Dinner Party

It has been a while. It has been a while since Gary and I gathered around a table with more than a couple of good friends or family members. Last night that changed. All of us agreed to coming only if we felt well, and were up to date on the available boosters against COVID. When we walked in the door and found ourselves embraced in long-delayed hugs, it felt like a homecoming. Back to ourselves. Back to friendships old and anticipated. Back to being in good company for an enjoyable evening.

The conversation may have begun with some sharing about bodies and minds that were showing the signs of age in various ways, but we quickly moved on to more interesting topics. We spoke of gardens and preserving the produce, of meaningful projects and the things that inspire us to press on and contribute to making our communities stronger and more resilient.

When dinner was served, we were directed to specific places chosen for us by the hostess. I found myself sitting near a woman whose life journey held some similarities to my own, and yet our paths were different enough to offer us both interesting avenues of conversation to explore. Throughout the meal, which was delicious, different topics popped up around the table, drawing each of us out and encouraging full participation in the exchange of ideas and insights. Many of us are involved in activism in a variety of venues within the larger community, so the sharing of our work and our perspectives was interesting. 

I have missed community like this. I have missed gathering around a table knowing there was much to explore and learn from with the others who were sitting there. Too often, and particularly during the past few years, we have restricted ourselves to the people we know well and with whom we are sure to agree. There is deep joy in being in circles where we feel loved and accepted and held. There is also joy in discovering new people with whom to engage in meaningful conversation, and people we may have known for a while but with whom we have not had the opportunity to go deep.

When we take risks, when we reach out and get to know people in new ways, when we embrace opportunities to stretch beyond our comfort zone, we are building community. I even believe we are taking on the challenging work of building a more whole and healthy world. It is amazing what a seemingly simple evening can bring to life.

End of Summer

This time of year brings me mixed feelings. I love the colorful autumn leaves - the orange and red maples that pepper the woods and line the meadow, and the yellow beeches that create a golden tunnel over and alongside the dirt road that leads to my home. It is truly breath-taking to be immersed in this cacophony of color, and I make a point of noticing, of taking it in whenever I can, often stopping along the roadside to snap a picture. But along with the colorful beauty, colder temperatures make it less and less comfortable to sit outside in the morning while I sip my tea and read. Today, there has been a steady cold rain that makes me think twice about going out for my daily walk.

Very soon, I will be indoors for the vast majority of the day rather than breezily moving between indoors and out with little thought. Before that happens though, we will extend the life of our vegetable garden and the flowers for a while longer. Before the sun sets on these cold nights, Gary and I drag old sheets and tarps down to the garden to cover the squash, peppers and tomatoes, hoping to get a few more weeks of fresh veggies before we have to let them go.

I am torn, considering the choice between being fully present in this moment, taking in the beauty that is here now, or trying to preserve what I can for the cold winter months. This morning, for instance, has been taken up with making applesauce with a heavy concentration of wild grapes thrown into the mix for extra flavor and a burst of rich, purple color. It will be so nice to open those jars in the midst of winter, when a taste of this season will be even more welcome than the samples I tasted today.

We can put some food by for the colder months, freezing the garden produce, drying herbs and canning this beautiful purple sauce, but we can't preserve the flowers and the colorful leaves, except in our mind's eye or with a camera. We all know that pictures really are not the same as being able to take in the full glory of a favorite flower in full bloom or the hills of Vermont at the peak of autumn. Knowing this can bring a bit of melancholy even to the most optimistic among us.

This gorgeous hydrangea bloomed for us recently. Fittingly enough, its varietal name is End of Summer. (Or is it Endless Summer, which is a whole different story and a whole different blog?) I don't really need another reminder that summer is over, but as reminders go, it is a beautiful one that I make sure to notice and appreciate every day. Speaking of which, it's about time I brought myself outside to take another look.

 

A Sense of Home

 

Gary and I just returned from visiting my daughters and their families, a trip I had been looking forward to all summer long. It is difficult living 12 or more hours away, and not being able to be a regular part of each other's lives in a natural give and take fashion. The distance means that our time together is "all or nothing". We share meals and space and time, which is wonderful on the one hand, and yet it can also be a bit much if we stay too long. Remember Ben Franklin's adage that fish and guests begin to stink after three days? Well, we push that limit, mostly because it takes so long to get there, but our hosts are wonderfully understanding.

