In praise of hay and fleas

My sweetie lives out in the "country", in a strikingly beautiful valley near the Smokies, surrounded by three different mountain ranges.

During a recent visit on a bright spring day, my eyes started itching. Then I began hacking and sneezing and coughing. Having evaded the endemic allergies during my 18 years in Atlanta, I was a little slow to realize what was happening. Finally it dawned on me as I sat on the porch overlooking the field next door.

"Is that hay?" I asked suspiciously.

"Yup."

It was official, I had hay fever! Graceful suffering is not one of my strong suits, so I kvetched and groaned my way through the next 24 hours, lamenting our proximity to the culprit grasses, until a good afternoon rain cleared the air.

That night I ventured back onto the porch to see the stars, cautiously inhaling and eyeing the field, prepared to bolt if it suddenly launched pollen missiles at me.

And then, as my eyes grew accustomed to the black night, I saw that the entire grassy expanse was alight with hundreds of fireflies, the first of the season. I can honestly say I've never seen anything like this vision. It was almost like looking at a reflection of the starry sky in a pond. I held my breath, and not because I was afraid of getting dusted.

The field of fireflies was a good reminder for me. I forget that I don't know what form blessings will come in. Sometimes they look (or feel) like misfortunes, especially if things aren't turning out like I think they should. Sometimes I curse the package and miss the blessing altogether, often until months or years later.

Many people have heard the story of Cory ten Boom, a Holocaust survivor, who in her book The Hiding Place relates an incident which taught her this principle. She and her sister, Betsy, had just been transferred to the worst German prison camp they had seen yet, Ravensbruck. Upon entering the barracks, they found them extremely overcrowded and flea-infested. Their Bible reading that morning had reminded them to rejoice always, pray constantly, and give thanks in all circumstances. Betsy told Corrie to stop and thank the Lord for every detail of their new living quarters. Corrie at first flatly refused to give thanks for the fleas, but Betsy persisted. She finally succumbed. During the months spent at that camp, they were surprised to find how openly they could hold Bible study and prayer meetings without the brutal interference of the guards that the other women's barracks experienced. It was several months later when they learned that the guards would not enter the barracks because of the fleas.

These past months have been challenging to say the least. But this morning, talking with my friend Kitty, I realized that my life has been, and likely will continue to be, filled with hay and fleas and all manner of things I can label as "bad", especially when I'm afraid, or uncomfortable. The invitation I hear today is to give thanks in all things...remembering not to pray to be relieved of hay fever, but to be able to see the fireflies.

Gamboling Problem?

It's great to be known, isn't it? My best friend Jenn Manlowe, an editor and author, has duked it out with me in many a Scrabble game. We actually call it "squabble". Not that I'm competitive or anything...(cough).

Anyway, she sent me yesterday's Word of the Day from dictionary.com. I love that she not only knows I would enjoy such a diversion, but the word itself: GAMBOL:

gambol \GAM-buhl\ intransitive verb

1. To dance and skip about in play; to frolic

2. A skipping or leaping about in frolic

What a perfect time for this to be the Word of the Day! Just when we want to hunker down, try harder, worry and fret, stare at our 401K statements, and do anything other than frolic. What's there to frolic about?

Skipping and frolicking are Pollyanna stuff, right? Things that only children do. And we are grownups, with serious business, life and death responsibilities, on our shoulders. If you went out today and saw an adult skipping down the sidewalk, you'd look around uncomfortably and cross to the other side, wouldn't you?

As this economic crisis has called into question the entire framework of our culture, what if this time also presents the chance to consider that we, as a people, have a gamboling problem? Sure as Americans we're famous for leisure and excess of show-stopping proportions. But are we capable of joy, of wonder? When all else is stripped away, can we surrender our fear, our need for security, long enough to gambol with delight?

Admittedly hard to do, when you're worried about where the mortgage is coming from or how to put gas in the car. But after all our best efforts, we are ultimately powerless over those things. What could it hurt to try something counter-intuitive? Like a lot of spiritual practices, a good dose of pointless giggling may not "make practical sense" but may be the best antidote to our woes. Could gamboling actually help strengthen my faith?

"Everything can be taken from a man but ...the last of the human freedoms - to choose one's attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one's own way."

--Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

Why not? Today I commit to gamboling...hmmmm, what would that look like? Dancing around my living room (private so nobody can call the guys in white coats), blowing bubbles (more public, but socially acceptable and enjoyed by most people who aren't sociopaths), maybe take a child to the park--let her grab my hand and skip. (You can get away with it, if you've got a kid with you!) Hang out with people who like to laugh and play for no reason at all.

