tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22915732874948959842024-03-13T00:13:30.083-04:00CowGaels in Tir na BlogA bagpiper and Gaelic singer reclaim a Maine farmstead while digging our own Celtic roots. Tune in for wild farm-woman whimsies and bardic musings on heirloom gardening, heritage-breed livestock, green spirituality, and more!MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-31832463477385775732016-12-05T22:25:00.000-05:002016-12-05T22:34:29.685-05:00<i>Yes, it's been forever since my last post. A couple of hard, unbloggable years, followed by a year too joyfully busy for blogging, thanks to my new job at Phippsburg Congregational Church...and The Piper is now managing our farm full time, and it's thriving--as are we! Still, the world shifts around us, and this week's sermon was an exercise in exploring the challenge of love in diverse communities: </i><br />
<br />
<b>Light In The Forest: An Advent Sermon</b><br />
<i>(based on Isaiah 11:1-10 and Matthew 3:1-9)</i><b> </b><br />
<div style="font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">John the Baptist<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">:</span>
prophet of Advent<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">, prepare<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">r of the way for the coming of Jesus.</span></span> Like most prophets, he's a sand-in-the-gears,
nails-on-the-chalkboard kind of guy. Not exactly the sort you'd want
at your Christmas party. John the Baptist, there in his camel-hair
tunic and leather belt, like some wild dervish wandering the
wastelands, or like a street-corner preacher with his fire and
brimstone sermons, his cry to repent, repent...</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> He makes me
uncomfortable because he's different. He has chosen a strange
discipline, setting himself apart, dedicating himself only to
pleasing God. He survives on locusts and wild honey: sounds like
some weird Paleo diet. His choice of food and clothing, his behavior
and his wild hair, all hint that he's likely a <i>Nazirite</i>, a particular
type of Jewish spiritual athlete. Do you remember the story of
Samson, the great and powerful hero who lost his strength when Delilah cut his hair? Same deal.
Samson was a <i>Nazirite</i> too. Guys who became <i>Nazirites</i> avoided certain foods and did not cut their
hair. They wore the <a href="http://get-knotted.weebly.com/nazarites.html">original version of dreadlocks</a>, to show their
dread or awe and respect for the mighty power of God.</span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhurtd_KX7uwPgifPSam7UOcoNie3o4GmBY-2Yjc9IQtl5Pl2T-jsyEJgtpGBvK7PjsHjai-h-WNlLYdzYKWN6dgyrEkz06UWyDbQUXv9OF_umkPc2C3vx9QyaarlXsNkGz-L6OIsQZcsZZ/s1600/JohnBaptistwithDreads.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhurtd_KX7uwPgifPSam7UOcoNie3o4GmBY-2Yjc9IQtl5Pl2T-jsyEJgtpGBvK7PjsHjai-h-WNlLYdzYKWN6dgyrEkz06UWyDbQUXv9OF_umkPc2C3vx9QyaarlXsNkGz-L6OIsQZcsZZ/s320/JohnBaptistwithDreads.jpg" width="250" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Dread(lock)ed Prophet, John the Baptist</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> So here's this guy
with dreadlocks on the riverbank, telling us we'd better repent, we'd better turn our lives around. I
don't like his style. I don't like his attitude. I don't know what
to do with his anger: this wild, wise, rooted, righteous anger. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> I don't know how
you are with anger, but I struggle with it. I know it's part of
being human. If I pay attention to Jesus and the prophets, it's even
part of being holy. But anger makes me want to freeze, or hide, or
just close my eyes and wish it would go away. It's like fire, and
I'm not sure how to handle it—in myself or others—without being
burnt.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">But what<i> is</i> he
saying? “Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand.” This
dreadlocked prophet is holding a sign that says, “the <i>beginning</i> is
near!” And—as I hear reports of <a href="http://www.attn.com/stories/13264/how-post-election-hate-crimes-compare">hate crimes on the rise</a>, and
every headline seems to trumpet the world's instability—any hint of
hope, any news of beginnings grabs and holds my attention. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> He echoes another
prophet, Isaiah:<i> “a shoot will come from the stump of Jesse...”</i>
in other words, an old family line cut off, declared extinct, will
send up a tiny green flag of life's renewal, a joyful giggle in the
face of the power of death. Like the sprouts that come up from that
weathered, ancient Linden tree outside our church every year...yes, prophet, tell me
more about the God who has <i>this</i> power<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;">!</span> </span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> What the prophets
know, and what the trees know, is that you can't welcome new life at
all until you touch death--until you face it, study it, reckon with the parts
of your life that have become hollow, the parts that have been cut
off. To prepare the way of the Lord, to make room for Love to show
up and shift things around, you have to spend some time crying in the
wilderness.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> Suzanne Simard
knows about wilderness. She's a scientist—<a href="http://www.ecology.com/2012/10/08/trees-communicate/">a forest ecologist</a>—at
the University of British Columbia, on the west coast of Canada. And
she went into the forest to research the relationship between
different trees. What she expected to find—her hypothesis—was
that the tallest, most powerful trees in the forest became so tall
and powerful—and <i>stayed</i> so tall and powerful—because they could
out-compete all the shorter trees for resources. Some of the giants, which the scientists refer to as "mother trees,"
were hundreds of years old, and the youngest seedlings on the forest
floor beneath them looked like they were headed for sure death,
blocked from spreading their roots to find water and nutrients,
unable to gather energy from sunlight under the giant trees' shade.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDTY7umUFA557l9wJLs56wDcVx9yohyphenhyphenI3VV9cAuPLm8sGGSJQPl5vejZ8Xc0Cn7fcJ3l7FysRXtJZmfzHr4U1SQgBLRHxUgW52akjKt0Zr5uhEtYOLV6S4_IHg8e2HRH8uC9iPBGNt8dU/s1600/IMG_0620.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFDTY7umUFA557l9wJLs56wDcVx9yohyphenhyphenI3VV9cAuPLm8sGGSJQPl5vejZ8Xc0Cn7fcJ3l7FysRXtJZmfzHr4U1SQgBLRHxUgW52akjKt0Zr5uhEtYOLV6S4_IHg8e2HRH8uC9iPBGNt8dU/s320/IMG_0620.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mother Tree in the woods of Tir na nOg Farm</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> But the longer Dr.
Simard spent in the forest, the more she started to notice other
things happening, other forces at work. There were old stumps that
should have been rotting away to nothing, but they weren't. And
there were spindly seedlings that should have been starving for lack
of light, but they were thriving. Wasn't nature about competition?
What about Survival of the Fittest? What was going on?</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> It took her a while
to discover, not because the answer was over her head, but because it
was under her feet. There, in the soil, a fragile, lacy network had
spread throughout the forest. It was <a href="https://scottemery.wordpress.com/2013/09/02/lord-may-we-be-like-mycelium-a-missional-lesson-from-creation/">mycelium</a>: the bodies of
mushrooms, branching underground, their tiny filaments touching and
wrapping the finest ends of the tree roots all around them. And that
fragile living lace, draped across the forest floor, made it possible
for the trees to do something no one had imagined: they weren't
competing for resources at all. They were sharing them. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJq3tBABQmQQTkeG9sSF8BaWWftCYj-nutdI3rU3WEZ8jdqAi25dCH0qXAhEZTE40RnR-Of8jjusKLMYwBT0ESXgHzNN8KRo1EqipK5Qx9BtEeR_tmwybVeMgmqpqY7ZSeY0CePfSyznK/s1600/MyceliumPEd.preview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIJq3tBABQmQQTkeG9sSF8BaWWftCYj-nutdI3rU3WEZ8jdqAi25dCH0qXAhEZTE40RnR-Of8jjusKLMYwBT0ESXgHzNN8KRo1EqipK5Qx9BtEeR_tmwybVeMgmqpqY7ZSeY0CePfSyznK/s320/MyceliumPEd.preview.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mycelium in the forest: sharing the carbon, sharing the love!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Through the
underground fungal network, the powerful giant trees were sending
carbon and nitrogen from their own bodies out to the struggling
stumps and seedlings around them. They were somehow communicating,
somehow sensing the suffering of other lives around them, somehow
choosing to give of themselves—and it wasn't only for trees of
their own species, either. Pines were sharing with hemlocks, firs
sharing with alder, cedar sharing with birch, and beyond. And
sometimes, the same carbon molecules were being passed along to two,
or five, or seven or more different trees and plants that needed
them. The researchers struggled with these findings. What could
they call this shimmering network that helped trees grow in deep
shadows? I'll give it a name they might be afraid to use:
love.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> This is a season of darkness—dark, like the depths of the
forest. But listen to the voice in the wilderness: repent--turn
yourselves in a different direction. Repent--turn your ears to hear
other voices. They may need you to survive. You may need them.
Repent--turn to each other, and learn from the forest: only when we
reach out with love can the whole community begin to thrive. </span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Love
the stranger. Love the prophet. Love the one who challenges you.
