Come to Be

What I want to write about is the day after Christmas. I feel like the day after Christmas has always plagued me with a sense of disappointment and disillusionment that fairly boots all the joy of the Christmas season clear out the door. As a kid (and, let’s face it, as an adult too) I can remember constantly feeling, on that most dread day, that Christmas had not been enough. There weren’t enough presents, not enough merriment, there was just not enough time for all the cookie-baking, carol singing, present wrapping, and everything else that was supposed to make this “the most wonderful time of the year.” Every year, it is easy to feel like I didn’t get enough Christmas.

I guess this is not a surprising state of affairs for a culture in which every experience is touted as a pinnacle, a higher peak than the last. But I think what is surprising to me is that I often get the same sense spiritually. I think this has been the first year that I have plunged into the church year and found what a leap into darkness this first season is. Advent, after all, is proclaimed as a coming light to people currently walking in darkness. But this season which begins in darkness is supposed to grow ever brighter until suddenly, blindingly, Christ, the self-proclaimed light of the world, enters the picture in the form of a vulnerable God, a weak baby that puts to shame all my high-minded expectations of myself.

This is how it was preached to me this Christmas Eve at a large, Texan, Methodist church. The preacher was telling a story about how he and his brother used to go every year to visit his Grandmother’s house, and, most particularly his Grandmother’s swimming pool. It was just a cement hole in the backyard that had filled, over the years, with rain water and leaves and branches and all manner of scummy, slimy things that lurked in murky waters. The point of the games was to play near the water, without actually falling in, which would obviously result in death. So, as you might expect from a story like this, one day this boy had fallen into the pool and was thrashing around, expecting doom any moment when the college kid who lived next door saw what was happening and jumped the intervening fence to come and rescue him, pull him out, clap him on the back a couple times and absently ask, are you okay? before striding back over the fence.

You know the metaphor, if you’ve grown up around churches. I can’t tell you how many times I heard variations on the same story. I was in peril and Jesus dragged me out by the scruff of my neck and slapped me on the shore to dry off. Hooray. The light has come into the darkness and blinded all those whose pupils did not dilate quickly enough and left them dazed, seeing fuzzy patterns on the undersides of their eyelids. No wonder the day after Christmas looks so bleak. We expected a downdraft of glitter on the breeze, the strumming of harps that would indicate that the Great Miracle where Everything becomes Different had finally, finally come. But no, this year is just as bleak as the last.

But what I assert is that Christmas is not like the sudden appearance of someone coming to pull you out of a swimming pool. I much prefer Dante’s immortal lines:

“In the middle of the road of my life
I awoke in the dark wood
where the true way was wholly lost”

I acknowledge the darkness of the woods, and the lostness of my condition. I acknowledge the fragility and weakness that comes with my humanity, the ease with which the very essence of my life can be undone, and the wickedness within me that I have come to know through the terrifying intimacy of a long acquaintance. It is very dark, in this wood, in this world, but my experience has taught me, at least as far as my own story is concerned, that God’s way of salvation is not to pluck us out of the darkness, out of the confusion, and set us on a high hilltop from which we can never be moved. It seems to me more like when Christmas happens (and never forget, Christmas can happen at any time of the year) suddenly—zap!—someone is there in the darkness with you.

I also acknowledge mystery, my dears, and so this may be all I can say. I do not know the ways of God, the shapes he makes as he moves through the darkness of a dark wood. Is she there to comfort, to shield? Is he there to guide? Will she take you down an ever darker road, the road of perils, for reasons unknown? Will he travel close at your side or on a distant but parallel path so that you can just barely follow his adjacent movements through the trees? I don’t know how to answer these questions and at this point I am not ever all that sure of the validity of the question. When does the one being led really understand the leadership of the one showing the way? If I knew the terrain, I would not have come to find myself so lost.

Well, then. The one thing I know, the one truth that is very large if we allow it to be, is the truth of presence. God, who was once only very far away has come very close; God has come to be. With us. So perhaps on the day after Christmas it seems as if nothing has changed because on the first brush, this change seems like such a small one. But my hope is that it is a small change like changing the angle of trajectory is a small change. It’s only in traveling the course that any real difference can be discerned.