Each time we visit, I long for an easier way to be closer. I take stock of the landscape as we drive, asking myself if I could live there, if I would be happy there. Maybe I could be, but I already have a life that I love, a place that I call home. Almost thirty years ago, when I moved to Vermont I felt my roots grow deep down into the soil here. 

Every time I cross the border back into Vermont it happens. It is a physical response that reminds me I am home. A speaker came to the small town where I live once, soon after we had moved here and said, "when you think about home, it doesn't matter where you were born. What matters is where you plan to live out your days. Where you plan to die." That felt true to me, someone the locally born folks were wont to call a "flatlander." I might have been born somewhere else, but this is my true home.

My history makes it all the more complicated that I miss my daughters so deeply. All I can figure out is that my heart must have more than one home. Putting truth to that, tomorrow Gary and I will drive up to Maine, anticipating a week on an island that also claims a piece of my heart, an island that also feels like home to me. My sense of home there has to do with the ocean and trails through pine forests, with glorious sunsets and growing friendships. 

Truth be told, I often feel like I have left little bits of me here and there. Parts of me stay here in Vermont full time, while bits of me hunker down in other places that have touched my heart, and, of course there will always be parts that hang around with those whom I love. Maybe that is just the way it is when home is made up of several places, and people too?

Rainy Day Respite

It's a rainy day in late August. Despite the fact that there is much I had hoped to accomplish today, I find it important in this moment to just sit here sipping my tea. The raindrops slipping down my window in their slow, steady way remind me that not everything needs to happen quickly.

Sometimes I need an excuse, like the rain, to stop, to sit, to rest a bit. It seems strange that I often don't just give that gift of time to myself. Some of us need the choice to be wrested from our hands before finally breathing a sigh of relief and pausing our frantic busy-ness.

I meditate each day and have been for years now. The funny thing, though, is how some days I hear the ending gong of my meditation exercise only to realize I have been thinking of other things the entire time. It is really difficult to slow ourselves down, and even if we manage to stop the outer activity for awhile, our brains tend to keep right on plowing ahead with thoughts, plans and worries.

With the rain, I give myself permission to read a little longer than usual, getting caught up in the world of my latest book. Joseph Campbell once said reading a book for pleasure is like giving the mind a much-needed vacation. I wholeheartedly agree. Some of us have minds that are too busy to relax on their own. Reading gives our persistently anxious minds a chance to rest. For me, reading is a cozy rainy day for the mind. 

Diverting Conversation

Today my husband, Gary, and I drove to the end of Spruce Knob Road so we could take a walk on different section of it than we usually do. We parked in a small pull-off across from a field that had recently been hayed. Round bales lay in a haphazard fashion, and an old tractor was parked on the edge of the field near the road. Over the expanse, clouds, puffy and white piled up on top of one another and seemed to be constructed with an eye to setting off the deep blue of the sky. It was a beautiful August afternoon.

When we walk we are often torn between having a deep discussion about something that is on our minds or being quiet so that we can better take in our surroundings. Today felt like a day for silence to me. The beauty of the sky and the fields, the trees in their full summer greenery and the occasional bird flitting by demanded all of my attention.

After we had walked for a while, we came to a stream which had hardly any water. It was unusual to see it so dry, and Gary commented on the news he had read. "Some of the major rivers in Europe are drying up, and out in the Western US they are talking about diverting the Mississippi river to supply water to the drought-stricken Southwest."

I didn't really want to talk about it. Honestly, I didn't want to think about it either. I couldn't help remembering Mary Evelyn Tucker's comment nearly 20 years ago now at a Yale symposium I attended on climate change and the church. She said something to the effect that, if we didn't preach about climate change and encourage our churches to do something make a difference now, then we would be forced to talk about it soon enough because the results of it would become evident and catastrophic.

Well, things do feel pretty catastrophic, and despite the beauty of my surroundings, anxiety zips through my mind. I know there are many small things I can do to help ease the situation, and I do as many of them as I can manage. But I also know that real change will only happen when good, environmentally responsible decisions are made at the national and international levels. 

This means we need leaders who understand the issues and are willing to do what is right, despite the political fallout. This means helping our leaders find their way back to values like honesty, integrity and working for the good of all people and all inhabitants of the earth. It can be discouraging, to see how wealthy businesses and individuals continue to pursue financial gain rather than looking to do what is right for the whole. 