Love the one who eats strange things. Love the one who opens your heart. And you will find yourself
sharing the sacrament of communion. You will be offering food to the
hungry and light into darkness, over and over again.</span></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-12154573827247253042014-04-02T10:20:00.004-04:002014-04-02T10:21:53.472-04:00UnSeize the Day!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadIeoHL1mMrJ3FtcScjhlGIkEx3H2US-MtLE5FTdF7RhgUp9wZDrYwH1F1j37DZFuEHuelZf1meTa03m5G7_DFGBeMfQqvcy7ZEyFOCrg_aXp5UBXt68z6zElfpGnJfcivyN1m-Gjz332/s1600/IMG_2762.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhadIeoHL1mMrJ3FtcScjhlGIkEx3H2US-MtLE5FTdF7RhgUp9wZDrYwH1F1j37DZFuEHuelZf1meTa03m5G7_DFGBeMfQqvcy7ZEyFOCrg_aXp5UBXt68z6zElfpGnJfcivyN1m-Gjz332/s1600/IMG_2762.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
It's been a while since I've given a farm report. so I'd best sit myself down and take a stab at it, while I'm waiting for the sun to rise and do its morning stretch across the sky. <br />
<br />
How have we fared, since last September? A glorious harvest feast of friendship sustained us through much of the long, cold winter. We reveled in warmth, basking in the glow of well-stacked wood and well-stoked fires. Then, with the new year, our minds turned to seed catalogues and greenhouses and the many, many promises of SPRING!<br />
<br />
But Winter wasn't ready yet.<br />
<br />
So our wood dwindled, and the deep cold got deeper. Cows called out each afternoon, hungry for more hay. The November-born piglets snuggled, first under a heat lamp and then, as they grew bigger and bolder, next to their mama's restless, bristly bulk. We bought more wood, enough--we thought--to get us through to the fully-expected warmth that would come with February's longer days.<br />
<br />
But Winter wasn't ready yet.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8jN-z9SEqlhjgwPnurCnqQJ-gPIVdc3p-e-BZuGoSeFfi-mu3CSG5Xv9vZsTVgDhCHeFKiNDeVDNsSKszifrYpeBelME79f5sSBEIH2v8qfRkSEH8NVRrJRa-6aaxXwVPyTLRumLFDCI/s1600/IMG_2769.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu8jN-z9SEqlhjgwPnurCnqQJ-gPIVdc3p-e-BZuGoSeFfi-mu3CSG5Xv9vZsTVgDhCHeFKiNDeVDNsSKszifrYpeBelME79f5sSBEIH2v8qfRkSEH8NVRrJRa-6aaxXwVPyTLRumLFDCI/s1600/IMG_2769.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a>So we went into the forest--not once, not twice, but three times and more--to find wood to burn. We bowed before fallen giants and then began to remove their limbs, sawing and hauling all we could. The old Eastern Hop Hornbeam, once a statewide champion for its height and girth and massive green Summer crown, was the first to be divided and dragged. I mourned its lost nobility even as I placed the long-fallen, rot-edged logs onto the sawbuck. I sang its praises as we loaded that wood into the stove when February met March and Winter just dug in deeper, sinking our farmstead into the depths of cold.<br />
<br />
And now? Now it is April. Far-flung relatives are posting images of daffodils and magnolias. Here, the sap is running--albeit thinly--in the maple trees, and though I keep watching, there's no sign of green points that will be snowdrops or crocuses just yet. I did spy my first robin this morning, though, so that's something...mostly, though, we sneak into the greenhouse to catch our hints of Spring. There, in the corners, there is soil still frozen hard, but some of the middle beds are graced with the first blue-tinged tiny leaves of the first sprouts of the year: an extra-hardy heirloom variety of kale. Some days, in the afternoons, it actually feels warm in there, warm enough to unzip my jacket and remove my gloves. Tomorrow, they say, it might get into the forties OUTside, but I'll believe it when I feel it. Friday, they say, it will snow again.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tiebHAbMNpskoCAbXDUOZxA_b6QShOzHN1cIPBbaT2Q1fVi2NE1RbNS5Wqq5oTP177_wkClEMuPYpjsrrP-pdASvHtm_ft_nK6h6b7cZicN60ruNMkuC_YP2_dzSCfe4isbwN-mwaV6t/s1600/IMG_2760.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4tiebHAbMNpskoCAbXDUOZxA_b6QShOzHN1cIPBbaT2Q1fVi2NE1RbNS5Wqq5oTP177_wkClEMuPYpjsrrP-pdASvHtm_ft_nK6h6b7cZicN60ruNMkuC_YP2_dzSCfe4isbwN-mwaV6t/s1600/IMG_2760.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
Ah, but I'm still the April Fool, here, though optimism comes a little harder after such a long, hard freeze. I know, soon enough, there will be tall grass in the far pastures and I'll be munching on daylilies in the dooryard and swatting at black flies. And, in the meantime, we have wonderful farmhands here to keep us from sinking too far into surliness...AND they've been great at tending our craitures and hauling all those logs out of the woods!<br />
<br />
So, this morning, we prepare to plant more seeds. We have the use of another farm's greenhouse, this season, and it sits in a broad open space where it warms faster than ours. Whether or not Winter is ready, WE are ready to pry its fingers off this place. WE are ready to welcome days of green growth under the April sun!<br />
<br />
Muses are stirring, too, even if snowdrops are not. Here's a morning offering:<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<b><i><u>Unseize The Day!</u></i></b></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Oh, April Sun-- you ease too slowly
over the rim.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>You crinkle your quiet eyes at my
skin's hunger:
</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>The ache of crystal to relearn water's
ways, cell by cell</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Until these limbs can flex, sinews
unclench</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>And body bend, all fluid, once again.
Please—</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i>
</div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Come in! This freezeframed house is
too long cold!</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Here: I lift the shades, fold fabric's</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>curves into curtainhooks, opening the
way...</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>The bevelled glass invites your
scattershine.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i><br /></i>
</div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>See, Sun? There is nothing to hinder
your reach</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Into this room (this icy box)! Even my
shadowed</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>spirit has clumsily undone its little
locks,</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Cramped fingers fumbling with the keys.</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Won't you come in, you lovely April
Sun?</i></div>
<i>
</i>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
<i>Oh, please?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0cm;">
--copyright MaineCelt, 4/2/14 </div>
MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-80076519485900520462013-09-24T13:03:00.000-04:002013-09-24T13:16:21.163-04:00How to Have a Celtic Farm WeddingFirst, plan ahead with the farm and growing season in mind. Arrange a visit from <a href="http://blogs.vashonbeachcomber.com/gardenon/blog/calico-gardens-2/1091/">a wise flower-gardening relative</a> early in the year. She'll arrive with fifty dahlia tubers in your--and your Sweetheart's--favourite range of colours. Together, you can plant them in the greenhouse in March, where each emerging green shoot will hint at the sweet occasion to come.<br />
<br />
<br />
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Start raising a pig for the feast. Secure a farmhand who will spend hours romping with the piglets, scratching their backs and rubbing their bellies as they lay in the Spring and Summer sun. Soak the pigs' daily rations of grain and veggies with leftover milk from a local dairy farm. Watch them grow and thrive. When a friend announces he'll be <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1855748974/vinland-forging-a-maine-cuisine-with-100-local-ing">opening a restaurant</a> soon with 100% locally-sourced foods, offer him a chance to supervise the pig roast. Get some more farmhands to dig/build the pig-roasting pit. Invite them to stay for the wedding. Be delighted when they agree.<br />
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Send out invitations that you've designed yourself with some public-domain medieval woodcuts of musicians and beehives. Travel with your coloured pencils so you can colour them in during long conservation district meetings and on slow, hot afternoons at the farmers' market. Be inspired by the displays of produce and flowers set out by the other vendors.<br />
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Trade a couple of roasts and some sausage to <a href="http://www.frazzledknot.com/index.html">a fellow market vendor</a> in exchange for help designing your wedding garb. Stop by her place after the market one day for a consultation, and emerge with hand-written directions and the entire dress cut out. Be thankful for this wonderful alternative economy.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmbfsefBNsac2TT7c5vNtFifCEyNFXtIx7XIWf7PZCkUH351dUQ3rd5HHU3W3XpNca3aAVUa_YXFIUUK78hatYVQFqiw86P4pPyhT2IzA1Z8eWfXFFNPTl8zG8TtcQ1U5R3-Krr5RBfr-/s1600/064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGmbfsefBNsac2TT7c5vNtFifCEyNFXtIx7XIWf7PZCkUH351dUQ3rd5HHU3W3XpNca3aAVUa_YXFIUUK78hatYVQFqiw86P4pPyhT2IzA1Z8eWfXFFNPTl8zG8TtcQ1U5R3-Krr5RBfr-/s320/064.JPG" width="320" /></a>The mother of one of your farmhands comes to visit with a gift of Highland whisky. After enjoying some together around a campfire, go down to the <a href="http://thehoneyexchange.com/">Honey Exchange</a> and get some heather honey to go with it. Hand these off to a friend who happens to be a wonderful baker and commission a "cranachan" wedding cake, flavoured like the traditional Scottish dessert. The raspberries on your hillside--a gift from your plantsman godfather--will ripen just in time to decorate the top of the cake.<br />
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As the seasons unfurl, take time to walk the land. Meditate on partnership--both human and cosmic. Consider how, in your shared life, you and the land have shaped each other. Choose the orchard as your wedding site, knowing that the site plan will need to accommodate the tender bark of young trees and the hesitant movement of elderly knees, as well as a nearby sow and a hive full of bees!<br />
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Plan a service with a local minister--the one who "gets it," the one who once gifted you with a manure fork enscribed with the emblem of <a href="http://www.ucc.org/">the church</a> you now serve. Think about all the people who worked and prayed and lobbied and educated and legislated and voted so that, at long last, you could have the opportunity to take this step and solemnize your vows with full legal and religious recognition. Struggle to believe it's really finally going to happen. Struggle to trust that this blessing--and all the legal protections it brings--will actually come to you.<br />
