"To live is so startling it leaves little time for anything else."
-- Emily Dickinson
A few weeks ago I stood in the foyer at College Place Presbyterian Church on Easter morning, reading a letter my mom wrote over a decade ago to our pastor and his wife, Robin & Kriss Peterson. "They thought we should have this," Mel said, handing the envelope to me. "Do you want to read it?" Mom's handwriting spread across the paper expressing her gratitude for Robin & Kriss's kindness and care, how she felt about her upcoming treatment process, her resonance with him as the two of them moved through cancer diagnoses together. Several months later he & Doug Barram together led my family down the aisle at her memorial service.
I handed the card back to my sister, thinking about him. Mom was not alone...there are thousands of people whose lives are peppered with these kinds of stories, who Robin walked with in their life and whose casket he stood by in their death...many kinds of aisles people do not want to walk alone...the moments that mean "to live."
Robin Peterson died yesterday.
Walking will continue but it does feel like the earth takes a brief pause to re-adjust itself when people die. The very lilt of a day is altered by breath, our own and others'.
I am grateful to have known this man who lived the kind of startle that is awakening...who tended hearts and animals with equal passion...who cared for his land and prayed for his community...who saw and who was with and who recalled...who spoke the language of the soul...who sang joy and whispered peace...who rained kindness and lived generously...who was honest about himself and grieved his losses...who understood and entered the story...who pursued love.
Thankful tears fall for you.
Good-bye, Robin.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
On Weddings & Asparagus & Social Convention
So I'll just come out and say it: I watched The Royal Wedding. The whole thing. I hadn't set an alarm but Jonathan woke up coughing and it woke me up and I looked at my phone and it was 1:09 am. So I chalked it up to serendipity and decided that, since I had to get up in 4 hours anyway and I was in fact interested in the wedding, I'd go ahead and put on the coffee and watch the whole thing. And so I did.
About 42 minutes into the pre-event coverage I was more sick of Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters than usual but The Today Show drives me nuts so I stuck with ABC and made the best of it. And there was a lot of the best to make of it. I thought the feeling was lovely and the dresses gorgeous and the hats phenomenal and the service beautiful and the coordination flawless. I saw an interview earlier in the week with a gentleman who works for the palace and he was asked what could go wrong. "Nothing," he replied, "Nothing will go wrong." The interviewer laughed. "Nothing?!," she asked incredulously. "Nothing," he responded. And I'm sure there were great sighs of relief back at the palace that everything did go so well. But it went deeper than that.
Later that day I was reading the wall of a college student's Facebook page....some of her peers expressing boredom and a "lack of romance" in the structure and formality of the wedding. I realize there's an individual perspective thing partly at play here, but I strongly beg to differ. In my real life, I'm not a wildly demonstrative person. But the ascot opening race sequence in My Fair Lady is one of my all-time favorite scenes in musical theater and I've watched or played in the pit through many a musical. If it weren't for the structure in that scene, the entire thing would fall apart and lose its personality. The form provides a certain vital energy. It could take over the experience but it doesn't. Events can be that way. Life is often that way. Try spending time with someone who has no boundaries or alternately who is super tightly wound, whether they are 8 years old or 80 years old. Or partner dancing. Just the right amount of tension and decision is paramount to movement. It's partly why I love salsa dancing. And why I am fascinated with fashion, details, ritual, occasion. The drama. The hats. The precision. The contrasts. It's fantastic! I love a good event.
That night Jonathan and I drove to Walla Walla for a weekend fundraising event. The evening's guest speaker was here from many time zones away. She stayed with my sister and her family for a few days so one evening J and I walked across the street (from my dad's) to have dinner at Mel's house. We sat down, toasted and said grace, and then started passing food. Both ways. They must do it differently in her country because left is right went out the window as the aspargus and the salad dressings met in the middle on one side and the meat loaf and the salad met on the other. Everything eventually got around but the asparagus got caught wondering which way to go a couple times. For all kinds of reasons it didn't matter a single bit to the experience of the evening. But it brought to mind something I think about a lot: social convention.
I grew up with a lot of them. I'll bet you did too, possibly quite different from mine. Either that or you didn't grow up with many which leaves you with an entirely different set of questions. But in either case we got messages and patterns and those affect our perceptions and behaviors and interactions and judgments. And for the rest of our lives we'll be sorting out which ones to keep, which to toss, which to re-introduce, which new ones to adopt, when and why to do that at various times, what they mean, what they hinder, how they allow, and on and on. They can be strange things, whether at royal weddings or at meals. It's sorta like Christians at Easter....where you put the emphasis is partly a matter of tradition and personal style. But we use them for reasons. Sometimes people say they don't care about how things like that go but I rarely believe them because at some point they do care...whether it's a meal or a conversation or a bike ride it's just a matter of when and about what and all of the sudden they'll care.
We can get caught up in the emphatic, that's very true -- emphasizing order can stifle engagement, not attending to it can mean engagement doesn't happen cuz we're super hungry but no one's passing the asparagus. If no one passes the asparagus it just sits there on the table. But even in cultures where the food does just sit in the middle, they have ways of doing it -- people know how to go about having some and if you don't know you want to find out. Or you go without asparagus. But who would want to do that?! Hopefully we aim for the middle, taking care of what needs to be taken care of, in ways that allow for the most life possible. You figure it out. Each lends life to the other. Any fan of Dr. Seuss will tell you that.
