Of all the sweet summer memories to be gathered in now, and put by, the days spent gardening with this boy are among the sweetest.
And they’ll keep a long, long time.
Of all the sweet summer memories to be gathered in now, and put by, the days spent gardening with this boy are among the sweetest.
And they’ll keep a long, long time.
Happy Labor Day Weekend! (And Labour Day!) Got any special plans? How about a fun drink recipe to kick things off?
I gave you the recipe for Mason Jar Sangria, made with red wine, citrus fruit, and spiced rum, back in February. It’s a nice hot weather cooler also, but when the real dog days hit, white wine sangria is a refreshing twist.
I made a batch of Mason Jar White Sangria for a pool party last Labor Day, and it definitely merits a place in the Planting Dandelions mason jar cocktail collection. Now, some of you are into mason jar cocktails for the rustic charm, but for me, the chief charm lies in portability and convenience. As with the red sangria, and my recipe for Mason Jar Spiked Lemonade, it lets you premix individual drinks and keep them cold without them getting watery or going flat.
The formula for sangria is simple: wine + fruit juice + spiced rum + fresh fruit + sparkling water (the last ingredient being added at serving time). There’s a lot of room to improvise (add hot tea or cider instead of sparkling water and PRESTO, hot spiced wine), so feel free to substitute, but here’s what I used:
First, slice some fruit and put it in the bottom of each jar. Pretty!
Next, for each pint jar:
Depending on the juice and wine you’re using, you might want to add sugar to taste. So be sure to taste, and adjust the batch accordingly. Also, I mix these on the light side, because it’s a tall drink, and they go down easy on a hot day. You may like a more generous pour of rum. I won’t judge–just don’t drive. Screw the lids on, and keep the jars iced down until serving time. Don’t forget to bring the sparkling water, and keep it chilled, too!
To serve, unscrew the lid and top off with sparkling water. I especially like the rum-soaked fruit at the bottom. It’s full of fibre and vitamins. And rum.
Have a restful and refreshing Labor Day weekend. Here’s to the Summer of ’14!”
After the sermon, before Holy Communion, Episcopalians stand up to recite the Nicene Creed, the profession of Christian faith. It begins with the words, “We believe,” followed by a list of things that the church agreed to agree on in the fourth century, and has managed to hang onto as a common denominator through hundreds of years of killing each other over everything else. For Anglicans, Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox Christians, and most of the major Protestant denominations, the creed is the bottom line.
It’s a poetic, rhythmic litany, with trippy bits that sound like they were penned by a medieval Jim Morrison. Light from light, seen and unseen, and all that. And it lines up perfectly with my personal spiritual beliefs, all the way through those two opening words.
As for everything after that, well, I just don’t know.
I tell people I’m a one-foot-in, one-foot-out kind of person when it comes to church. I’ve been doing the hokey pokey with religion as long as I’ve lived. My parents were Catholics in name. My grandparents were Catholics in everything. I was baptized Roman Catholic and went to Catholic school and mass week in, week out, until I graduated from high school, but religion was something I put on and took off like my navy blue uniform. It wasn’t part of my home life (though my mother was, and is, deeply spiritual), except as far as it was part of our cultural heritage. I still claim to be Catholic in that cultural sense, the way I call myself Canadian, though I chose to leave both a long time ago. “Catholic” says a lot about where I came from, but not much about who I am.
I wonder if my kids will feel that way about being Episcopalian when they are grown up. They were baptized in the Episcopal cathedral. They go to Episcopal youth groups during the school year, and Episcopal camp during the summer. Once every so many Sundays, I can bribe/threaten them all into coming to church, and they know the liturgy like a book of nursery rhymes. We stand up together after the sermon and they hear me recite the Nicene Creed.
Then we leave the liturgy behind, with the service programs and the paper lemonade cups, and go about our lives. Sometimes at home, but mostly in the car (because there is something about in-between spaces that invites truth), we talk about what we really believe, or sort of believe, or don’t believe at all. Often, we just wonder.
The kids know I believe in an historical Jesus, a teacher and wise man, who understood God uniquely. And that I believe in Christ, as shorthand for something that connects us to the source of our being and our highest becoming. But whether they are both the same, and where doctrines and creeds fit into it, I have no idea, and no inclination to figure it out. I find most theology to be a weirdly forced and abstract enterprise–men building tiny boxes of logic that are supposed to contain boundless mystery. The metaphorical devil surely lives in a religion’s details.
I prefer Carl Jung’s proclamation of faith: “All that I have learned has led me step by step to an unshakable conviction of the existence of God. I only believe in what I know. And that eliminates believing. Therefore I do not take his existence on belief – I know that he exists.”