I could not believe in a God who pulls me out of all my problems, dusts me off, and sends me on my way, because I’ve never seen that happen. But perhaps I could place my hope in a God who zaps himself into my darkness, who leads me in the way mysterious, destination unknown, but who is, at the end of the day, there.

I could, perhaps, believe in the God who has come to be.

Peace for the New Year,
S.

Sugar Rush

Oh dear. Oh dear, oh dear! Yes, I know, I know. It's been since November (early November) since I last posted. Ouch. You have no idea, you will never know how many times during the week I think to myself, especially in this Advent season. You have no idea of the lofty goals I sent for beautiful, meditative reflections for each(!) week(!) of the Advent season. Unfortunately, as you can see, that has not been the case. I don't really know what to say. Although there have been no recent catastrophes (in my life at least) things, on the whole, have been fairly stressful. Work, family stuff, and a busy social life all keep me far away from the inner quiet that I try to return to each Advent season. This year, I have been working on being more self-reflective, more present to myself and my internal state of being. Unfortunately, that has not been terribly conducive to posting lengthy monologues for all the web-net to see. And again, alas, today will not be the day that this gets accomplished. But I have two other offerings for you, besides stating that I am determined to get at least one quality post up before Christmas.

Although the limitations of technology prevent me from being able to let everyone taste my recent creations, I can at least offer these lovely pictures of some of the things that have been consuming my time:







May I introduce Cranberry Pecan Bars, Hazelnut Tea Cookies, and Cashew Toffee? Nice to make your acquaintance! These little gems have been my joy and crown this holiday season. I am a rabid traditionalist at Christmastime in particular, so when I get home with the fam it's going to be nothing but the classics: sugar cookies, peanut butter cookies topped with a Hershey's kiss, and maybe a batch of chocolate cheesecake bars. But because I have an opportunity to be traditional once I go home, while I'm here in Buffalo I have the freedom to be wildly experimental, particularly because here I can feed people so many more cookies than my constantly dieting family would ever have permitted. And, voila! Batches of beautiful, terrifying boiling sugar start appearing on every burner of the stove.

Terrifying, you say? But why terrifying? That seems like something of an overstatement, but those of you who have ever done any sort of candymaking know where I'm coming from. I myself was permanently scarred by a batch of...something I was trying to make in middle school with my best friend Traci when something went terribly wrong. I'll spare you the gory details, but somehow all that was left when the dust settled was a sheet of wax paper covered in crystallized, non-carmelized sugar blobs which somebody was going to have to eat. We're Irish dammit, which means we will never waste food, no matter how wretched or cavity inducing.

But even in the sensible, adult world of well-equipped candy production, the field is rife with danger, there's the worry about burning or about undercooking, flame control, rate of water loss, and hello! can we imagine what even a drop of 300 degree melted sugar would do if you got it on your skin. It's what my great love and mentor Alton Brown refers to as "culinary napalm." Needless to say, there is much to fear in this brave new world of candy making.

But, feeling adventurous, I decided to jump in with both feet, trying not one, but two different sugar melting recipes for the consumption of my dearest friends and colleagues. These were both made on the same night, and let me tell you, tension in the kitchen was high. First gasp! there was not, as I had assumed, any light corn syrup in the house! Then, the panic of substitution--will honey change the flavor? Adding the cranberries, which immediately clumped in the middle of the pan as they cooled the sugar in the immediate surroundings before everything melted again.