Honestly, it doesn't probably matter to the asparagus whether it goes left or right. It's only asparagus. But not all of life is asparagus. Like royal weddings.
Ok, that's all.
©2011 Mindy Danylak
About 42 minutes into the pre-event coverage I was more sick of Diane Sawyer and Barbara Walters than usual but The Today Show drives me nuts so I stuck with ABC and made the best of it. And there was a lot of the best to make of it. I thought the feeling was lovely and the dresses gorgeous and the hats phenomenal and the service beautiful and the coordination flawless. I saw an interview earlier in the week with a gentleman who works for the palace and he was asked what could go wrong. "Nothing," he replied, "Nothing will go wrong." The interviewer laughed. "Nothing?!," she asked incredulously. "Nothing," he responded. And I'm sure there were great sighs of relief back at the palace that everything did go so well. But it went deeper than that.
Later that day I was reading the wall of a college student's Facebook page....some of her peers expressing boredom and a "lack of romance" in the structure and formality of the wedding. I realize there's an individual perspective thing partly at play here, but I strongly beg to differ. In my real life, I'm not a wildly demonstrative person. But the ascot opening race sequence in My Fair Lady is one of my all-time favorite scenes in musical theater and I've watched or played in the pit through many a musical. If it weren't for the structure in that scene, the entire thing would fall apart and lose its personality. The form provides a certain vital energy. It could take over the experience but it doesn't. Events can be that way. Life is often that way. Try spending time with someone who has no boundaries or alternately who is super tightly wound, whether they are 8 years old or 80 years old. Or partner dancing. Just the right amount of tension and decision is paramount to movement. It's partly why I love salsa dancing. And why I am fascinated with fashion, details, ritual, occasion. The drama. The hats. The precision. The contrasts. It's fantastic! I love a good event.
That night Jonathan and I drove to Walla Walla for a weekend fundraising event. The evening's guest speaker was here from many time zones away. She stayed with my sister and her family for a few days so one evening J and I walked across the street (from my dad's) to have dinner at Mel's house. We sat down, toasted and said grace, and then started passing food. Both ways. They must do it differently in her country because left is right went out the window as the aspargus and the salad dressings met in the middle on one side and the meat loaf and the salad met on the other. Everything eventually got around but the asparagus got caught wondering which way to go a couple times. For all kinds of reasons it didn't matter a single bit to the experience of the evening. But it brought to mind something I think about a lot: social convention.
I grew up with a lot of them. I'll bet you did too, possibly quite different from mine. Either that or you didn't grow up with many which leaves you with an entirely different set of questions. But in either case we got messages and patterns and those affect our perceptions and behaviors and interactions and judgments. And for the rest of our lives we'll be sorting out which ones to keep, which to toss, which to re-introduce, which new ones to adopt, when and why to do that at various times, what they mean, what they hinder, how they allow, and on and on. They can be strange things, whether at royal weddings or at meals. It's sorta like Christians at Easter....where you put the emphasis is partly a matter of tradition and personal style. But we use them for reasons. Sometimes people say they don't care about how things like that go but I rarely believe them because at some point they do care...whether it's a meal or a conversation or a bike ride it's just a matter of when and about what and all of the sudden they'll care.
We can get caught up in the emphatic, that's very true -- emphasizing order can stifle engagement, not attending to it can mean engagement doesn't happen cuz we're super hungry but no one's passing the asparagus. If no one passes the asparagus it just sits there on the table. But even in cultures where the food does just sit in the middle, they have ways of doing it -- people know how to go about having some and if you don't know you want to find out. Or you go without asparagus. But who would want to do that?! Hopefully we aim for the middle, taking care of what needs to be taken care of, in ways that allow for the most life possible. You figure it out. Each lends life to the other. Any fan of Dr. Seuss will tell you that.
Honestly, it doesn't probably matter to the asparagus whether it goes left or right. It's only asparagus. But not all of life is asparagus. Like royal weddings.
Ok, that's all.
©2011 Mindy Danylak
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Easter
Holy Week is a lesson in how life is. Some Christians emphasize celebrating the risen Christ and triumph over death, others emphasize his death, the darkness and the grave. But love is both. Both are real and important, for themselves and for each other. I am by nature more optimistic than pessimistic, but I have also known more pain than I'd like to have known for my age. I know it's both. I'm feeling a little blah lately; and, even with that being said, I think this year I'm landing more in the celebratory mood around Easter. Maybe I need it as the balance for where I am. At any rate, this coming Sunday is Easter and I can't wait. I've been looking forward to it for a year.
I didn't grow up celebrating Easter. My family was quite 'religiously involved' but the group we were in didn't observe any of the traditional Christian liturgial seasons...Christmas, Lent, Holy Week, Pentecost, Ordinary Time...none of that. Actually, I didn't even know there was such a thing as a church calendar until my early 20s. No, we weren't Jehovah's Witness...it was probably not a group most of you have ever heard of unless you know me and we've talked about it or you grew up in or around it yourself. There's some information out there but it doesn't convey the experience. I'll share more of my story someday when I get around to writing it, but for now I'll just say that it was a Christian-esque group with some idiosyncracies that included not paying attention to the church calendar.