"I've been told dolphins like to gambol in the waves in these waters,

and that sighting them brings good luck" --Barbara Kingsolver, Where the Map Stopped

Happy gamboling ya'll.

Making space for a change...one couch at a time

Where home is concerned, the tide is turning.

Worldwide, and even in these doggedly individualistic and territorial United States, people are surfing. "Couch surfing", that is. CouchSurfing is a worldwide network for making connections between travelers and the local communities they visit. A quote from the website says it best:

"We make the world a better place by opening our homes, our hearts, and our lives. We open our minds and welcome the knowledge that cultural exchange makes available. We create deep and meaningful connections that cross oceans, continents and cultures. CouchSurfing wants to change not only the way we travel,

but how we relate to the world!"

And I thought I was idealistic! I have found my people. This is a concept that makes complete sense to anyone who has ventured outside the cultural comfort zone and been immersed in the intimacy of visiting as more than a tourist. I have been privileged to be received as a teacher and professional exchange participant in Mongolia and Israel, respectively. The experiences transformed me, and my worldview, beyond what any guided 2 week/7 city tour would ever allow. And the couchsurfing trend is apparently working: last week alone 8,591 new couches opened up for like-minded travelers and cultural connectors.

The thing that interests me about this most today is the concept of sharing our space as one of our most precious resources. As economic hardship tightens its grip, and the prevalence of isolation becomes one of contemporary society's most insidious ills, making space on the couch or in the guest room makes good sense. For Americans in particular, the idea can be a foreign or downright threatening one. We hold tightly to the autonomy and the independence afforded by our own square acre. And there's no doubt that living with others can be a pain, there are risks, and the potential for conflicts and inconvenience.

In the past 15 months I have traveled in a pilgrimage that has taken me into the homes, guest rooms and even couches of 12 different households. Some were rented, others traded for, many others offered gratis. This nomadic existence was not the original intention of my journey, nor would I have ever signed myself (or you!) up for it in advance. Circumstances of sometimes seemingly Biblical proportions--floods, for instance--kept disrupting my best laid plans for putting down roots.

This time of mobility has stretched me in my capacity for flexibility and faith. It certainly lightened my load quite a bit--now I think twice before adding anything to my inventory of stuff! But mostly it has engendered a deep sense of gratitude and appreciation for the sacred art of hospitality.

The word hospitality derives from the Latin hospes, formed from hostis, which originally meant a 'stranger' + pets, to have power; the word hostire means equalize or compensate. In the Greek tradition, sacred hospitality is about compensating/equalizing a stranger to the host, making him feel protected and taken care of, and at the end of his hosting, guiding him to his next destination. This sense of caring for each other, and in turn accepting that care, punches a huge whole in the fierce self-reliance on which we generally rely.

In our current economic climate, when capital is scarce, we might benefit from sharing a resource that's right under our noses...our homes. It's true, and admittedly dismaying, that Americans are such conspicuous consumers, especially in the area of homebuilding. Industrial ecologists report single-family homes in the 1950's were built with an average of 290 square feet of living space per resident; in 2003, a family moving into a typical new house had almost 900 square feet per person. The new-home footprint increases each year, while families enjoy their rambling domiciles less and less as they work two 60-hour/week incomes to meet the mortgage.

It will probably take a huge shift in consciousness (nudged by the huge pinch we're experiencing now) to get us to change our ways. This week's story about a Florida congressman's family offering their spare home to a homeless family provides a great example of not letting our glut of space go to waste. You don't even have to offer it for free...lots of folks could benefit right now from some extra income. Progressive programs such as Housemate Match in Atlanta have been linking renters and older adult homeowners with extra room since 1984 (check out their great video).

Closer quarters may be a challenge for most of us. And they also may be a crucial step to facing into our mutual responsibility to care for the planet and each other. Surf's Up! What other ideas do you know about? ...I'd love to hear.

Talking is so out of vogue

Ok folks, I have yet to use this blog for a rant but here it is. Admittedly that's not the default of my temperament. As the moniker for this space implies, I value communication that goes both ways, and talk radio style blathering (which usually comes in the form of yelling) isn't my speed, even in writing. There are only a few things that can really propel me post haste onto a soap box. One of them is leaf blowers...don't get me started. The other is email.

It's not that I don't use it, or value it, for making connections, staying updated, coordinating plans and relaying information. Especially in business...it's efficient. It keeps things moving and speeds things up (not always a good thing), etc, etc. It's eco friendly, it's in writing. There are lots of benefits, and Microsoft would be glad to give us a white paper on them. Go ahead, google it!