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When kinfolk begin to arrive, enlist their help to mow, move the picnic table, and set up the tent on the neighbor's lawn for the reception. Send some relatives to the "small box" five-and-dime store for last-minute decorations. Send the siblings off to the church to borrow tables and chairs.<br />
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Kill the pig. Do it yourself, quickly and calmly and thankfully, offering a prayer for the life and nourishment of that sweet small beast. With the help of sure-footed strong friends and skilled farmhands, prepare the pig and gather wood for the fire. Honour the creature; waste nothing.<br />
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Old Friends arrive (with bagpipes!) and whisk you away from the happy chaos for a night out and a big ol' plate of barbecue. The next day, let the visiting bagpiper and the bagpiping-bride-to-be indulge in an epic tune-swap while you work on your dress. When the other Old Friend offers to help with the hemming, let her. She will sew so quickly and quietly that, before you know it, the hemming will be completed before the other volunteer hemmers even arrive! Be thankful for Old Friends, for their grace and grace-notes, for their calm and camaraderie.<br />
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On the day of the wedding, breathe deeply. The flowers have opened and your mother and aunt have arranged them all into a host of beautiful bouquets. Your father and siblings have bedecked the neighbor's lawn with tents and tables for the potluck reception and created an avenue of tiki torches (lent by a friend) between there and the orchard. Your sister, with her grand sense of design, has used old wooden pallets, logs and stones to create a sanctuary around the drooping boughs of an old apple tree, and it is now flanked with sap buckets full of late Summer flowers. Chairs are in place, the pig is roasting, and guests are starting to arrive. Hand out readings to friends: Psalm 148, (to be read by another farmer), Colossians 3:12-15, (to be read by a clergy friend), and an excerpt from Marge Piercy's poem, "The Homely War," (to be read by another dear friend who understands the depth and challenge of love).<br />
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Go upstairs, in the little woodshop you spent three years turning into your house. Get dressed. Your partner wears her new utilikilt (in brown Carharrt-style canvas, complete with hammer loop) with an Indian cotton shirt and brown velvet vest. Her "something borrowed" is a pair of kilt hose from our friend Bruce, whose spirit lingers in the circle of love that surrounds us. Put on the newly-finished and wonderfully-hemmed linen shift, the rusty silk overskirt and the borrowed plum-coloured medieval bodice. Add "something old:" a silk panel from your great grandmother's dress, and the petticoat she wore to her own wedding. Have your sister tuck a tiny blue butterfly clip into your hair. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINCBZESYxhNc7GQ-1ZrMCjcQtQ02RglFR2dQsSo9NuUn2pphOYjBcHZbc1G-gPdZd1Pq1pqjpc54W1FDpOit6Vgu-40bmCcyg8nbastytfvykl-Z6Dq7_arqFXym_4RCfMwNXf1ENlGUp/s1600/016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjINCBZESYxhNc7GQ-1ZrMCjcQtQ02RglFR2dQsSo9NuUn2pphOYjBcHZbc1G-gPdZd1Pq1pqjpc54W1FDpOit6Vgu-40bmCcyg8nbastytfvykl-Z6Dq7_arqFXym_4RCfMwNXf1ENlGUp/s320/016.JPG" width="240" /></a>Friends have assembled in the orchard in the golden light of a September afternoon. Kith and kin, neighbors and long travellers, farm hands and farm mentors, dancers and musicians, wise elders and wee bairns, chefs and bakers and clergyfolk and druids... there, among the trees, near the new sow's pen--and a respectful distance from the humming beehive--there is room for everyone. This is the circle of love we celebrate: the people and other creatures who make our own love possible, the ones who lift us up and nourish us, the ones who affirm and celebrate the life we've made on this land and all the history and possibilities we share together.<br />
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The piper is tuning up. Other <a href="http://www.castlebay.net/">Old Friends</a> have arrived with harp and fiddle. (You don't know it yet, but their gift of music will be a song written just for this day, and everyone's hearts will bust wide open as they lift their voices, singing together a chorus of hope, freedom, kindness, love, and a Brand New Day.) Take your Beloved's hand and proceed to the wooden arch her son carved and raised, with friends, at the top of the hillside, just above the blueberry bushes and the raspberry patch. Begin the procession...and let Nature, in all her wild beauty and raucous good humour, take it from there:<br />
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(Thanks to our friend, Mudranger, for capturing the unplanned hilarity!)<br />
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<br />MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-54662512499648713082013-04-13T22:49:00.000-04:002013-04-13T22:50:24.668-04:00Hard Roads and Empty Nets<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Disclaimer: Yes, this is a farmer's blog. I'm a farmer, and that's at the heart of what I do and how I move around in this beautiful, bruised, burgeoning world. Now, part of a farmer's job is to pay attention to EVERYthing, especially the connections that bind us all to every other aspect of Creation. Sometimes, those connections--and their implications--are so powerful that it's hard to explain. Dry facts won't do it. So I reach into the storehouse of sacred stories, and it comes out less like an essay, more like a sermon. Still, the farm--and our way of farming--is right there, mixed up in the myths. If you've come here to read about farming, you can sidestep the sermon and skip down to other entries as you please, or enter the story here. Either way, welcome!</i></div>
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“<span style="font-size: medium;"><b>Hard Roads and Empty
Nets” </b> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">A <span style="font-size: medium;">s</span>ermon for April 14<sup>th</sup>, 2013
(Easter3C) </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">(Based on<span style="font-size: medium;"> Acts 9:1-20 and John 21:1-19)</span></span></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Calibri, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="text-decoration: none;"><b> </b></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: medium;"> </span>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> I have
a lot of questions, today. The first one is the most important, so
pay attention—maybe scribble your answer down—and we'll come back
to it later. <i>Where do you see Jesus?</i> That's the first
question. Think about it. I'll ask you about it later.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Second
question: what do you do when a nightmare becomes real? What do you
do when the center of your life gets scooped out like the seeds of a
pumpkin, leaving you hollow as a jack-o-lantern, staring at the world
with empty eyes? What do you do when it all goes south, and you
don't know which direction to turn?</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> That's
where they were, Peter and the other disciples. The beautiful vision
had crumpled, their hopes were shattered, and they didn't have the
first clue of how to pick up the pieces and move on. Everything had
gone off somewhere in a hand-basket. So who can blame Peter? He
grabbed his favorite John Deere cap—the one with the brim curved
just the way he liked them—and his old barn coat, his fleece vest
and his rubber boots, called up his buddies and told them to meet him
at the old place—you know, just off the side of that back-road
bridge down on Range Pond. He grabbed his rod and his old tackle box
and headed out, slamming the door behind him. He felt the muddy
ground beneath his feet, and then felt the crunch of gravel as he
stepped from the driveway onto the road. “When the going gets
tough, the tough go fishing.” (Well, maybe that wasn't how the
saying really goes, but in Pete's mind, it should have.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Meanwhile,
down another dirt road, on the other side of town, along came Saul.
You know Saul, right? He's that guy who's always got an ax to grind,
the one who gets up at meetings and starts shouting about THOSE
people, and how THEY'RE the cause of all the trouble? You all know
Saul. Well, Saul was on his way down to the Town Office to give them
a piece of his mind. The closer he got, the more he thought about
everything that had gone wrong. He was sure he knew who to blame,
and how to shut them up once and for all. He'd done it before. He
could do it again. And if he could just get a-hold of the authority
to do it, why... I hardly need to tell you what ol' Saul was planning
to do. With every step he took, his heart beat a little faster,
wrapped up in the heat of his self-righteous rage. Yes, Saul said to
himself, SOMEbody's got to clean up this town, and I am the MAN to do
it. “The Lord helps those who help themselves...” wasn't that
what the Good Book said? (Don't tell Saul, but it isn't in the Good
Book. It was Ben Franklin who came up with that one!)</span></div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Down
at the shore, Pete and his buddies fished for hours. Pete, Tom,
Nate, and the rest of the guys stayed out all night, in fact,
sometimes talking low so's they wouldn't scare the fish, sometimes
just staring out into the darkness, wondering if the sun would ever
rise again. Not once did any of them feel a tug on their lines, even
though the fishing was supposed to be good. Well, it figured.
Hadn't everything else gone all to heck? Well, Jerusalem crickets,
why should this be any different? When the dawn did come, it was a
cold light—that weak, early Spring light that shows the lay of the
land but doesn't warm it one bit. Their lines were empty, their
hearts were empty, and—frankly, with all the stress of the last
week catching up to them along with the sleep deprivation—their
heads were kinda empty too. So when the stranger showed up, right
there, between the pond and the bridge, well, they just couldn't
figure it out at all. Had he been standing there all night? Nobody
had heard a motor, and you know the way sound carries over water.
Had he come on foot, or by boat, or what? The light was still weak,
and they couldn't quite make out the guy's face, but there was
something about him that seemed familiar. None of them could put a
finger on it.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> “Good
morning!” the stranger said. He looked at their empty nets, their
slack lines. He gestured over to the other side of the bridge, where
there was just a small ledge between the water and the road. “They
not biting? How 'bout you try the other side,” he said, and there
was a funny catch in his voice, as if he were halfway between a laugh
and a sob. Pete thought he must have a screw loose or something, but
the guy sure seemed earnest—and, frankly, at this point, what did
any of them have to lose? They'd already lost pret-near everything.