So the group didn't do Easter. I knew that many people celebrated Christmas as a religious holiday, although we celebrated it as a fun family holiday. But Easter was a mystery, almost entirely off my radar, and we didn't do anything around it. I vaguely remember two of my aunts talking about their families gathering for Easter...the big dinner and the family photos and all that but I never understood what the big deal was. A couple years Mom hid plastic eggs full of foil-wrapped chocolates around the house but it was a little odd. I understood gathering for Christmas, because we did that. But Easter? It felt like any other Sunday to me. I barely noticed that it was Easter at all, let alone that it meant anything. My relatives were all in the same religious group as us so I figured it was just something they did for some reason that my family didn't do. I let it go and never wondered about it. Then we left the group in 1995 and it was sometime in those years, so probably in the early 90s, that I realized that on Easter Christians celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. But realizing it, even observing it every year, didn't mean I developed an attachment to it. Until last year. Before that, there were a just couple years that stood out as significant Easter seasons for me.
2002. I was living in the Czech Republic that year and took the train up to Krakow for the weekend with Brooke, Megan and Priya. We attended mass at the Dominikanie Krakow (Dominican Church and Monastery) then walked up to Wawel Castle. Poland has been a santuary for me...it had been a rough couple years and the gorgeous, sunny, warm Krakow afternoon, in the company of dear friends, and under the canopy of a very old church and traditon, was just what my battered heart needed. We wandered through Josefov where a few boys threw water balloons at us. I think Brooke threw one back. Polish tradition. The city was alive with people -- people in church, people walking, people dressed to the nines, people just wandering around, out and about enjoying the day. At the castle I sat down on a low stone wall, watching people and writing, enjoying the sunshine and the Bach Unaccompanied wafting from the music shop across the lawn. I was going through a period of deeply missing Mom and it was hard to connect with the liturgy; but the liveliness all around me sank in...the transcendence of God. I felt the truth of Easter...the exhasution and the relief...the beauty. I brought home a double-cd set of the Bach.
2003. The year Jonathan and I got married. We went to church on Easter Sunday. I wore a lime green silk dress. I love that dress. I still have it. I bought it on a sale at Talbot's on my way to my friends Matt and Sharon's wedding in Portland right after I moved back from the Czech Republic in summer 2002. Jonathan also taught me that spring how to dye eggs in the (his) Ukranian tradition. Pysanky. He actually got college credit for it and does amazing work. His brother came to visit this past weekend and we dyed eggs most of Saturday. Jonathan puts on Rachmaninoff Vespers, we cover the table with brown craft paper, and we work. Eggs are fragile. Sometimes the shells are left in pieces, the insides running all over your hands. Getting good at the craft necessarily involves becoming ok with brokenness. You have to love the creating, not just the final piece.
A few weeks ago we drove to Portland to visit our friends Alex and Jessica and we went to church with them on Sunday. It's a fairly small, very unassuming little building. Warm, friendly people. We sang old hymns and all the people prayed and I was captured by the amazing cross hanging on the front wall...grape vines stretched out, wrapped with these intricate hand-knit roses of varying sizes, in the most amazing red you've ever seen. And I remembered.
Last year we went to Walla Walla, my hometown, for Easter weekend. Jonathan and I don't go to to church much right now. That's another story too and you shouldn't read much into that. I just say it to provide a contrast - my church in Walla Walla is a special place for me. When we're in town we almost always go. It's the church my family started going to shortly after we left the old group. I feel at home there. I have history there and people there. I moved away from Walla Walla a few months after we left the group, but that church has always felt like mine. I'd heard about their tradition on Easter but never been in town for it. You take a large wooden cross. You wrap it in chicken wire. At the end of the service all the kids walk up the center aisle. As each child comes forward they give their flowers to an adult who tucks the flowers here and there into the chicken wire, and as the congregation sings the cross blooms.
It moved me beyond anything I expected. I sat there singing and as the cross bloomed I felt breathless. There were dozens and dozens of children, and within seconds the line of kiddos filled the sanctuary. One of the adults tossed my sister and me a glance asking for help. We started taking flowers from the kids' hands, anchoring the stems under the chicken wire. By that time the flowers had been clutched in little hands for a long time and they weren't in the greatest of condition; but it didn't matter. I sang and watched the congregation as I took the flowers and bloomed the cross, and something inside me found familiarity. I saw my mom's close friend Kathleen sitting out there and thought, "yes, something is coming full circle here." It was like I was going through my first communion or something. I found Easter. Easter now had a participation that gave it a personal, experiential meaning for me, one that was rooted in beauty and creativity. It's where elements once living are cut down and then give life again. It's where I participate with my body and my soul, singing and watching and blooming. It's where profound Love is honored and remembered and celebrated.