It also goes without saying (but in a rant you get to say it anyway) that the notorious downside of email is the lack of social cues that you have when you communicate in person or over the phone. We're mammals--social, relational creatures--and those subtle intonations, expressions and body language shape the impact and meaning of what we say. In their amazing book A General Theory of Love, three psychiatrists explore the neurobiology of this connection and make the case that our very survivial depends on it. So all that goes out the window and we're left hanging in the breeze to interpret the words without the limbic phrase book.

But I digress. This is actually not the focus of today's rant. Today I am taking to task the cowardly cover that email gives people to not deal with each other like human adults when conflict arises. What is up with this? In the past week I have heard from at least two friends in business and another in a romantic pairing where conflict is occurring and misunderstandings are happening and everybody is trying to solve these relational issues with a form of communication that is for all intensive purposes just about as effective as a telegraph. Next thing you know we will be texting each other our break up letters...OMG UR DUN. Of course, even as I write this I realize this probably does happen with regularity and I have just shown myself to be oh-so 20th century.

Yes, it's easier to just shoot off an email instead of actually having to listen, reflect, deal with people's feelings (or our own). But you know, we're an evolving species. We can handle it. Strengthen that human courage gene in the greater scheme of things. By just using a little old-fashioned talking to each other. Pick up the phone. Lord knows everyone seems to have one. Better yet, meet at your favorite locally owned coffee shop. Chat a bit, discuss, straighten it out. You need to get out of the office for minute anyway. Still too scary? Get some skills! And guess what, you may find that in the end, things end up being more productive and satisfying to boot.

Agree? Disagree? I'd love to hear about it. Call me!!!

Dare to dance...average

The President inspires me. Ok, this sentiment is neither revolutionary nor unique. Our 44th Commander in Chief embodies "role model" as an orator, a leader, and simply as courageous human being.

But I'm talking about the dancing. When he and Michelle stepped into the Inaugural Balls on Tuesday night--in just about the brightest and most visible spotlight one can imagine--they weren't all that great at the foxtrot. Clearly that was one activity that was cut in the rehearsal department, understandably, say, after "delivering Inauguration Address", and "giving crisp salutes".

From my point of view it takes guts to be willing to "dance average", or even badly, in front of people. Especially when you're the President. I may also be saying this because I'm learning how to dance, so as I'm stumbling across the floor and tilting and whirling and occasionally crushing toes, it helps to think that even celebrities and role models can look a little stiff on the dance floor.

Still, one could clearly see that joy and delight in each other that propelled the first couple with slightly awkward steps across a global stage. The pundits may have declared that "the Obamas' performance level dipped in the dance department" (groan), but to me, it was just another example of how this leader and his strong and beautiful partner continue to invite me into challenges that may be just beyond my comfort level. That call me to stretch, twirl first, and let my courage catch up to me afterward. So I'm going to keep dancing, even if I'm average. Besides, I'm in it for the joy.

The image of the Obamas makes me want to make a slight adjustment to Elizabeth Alexander's beautiful innaugural poem: "praise song for dancing forward in that light". Indeed, "what if the mightiest word is Love?" Love that is forgiving, cuts us some slack, celebrates doing the dance imperfectly rather than sitting against the wall. What if as a country, as families, as co-workers, we chose this kind of Love--and to dance into it, swirling, tipping, dipping, smiling...average.

Laissez les bon temps roulez!

.


It would be wrong to disparage the rain--we so desperately need it in our drought-ravaged region. But today's weather in Western North Carolina was so distinctly Seattle-like that I was having flashbacks to the interminable days of clouds and wet during the winter months in the northwest. The good news in the southeast is that we are reasonably certain that the dismal skies today will yield to sunny ones before too long. This southern girl is soooo glad to be back!

Though the day was dreary, it also marked the colorful celebration of Epiphany, or Twelfth Night, ending the 12 days of Christmas and beginning the season of Carnival--a period dedicated to decadence that culminates in Mardis Gras and the beginning of the more austere season of Lent. Asheville is celebrating in high style with a festive night of costumes, masks, zydeco and great New Orleans fare with traditional King Cake at Ed Boudreaux's Bayou BBQ.