So Pete and Nate and Tom and the other guys ambled up onto the
roadbed and then sidled down onto that little ledge and cast their
lines in. And the stranger walked up to the pull-off and started
setting up a beat-up barbecue grill.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Now,
Saul, meanwhile, had about walked the soles off his shoes, stomping
along towards town. In his mind, it played out like some old
Western: him all spurs and pointy boots, ten-gallon hat and silver
star, catching the unsavory riff-raff and ridin' 'em out of town on a
rail. Maybe he'd tar-and-feather them first for extra effect. He'd
get rid of everybody that didn't belong, starting with the People
From Away. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> And
that's when it happened. It was like all the lights at Oxford
Speedway, come on at once, so bright he couldn't see. And a voice—a
voice like the saddest country song you ever heard, calling his name,
asking, “why do you persecute me?” Saul flung himself on the
ground and asked, “who are you?” and the voice answered, “I am
Jesus, who you're persecuting. Now get on into town, hush up and
listen. This time, listen good, 'cause somebody's going to tell you
good. There, you'll find out what to do.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> Now,
maybe you've got the story all figured out. You know what's coming
next: Saul loses the spurs and the silver star. He meets up with a
Guy From Away—and, because he's been blinded, he doesn't even see
the out-of-state plates or the peace bumperstickers all over the back
of the guy's <span style="font-size: medium;">P</span>rius—and, even though they circle each other like
wild dogs at the start, it turns out they both take God seriously,
and the scales of judgment fall away. Both of them change.
Together, they create a whole new ministry. And down by the bridge,
Pete and his buddies have filled up every bucket and cooler and the
whole back of Nate's big Ford truck with the craziest catch of fish
you ever saw. The guy at the grill in the pull-off calls them over
for breakfast, and they have themselves the best fried fish ever, and
suddenly they understand: it's Jesus. And we all know how it
ends...or maybe we don't.</span></div>
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<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Because
here's the thing. This is how the resurrection happens. Jesus shows
up—in the garden, at the shore, on the road—and we don't
recognize him. Jesus calls us by name when we're not even ready to
hear. Jesus shows up among the people who make us uncomfortable, the
people who tick us off, the people we reject, the people we hate.
And Jesus shows up at the table, right when our hearts are aching and
our souls are absolutely starving, and he reaches out and offers to
feed us.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> So,
maybe we don't know the end of the story. Because maybe the story
hasn't ended. Maybe there are new chapters waiting to be written.
Maybe God needs us to help the story continue, to help the Good News
unfold.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">So,
where's the crossroads? Where do we see Jesus now? Think for a
minute. Who are the people we persecute? Who are the strangers
here? Who reaches out and serves us? Who disturbs us? How does the
Risen Christ come to each of us, and in what disguise?</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;"> I
can't finish the story myself. Remember, I'm one of those People
From Away. And so, now, I ask you to help me out. Someone—Anyone:
where do you see Jesus? And by that I mean: who challenges you? Who
feeds you? Who do you persecute? Who opens the way to New Life?</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">This
is how God comes to us. This is how Jesus is revealed. Not locked
away in some dusty old book, not a holy relic in a climate-controlled
vault. The Risen Christ reaches out to us on the roads we travel, on
the shores we stroll, the place we fish, the place our kids learn
to swim. Here, now, where our Good Fridays keep bumping up against
his Resurrection. </span>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: medium;">Next
time you see Pete, or Nate or Tom at the boat launch... Next time you run into Saul at
the Dollar Store, reach out your hand. Because this is our new
chapter. We have seen Jesus, and now we have to do the hard work
together: living out his kind of love. </span>
</div>
MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-89699813032845145352013-02-13T22:14:00.001-05:002013-02-13T22:17:44.870-05:00The Blessing of DustI am home, smudged and sweetly satisfied, marked with dust and blessed by it.<br />
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The day didn't begin this way. It began in pain--fully embodied, attention-hungry suffering, bone and muscle in plaintive agreement and vociferous demand. I greeted the rising sun not with joy, but with more of a whimper.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_ce_Ou5Pxk-4IudcUv6acKaScKdMsnrKy5JuX4e8xtgyHYWmHLdcC2Oc5WDjy0NM-YoiekoBrZJ8sBJlhgj46UxpZQe2icFxVfe__kYHH4OhgKpnqiO0PDNnnylhaFK1nyr0Nl5B5aJv/s1600/117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg_ce_Ou5Pxk-4IudcUv6acKaScKdMsnrKy5JuX4e8xtgyHYWmHLdcC2Oc5WDjy0NM-YoiekoBrZJ8sBJlhgj46UxpZQe2icFxVfe__kYHH4OhgKpnqiO0PDNnnylhaFK1nyr0Nl5B5aJv/s320/117.JPG" width="320" /></a>See, a recent blizzard required the shoveling of many paths, and as we are without farmhands, I pitched in a little too earnestly the day before, leaving my back on fire. After a restless night I awoke stiff and sore, able to move only slowly and with long exhalations, calling on my old Hatha yoga training to "breathe into the stretch." The Piper performed all the morning farm chores while I watched rather helplessly, unable to lift more than a piece of firewood without wincing. I managed to make breakfast and tend to household things, but that was about all.<br />
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The chiropractor (desperately sought and providentially found) sent me off with into the afternoon with a gracious smile and gentle warnings. "Don't expect to be healed all at once. Over the next few days, you'll find the pain moving around as pathways open. Rest when you can. Drink plenty of water. Be gentle with yourself. Attend to what your body is saying."<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_5krinKx8EBNnXH0I1IO5H1YNkrD-mcXlqSYpV9n1yoJnDEqomTB0ros2kS5nxA2eryRNq0D2FcqHtX2cFl4YUrcu8-1wkcyYNSS_nNsNBXwlLSnIXVuAQuFqb0UtWVOPcnz8IdYMxoB/s1600/004.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6_5krinKx8EBNnXH0I1IO5H1YNkrD-mcXlqSYpV9n1yoJnDEqomTB0ros2kS5nxA2eryRNq0D2FcqHtX2cFl4YUrcu8-1wkcyYNSS_nNsNBXwlLSnIXVuAQuFqb0UtWVOPcnz8IdYMxoB/s320/004.JPG" width="240" /></a>My body said, "go home and take a walk." Back at the farm, the late winter sun was low and golden over the three-day-old drifts. I gulped a glass of cold well-water and stepped outside. The snow near the house was speckled with cinders, carried on the wind from the woodstove. The drifts near the henhouse were scattered with guinea fowl feathers, the exquisitely-patterned calling card of a Cooper's hawk who had slain one of our birds two days before. Elsewhere the snow was marked with bootprints, animal tracks, sawdust shavings, and blizzard-blown debris: here a spray of pine needles, there a dry oak leaf. Everywhere I walked, the once-pristine snow was marred with evidence of life and death, decay and disarray.<br />
<br />
And then it was time to gather my gear and drive down the road, into the dark, to lead an Ash Wednesday service at my church--MY church, yes, my new and beloved congregation, with their thrift store and food bank run out of the peeling 1800s parsonage, their town populated by hardscrabble locals and seasonal pleasure-seekers. We put the folding chairs in a circle in the little parish hall. We shook the ashes of last year's Palm Sunday branches into a small dish. We sang, haltingly and hauntingly, and listened to the ancient challenges of prophets:<br />
<br />
<i>"Why do we fast, but you do not see? Why humble ourselves, but you
do not notice?" </i><br />
<i>Look, you serve your own interest on your fast day, and
oppress all your workers.<br />
Look, you fast only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a
wicked fist. </i><br />
<i>Such fasting as you do today will not make your voice heard
on high.</i>
<i><br />
Is such the fast that I choose, a day to humble oneself? </i><br />
<i>Is it to
bow down the head like a bulrush, and to lie in sackcloth and ashes? </i><br />
<i>Will you call this a fast, a day acceptable to the Lord?</i>
<i><br /> </i><br />
<i>Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of
injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, </i><br />
<i>to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?<br />
Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the
homeless poor into your house; </i><br />
<i>when you see the naked, to cover them,
and not to hide yourself from your own kin?</i>
<i><br />
Then your light shall break forth like the dawn, and your healing
shall spring up quickly; </i><br />
<i>your vindicator shall go before you, the glory
of the Lord shall be your rear guard.<br />
Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry for
help, and he will say, Here I am. </i><br />
<br />
<i>If you remove the yoke from among you,
the pointing of the finger, the speaking of evil, </i><br />
<i>if you offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the
afflicted, </i><br />
<i>then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be
like the noonday.</i>
<i><br />
The Lord will guide you continually, and satisfy your needs in
parched places, </i><br />
<i>and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a
watered garden, </i><br />
<i>like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.<br />
Your ancient ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the
foundations of many generations; </i><br />
<i>you shall be called the repairer of the
breach, the restorer of streets to live in. </i><br />
<i> --Isaiah 58:3-12, NRSV </i><br />
<br />
Then we passed around a basin, gently washing and drying each other's workworn hands. I thought about parched places and watered gardens. Sitting there in the circle, with my back newly flexible but still tender, I thought about bones made strong.<br />
<br />
Another reading, and then it was time for the Imposition of Ashes. As each person came forward, I pressed my thumb into the ashes and drew the mark on their forehead, saying, "remember: you are dust and to dust you will return, God's beloved child forever." In silence, we put the chairs away and blew the candles out, then headed out to drive off into the night.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJE7C12n3J4me6as22nMkQJdD_Fj2RVfOuVdr4d3JD2D2943a8EjxH1UQYMZmEYuAZot1ysmSJtmZZCTL4Ldp27PDSV88gYCrKzHSCyqaQU8FbjLTNA93YDEs09Pven_pIqIm-DEf80pD/s1600/052.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirJE7C12n3J4me6as22nMkQJdD_Fj2RVfOuVdr4d3JD2D2943a8EjxH1UQYMZmEYuAZot1ysmSJtmZZCTL4Ldp27PDSV88gYCrKzHSCyqaQU8FbjLTNA93YDEs09Pven_pIqIm-DEf80pD/s320/052.JPG" width="320" /></a>There was grit on the roads and a deep peace over the barren, frozen countryside. When the pavement gave way to gravel, I could hear the crunch and spatter as my wheels moved over the uneven ground. The easing of pain, the elemental engagement of the day, the challenge and joy of full embodiment in an imperfect world--all of it rushed sweetly together as the car bounced and jostled down the dark back road.<br />