So we're going again this year. We will visit with my family and take care of our 2 year old nephew while my sister and her family go celebrate my brother-in-law's grandpa's 90th birthday for the day. Then Sunday morning we'll get up and go to church. We'll go to the early service. Usually we go to the later service because getting everyone out the door for the early service is just asking too much. But on Easter we go early. The kids each carry a little fistfull of flowers cut from their (or the neighbors'...) lawn and climb into the car and off we go.
I will take my blah-ness with me. I'll take my tiredness with me. I'll take my losses and my questions with me. And I'll take joy. I will find rest and comfort, energy and pleasure, meaning and depth. I'll find Love and Beauty. And at the table on Sunday afternoon, I will look around me and be profoundly grateful for Life.
"Love" by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked any thing.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here."
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I the unkind, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," sayes Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," sayes Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
I didn't grow up celebrating Easter. My family was quite 'religiously involved' but the group we were in didn't observe any of the traditional Christian liturgial seasons...Christmas, Lent, Holy Week, Pentecost, Ordinary Time...none of that. Actually, I didn't even know there was such a thing as a church calendar until my early 20s. No, we weren't Jehovah's Witness...it was probably not a group most of you have ever heard of unless you know me and we've talked about it or you grew up in or around it yourself. There's some information out there but it doesn't convey the experience. I'll share more of my story someday when I get around to writing it, but for now I'll just say that it was a Christian-esque group with some idiosyncracies that included not paying attention to the church calendar.
So the group didn't do Easter. I knew that many people celebrated Christmas as a religious holiday, although we celebrated it as a fun family holiday. But Easter was a mystery, almost entirely off my radar, and we didn't do anything around it. I vaguely remember two of my aunts talking about their families gathering for Easter...the big dinner and the family photos and all that but I never understood what the big deal was. A couple years Mom hid plastic eggs full of foil-wrapped chocolates around the house but it was a little odd. I understood gathering for Christmas, because we did that. But Easter? It felt like any other Sunday to me. I barely noticed that it was Easter at all, let alone that it meant anything. My relatives were all in the same religious group as us so I figured it was just something they did for some reason that my family didn't do. I let it go and never wondered about it. Then we left the group in 1995 and it was sometime in those years, so probably in the early 90s, that I realized that on Easter Christians celebrate the resurrection of Jesus. But realizing it, even observing it every year, didn't mean I developed an attachment to it. Until last year. Before that, there were a just couple years that stood out as significant Easter seasons for me.
2002. I was living in the Czech Republic that year and took the train up to Krakow for the weekend with Brooke, Megan and Priya. We attended mass at the Dominikanie Krakow (Dominican Church and Monastery) then walked up to Wawel Castle. Poland has been a santuary for me...it had been a rough couple years and the gorgeous, sunny, warm Krakow afternoon, in the company of dear friends, and under the canopy of a very old church and traditon, was just what my battered heart needed. We wandered through Josefov where a few boys threw water balloons at us. I think Brooke threw one back. Polish tradition. The city was alive with people -- people in church, people walking, people dressed to the nines, people just wandering around, out and about enjoying the day. At the castle I sat down on a low stone wall, watching people and writing, enjoying the sunshine and the Bach Unaccompanied wafting from the music shop across the lawn. I was going through a period of deeply missing Mom and it was hard to connect with the liturgy; but the liveliness all around me sank in...the transcendence of God. I felt the truth of Easter...the exhasution and the relief...the beauty. I brought home a double-cd set of the Bach.
2003. The year Jonathan and I got married. We went to church on Easter Sunday. I wore a lime green silk dress. I love that dress. I still have it. I bought it on a sale at Talbot's on my way to my friends Matt and Sharon's wedding in Portland right after I moved back from the Czech Republic in summer 2002. Jonathan also taught me that spring how to dye eggs in the (his) Ukranian tradition. Pysanky. He actually got college credit for it and does amazing work. His brother came to visit this past weekend and we dyed eggs most of Saturday. Jonathan puts on Rachmaninoff Vespers, we cover the table with brown craft paper, and we work. Eggs are fragile. Sometimes the shells are left in pieces, the insides running all over your hands. Getting good at the craft necessarily involves becoming ok with brokenness. You have to love the creating, not just the final piece.
A few weeks ago we drove to Portland to visit our friends Alex and Jessica and we went to church with them on Sunday. It's a fairly small, very unassuming little building. Warm, friendly people. We sang old hymns and all the people prayed and I was captured by the amazing cross hanging on the front wall...grape vines stretched out, wrapped with these intricate hand-knit roses of varying sizes, in the most amazing red you've ever seen. And I remembered.
Last year we went to Walla Walla, my hometown, for Easter weekend. Jonathan and I don't go to to church much right now. That's another story too and you shouldn't read much into that. I just say it to provide a contrast - my church in Walla Walla is a special place for me. When we're in town we almost always go. It's the church my family started going to shortly after we left the old group. I feel at home there. I have history there and people there. I moved away from Walla Walla a few months after we left the group, but that church has always felt like mine. I'd heard about their tradition on Easter but never been in town for it. You take a large wooden cross. You wrap it in chicken wire. At the end of the service all the kids walk up the center aisle. As each child comes forward they give their flowers to an adult who tucks the flowers here and there into the chicken wire, and as the congregation sings the cross blooms.