And the toffee, oh toffee should only be attempted by those with nerves of steel! After a brief stir, you actually remove your spoon from the pan and keep an eagle eye on the thermometer as the the temperature climbs higher and higher, agonizingly slowly while the color of your mixture goes from buttery gold to taupe, to pale brown, to a rich caramelly color but by this point you've bit your fingernails down to stubs, knowing that only a few measly degrees stand between you and burnt sugar madness while the climb of the temperature slows to a crawl, 296, 297 and you're ready to rip the whole thing of the burner, sure that you smell charring in the air but you force your hand away from the dial as beads of sweat run down your forehead, 298, 299 and time seems to stand still as every ounce of your willpower is poured into waiting for that last degree, trusting that sweet, grandmotherly Paula Deen is not leading you into rack and ruin, willing yourself to holding on as the caramel darkens that one last shade...300! You kill the flame but now it's the clock your racing as you add salt, vanilla, and thick meaty cashews you've been toasting in the oven and stir frantically to get everything combined before the sticky mess is forever welded to your sauce pan--but no, it's out now, it's on the cookie sheet and cooling innocuously, the residual heat slowly melting the pieces of fine Belgian chocolate you casually scattered over the top as though to say, "What, this old thing? Why it's the easiest thing in the world to make!"

Phew, I get tired just reliving the whole experience. But it helped me to understand the whole Bungee-jumping, jumping out of airplanes phenomena. What a rush! Of course, next time the stakes won't be so high, now that I'm a seasoned veteran, which means I've got to find something new, something even more terrifyingly risky to stick my chefly neck out on...oh, and everything did turn out deliciously, thanks for asking.

But, of course, I understand if victuals are not what you came here looking for. After all, this is, by and large, not written to be a food blog, even if those are what I spend all my time reading. Okay, well if you came here looking for food for the soul, the best I can offer is some warmed up leftovers like this, or maybe this if you're in the mood for some Marian devotion (and, let's face it, who isn't?).

And soon. That's all I can say now is soon. I hope that the beautiful, nourishing words are given to me soon, that space to reflect and be refreshed is soon given to me. And if that is the case then, I promise, I will pass some along to you!

Little Deaths

This may sound ever so slightly macabre, but I've been thinking a lot lately about death. Don't worry, I have good reasons for it. Not so much the celebration of Halloween, which I wrote about in my last post. That holiday I view more as the ultimate postmodern celebration of our limitless potential to create and live out of alternate selves, anyway. But, the nearby holidays of All Souls Day, and in Hispanic cultures, Dia de los Muertos, started the ball rolling on this one. This was the first year that All Souls Day was really brought to my attention through the church I attend here. The music chosen for that morning was the most beautiful requiem mass, composed by someone called Gabriel Faure, about whom I know nothing, but I suspect Dan knows a whole lot, so you could ask him if you really wanted to know. They also had a reading of something called a necrology, which is just a list of all the names of people from the church who have died since last All Souls Day. I didn't know any of the people named, but it was a time to remember people in my own life who have died. And then this Sunday we again had a very somber tone in a sermon talking about the passage in Matthew about the narrow way, how difficult it is to follow Jesus, how demanding, how so much is expected of us. And also we directed our attention for a while to the needs of the world, war and hunger and human cruelty.

The way I see it, this is all very timely because fall to me is a season of many little deaths. Even if it's only the death of the beautiful weather that we'd enjoyed all week, the last gasp of summer that we awoke to find so abruptly extinguished on Saturday (!!!) morning. Each leaf is dying for another winter, the grass is dying, the flowers in our front yard are dying. The summer season is dying, more slowly and gently than I expected, but it passes nonetheless. I don't really think of winter as a time of death, but more as a time of rest, a long nap where the world dreams white dreams, a time of quiet and reflection and hopefully building strength. It's hard, though, to give up summer. It's hard to give up the leaves and the warm days and the busy calendars. But I feel like the most important thing to do is to become at home with the change. I think that's why fall is gradual, why things go slowly, bit by bit. Alicia and I were talking recently about how we need to learn to be at home with the cold, at home with winter, to not resist it with the way that we talk or think about it. It's a neutral thing, really, winter is. Even a good thing. And we'll make it through so much better if every puff of icy wind doesn't make us grumble about the wretchedness of life.

That's a thing that seldom gets mentioned when we speak of all these little deaths. A death can, in fact, be a good thing. It could be the death of a part of yourself that was holding you back, that didn't belong to the truest version of yourself. It could be the death of a terrible season of your life, allowing you to be reborn into something new. It could be the stripping away of something which you clung to which is no longer necessary to your life. Little deaths.