<br />
I have been waiting years for this sweet confluence of ragged edges, this blend of water and ashes into lovely mud. Praise be for compost and chiropracters and congregations. Praise be for pain that moves as pathways open. Blessed be the dust.MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-5767019559998479802012-12-29T13:27:00.000-05:002012-12-29T17:13:51.049-05:00Let Freedom Ring?I'm supposed to be writing a sermon.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow morning, I'll stand in front of a new-to-me congregation in a small church somewhere in Maine. I'll preach my "candidating sermon," a sort of ecclesiastical audition, the penultimate step in the hiring process. I've been waiting for this, training for this, for years--decades, actually. Then, after a question-and-answer session, (which sounds much better than "grilling"), I'll leave the room and wait while they vote, as a congregation, on whether or not to accept me as their pastor.<br />
<br />
It's all pretty exciting.<br />
<br />
And yes, I should be finishing that sermon, the one I've been writing in my head all week. Yet something else is tugging at my spirit's sleeve. Something else has wrapped itself around my heart and--this morning, at least--has garnered my attention.<br />
<br />
At midnight, when the seconds ticked just past and the day--12/29/2012--officially began, Maine's marriage equality law came into effect. At Portland City Hall, couples lined up to acquire the first same-gender marriage licenses. Hundreds of others lined up too, there to support them and cheer them on, there to witness to their loving commitments, there to stand in the freezing cold under dark skies and be a part of history in the making. Earlier in the evening, a man who refused to give his name stood at the far edge of the plaza, shouting bible verses and singing gospel songs, bewailing the moral degradation of the state. By midnight, though, the miasma of his diatribe was effectively blown away by a trombone-toting bystander, who launched with gusto into the Beatles' tune, "All You Need Is Love." The gathered crowd joined in and took up the chorus, sending the Love, Love, Love echoing off brick and stone edifices and swirling up into the midwinter night air.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00_ypg25uFaQsx5hH-pV5pBx-zTKa28R0pj_bpWz-7LIe9F0DBvVgUsdjETfmtR_zknHpvI-v8Z5MMG7xt0f_6KZocQrG9fW0K649UTsytbQ1xNbuU5-fzZbTtLUxDbXGXfMGS3phE1ev/s1600/boutonnieres.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg00_ypg25uFaQsx5hH-pV5pBx-zTKa28R0pj_bpWz-7LIe9F0DBvVgUsdjETfmtR_zknHpvI-v8Z5MMG7xt0f_6KZocQrG9fW0K649UTsytbQ1xNbuU5-fzZbTtLUxDbXGXfMGS3phE1ev/s320/boutonnieres.jpg" width="240" /></a>A local seamstress and fellow farmers' market vendor got in on <a href="http://www.theforecaster.net/news/print/2012/12/29/we-finally-feel-equal-maines-first-married-gay-cou/146836">the festivities</a> as well. She and two friends formed a boutonniere battalion, crafting over four hundred in time to hand them out, free of charge, to waiting couples and well-wishers. Others handed out bubble-soap and rose petals so the raucously joyful crowd could fill the air as the first, freshly-married couples re-emerged.<br />
<br />
I wasn't there--as much as I love the idea of history-making, the combination of late nights, icy roads, and upcoming professional presentations kept me home and found me under my own blankets long before the clock struck twelve. But this morning, as soon as the farm chores were completed, you can bet I went online to look for news, and grinned extra-wide to see the very first couple sporting--in all the videos and photographs--purple boutonnieres made by my friend.<br />
<br />
It turns out, there weren't as many couples lined up as many people expected. But the licenses are only good for 90 days, and I imagine most Mainers--being practical, cautious folk--had the same thoughts The Piper and I have had regarding the challenge of winter travel for friends and relatives, the cost of out-of-season foods and flowers, and a general hard-won distrust of all manner of Good News. Remember, this is New England, where harsh storms weed out the fragile, the foolish, and the unlucky, gentle weather brings biting flies, and the "home team" didn't win a World Series for 86 years. <br />
<br />
After reading a few news stories and looking through the photos, I was left mute and awash in the midst of my unsorted feelings. The people who married weren't flashy hipsters or svelte society types--they were parents and grandparents, local working folks like me who--also like me--hadn't dared to hope for a long, long time. They were wistful and reticent, even as the crowd cheered, shy as the press photographers vied to capture a glint of their rings. Mostly, they were people who had lived together and cared for each other year upon year, always without legal protection, always a step away from the condemnation of kinfolk and strangers. Now they were being welcomed into a wider community of support, a wider circle of protection. Still, I thought, maybe some had stayed away because of that very fear: the fear that, in light of recent public shootings, Portland City Hall might not be the best place to be.<br />
<br />
Still, I celebrate. I celebrate my friend and her four hundred carnations. I celebrate the couples who walked up the steps together and came out to shouts of joy from an eager and joyous crowd. And I celebrate the weight that...slowly...lifts from my own wary heart. Today, all loving, consenting adults in the state of Maine are now free to marry. Sooner or later, with an eye towards our own hard-earned understanding of committed partnership and our own agreements on sensible scheduling, The Piper and I will make our way into that wider circle of freedom and protection. All over the state, in their own leery and cautious ways, folks like us are making similar plans. Yes, freedom--it's going to have a whole new ring.<br />
<br />
Now... I guess I better finish that sermon. <br />
<br />
<br />
<i>(Photo swiped from K. Skillin. Thanks!)</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-22654037281923572192012-11-18T18:47:00.002-05:002012-11-18T18:47:55.085-05:00Hardscrabble Harvest: A Thanksgiving Sermon<i>(This sermon was based on the Thanksgiving lectionary readings: Joel 2:21-27, Psalm 126, & Matthew 6:25-33. It was preached at New Gloucester UCC, November 18th, 2012</i>)<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Just
so we're clear, I didn't want to preach about Thanksgiving. Like <span style="font-size: small;">[the<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: small;">pastor of NGUCC]</span></span></span>, I'm mostly a lectionary preacher, and I love wrestling with
the assigned readings for each Sunday, sitting with them, praying
with them, researching the almighty heck out of them, and figuring
out how and where those stories meet up with our stories, figuring
out where the Good News might be hiding on any given day. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> So,
last week, I hit the lectionary, and got hit back by a scriptural
superstorm. There were wars and rumors of wars. There was fleshly
sacrificin', earthquakes and famines, and—in the middle of it
all—there's old Hannah, praying and weeping bitterly because she
has no children, and getting cussed out by the prophet Eli 'cause he
thinks she's just a crazy old drunk (1<sup>st</sup> Samuel 1: 4-20,
if you're interested).</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Well,
when it comes to scripture, I'm a bit of a storm-chaser, so all this
had me pretty excited... until I made the mistake of sharing that
excitement with a friend who's known me a little too long. “Too
easy,” said my buddy Darlene, who knew me back in seminary. “You
already know how to do the distraught woman thing. Too easy. Go
look at the alternate readings for Thanksgiving. You want a real
challenge? Go with THANKS.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> I
don't know how it is for you, but for me, giving thanks IS hard. The
worry card, the angry card, the bitter card, the why-me-Lord
card...those are the easiest to play, the most dog-eared cards in the
deck. Anxious: no problem. I know how to play that one. Fearful?
I know how to play that card, too. But thankful? I don't...
quite... know... what to <i>do</i> with that. It's a bit stiff,
probably from lack of use. I know I <i>should</i> use it, but I seem
to have misplaced the instructions. Yes, thankfulness is a challenge.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Thanksgiving
is not built in to our culture, in spite of the federally-declared
holiday. The self-mocking media stars teach us to accept nothing at
face value. Don't trust the news, don't trust the police, don't
trust the established authorities of corporations, churches, or the
state, don't trust your parents, your children or your spouse, don't
trust anyone over thirty...so, for more than a decade, I haven't been
able to trust mySELF! </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Be
cynical, they tell us. Doubt everything. Assume an air of constant
frustration, irritation, and disappointment. Yet, at the same time,
crave everything. Crave authority. Covet power. Covet sweet
luxuries and a new flat-screen plasma tv. Covet the latest
entertainment and technology, even if you have to throw out all your
old gear and buy extra accessories to make the new stuff work. And
somehow, in the midst of it, crave comfort. Crave peace. Crave
nourishment. Crave safety and stability. Crave love.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5l_P7QOfNm4O3hLpgyvaGiCVKJgZ4SKGddZHEn5emu5o223CyLsg3S1f5zpd_NlMKnw8yo9neDMPwdLt0g7rXh_2_lsxEduH2ShMWcP6IjiajmB4wz5VXAIR-dHmhuuxD2i860xFMyhY/s1600/HardscrabbleHarvest350.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv5l_P7QOfNm4O3hLpgyvaGiCVKJgZ4SKGddZHEn5emu5o223CyLsg3S1f5zpd_NlMKnw8yo9neDMPwdLt0g7rXh_2_lsxEduH2ShMWcP6IjiajmB4wz5VXAIR-dHmhuuxD2i860xFMyhY/s320/HardscrabbleHarvest350.jpg" width="241" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"> It's
like the story Dahlov Ipcar tells, in her book, “Hardscrabble
Harvest.” It's the story of a New England farm year, from May
through November, and it seems to have been drawn from her own
hard-won experience. You know it from the first page, with a full
cast of vermin lined up and waiting at the edges of the
freshly-turned earth. The text reads, “The farmer plants early in
the spring. She'll be lucky if she harvests a thing.” The next
several pages show crows stealing seeds, pigs busting the garden
fence, ducks eating the strawberries, and deer daintily devouring the
cauliflower. Finally, a small, hardwon harvest is gathered in.