It moved me beyond anything I expected. I sat there singing and as the cross bloomed I felt breathless. There were dozens and dozens of children, and within seconds the line of kiddos filled the sanctuary. One of the adults tossed my sister and me a glance asking for help. We started taking flowers from the kids' hands, anchoring the stems under the chicken wire. By that time the flowers had been clutched in little hands for a long time and they weren't in the greatest of condition; but it didn't matter. I sang and watched the congregation as I took the flowers and bloomed the cross, and something inside me found familiarity. I saw my mom's close friend Kathleen sitting out there and thought, "yes, something is coming full circle here." It was like I was going through my first communion or something. I found Easter. Easter now had a participation that gave it a personal, experiential meaning for me, one that was rooted in beauty and creativity. It's where elements once living are cut down and then give life again. It's where I participate with my body and my soul, singing and watching and blooming. It's where profound Love is honored and remembered and celebrated.
So we're going again this year. We will visit with my family and take care of our 2 year old nephew while my sister and her family go celebrate my brother-in-law's grandpa's 90th birthday for the day. Then Sunday morning we'll get up and go to church. We'll go to the early service. Usually we go to the later service because getting everyone out the door for the early service is just asking too much. But on Easter we go early. The kids each carry a little fistfull of flowers cut from their (or the neighbors'...) lawn and climb into the car and off we go.
I will take my blah-ness with me. I'll take my tiredness with me. I'll take my losses and my questions with me. And I'll take joy. I will find rest and comfort, energy and pleasure, meaning and depth. I'll find Love and Beauty. And at the table on Sunday afternoon, I will look around me and be profoundly grateful for Life.
"Love" by George Herbert
Love bade me welcome: yet my soul drew back,
Guiltie of dust and sinne.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lacked any thing.
"A guest," I answered, "worthy to be here."
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I the unkind, ungratefull? Ah my deare,
I cannot look on thee."
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."
"And know you not," sayes Love, "who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," sayes Love, "and taste my meat."
So I did sit and eat.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Daily Bread
"Food is nothing less than sacrament."
-- Leslie Leyland Fields, "The Spirit of Food"
I'm not much of a baker...yeast freaks me out. But I love cooking, and meals are a favorite way for Jonathan & me to spend time with people. I always light candles and I know that the typical tea-light will last about 3 hours. When friends are over, we rarely leave the table before the tea-lights have burned to silent pools in their holders.
I'm reading a book right now called "The Spirit of Food." Each chapter is written by a different person, sharing stories about the intersections of faith & food in their lives. Some chapters are better than others. But I love the Introduction. It makes my very soul water. I've read lots of these lately -- The Spirit of Food edited by Leslie Leyland Fields; Take This Bread by Sara Miles; Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver; and others. They make me feel alive. And they make me want to plan meals & invite friends & track down the best-tasting whole ingredients possible. Flavors & tastes fascinate me, plus it's just relaxing for me to chop an onion or mince garlic or stir a pot or flip french toast...and I love eating with friends so it works well!
My sister Melody is an incredible cook. She doesn't just understand gourmet, the science and the art of ingredients & mixing and combining, she was born as part of the definition. There are some people who learn & others who are. She is both. She is a student and a natural. I've learned a lot from her over the years. She puts together meals the mouth remembers. I love watching her kitchen turn into a tornado of flour dustings and spices and heavy knives on butcher block cutting boards, pottery bowls of spiced shrimp in the oven and mixing bowls of sliced peaches on the counter and double boilers of melting chocolate on the stove, her 3 kids swirling around the room. Sometimes, preparing for holidays or special occasions, we all eat dinner and then put the kids to bed, cooking more later in the middle of the night, talking all the while. The best conversations happen at those times. A meal at her home is a thing of delight. It feels like home to me. It feels like her. It feels like love.
I'm not a fancy cook. I don't have the patience for it. But I have a version of her passion. I like watching prosecco bubbles climb the edges of a flute, or hearing the sizzle of a shallot in hot olive oil. I like the oily pucker of an olive and the relief of sea salt on chocolate covered caramels. I love how sage and rosemary permeate a kitchen or fresh basil perfumes mozzarella. I love the artistry of a table & making sure each person has space. I like the forethought....thinking about who's coming & what they like & don't like, how I get to become more creative as a cook for friends who have allergies or are vegetarian or who are Muslim so don't eat pork. I love to anticipate.
When we have friends for dinner we start with a toast. As people gather toward the table Jonathan pours. Each person gets a crystal shot of pomegranate vodka and we raise our glasses at the same time. I love hearing Jonathan offer a toast at the beginning of the meal. A couple weeks ago it was a twist on Julius Ceasar's "veni, vidi, vici" (I came, I saw, I conquered) -- he told this little story & ended by toasting with "I came, I ate, I stayed" (in Latin). We were having dinner with 2 couples, old friends and new friends. It was the first time the 6 of us had all been together so it was perfect! A few years ago at a dinner with 3 couples who didn't know each other, Jonathan whipped out the New Testament & read that story of Jesus cursing the fig tree, and then toasted "for faith that can wither fig trees." !! That one made me nervous because it was so off the wall but conversation never lagged and now I recall it with a smile.