So here are my reflection questions for fall: What is dying in my life right now? What do I need to let go of, whether with joy or with regret? And what could I lay aside for a winter rest, knowing that I can take it up again in another season?

Spooktacular!

Okay, now I know this is belated, but HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!

Contrary to rumors floating around out there, this is not my first Halloween, though the celebration did kind of fade into oblivion for a while, due to my very Evangelical upbringing. But this Halloween was special somehow, I was just so excited to celebrate. Then again, I am always excited to celebrate everything. But this Halloween had pretty much everything a girl could ask for. I decorated home and office with creepy fake spider webs and little ghosties and a cardboard chandelier decorated with skulls and pumpkins and tombstones and the newest edition to our house, a very cute gargoyle who I have named Victor (10 points if you can guess why!). I also got to carve my very own pumpkin, during our first ever Art Night (more details about that in a future post, I hope). But basically I spent three hours working on this masterpiece of a pumpkin and I am so proud. I made this design which is supposed to look like gothic, twisted sort of stained glass windows, and then on the other side I carved this deranged raven-bird creature. The windows aren't really carved through, I just took off the top layer of the pumpkin and the light kind of glows though the pumpkins walls in this eerie way. It's great and I hope to be able to post pictures soon.

Also, for Halloween I got to dress up in a homemade costume. I was a gypsy, which was fun, but easily confusing as I also kind of looked like a pirate chick. This effect was enhanced by the fact that I was wearing enough eye-liner to be mistaken for Johnny Depp's sister. If only. But I love costumes and I loved that everybody else had costumes too. So creative! We had Princess Leia, Mary Poppins, a Marine, a suicide bomber (very un-PC, but what can I say?) a reindeer, Clark Kent, a hippie...man, it just goes on. And this motley cast of characters was all assembled at Becca's house for a Halloween party!!! I guess at this age, being past the era of trick-or-treating (sadly) a party is pretty much the best way to spend Halloween. And this was my favorite kind of party: not too many people, lots of friendly faces and one very hysterical conversation about the origins of tapioca. The only thing that was missing was trick-or-treaters, but my impression was that that isn't really something that's done here on the good ol' west side. Oh well. All in all, a practically perfect Halloween!

S.

P.S.--Oh, and I almost forgot, happy Feast of All Souls!

Stuff I Like

Okay, here is the latest installment in "S. attempts to be grateful--Beautiful Things Edition:"

--The changing leaves. Barrage of gorgeousness, and today I get to drive for an hour and a half, by myself, marinating in beauty.

--Getting to see crew teams on a little snatch of the Niagara river on the way from being able to get a flat tire replaced for free! Thank you warranty!

--My omelette this morning--I used spinach, so it is sunny yellow, orange from the carrots, green from the spinach, and red from the hot sauce. Beautiful and tasty!

--Flamenco dancing. Live. In person. Good seats. Amazing music. Unbelievable dancing. OMG, I think the entire course of my life has just shifted. When you next hear from me, I will have exchanged a quiet, Buffalonian office existence for a gypsy camp, a billowing skirt, and a pair of clicky shoes.

And this. Discovered via another website of which I am fond, godspy.com, such a witty, funny, accurate read. Like reading my life story, in embarrassing vividness. I just had to share with all of my pea-coat wearing, facebook member, Onion reading, unpaid internship working white friends! Enjoy!

Okay, now I am off to a wedding, to freeze my booty off in a dress that is completely seasonally inappropriate, but unfortunately one of the only wedding appropriate pieces of attire in my entire wardrobe. No, believe me, it is, I've thought long and hard about this.

But I promise that, soon and very soon, you will get some long, thoughtful, meaty post. Actually, it will be about dancing, I can almost guarantee, considering that's just about all I think about. Yes, still the only thing I think about. Okay then.

Toodles!
S.

Antidote

Greetings, faithful folk who read this blog...

