to us, selling cheap sleight-of-hand products. The labels show vast amounts of sugar content, masking harmful ingredients. They shoot at the wounded in the name of Reason and Sanity, aiming at the gut with a "no way, no time, not ever!". They slam the door, lock you out, and throw away the keys. You're stuck either inside or outside because "one-up-man-ship" is the flag they fly. Emotional piracy has emptied your bank again. Your soul is on hold in the deep freeze because you haven't measured up to their brand of snuff.
How do I know? Who taught me their ways? Who rattled my rat cage?
He pulled me out of the miry clay. "My chains fell off, my heart was free. I rose, went forth and followed Thee."
(Charles Wesley)
And this was only the first step into the Light.

"Let Us Break Dividing Walls"

2009-06-29T11:22:00.000-07:00

On the altar this Sunday was a wall of bricks, and the call was for us to come and break it down, brick by brick...
John and I were delighted to do just that. "Christianity Divided" has been the great burden of my heart for such a long time. Churches have continued to build these walls since apostolic times. History teaches us that the early catholic, or universal church became a monolithic tyrant, a power broker that broke the hearts of godly men by resorting to the sale of indulgences, and creating a false currency of Hope among adherents, but in reality only purchasing more land holdings. In other words, it became a Kingdom-not-of-God. Reformers changed the debate by pounding on the walls but unwittingly made more bricks and built higher walls. Perhaps this is the legacy some call the "Protestant lunacy".
But there it is, and there they are: the walls, the bricks, the thrown stones, the divisions, the Inquisitions, the human monuments, the lines in the sand. You just have to go to Northern Ireland and see "Merlin's" Wall to catch the noise of fresh heartbreaks.
However the prayer of Jesus for Unity In John 17 is eternal and still echoes in the Father's ear. He died to break down the dividing wall between Jew and Gentile, slave and freeman, male and female.
Peterson in the preface to Ephesians speaks about the Church's mission:
"Jesus the Messiah is tirelessly bringing EVERYTHING and EVERYONE together. We are participants in this most urgent work. Now we know what is going on: that the energy of RECONCILIATION is the dynamo at the heart of the universe. It is IMPERATIVE that we join in vigorously and perseveringly, convinced that every detail of our lives contributes [or not] to God's plan in Christ." (The Message)
Has Reconciliation just become a dirty liberal sounding word mouthed by politicians and philanthropists, instead of exuding healing and sounding bonafide in the mouths of theologians?
Kent DelHousaye quotes Augustine on his blog, "Sound of Truth":
"In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity." Kent also cautions that UNITY is important, not UNIFORMITY, and that there must be room for diversity in the non-essentials.
I believe the CENTER holds, and the heartbeat of the Universe, RECONCILIATION, is located in the Church, Christ's earthly Body. The world is peripheral to the Church, which is literally the Embassy of His Kingdom on earth, which makes us ambassadors. Christ speaks and acts in the world through his Body and its members. He fills everything everywhere with His presence. I believe the CENTER HOLDS and only the power of Love can break dividing walls.

the power of words breathed in love

2009-06-27T13:18:00.000-07:00

John and I went to a book signing party in San Francisco last evening for Erin Lee Gafill, hosted by her cousins Joy and Gene. She read twice from her freshly minted book, "Drinking from a Cold Spring". Erin is both a gifted writer and reader of her own work, as well as a wonderfully prolific painter. Her speaking made the words sing and sink into our souls. I think it is because they have been wrested from her heart at great cost. She is no shallow wader. Reading them aloud is for her like living them again. She drew us into the deep waters of her heart, and shared about her life's passage in simple reflections of sadness and joy. This is a woman who had secrets to share and was so delighted that we came to listen. Erin is not an unapproachable idol, but a tender-hearted model for writing aspirants like myself. She has the discipline and desire to grow in her art. I came away with fresh fire in the belly from the muse's torch. She is showing me how to pursue that for which I am being pursued, perhaps, even hunted by the "Hound of Heaven". He has certainly tracked me down the days and years, until I did surrender to His way. Now I am ready to express what had been previously repressed, convinced now that the story which contains my life, and my life which spills over into story is meant to be recorded. True words have a way of breathing life. Words that are wise bring healing on their wings.
Erin is one of the few life-enhancers that John and I have met in our earthly pilgrimage. She also spoke about a new verb, "parenting" introduced to the dictionary in the nineties. Like her mother and so many other free spirits of the sixties, I did not parent my children, but rather loosely let them tag along. We were caught up in the onslaught of new freedoms and even fewer responsibilities. My little girls were both unfettered and unguided. Others were called to their side, and filled in the gap. I am convinced that angels watched over their wanderings. Like my daughters, Erin is a superbly resourceful survivor. They came into this world; they saw the chaos generated by coolness and hipness; they conquered the turmoil of childhood and grew up into caring compasssionate adults, who are "parenting" their own children. WOW, or wonder of wonders!! This is a victory beyond all hope, and John and I are being taught so much, watching the spectacle of their devotion played out.