I wouldn’t dare say my own convictions are unshakable, only that I know what I’ve known: a loving power that’s greater than the box of my thinking, bigger than the boxes of religion. That doesn’t eliminate believing (or thinking) for me, either, because there are times that I need to remind myself what I’ve known until I know it again. But it simplifies my creed vastly.
I believe. That’s all.
Until I get to church, where “I’ becomes “we.”
“We” is complicated.
The first Episcopal church I walked into, with my infant firstborn son in my arms, was my church home for nearly a decade. My two oldest sons went to the attached parochial school for primary grades. The baby spent a couple of years in daycare there, while I worked in the office as an assistant to one of the priests. I led study groups, and served as a lector. There was a blink of time when I thought I might become a priest myself. I had just gotten the Bishop’s sanction to begin the official discernment process when I learned I was pregnant (surprise!) with my third child. I daydreamed about seeing my children get married there. I pictured my own funeral there, the words of John 11 pealing out through a cloud of incense. I am the Resurrection and the Life.
I put my whole self in. Then I took my whole self out.
(To be continued.)
One morning, right at the beginning of the summer, the Littlest Who came home from a sleepover with big news.
“Mom! I got to play with a tiny kitten, and give it a bottle, and it was so cute, and guess what? We can keep it! For FREE!”
“That’s nice,” I said, “but we have a cat and a dog already. We’re good on pets for now.”
“PLEASE. His name is Gingersnap, and we can have him on August 7.”
“No way.” I was smiling, but firm. The idea of bringing another animal into the house was one that had to be pinched in the bud. I knew it was disappointing for him, but there was no point in giving false hope. It just wasn’t going to happen.
Besides, he’d forget all about by the end of the day.
The Littlest Who is the most buoyant soul I’ve ever known, so it was hard to see his spirits deflate so suddenly. He bent his neck and shoulders perpendicular to the ground, Charlie Brown style, and shuffled dejectedly into the house, where he went to his bedroom and shut the door.
Give him an hour, I thought, he’ll be fine.
By suppertime, he was still in bed, moping. Okay, so it might take the rest of the weekend for the new kitten smell to wear off. I was touched that he was taking it so hard, but no less resolute. And Patrick was emphatically on my side.
Later that night, I found a note on my computer.
first of all the kitten is free
I could take care of it
I would feed it
I would protect it
I love it so so so
its 12 weeks old
and its realy nice
I showed it to Patrick. ” We’re doomed,” he said.
But I wasn’t ready to accept defeat. “Give it a week,” I said. “He’ll forget about it.”
“Can I get a kitten?” was the first thing the Littlest Who said to me in the morning.
“Can I get a kitten?” he asked again that night.
A few days later, I got a call from the mom who had hosted the sleepover.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, explaining that she thought it would be harmless fun for the kids to visit the litter of orphaned kittens her friend was fostering.
“It’s okay,” I told her. “But I’m going to need you to sign some papers before he sleeps over ever again.”
She then described for me how the Littlest Who had gotten to give the kitten a bottle (it was actually four weeks old), then a bath, and then lay down with it and sung it lullabies until it went to sleep.
“I just feel like I have to tell you, I’ve never seen any boy be so nurturing with an animal like that. It was like they had a bond.”
I repeated the story to Patrick. “LIKE THEY HAD A BOND.”
“Wait another month.”
“Can I get a kitten?” came a voice from around the corner.
But my resolve was weakening. They had a bond. “We’ll talk about it later.”
“Can I get a kitten?” he asked the next morning.
And every day, and every night, for eight weeks.
Until August 7th.
When Gingersnap came home.
Where he obviously belongs.
We went into the last weekend of summer holidays with fresh haircuts, hot-off-the-press class schedules and new teacher reveals. As exceptionally sweet as this summer has been, the boys seemed content and maybe even a little excited to start the new school year.
Saturday was a museum kind of day. In the morning, I attended a genealogy workshop at the military museum. My obsession with dead relatives has been on the back burner while I’ve been growing tomatoes and painting bedrooms this summer, but you can count on it cranking back up as those things wind down.
That afternoon, I took all three boys to the Clinton Presidential Center to catch the Dale Chihuly glass sculpture exhibit. I invited the teens to bring their girlfriends along. Whatever it takes to get them to spend a Saturday afternoon with their mom.
Oh, yeah, and I cut my bangs really short. I’ve been trimming them a tiny bit every couple of weeks for months, but I clearly got overconfident. Also, I did this hours before a big party that night. I may have thrill-seeking issues.
Oh, well. It’s just hair, right? It will grow. If someone will lock the scissors away.
With the kids back in school, I’ve been able to get back to writing. I’ve got a new desk arrangement in our bedroom, and it’s working quite well for me. There’s a green hummingbird that comes to visit me at the window every day. I’m turning into a person who watches birds, grows tomatoes, and attends genealogy workshops. If it weren’t for my maverick home haircutting tendencies, life would be altogether too tame.