I don't have much of interest to say today, unfortunately. Generally these days I feel like a bathtub that's had the stopper pulled out and am watching all of my energy swirl away down the drain. But I am trying to start something new and I hope if I make mention of it in such a public forum it will be that much closer to becoming a reality. I want to become more aware of what is around me, particularly of all the good that is in the world that I see everyday and want to move even deeper into not just noticing, but fully embracing and appreciating what is around me. So I want to start asking myself the question, "What is the most beautiful thing you saw all day?" Maybe it was a bright red leaf on the sidewalk, or a feather or a smiling face. But whatever it was, I just want to have noticed it that day. So, for starters, yesterday was a tie because I saw, over a fence, the mossy roof of a little gazebo that had a beautiful wrought iron ridgepole on top. And I also got to see the sun setting over the lake yesterday and the sky was a deep color of pink and the water was blue and the behind me was my favorite color of deep blue...take my word for it, describing sunsets is not my strong suit, but this one was stellar.

Today it was the fake cobwebs that I put all around the railing of our balcony to decorate for Halloween! I love decorating and I love holidays and these cobwebs took me back to happy memories of our Halloween party in Australia. Maybe this year I'll even whip up another batch of those poop brownies that we enjoyed!!

Who knows, in the future I might even try to incorporate a little photography into the exercise. If only I weren't so averse to my current camera...oh well. What about you? What is the most beautiful thing you've seen today?

S.

Love Poems, of a sort

Now, after neglecting you after a full month, I will post twice in one day. The reason is this: after feeling crappy and tired all day yesterday, today I felt even MORE crappy and tired, and so decided to stay home from work. Who knows when spare time like this will come upon me again? I figure I better make the most of it.

So what I have to say now is this: two of my dearest friends in all the world just got married the weekend before last, to each other, which I guess is good, in the grand scheme of things. This meant that I got to see a whole bunch of the people I love dearly, but they are gone now, so I am sad. But it also meant that I poured blood, sweat, and many tears into a poem that they asked me to write for their ceremony (the folks getting married, that is) and I wish to share the fruit of my labors with all of you, since now that it is safely written down and read and printed in the bulletin, I feel sufficiently detached to be sort of proud of it. So here you go:

The Ocean and The Dream: A Poem in Two Parts

1. Jeremy

How long does it take
to know that I will always love you?
How can I explain what I am sure of?
It is like knowing
that I will always want to come sit
under the same ribbon-hung tree every day.
To be quiet with her
and write wise thoughts in my book.
It is no philosopher’s certainty, of course.
No, it is much finer than that.

It is seeing the sky
from the bottom of the ocean,
being humbled by my fragility
beneath the weight of all that water
knowing down here that forever
means so little, when I am the one
who says it.

But constancy, my dear,
is not about moving oceans
or whispering sweet nothings
that float to the surface like bubbles
and break your heart when they burst
and are empty.
I have a better promise for you.

I promise that when our two trees grow,
they will bend towards each other
as surely as leaves seek light
branches will entwine with branches
and the deep roots of our lives
will clasp each other
and go still deeper.


2. Alicia

I could almost believe
that we heard the voice
of the road through our sleep,
like the bird song of a siren.
And each of us was lifted
and carried and placed
by the fluid, compelling arms of the night,
so that our thousand mile journey
was made without even breaking
the smooth undulations of sleep-breathing.
And even in that dream,
the landscape had changed,
but I was not amazed.
Wasn’t I set here by chance?
Didn’t stars and planets align
and simply make it so?

But we are not Dante’s children,
waking and lost in the woods.
Remember the day we chose the path?
More than that, remember ourselves as two travelers
who found that at every divergence,
we didn’t want to say goodbye.

And by and by I realized,
the road beneath my feet
was asking me a question:
Who is the one who can paint every flaw
in bright, violent colors
and frame that picture, and still say, “beautiful.”
I answer this question with one of my own:
“How could I have chosen anyone else?”


And, since I can never seem to offer a piece of my own work without also offering some of someone else's which I esteem to be better, here is a gorgeous, blush-worthy poem from the fantastic Pablo Neruda. If I were you, I would make sure to read it sitting down on some soft surface, surrounded by a heaping pile of cushions, as this piece has been known to produce swooning, particularly if you read the original Spanish version, out loud. Ay, Pablo!