Erin's husband Tom was contentedly filling bubbling glasses, and making goodies to feed the guests who kept on arriving. He has the persona of an "Irishman": a smiling face, twinkling blue eyes and rosy cheeks. Erin said that Tom is her rock. He is solidly behind her journey to the stars. Time has suddenly quickened their pace of life, but they are walking together, and today are celebrating 26 years of marriage. They are living examples that marital commitment has a magical ingredient that makes their bond weatherproof.
Congratulations to you both for a superb marriage and the priceless legacy of faithfulness to your children.

Restoring Childhood to the Forgotten

2009-06-22T14:53:00.000-07:00

John and I went to a camp for 31 Foster Kids who were abandoned, rejected, abused, wounded and neglected. There are close to 800 of these children in our two counties. Our task was truly immense: Create a brief season of childhood joys for these little ones in only five days!! Let them run and skip, play games and sports, create crafts, swim, eat three meals a day, listen to stories at night in their cabins, sing songs, and make new friends.
We jammed and crammed it all in, until they burst into joy bubbles of screams and laughter. But it was mixed with some sadness though for those too broken and angry to receive it fully.
The ones who had been robbed of childhood found a safe place to explore their hopes and dreams, and to sob out their anger, frustrations, and disappointments. Parents and adults had betrayed, manipulated , and lied to them. They had lost their bearings in the world. Their eyes searched our faces for signals of authenticity, for signs of deception. Were we really giving to them without wanting anything in return? Was this what it was like to be loved unconditionally? No terms, no trades, no apologies, no excuses and without reservations??
We gathered them into our arms for just a few days, hugged them back into laughing and trusting while we poured the oil of love over their broken hearts. We sang to them about their Father's House, about a Kingdom of Pure Light, about the Good Shepherd who watched over his little lambs, who would hold those who had hurt them, accountable. He had not forgotten them, and we told them we would never forget them either. Our reward came in packages of thankful smiles and joyful tears. On Thursday evening we wrapped their sorrows around our hearts as they wrote on small sticks, stained with tears, private tributes of forgiveness to those who had wounded them. They and we comforted each other and released their pain to God. He was present in the glowing campfire to receive their gifts. We could sense silently weeping angels surrounding them in the shadows. Friday came, and with it, the end of Camp. How hard it was for them and for us to leave this peaceable Kingdom.
True Love always lets the loved ones go, and waits for their returning.

If Stones could sing

2009-06-11T10:54:00.000-07:00

CORNERSTONE: I am placed here to secure your beginning. Sprout wings and fly above me.
WHETSTONE: I am a sharpener of all your skills. Let me hone away the dullness.
TOUCHSTONE: I am a tester of your metal. Let me work for excellence.
LODESTONE: I am a magnetic field you must conquer. Bind me with cords of love.
MILESTONE: I am a roadside marker to encourage you. Let me rest while you go on.
MILLSTONE: I am a burden that would grind away your power into powder. Fling me into the sea.
CAPSTONE: I am the highest point to reach in your journey. Look up. I am waiting.
TOMBSTONE: I am the doorway at your ending. I know your name. Walk through me unafraid.

How would you define a Christian?

2009-06-10T11:38:00.000-07:00

It has become increasingly difficult to define the word "Christian". I am not being apologetic, but as an "apologist", really sincere in my answer. Historically, the term was first used in Antioch of Syria in the first century, as the message of Jesus left the confines of Jerusalem, and traveled the known world. It meant "little Christ", and was first used sarcastically to describe people who didn't fit in with the cultural norms of that society.
Actually, the term is a compliment, and is the highest aim of anyone who claims to be a Christian. It is my Everest yet to climb, still eluding me, still calling me to conquer its lonely heights. I came across this in my reading of late:
"Christians are claimed by a past that hopes for the future by drinking deeply of the present. They are daring persons for whom belief is etched with faithful doubts. They hold tenaciously to what has been bequeathed, yet they gamble on the new being born." by W.P. Jones

Listening to learn in the House of God

2009-06-07T17:11:00.000-07:00

What I learned today: "poiema" (gr.) means masterpiece, a poem in our language.
What I heard today:
This is God's gift to me. He has made my life a living poem, a song. He is forming me into His masterpiece, a unique expression, a one time only planetary appearance.
All poetry should sing, have rhythm, be playful, pound its sound out, dance out of line, be rooted in music, disturb the sleeping ones, alert the dreaming ones, and captivate the little ones.
I am uncorking the bottle. Join me in the celebration.

Exchanging Home fires for Campfires

2009-06-05T21:50:00.000-07:00

Dry bones stay at home. Water them by living again in dirt, among tree leaves and fallen branches. Dare to smell of smoke, and be dusted by ashes. Relish essentials, and even minimize them. Simplify what defines you. Listen to the morning and evening songs of birds. Breathe again, and walk to see the gift of life in others trying to remember what is really important. Escape being cemented. Live unsettled.