Except that this one time, Billy Bragg made a surprise appearance at the Whitewater Tavern in Little Rock, and I was there. Last night.
Having grown up in a home where Woody Guthrie was revered as a household god, most of what I know of Billy’s work is from the Mermaid Avenue sessions. But after last night, I’ll be putting some serious time into getting to know the rest of his catalog. It was a generous performance in an intimate setting, and I place it among my favorite concerts ever, with Leonard Cohen at the Fabulous Fox Theatre in St. Louis, and a Pogues concert hall gig in Toronto in the late 80s.
Billy Bragg is on the road (with touring partner Joe Purdy) for a photo and film documentary in connection with Aperture magazine, and has been doing these pop-up gigs along the way. If you hear of one anywhere near you, don’t miss it.
A pretty good week, rogue bangs notwithstanding. Hope your weekend is wonderful.
And all creeds and kinds and colors
Of us are blending
Till I suppose ten million years from now
We’ll all be just alike
Same color, same size, working together
And maybe we’ll have all the fascists
Out of the way by then
Woody Guthrie, “She Came Along to Me”
There are so many words I’ve started to to type into little boxes this week, then stopped.
I’ve stopped because I’m afraid they might be the wrong words and add to the pain of people who are already hurting, or enrage people who are already angry.
I’ve stopped because they might be cheap words, and I don’t want to be that person whose opinions are forcefully voiced, and faintly lived.
I’ve stopped because I want to examine what I feel and believe before I share what I think, and it takes time to search out the deep, dark places.
I’ve stopped because the bewildering, complex puzzle of race in the United States is something my brain really wants to pull apart and solve, and I become so absorbed in the intellectual exercise, I forget that there are people trapped inside.
I’ve stopped because the little boxes are too small for something so big.
I’ve stopped because I sincerely believe it’s time for me to listen, though holding back words doesn’t come easily to me. I’ve been reciting the “St. Francis” prayer a lot.
I don’t want the silence to say things I don’t intend, though. So I’m allowing myself a few words here, in this slightly roomier box, to make it clear, to those who’ve wondered, that I am talking and thinking and feeling a great deal about the crisis in Ferguson, and the questions it begs of us all. That my understanding of systemic racism, and my own part in it, is very much a work in progress, and not something I want to work through out loud on twitter or Facebook, scattering the seeds of that growth on such scorched and thorny ground.
And anyway, there are other people whose words in this matter are more appropriate than mine at this time. Here are links to some powerful ones, and if you haven’t read them before, I hope you’ll click through to reach each post in entirety, seeking first to understand and to love.
Make me an instrument of peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love
where there is injury, pardon
If the continuing conversation about racism upsets you, take a second to imagine what it’s like for the black people who deal with racism everyday, and who are tired of thinking and talking about it, but discuss it anyway because for them, it’s not just a dinner table dialogue.
where there is doubt, faith
where there is despair, hope
where there is darkness, light
where there is sadness, joy.
I’m tired of walking through the world constantly aware of how my blackness is being perceived, how my interracial marriage is being perceived. The fact is, whether it is being perceived positively or negatively, if I’m in the United States, I am always aware of it, and I’m tired.
Grant that I may not so much seek
to be consoled as to console
to be understood as to understand
to be loved as to love.
If you want to know what to do, my answer is this: risk death. Risk the death of your reputation. Risk the death of close ties to your family. Risk the death of your dream home and “safe” neighborhoods. Risk the death of a large congregation. Risk the death of your big donations. Risk the death of your worldview and perspective on American history. Risk the death of your comfort in majority, dominant spaces. Risk the death of your leadership role, of your speaking engagement, of your writing opportunity. Risk never being invited back to the conference. Risk the death of your social and professional circles. Risk what we risk just trying to live.
For it is in giving that we receive
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned
it is in dying we are born again to eternal life.
The boys walked into their fifth, eighth, and tenth grade classrooms this morning, at three different schools. At least, I think those are their grade levels. At check-in this year I tried to register my youngest for fourth grade again. The PTA past-president had to persuade me that my child was, in fact, going into his final year of elementary school. It took a full minute or two for me to believe her. I still can’t quite fathom it. How can the Littlest Who be going off to middle school next year?
For that matter, how can each of his brothers count off on one hand the mandatory school years remaining? And why I am seeing so many posts this week from friends who are dropping off kids at university campuses? How can that be, when it seems like we’re barely out of college ourselves?
I feel like a cartoon character paddling backwards at the edge of a waterfall, having just now heard the roar and realized where this lovely stream of days and years was always headed.
As anxious as the days are in between, the wait for a letter from camp is worth it, if only to recall a time when we used to have to wonder.