People ask me, "How can we deal with the frustration? How are we supposed to handle the anxiety and the stress all of this brings to our lives?" For me the answer lies in spending time in the natural world every day, even if I am just sitting on my porch for a little while. It means breathing in the air and paying attention to whatever is there - birds flying across my line of vision or a bee buzzing around my lunch, a lush garden of flowers or weeds poking up out of the sidewalk, clouds rolling up from the distant hills or a a trickling stream, my cat pushing at my hand for attention. 

Breathing in, I take in the freshness, the reality of this moment in time. Breathing out, I release the things that trouble me. I do this as long as it takes, until I feel a bit calmer, a little more prepared for my day. And then I stand up and put my hands and my heart toward whatever is next, whatever is needed of me.

Theater in the Woods

"Theater in the Woods" is a tradition of long-standing in our little Vermont town. It began as a part of a larger festival that featured workshops and speakers about solar energy and homesteading practices along with music and a celebration of the arts. The plays were written by local folks including children's book author Frank Asch, and usually had a moral to them that reminded the audience how to care for the earth, or how to treat one another with kindness. Although the festival is no longer, the theater that was a part of it has continued. It has grown into a popular summer camp for children and teens, run by many of the people who starred in the original performances back in the day, carrying a wonderful continuity of purpose and joyful connection.

On the final day of each session, the campers and staff put on a play that travels to a variety of locations in the neighboring meadow and orchard. The audience troops good-naturedly through the fields, along trails, with special accommodations made for those with mobility issues. We all follow the lead of a colorful larger than life puppet, squeezing in close to the action at each location, the better to hear and see. Before the performance, the camp's director, Melissa Chesnut-Tangerman commented that the play they chose this year was a wordy one, making it challenging for the actors to learn all of their lines in the brief time they had together. As a group they came to the conclusion that it was the process that was important to them, and not the end result of a flawless performance.

As the play unfolded, this intention became clear to those of us in the audience. The actors supported one another, covering for each other so well and smoothly that it was difficult to pick up on any glitches of memory. The meaning of the play came through when one of the main characters used her wish to grant a gift to her newfound friend rather than for personal riches. Her action, and the cast's true ensemble spirit brought home the message that community, and supporting one another are values that make for a good life.

My hope is that all of us - actors and audience - brought home with us this message. Each of us has it within us to make the world a better place, one choice at a time, one action at a time, one person at a time.

For more info, see: Theater in the Woods 

Butterfly Peace & Power

This beautiful creature landed at my feet as I drank my early morning mate' on the porch. She sat in front of me for a long time, allowing me to take pictures and enjoy a companionable silence. After a while I went back to my reading, checking the New York Times, actually. As I took in the news, my unexpected guest provided a helpful counter-balance to the headlines, reminding me that the world is not just one thing. It is not just a place where 10 year old girls are raped but unable to terminate the pregnancy in peace and privacy in order to lessen the inevitable trauma of the situation. It is not just a world in which children and persons of color are gunned down at the whim of a fanatic with a ridiculously aggressive gun. And not a world in which the climate is changing but we are unwilling to challenge the oil and coal industries.

No, the butterfly reminded me. This is also a world in which beauty exists, and sometimes we don't even have to look very hard to see it. This is a world of serendipitous visitations by fragile-winged emissaries. This is a world where peace is possible. I know, because I felt peace when that butterfly landed at my feet this morning. I felt peace when the summer breeze blew the wind chimes and when I listened to the birds singing.

Small moments of peace and beauty might not seem like much when measured against the challenges "out there" in the world, and often the challenges in our own lives as well. But these small moments of peace provide the foundation upon which greater things are possible. Scientist Edward Lorenz made the discovery that even a tiny, almost immeasurable change in conditions could alter the weather in the long term. Surprised, he commented that if a butterfly flaps its wings it could ultimately cause a tornado. This led to the popular theory known as "The Butterfly Effect", and to the dream that even the small things we are capable of doing as individuals and small groups can make a big difference.

Even if we believe that our actions or words might make a difference for good, it still takes effort to keep on showing up for peace and for justice. Working against the formidable forces at work in the world is difficult. Greed, white supremacy, power and the fear which I believe is at the heart of these ills, are not easy to face down. But maybe this is where we need to consider my morning guest. Rather than feeling as if we are starting from scratch, how can we emphasize and build on the peace that is already present in our lives? How can we spread it out a little further each time it shows up?