When I think about my growing up years, family circles around the kitchen table, or company in the living room, dessert & coffee in hand, invariably pop to mind quickly. I grew up with groups around the table & loved it. We had people for Sunday dinner virtually every week. My mom didn't especially love cooking but she cared widely for people. I learned from my mom about hospitality, about blends, about thinking about who would be present, about caring, and about ways of expressing myself in the midst of all that.
Conversation happens at tables. Life is shared. Cooking & eating is creating & creative space for me. It's narrative. It's creative. It's life and conversing. With every meal there's a story to create, a story to experience. The arc unfolds across the duration of the meal, each person at the table helping write it. The story cannot be controlled, it can only be joined in. Life and faith are no different.
Next week I'm having a cooking class in my kitchen with a few friends. We'll learn a few kitchen tricks and drink a glass of wine. Women who love cooking will be right at home, and those who consider themselves inexperienced & hopelessly lost cooks will go home with a trick up her sleeve & a guaranteed successful meal she can make at home. But mostly we'll do it together. We'll prepare a meal together, and we'll eat it together. Together being the operative word. I don't mind being alone. When I'm by myself I eat things like bread & cheese with sparkling water. Spinach leaves wilted with a drizzle of warm olive oil. Snap peas tossed in a pan with a little garlic. A scallop wrapped in proscuitto, roasted in lemon zest & black pepper. Being alone is no excuse for eating badly. Food speaks. But eating it together is better.
"This is the first salmon of the season. You all know the tradition that fishermen kiss the first fish. Anyone do that today?" My oldest son rolls his eyes, wanting only to eat. I hurry on.
"I'm going to read something before we start."
I pull my Bible onto the table, and before anyone can resist, I begin:
"This is from the book of Job:
-- Leslie Leyland Fields, "The Spirit of Food"
I'm not much of a baker...yeast freaks me out. But I love cooking, and meals are a favorite way for Jonathan & me to spend time with people. I always light candles and I know that the typical tea-light will last about 3 hours. When friends are over, we rarely leave the table before the tea-lights have burned to silent pools in their holders.
I'm reading a book right now called "The Spirit of Food." Each chapter is written by a different person, sharing stories about the intersections of faith & food in their lives. Some chapters are better than others. But I love the Introduction. It makes my very soul water. I've read lots of these lately -- The Spirit of Food edited by Leslie Leyland Fields; Take This Bread by Sara Miles; Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver; and others. They make me feel alive. And they make me want to plan meals & invite friends & track down the best-tasting whole ingredients possible. Flavors & tastes fascinate me, plus it's just relaxing for me to chop an onion or mince garlic or stir a pot or flip french toast...and I love eating with friends so it works well!
My sister Melody is an incredible cook. She doesn't just understand gourmet, the science and the art of ingredients & mixing and combining, she was born as part of the definition. There are some people who learn & others who are. She is both. She is a student and a natural. I've learned a lot from her over the years. She puts together meals the mouth remembers. I love watching her kitchen turn into a tornado of flour dustings and spices and heavy knives on butcher block cutting boards, pottery bowls of spiced shrimp in the oven and mixing bowls of sliced peaches on the counter and double boilers of melting chocolate on the stove, her 3 kids swirling around the room. Sometimes, preparing for holidays or special occasions, we all eat dinner and then put the kids to bed, cooking more later in the middle of the night, talking all the while. The best conversations happen at those times. A meal at her home is a thing of delight. It feels like home to me. It feels like her. It feels like love.
I'm not a fancy cook. I don't have the patience for it. But I have a version of her passion. I like watching prosecco bubbles climb the edges of a flute, or hearing the sizzle of a shallot in hot olive oil. I like the oily pucker of an olive and the relief of sea salt on chocolate covered caramels. I love how sage and rosemary permeate a kitchen or fresh basil perfumes mozzarella. I love the artistry of a table & making sure each person has space. I like the forethought....thinking about who's coming & what they like & don't like, how I get to become more creative as a cook for friends who have allergies or are vegetarian or who are Muslim so don't eat pork. I love to anticipate.
When we have friends for dinner we start with a toast. As people gather toward the table Jonathan pours. Each person gets a crystal shot of pomegranate vodka and we raise our glasses at the same time. I love hearing Jonathan offer a toast at the beginning of the meal. A couple weeks ago it was a twist on Julius Ceasar's "veni, vidi, vici" (I came, I saw, I conquered) -- he told this little story & ended by toasting with "I came, I ate, I stayed" (in Latin). We were having dinner with 2 couples, old friends and new friends. It was the first time the 6 of us had all been together so it was perfect! A few years ago at a dinner with 3 couples who didn't know each other, Jonathan whipped out the New Testament & read that story of Jesus cursing the fig tree, and then toasted "for faith that can wither fig trees." !! That one made me nervous because it was so off the wall but conversation never lagged and now I recall it with a smile.
When I think about my growing up years, family circles around the kitchen table, or company in the living room, dessert & coffee in hand, invariably pop to mind quickly. I grew up with groups around the table & loved it. We had people for Sunday dinner virtually every week. My mom didn't especially love cooking but she cared widely for people. I learned from my mom about hospitality, about blends, about thinking about who would be present, about caring, and about ways of expressing myself in the midst of all that.