Pumpkins are made into pies and a turkey goes into the oven. The
tired farm family is shown setting the table, with the side door
slightly ajar and several faces peeking through: “gather 'round the
feast, hungry as a pup...here come the relatives, to eat it all up!”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> It's
not a particularly <i>nice</i> story. There's no moral here, no
happy ending. Yet it's compelling—maybe a little too close to
home—and when I get to that last page, I can't decide whether to
laugh or cry or fling the book across the room. Some years are hard.
Sometimes it gets to the point where the sun goes behind a cloud,
the sky darkens, and you're right there with the prophet Joel,
half-expecting another plague of locusts.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> This
was a hardscrabble year. I started seeds indoors, prepared to plant
them out when the soil grew warm. I didn't have high hopes—our
soil is what they call “marginal,” nutrient-poor. We suspect an
earlier tenant, facing their own hard times, sold off the topsoil for
extra cash, a common practice in the 50s and 60s. In some places the
drainage is bad, thanks to a thick band of clay a foot below the
surface. In other parts, the soil is almost pure sand, and the water
drains so fast the plants can hardly get a sip. Still, we usually do
alright, growing some food for ourselves and a little extra to sell.
There's usually one or two crops that fail, over-run by bugs or eaten
down by rogue chickens. I was resigned to another year of that...and
then, in May, we got word that, after three years of applying, we'd
qualified for a small grant to buy a high tunnel greenhouse--in May,
right when everything was supposed to be planted. So, those
seedlings sat while the tractor came and leveled the pale yellow
ground. They sat, leaves drooping, until the kit was delivered and
the volunteer crew came, weekend after weekend, to help hoist the
metal ribs, assemble the bracing, tighten all the bolts, and finally,
to get the plastic skin rolled down and secured on the hottest, most
humid day. The leaves on the seedlings turned brown as they became
rootbound, and started, selectively, to die. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Still
we scrambled, building end-walls, hauling soil, and finally—in
mid-July—we planted the wizened remnants in the seedling trays. We
watered them in, threw in a few onions, planted lettuce and swiss
chard and squash for curiousity's sake, looked at the strange new
structure, and resigned ourselves not to hope for much. A new
greenhouse? So what. The plastic would probably split in the first
windstorm. </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEWIiBicJofhvMIGpqL-VRwkRmKIRvAWUGqm5gG87u5eD5bGJg_EilTHbJT74BQyNQHmchSXcAHma6IbKj9-1QpqWJUlYDRelfaKK1qNTrvtZWu14wcok9iyHjntSmRJeOIscoIsWaTMi/s1600/257.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYEWIiBicJofhvMIGpqL-VRwkRmKIRvAWUGqm5gG87u5eD5bGJg_EilTHbJT74BQyNQHmchSXcAHma6IbKj9-1QpqWJUlYDRelfaKK1qNTrvtZWu14wcok9iyHjntSmRJeOIscoIsWaTMi/s320/257.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"> Nothing
turned out as we expected. The lettuce was early, and we couldn't
eat it fast enough. So the pigs got lettuce. The chickens and the
cows got lettuce, and so did we. It bolted in the heat and had to be
pulled. Meanwhile, the onions apparently melted. We never did find
them. But oh, the swiss chard, with its stalks of bright ruby red,
golden yellow, snow white and shocking pink! The little four-pack of
pansies, tucked along the edge of the farthest-back bed just bloomed
and bloomed and bloomed for no apparent reason, and –even now, in
spite of the frost—they're blooming still. And the three zucchini
seeds we planted in August as a joke? They grew waist-high, their
golden blossoms sprawling, bigger than my outstretched hand! I
served up squash and picked them, tender and young, for the farmers'
market.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> On
November 5th, convinced it was time to yank everything and lay the
beds to rest, I found a single, perfectly ripe cantaloupe hiding
under some leaves. I took it in and cut into the soft orange center.
It was sweet & juicy & utterly ridiculous. Fresh cantaloupe
in November in Maine, on marginal farmland, off a dusty road at the
edge of town. Who'd a thunk it? </span>
</div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> My
hands had been clenched so long. My soul had been as pinched and
parched as that soil. My dreams had been rootbound in the tiny space
I made for them. I had forgotten. I had forgotten that God deals in
wildflowers and desert streams. I had forgotten that God deals in
sunlight and soft rains, blanketing snows and sheltering branches and
fragrant blossoms. I had forgotten that God speaks the language of
boulder-busting roots and improbable cantaloupes.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzz6IfWxt0UOwf4Iv6ZHGOghLMVS8wGHYbRozYki68cYzu9XqZ5V_0aokagmTgY93TKYWoIO5AHCdHSdijmxw9oGibfRPV46Qta8PFzQ-1JZQICF34Id-3fzzM2iJ5nIjNiHkkhdlEFqj/s1600/228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnzz6IfWxt0UOwf4Iv6ZHGOghLMVS8wGHYbRozYki68cYzu9XqZ5V_0aokagmTgY93TKYWoIO5AHCdHSdijmxw9oGibfRPV46Qta8PFzQ-1JZQICF34Id-3fzzM2iJ5nIjNiHkkhdlEFqj/s320/228.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> There's
a word for this in Gaelic. The word is “<i>gu leor</i>.” It's
the source of the English word, “galore,” as in, “this Black
Friday, our door-buster deals will give you bargains galore.” But
gu leor means something better than that. It means two things at
once: sufficiency, or having enough to meet your needs,
and...absolute abundance. An old poem attributed to Saint Bridgid
goes, “I wish that Jesus, the king of heaven, would come and visit
me. And if he should visit me, I would wish for him an entire lake
of ale.” That's <i>gu leor</i>: having enough, and in that
enoughness, having enough to share, so that every meal is a chance to
make room for blessed guests, and every guest is an excuse for joyful
generosity. In such hospitality and grace, we catch a glimpse of the
Kingdom of God.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> “When
the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion, we were like those who dream.