Now it seems strange
How we used to wait for letters to arrive
But what’s stranger still
Is how something so small can keep you alive
Arcade Fire “We Used to Wait”
The Littlest Who went to his first sleep-away camp on Sunday afternoon. He’s watched his brothers go before him, three years running, and he says he’s ready.
“We won’t be able to call each other,” I reminded him, when he declared it, back in the spring. Our last significant separation, a year before, was difficult. A heart wrenching, tearful telephone call, the long, anxious hours until I got home. “You might get homesick.”
“I might,” he allowed. “But I’ll get over it.”
Definitely ready. It’s a long way from nine years old to ten.
When he accompanied me a few weeks ago to drop his brother off at camp, he was unusually quiet as we walked away from the cabin, his blue eyes wide and solemn. I knew he must be picturing me walking away without him.
“Let’s walk around a bit,” I said. I pointed out the various buildings, the swimming pool, the chicken yard, the astonishing view. We ended our tour in the stone chapel that looks over the cliffs to the river valley below. “You’ll be like Harry Potter going to Hogwart’s for the first time,” I told him. “You’re going to love this place more than you know.”
He brightened up right away. Isn’t it good how stories can give us a frame of reference for situations we’ve never experienced before?
Even the cartoon kind. On departure day, he emerged from his room dressed as Finn, from Adventuretime, wearing the hat I knit for Halloween before last, and sporting an empty green backpack “just for looks.” Ready for adventures. The first of which was getting manhandled by big brothers.
When we pulled into the camp parking lot, he took his props off and left them in the car, their purpose presumably served. As was mine, clearly, as soon as he found his bunk, and was surrounded by friendly cabin mates. I managed to get one more hug and one more picture before I left him, ready to be the hero of his own story.
I can’t wait to hear it.
There are no stand-alone home improvement projects. The newly improved thing demands the old thing next to it be likewise improved. The rearranged objects necessitate the rearrangement of other objects. The clearing of one space requires the finding of new space. And so on, like a cascade of dominoes, where “dominoes” stands for painting equipment, stacks of possessions temporarily dispossessed of shelves and closets, no place for anything, and everything out of its place. Life coming together and coming apart, as life does in this ecosystem we call a home.
I love going to estate sales, pretending to shop, but really to study—to note where and when the cycle of domestic renewal ends, and stasis sets in. The founders of our mid-century suburban neighborhood are in their nineties now, dying and dwindling. I walk through the houses that were their homes for decades, measuring the half-lives of a lifetime from the wallpaper, the lamp shades, the kitchen tile. Many of them are like time capsules from the 20th century. It seems if you live in one house long enough, there comes a point when you stop putting energy into changes. The material kind, anyway.
Maybe it’s because income contracts, or physical ability diminishes, or priorities simply shift. I suppose if I live long enough, I’ll get to find out. For now, I’m the amateur archaeologist, hypothesizing the end of little lost empires from artifacts left behind.
Here in my own little empire, civilization is still bustling. We have entered the Teen Epoch, and have switched all the bedrooms around to accommodate it. It isn’t as simple as changing beds (which wasn’t at all simple)—bedrooms also contain wardrobes, books, toys, and an astonishing amount of STUFF. Stuff that is all over the house while we redraw the lines of our household map.
And even though it’s all uncontainable, I’m managing to contain my focus on one smallish project at a time, breaking the overwhelming, vast whole of it into increments of weeks and fifty dollars (which is as much money as I can afford to put into this project at a time, and a great safeguard against starting more than I can finish in a few days). In other words, I’m harnessing the Power of Small. Which converts to the awesome Power of Done.
Instead of starting the Teen Lair project in the Teen Lair (formerly our master suite), I began with my new bedroom (formerly the 15-year-old’s room), painting the bright green walls a serene ivory that captures the beautiful natural light that pours in from the southeast and southwest windows. I found room for my writing desk, that I’d sadly thought I’d have to give up, leaving just enough space for our antique dressers. It still has a way to go—I need to make curtains and hang some pictures on the walls—but it’s lovelier than I imagined it could be, a sanctuary in the midst of all this upheaval. I don’t miss our giant suite even a bit, after months of talking myself into making this big sacrifice!
In home improvement, and other dramatic changes of altitude, always, always, put your own oxygen mask on before assisting fellow passengers.
As for my fellow passengers, they’re loving their new quarters., even though I’ve barely gotten started on the Teen Lair. Last week, I painted the bunk beds and moved them to their new position. It brought up memories of moving the older boys to their very own room the first time, decorated in a vintage cowboy theme. They were so excited to each get their own bed, though they still slept together anyway, piled like puppies on the lower bunk. I had a brief pang before painting over my 13-year-old’s five-year-old hieroglyphics, but settled for a keepsake photo. This isn’t a time capsule, it’s a home, still growing and changing with us, still improving.