Conversation happens at tables. Life is shared. Cooking & eating is creating & creative space for me. It's narrative. It's creative. It's life and conversing. With every meal there's a story to create, a story to experience. The arc unfolds across the duration of the meal, each person at the table helping write it. The story cannot be controlled, it can only be joined in. Life and faith are no different.
Next week I'm having a cooking class in my kitchen with a few friends. We'll learn a few kitchen tricks and drink a glass of wine. Women who love cooking will be right at home, and those who consider themselves inexperienced & hopelessly lost cooks will go home with a trick up her sleeve & a guaranteed successful meal she can make at home. But mostly we'll do it together. We'll prepare a meal together, and we'll eat it together. Together being the operative word. I don't mind being alone. When I'm by myself I eat things like bread & cheese with sparkling water. Spinach leaves wilted with a drizzle of warm olive oil. Snap peas tossed in a pan with a little garlic. A scallop wrapped in proscuitto, roasted in lemon zest & black pepper. Being alone is no excuse for eating badly. Food speaks. But eating it together is better.
"This is the first salmon of the season. You all know the tradition that fishermen kiss the first fish. Anyone do that today?" My oldest son rolls his eyes, wanting only to eat. I hurry on.
"I'm going to read something before we start."
I pull my Bible onto the table, and before anyone can resist, I begin:
"This is from the book of Job:
But ask the animals and they will teach you,
Or the birds of the air, and they will tell you;
Or speak to the earth and it will teach you,
Or let the fish of the sea inform you.
Which of all these does not know
That the hand of the Lord has done this?
In his hand is the life of every creature
And the breath of all mankind.
Everyone listens, watching the food. I want to say far more, to deliver a sermon, but I stop, knowing the wafers of fish on our tongues will deliver its own message."
-- Leslie Leyland Fields, "The Spirit of Food"
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
A scandal afoot
Charissa Jones is one of the world's most amazing women. She is kind, fun, gracious, strong, gentle, and wise. To be with her is to experience the best of what it is to be a woman, to be a person. I also just simply enjoy her company. Charissa speaks from time to time at her church, a beautiful Episcopal parish in Seattle. Here (and below...if this isn't working) is a link to a sermon she gave in December. I always love hearing about women!
http://www.epiphanyseattle.org/media/2010Dec19/Sermon.mp3
http://www.epiphanyseattle.org/media/2010Dec19/Sermon.mp3
Monday, October 11, 2010
Grief
"... grief isn't for the remembrance... it's for the promise that will remain always unfulfilled ... "
http://mysticspoetsandfools.blogspot.com/2009/09/joy-comes-in-morning.html
http://mysticspoetsandfools.blogspot.com/2009/09/joy-comes-in-morning.html
Friday, January 15, 2010
Thoughts on Haiti
Last week we demolished a massive brick & concrete block fireplace in our living room and dumped the rubble on our front lawn. The pile is about 3 feet high, 30 feet long, and 10 feet across. It weighs several tons and it gives off a strong, concretey sooty smell when it’s wet from the rain…which we’ve been having virtually non-stop for over a week now. All that remains where the original fireplace stood is under the living room floor…a long trough filled with broken bricks and blocks. On Monday night, I looked at that trough and turned to Jonathan. “That’s the beginning of what I imagine when I think of earthquake rubble,” I commented.
Then Tuesday happened.
Driving to work Wednesday my eyes spontaneously filled with tears as I listened to news reports of damage and death and destruction in Haiti. It was early…despair didn’t seem to be setting in but desperation seemed palpable, even across a radio broadcast. As I listened while driving home later in the day, I became aware that I was shaking my head…back and forth…no, no, no…how long had I been shaking my head? Tears streamed down my face…involuntary, effortless, unstoppable.
Ten years ago that morning (January 13) I flew to Manila with 9 friends for 10 days. The first day we were packed into a jeep and driven through the sweltering city. It was my first glimpse of people living in cardboard boxes, the overwhelming smell saturating the humid air, kids blocking the road begging for anything you’d give them. The sunsets were amazing but children’s lungs look like they’ve been life-long smokers due to the smog. Poverty and street life in a devastating collision. On January 24 I went back to work and one of my colleagues asked how it had been. I looked at her and replied my honest reality. “I would be willing to change everything in my life.”
I had no idea. Six months later, I left the family law firm I’d worked for since before I finished college. I took a position with a financial services firm that I held for a few months. Mom died before Thanksgiving. A year later I moved to the Czech Republic and less than a month after arriving I found myself one weekend in Cheb, on the western border with Germany. The area was first settled around 800 AD. Population today is around 30,000. And it is a hub for child prostitution and human trafficking through Europe. Babies are sold to pedophiles. I’m not kidding.
I arrived home and looked at that pile on the front lawn. My house is ripped up and compared to my regular life it’s highly inconvenient. But in comparison, it’s not. Not really. My rubble is organized. It’s creative. I planned for it and paid for it. It’s even government sanctioned…I have a permit for it. I have a truck coming to take it away. And there’s no one under there, dead or dying, reaching out with an empty hand or a gasping plea for help.