Then our mouth was filled with laughter, and our tongue with shouts
of joy; then it was said among the nations, "The LORD has done
great things for them." The LORD has done great things for us,
and we rejoiced....<br /> May those who sow in tears reap with shouts
of joy. Those who go out weeping, bearing the seed for sowing,
shall come home with shouts of joy, carrying their sheaves.”</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;">Joel
and the Psalmist and Jesus are all full of this Good News today: the
Good News that, into the midst of our human scarcities, our crop
failures, our dream failures, our broken relationships, broken
bodies, and hardscrabble lives, God keeps showing up with abundant
enoughness. Yes, the cows may have chomped the tops off the turnips,
and the raccoons eaten the corn, but on the other hand—all of God's
creatures have been fed, and we still somehow have enough to bring in
the sheaves, to gather with kith and kin, to rejoice and give thanks,
to offer a prayer, and call it a feast.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> Thanksgiving
is a challenge. May we unclench our hands and embrace it—and each
other—surprising ourselves with a harvest of laughter, a harvest of
joy, a harvest of grace.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><i>(All photos copyright Mainecelt except book cover, <span style="font-size: small;">found <a href="http://www.islandportpress.com/hardscrabble.html">here</a>.)</span></i> </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
<br /><br />
</div>
MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-49543553665952338112012-09-23T22:09:00.000-04:002012-09-24T21:49:11.015-04:00Of Balance and Bonfires<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-I3yGvpuyE9wVrGfkyrV36WvKOVKJdufBYnSY9O3QVJe4GgmCBGj94VEuKU_vNtIH6EAt3s7LmD6ATIDEyHgrjoiHfLjqetSB6vEeBkd5PMEMRXpROzl8XH0Qg5Fr6MSuRJzyLGDrhjz/s1600/216.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5-I3yGvpuyE9wVrGfkyrV36WvKOVKJdufBYnSY9O3QVJe4GgmCBGj94VEuKU_vNtIH6EAt3s7LmD6ATIDEyHgrjoiHfLjqetSB6vEeBkd5PMEMRXpROzl8XH0Qg5Fr6MSuRJzyLGDrhjz/s320/216.JPG" width="240" /></a>We were laughing, last night, at the fire's edge. The Equinox was our excuse, after weeks of hard endeavoring, to sit and bask a bit in the space between darkness and light. So we touched off the blaze as the sun hung low in the sky and set the shepherd's pie to bake. At the behest of our farmhands, a run was made to the gas-n-go for marshmallows, graham crackers and bars of chocolate. Pointy sticks were searched out and trimmed before the gloaming deepened beyond stick-searching light. And then, the sun slipped behind the edge of the world. The fire sang, flames danced, and then the light lowered further as coals began to glow across the bonfire's splendid span. We sat ourselves down, each with a steaming bowl of shepherd's pie, and fit our bodies to the slope of the ground.<br />
<br />
There we were, arrayed amidst the splayed shadows of wild asters in the fire's flickering light. After a few minutes of contented, food-shoveling silence, the banter began. There were snippets of song. There were questions about tradition and experience of the season and its shifts. One farmhand asked if I knew any "Mabon myths," <i>Mabon</i> being the pagan name for the observance of the autumnal equinox. I laughed dismissively. "Celts tend to focus on the cross-quarter days, (the mid-points between solstice and equinox), but we don't really do much for equinoxes. The cross-quarter days represent big changes in seasonal work and human agricultural activity. Nothing much changes at equinox. Anyway, balance is too boring to celebrate."<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hri_SsKxyuxDwA0ie93dv5Ffdd_p-BrJb0vAV_zkDPVeFxoV_a4-36zYYlaRMrJotlLkDZfQj2Re3cVYNwfE5mqRGZ0hXPmqSOMFcc8UzTDYeycuXBu5ERx1nzh_iNDIX2o5Lw1zyLXA/s1600/110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0hri_SsKxyuxDwA0ie93dv5Ffdd_p-BrJb0vAV_zkDPVeFxoV_a4-36zYYlaRMrJotlLkDZfQj2Re3cVYNwfE5mqRGZ0hXPmqSOMFcc8UzTDYeycuXBu5ERx1nzh_iNDIX2o5Lw1zyLXA/s320/110.JPG" width="240" /></a>My words stuck in my own craw. I'd spent most of the day at a conference for members and leaders of small UCC churches in Maine. This year's theme was, "full-time church, part-time pastor," a description that applies to the majority of the state's rural UCC congregations. There had been all manner of workshops during the day: successful stewardship, improving worship and music, dealing gracefully with progressive/conservative tensions, involving children more fully, developing local caregiving ministries, and so forth. I was especially interested in a panel discussion of part-time pastors, as I myself hope to be serving a local church as a part-time pastor soon. I sat and listened as every single pastor on the panel admitted that they worked more than their contracted hours each week, and none of them found it easy to manage the boundaries between work and the rest of their lives. All of them felt some aspect of their lives had suffered as a result: their families, their physical health, their intellectual depth and breadth, their engagement in larger issues, and especially their own spiritual well-being.<br />
<br />
So, I'm wrong. Balance, it turns out, may be a rare enough treasure that we need to stop, consider it, even marvel at it when it is revealed. Balance is a gift, a source of health and grace. Balance isn't boring at all, but rather distinctive and uncommon. Balance IS worthy of celebration, after all. Maybe I need to start marking the equinoxes with more intention!<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv_crT3bm1Q8rUALtskMyjqX2uiCKh4Zof_lXgbU0MKbFzpk1TjCeuqnNWg_6XFDG_LnNQF-hGjLKqN4Os-6RLmyDtlH-2NHGT2F9l7g1vl4kSLO3tbCeOF66R0NEmDRrvVKwr8GuMPeA/s1600/231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnv_crT3bm1Q8rUALtskMyjqX2uiCKh4Zof_lXgbU0MKbFzpk1TjCeuqnNWg_6XFDG_LnNQF-hGjLKqN4Os-6RLmyDtlH-2NHGT2F9l7g1vl4kSLO3tbCeOF66R0NEmDRrvVKwr8GuMPeA/s320/231.JPG" width="240" /></a>Now the coals have burned down, the smores have been consumed, and the sound of singing wood and chirping crickets has faded in the bright, clear light of another September day. After a morning of rushing around, I took off my shoes and grabbed my newly-acquired issue of the journal <a href="http://www.taprootmag.com/">TAPROOT</a>, the one with a theme of "retreat." I headed up the stairs to my bedroom, each riser a tentative step towards some sabbath-keeping in an effort to build better habits of balance.<br />
<br />
It was hard work.<br />
<br />
Much to my chagrin, even with a good soul-food journal in hand and my head cradled on my favourite pillow, I could not make myself relax through force of will. When my eyelids began to lower, my internal protestant cattle-prod started jolting away with as much shouldness and oughtness as it could muster. My farm-manager mind came up with a thousand tasks I might yet accomplish in this particular weather and span of time. I pressed on. Taproot offered me an essay by <a href="http://www.shannonhayes.info/"> Shannon Hayes</a> on "Radical Homemaking" wherein she explained that her investment of time and presence at home was not an attempt to flee from the day's pressing issues, but rather an effort to engage those issues more fully, an effort to defy consumer culture with deeper interactions, more sustainable livelihoods, and healthier ways of being. This was followed by a gently reflective poem and a photo-essay of various sleepy people settling into their beds.<br />
<br />
Something shifted, then. Perhaps the twinging tension of my spine untangled itself a bit. Perhaps the neglected depths of my lungs received long-awaited oxygen as I drew a deeper breath. Somehow I realized, more viscerally than before, the grace that emerges in the tandem disciplines of recreation and rest. I followed the example of those sweet, sleepy people draped across the pages. I let my eyes close. I let my heart and breathing slow. There, in the amber afternoon light, with a slight breeze from the open window and soft sounds of conversation drifting up from the room below, I slipped into the blessed torpor of a good old-fashioned afternoon nap.<br />
<br />
Yes, I slept. It wasn't long, but there were dreams and delicious, languid rest. Meanwhile, the rest of the household happily read and breezed and puttered about. Meanwhile, the plants grew and the livestock calmly meandered without my professional intervention. Creation continued to weave its cosmic patterns of mystery and grief and beauty, all without my help.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqp1H_HnZf5-S2t635E_mQoDvrvwjgIc9CBiLAqlDMMyq5J_1zvQZGGjeDn1wnRp8-EWEXXpOD9xw_wD1XQfI8o3ZFhyphenhyphentxggTZNNJrp1IpMdzNaP1iiwE9PAtlArMnX_-eaz7MACkCRFl/s1600/151.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRqp1H_HnZf5-S2t635E_mQoDvrvwjgIc9CBiLAqlDMMyq5J_1zvQZGGjeDn1wnRp8-EWEXXpOD9xw_wD1XQfI8o3ZFhyphenhyphentxggTZNNJrp1IpMdzNaP1iiwE9PAtlArMnX_-eaz7MACkCRFl/s320/151.JPG" width="320" /></a>Huh. Balance. I need to try more of this sabbath/napping stuff. Let's call it...professional development. <br />
<br />
(Happy Equinox!)<br />
<br />
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<br />MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-23208181460237307452012-08-26T21:16:00.010-04:002012-08-27T06:54:57.919-04:00Hold Everything: Last Sermon of Summer<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%"><span style="font-size:130%;"><b>Sermon for Proper 16B 2012: “Hold Everything”</b></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%"><i><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:100%;">(Based on<span style="font-weight: normal"> 1 Kings 8:22-30, 41-43</span> & Ephesians 6:10-20. Copyright Mainecelt 2012))</span></i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%"><br /></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size:13pt;"> <span style="font-size:100%;">We had to stay awake. It wasn't easy-- most of us at the Conservation District meeting were farmers, and we'd been up since dawn for one reason or another: nursing a </span></span><span style="font-size:13pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">sick animal, repairing a fence, picking greens and packing them off for a long day at the farmers' market. But the District's monthly meeting was an important one. The hard metal chairs and th</span></span><span style="font-size:13pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">e fluorescent lights woul</span></span><span style="font-size:13pt;"><span style="font-size:100%;">d have to be endured.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size:100%;"> Now, usually, these m</span><span style="font-size:100%;">onthly meetings are pretty routine. Maybe a landowner needs help with erosion control, and the District's staff works with the board to develop a service </span><span style="font-size:100%;">pl</span><span style="font-size:100%;">an. Or maybe a town has trouble wit</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8VeODJhO0LkY7496N8wznCfeEW-2XRJgpu3_P9j1jLwBBU9sjmBy1K_Ufc1tJ3aLKgcPLUqzAwwNBfNzO0T44hiBNYlczLV7T7BW9E7mGGQCmwq_o7qN7R7TCcEDgMIHgJ2EOUv6nvb-/s1600/Mainelocalschoollunch.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 194px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI8VeODJhO0LkY7496N8wznCfeEW-2XRJgpu3_P9j1jLwBBU9sjmBy1K_Ufc1tJ3aLKgcPLUqzAwwNBfNzO0T44hiBNYlczLV7T7BW9E7mGGQCmwq_o7qN7R7TCcEDgMIHgJ2EOUv6nvb-/s320/Mainelocalschoollunch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781165167007809666" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size:100%;">h storm-water runoff and they ask the Conservation District to he</span><span style="font-size:100%;">lp with assessment and management. Usually there's great news from the one of the District's educators, who works with schoolkids on all kinds of projects, like local food lunches and hands-o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">n science where they study the ecology of wetlands an</span><span style="font-size:100%;">d streams. We hear the reports, smile and applaud, and go home feeling pretty good about all these good local efforts to care for</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> o</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ur land and water.