With the current economic situation as bleak as today's gray skies, it seems that the traditional Carnival motto, Laissez les bon temps roulez! (roughly translated "Let the Good Times Roll"), seems a courageous and faithful rebuke to fear and gloominess. It is an invitation to celebration, to abundance, to color, life, dancing and fun. In short, it may be what we need more than anything right now. I'm keenly guarding my attention these days--will I focus on the negative and link my well-being and future to the grim narratives of newscasters? Or keep my gaze open to evidence of a Universe of plenty that is all around?

In the past 6 days, I've witnessed numerous examples of miracles of opportunity and expansion:

• a friend landed a job within 24 hours of posting his resume online
• a neighbor transferred to a better position that is a mile from her house, in an organization where there are "never" openings
• a real estate agent closed on her 3rd home sale in the last 4 weeks
• a friend's daughter was contacted by a former client asking to correct a billing error in which they owed her $6,000.

I am not suggesting that we ignore the suffering, struggle and concern that so many of us are facing in these uncertain times; there are real challenges to be met now and in the days ahead. The brutality in the Middle East continued today, there is violence and deprivation all around. But, at least for today, I choose to put my faith in abundance, in joy, and to nibble a sweet bite of king cake, and declare (if only in a whisper) "Laissez les bon temps roulez!"

May they roll with you and yours as well.

Life in the Slow Lane

On the morning of Christmas Eve, I set out to buy the ingredients for the next day's holiday potluck. I zipped through Greenlife and Ingles with all the other last minute shoppers, studying my list and periodically whistling along with the piped-in carols. The feeling in the air was an odd mix of frantic and excited; shoppers rushed around with smiles alternating with grimaces. I found myself in a very jolly mood, eagerly anticipating time with good friends and grateful that the mall and walmart were nowhere near my destination list.

Waiting in the checkout line, I remembered a last minute item and assured the Man Behind Me "I would be right back." Fearing the glares of my fellow line-waiters, I ran across the store. "You could have walked downtown and back," the Man Behind Me grumbled when I returned, "at the rate this checker is going." Our gal did indeed seem to be moving at a snail's pace; she had a weary look about her. I wondered if she was sick, or sad. "It might be the best thing for us," I cheerily replied, "the Universe trying to get us all to slow it down." The Man stared at me for a minute, wondering if he should take offense at my chipper chiding. He decided not to and smiled, "Maybe you're right."

This interlude held a little more significance for me this year, since the potluck I was preparing to attend was being hosted by friends who are involved in the "Slow Food Movement"--a worldwide "eco-gastronomic" (!) membership of folks dedicated to counteracting the fast food culture by creating events and discourse around food appreciation and food justice issues.

Founded in 1989 when Italian activist Carlo Petrini protested the opening of the first MacDonald's in Rome, Slow Food has rapidly grown in recent years to 85,000 active food loving members in 132 countries. My friends had just returned from the international convention, Terra Madre, held in Turin, Italy, and were excited to share their passion with friends and family with a Slow Food Christmas feast.

My Slow Food hosts had invited us to create meals based on local foods, grown organically, with fair trade values, etc. This proved to be a interesting assignment; I admit I just take for granted that I can get bananas when I want them. What IS grown locally and in season during winter in western North Carolina? I wondered if we would be having 17 different renditions of squash casserole, so I started paying attention--talking with the produce pros at Greenlife, and rising to the challenge of finding something interesting to cook. I was delighted to find NC grown yams for my favorite holiday sweet potato pie, along with a variety of salad greens and beets to make a roasted beet and green salad with local goat cheese and Georgia pecans.

Christmas afternoon, I arrived at the common house in Pacifica, a new co-housing community in Carrboro, NC. The table overflowed with all manner of eco-gastronomic offerings: cabbage with roasted potatoes and lentils, winter leek and sausage casserole, arugula salad (grown right on the property), spicy collards, holiday cole slaw, homemade bread, and more. Feast indeed! With not a squash in sight. And in typical slow food fashion, we lingered for several hours, refilling our plates as new offerings arrived, and rambling over all manner of topics from favorite recipes to politics to discussion of whether one resident's request to install a woodstove would find consensus with his neighbors. (Sure, living in community sounds great, but then you have to deal with all the other people! But they're doing it with messy grace and authentic joy. It's amazing to witness.)

At the end of the night, we swept and cleaned and put everything back in its place in the common house, then walked the 50 yards toward home. The sky was full of stars (visible since the ambient light is minimal by design). We paused, inhaling the night, happy and full.

So, I plan to slowly enjoy the remaining 12 Days of Christmas, these waning winter days that extend like spiritual speed bumps between December 24 and January 6. These 12 days invite me to savor the year, reflecting rather than rushing pell mell into 2009.

I pray you, too, find some savoring in Slow.