Haiti. Death, injury, disease, trauma, government, shock, displacement, refugees, exploitation. And that was off the top of my head. For nearly 15 years now my life and work have linked with people in difficult and sometimes dire situations. I would never presume to “get it”…to relate, understand…especially in this situation. That might be the height of arrogance. But in my humanity I have been caught differently with this one…the intersection of reality and my heart and things brewing right now. The inclination is strong to find a way to “do something”…“to go.” And for some people, that is entirely appropriate and needed. For all kinds of reasons, that’s not really what I should do right now. But one thing I do know is that moments create movements. Some moments live in their own kind of time…they are part of and they are different from…and they need to be honored as such. And even when they are part of something else it can all be so imperceptible. But in their coagulating they create something. I have been here before. Each time it’s different but hazily familiar, and somehow that sense is instantly recognizable. I know this place. I’ve been knowing it for some time. And I suspect that, in your own life, you do too.
I don’t often carry Bible verses in my mind, but I do carry images I see when I read them. Among the most vivid is the Old Testament story of when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River. After they were safely on the other side, they gathered stones and created memorials. These stones represented reminders for them. I can see them, walking, deciding which to put down and leave behind, which one to carry…gathering them together and telling the story. I have released and collected some stones over the years…some literal, some figurative…some I’ve selected, some were given to me. Some of them carry meaning, but mostly the meaning is in the story. I’m not sure yet what I will “do” around Haiti and what is happening there. But one thing I do know…I will save some of those stones in my front yard. It is part of my movement right now. It’s part of Haiti in my life. And those stones and broken bricks in Haiti…they’re not going away any time soon.
©2010 Mindy Danylak
Then Tuesday happened.
Driving to work Wednesday my eyes spontaneously filled with tears as I listened to news reports of damage and death and destruction in Haiti. It was early…despair didn’t seem to be setting in but desperation seemed palpable, even across a radio broadcast. As I listened while driving home later in the day, I became aware that I was shaking my head…back and forth…no, no, no…how long had I been shaking my head? Tears streamed down my face…involuntary, effortless, unstoppable.
Ten years ago that morning (January 13) I flew to Manila with 9 friends for 10 days. The first day we were packed into a jeep and driven through the sweltering city. It was my first glimpse of people living in cardboard boxes, the overwhelming smell saturating the humid air, kids blocking the road begging for anything you’d give them. The sunsets were amazing but children’s lungs look like they’ve been life-long smokers due to the smog. Poverty and street life in a devastating collision. On January 24 I went back to work and one of my colleagues asked how it had been. I looked at her and replied my honest reality. “I would be willing to change everything in my life.”
I had no idea. Six months later, I left the family law firm I’d worked for since before I finished college. I took a position with a financial services firm that I held for a few months. Mom died before Thanksgiving. A year later I moved to the Czech Republic and less than a month after arriving I found myself one weekend in Cheb, on the western border with Germany. The area was first settled around 800 AD. Population today is around 30,000. And it is a hub for child prostitution and human trafficking through Europe. Babies are sold to pedophiles. I’m not kidding.
I arrived home and looked at that pile on the front lawn. My house is ripped up and compared to my regular life it’s highly inconvenient. But in comparison, it’s not. Not really. My rubble is organized. It’s creative. I planned for it and paid for it. It’s even government sanctioned…I have a permit for it. I have a truck coming to take it away. And there’s no one under there, dead or dying, reaching out with an empty hand or a gasping plea for help.
Haiti. Death, injury, disease, trauma, government, shock, displacement, refugees, exploitation. And that was off the top of my head. For nearly 15 years now my life and work have linked with people in difficult and sometimes dire situations. I would never presume to “get it”…to relate, understand…especially in this situation. That might be the height of arrogance. But in my humanity I have been caught differently with this one…the intersection of reality and my heart and things brewing right now. The inclination is strong to find a way to “do something”…“to go.” And for some people, that is entirely appropriate and needed. For all kinds of reasons, that’s not really what I should do right now. But one thing I do know is that moments create movements. Some moments live in their own kind of time…they are part of and they are different from…and they need to be honored as such. And even when they are part of something else it can all be so imperceptible. But in their coagulating they create something. I have been here before. Each time it’s different but hazily familiar, and somehow that sense is instantly recognizable. I know this place. I’ve been knowing it for some time. And I suspect that, in your own life, you do too.
I don’t often carry Bible verses in my mind, but I do carry images I see when I read them. Among the most vivid is the Old Testament story of when the Israelites crossed the Jordan River. After they were safely on the other side, they gathered stones and created memorials. These stones represented reminders for them. I can see them, walking, deciding which to put down and leave behind, which one to carry…gathering them together and telling the story. I have released and collected some stones over the years…some literal, some figurative…some I’ve selected, some were given to me. Some of them carry meaning, but mostly the meaning is in the story. I’m not sure yet what I will “do” around Haiti and what is happening there. But one thing I do know…I will save some of those stones in my front yard. It is part of my movement right now. It’s part of Haiti in my life. And those stones and broken bricks in Haiti…they’re not going away any time soon.
©2010 Mindy Danylak
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