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > But this time around, everything was different. After the usual reports, <a href="http://www.nrdc.org/energy/going-in-reverse.asp">a new</a></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.nrdc.org/energy/going-in-reverse.asp"> document</a> was handed around</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >, and the room grew quiet. When a copy reached my hands, I realized why. The title read, “Going in Reverse: The Tar Sands Threat to Central Canada and New England.” Nineteen different organizations had signed on, from the Maine Clammers' Association and the Appalachian Mountain Club to the Natural Resources Defense Council and <a href="http://www.meipl.org/">Maine Interfa</a></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.meipl.org/">ith Power & Light</a>. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > In twenty pages, it laid out the properties of tar sands oil, a type of bitumen: ext</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >ra-corrosive, extra-acidic, extra-abrasive, and basically extra-everything-bad</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >. There was a map of the 60-year old pipeline they want to send this stuff through, from Alberta, Canada, to Portland, Maine. It explored the potential harm to waterways a</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Qr0n9DPRmmFhwllqvaG9VYHL9Mc2y_KPqu0nZddUIfBgkGzm9yzmv3N74SwKg1NhZqdh4loNKbXwa4DRxnG0_gOGdcUucgNoz-BNfXO4KnpO-MJUoKoiY-0J53Ex4CvmmDDVEx2G5LBh/s1600/Sebago+Lake.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 160px; height: 218px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8Qr0n9DPRmmFhwllqvaG9VYHL9Mc2y_KPqu0nZddUIfBgkGzm9yzmv3N74SwKg1NhZqdh4loNKbXwa4DRxnG0_gOGdcUucgNoz-BNfXO4KnpO-MJUoKoiY-0J53Ex4CvmmDDVEx2G5LBh/s320/Sebago+Lake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781161834239983394" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >nd watersheds, from the Great Lakes to the Androscoggin, Sebago Lake and Casco Bay, if t</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >h</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >is bitumen ever busted through the aging metal anywhere along the way.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%"><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal"> Turns out, the stuff is so heavy and thick they have to dilute it with lots of chemicals to make it flow at all. They have to pump it at higher pressure, and it tends to heat up as it flows. The more we learned, the m</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">or</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">e concerned we became. That 60-</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">year old pipeline was built before they i</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">magined pumping anything this thick. And because the pipeline was already built, the company could reverse the flow at any time, without even informing the public.</span></span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >I lived in Alaska from 1989 to 1994. I knew <a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/2010/0513/Exxon-Valdez-cleanup-holds-lessons-for-Gulf-oil-spill">what a regular crude oil spi</a></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/2010/0513/Exxon-Valdez-cleanup-holds-lessons-for-Gulf-oil-spill">ll could do</a> to wildlife and fishing communities. But this stuff wouldn't just float on the surface and wash up on the beaches. Bitumen sinks. We don't have any containment systems designed for that. If the Conservation District was going to figure out ho</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >w to </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >serve the public in the event of such a disaster, it was going to require the wisdom of Solomon.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Unfortunately, Solomon had his own containment pro</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >blem. His people had been on the move for so long, pushed from one place to another, caught up in conflict after conflict...and now that Solomon was king, he wanted to make good on his father David's promise: to raise up a</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pZIWhq9E86ogM6Q_1aQYSc5_vUBbCTY3KsGM9eXb5OG5daT0ecCZGIVgz16UyMlJa4EwbRW4jVduSRzOpeafeNjiSqmN0oMGzp9JlqtfGxFDnhEcoOnsXk27c7_gq2h_rlJJtYhtvJjD/s1600/1Temple.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pZIWhq9E86ogM6Q_1aQYSc5_vUBbCTY3KsGM9eXb5OG5daT0ecCZGIVgz16UyMlJa4EwbRW4jVduSRzOpeafeNjiSqmN0oMGzp9JlqtfGxFDnhEcoOnsXk27c7_gq2h_rlJJtYhtvJjD/s320/1Temple.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781300894450396002" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > temple with a solid foundation, to root God's people in one glorious place, to announce that God's favour had come to rest right here, right now, finally, in a purpose-built structure with the best materials and designs a</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >nd craftsmen that royal money and influe</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >nce could buy.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Solomon was probably a little bit stressed about this. His own route to the</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > throne hadn't been particularly neat and clean. His older brothers had all been victims of wartime schemes, power-plays and horrible misunderstandings, until finally Solomon</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > was the one left standing—the tenth boy-child of David, practically the last in line. And so Solomon prayed. He prayed not for riches or power, but for wisdom and understanding. And God heard Solomon's prayer and blessed him with that very gift. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Now, after all that, the big day arrived: the precious box of holiness that had rolled alongside God's people for so many years, that bouncing little God-buggy called the Ark of the Covenant, was carried up the steps by specially-selected priests, observed by the gathered elders of all the tribes of Israel. They proceeded to sacrifice so many sheep and oxen that the Bible says they lost track. Then the priests carried the ark into the inner sanctuary and installed in the newly-completed temple. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%"><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal"> What hap</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">pens next? A cloud of glory fills the whole temple. It knocks the</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal"> priests to the ground and rolls through the corridors and seeps out of every possible crack and opening. The temple cannot contain the raw power and beauty and love of the Cr</span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4QsOSmY0kEgAyw-75vA98KVWkvSJd1Ng5REOSWzg2a9Pih4AyIdug8sXeTBcok2PCutR_1uSCZf09UWfUHPjAXRPefRjlXE5tzi0A3EklQ1iVwSJHoHsCqgxPR36ti2-s7Tpyp1smauE/s1600/125.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju4QsOSmY0kEgAyw-75vA98KVWkvSJd1Ng5REOSWzg2a9Pih4AyIdug8sXeTBcok2PCutR_1uSCZf09UWfUHPjAXRPefRjlXE5tzi0A3EklQ1iVwSJHoHsCqgxPR36ti2-s7Tpyp1smauE/s320/125.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781297869782465522" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">eator of the universe. Solomon has a serious containment issue. He cries out to Go</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">d</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">: “But will God indeed dwell on earth? Even heaven and the highest heaven cannot con</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">tain you, much less this house that I have built. In other words, never mind the oil. This i</span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">s </span></span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: normal">a Godspill of epic proportions, and nobody makes clean-up gear or haz-mat suits for that. </span></span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Good thing Solomon prayed for wisdom. Wisdom tells him to open himself up</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > to all God's glorious possibilities—and it tells him to keep praying. Pray he does—not j</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >ust for his royal house, not just for the priests and the elders, not even just for the people of Israel. God is uncontainable. Solomon gets it. And so he prays for foreigners, for everyone beyond the circle of the chosen and the blessed. He prays that all the peoples of the earth may come to know the God who spills out everywhere, and that God would hear and answer even the prayers of the lost and wandering, the poor and the placeless.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Meanwhil</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >e, over in the New Testament, Paul is having some containment issues of his own. He's under </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >a special kind of arrest, literally chained to a Roman soldier—sort of a living ankle bracelet for rabble-rousers. Waking and sleeping, he hears the <a href="http://web.archive.org/web/20090207041959/http:/museums.ncl.ac.uk/archive/arma/welc/beginner/page00.htm">clatter and clank</a> of his capto</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >rs' plate-mail, the iron rings rattling as they shift, leather bands creaking underneath. Ther</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihP-RiJkimJ27T7miaNjFvxoD1XvCcBPIp1xHD50zm5K29R58FwRe4ZOm88DrteTJdHpnvROAODB6OxUKkPEKU3CP1yiETyxhG7P0ksufyJWw5LHl90-0vvCpMzZoAHZw47KK-5hlPQOR/s1600/Roman+Armour+CHHS1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 272px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgihP-RiJkimJ27T7miaNjFvxoD1XvCcBPIp1xHD50zm5K29R58FwRe4ZOm88DrteTJdHpnvROAODB6OxUKkPEKU3CP1yiETyxhG7P0ksufyJWw5LHl90-0vvCpMzZoAHZw47KK-5hlPQOR/s320/Roman+Armour+CHHS1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781170427841005282" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >e's</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > no ignoring the flash of the swords and daggers suspended from their wide copper-plated belts, or their bronze h</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >elmets with the long cheek-guards and wide bri</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >ms, fancy crest-or</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >naments stuck on top for extra show. Every soldier's footfall rings on the til</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >e walkways thanks to the iron hobnails on their leather boots. These sights and sounds, along with the clanking weight of his own chains, create the rhythm of Paul's days and nights.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Yet, somehow, Paul is allowed to write. Manacled and under watch, he is still allowed to compose and</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > send letters that travel far. He knows his words may be carried from one household of believers to another, from one faith community to the next. And so, for the sake of his brothers and sisters in Christ, Paul has a little fun at the soldiers' expense. He suggests another dress code for followers of the Christ: not the gear of an imperia</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >l warrior, certainly not the gear of his Roman security guards: “ Put on the whole armor of God...fasten the belt of truth around your waist, and put on the breastplate of righteousness. As shoes for your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.” Shoes that make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace... Not Bean boots? Not Nikes? Not Crocs? What is Paul suggesting? He goes on with his list of recommended gear: a shield of faith. A helmet of salvation. And the only weapon in the list: “the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.”</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > This is not, as some Christians suggest, battle gear for Armageddon or the Rapture. This is how we prepare ourselves for all the everyday temptations, all the subtle evils and seductive double-talk that bleed us, bit by bit, in our daily lives. It is gear for our efforts on the home front: gear that shores up the spirit, gear that keeps a heart from breaking in the thankless, exhausting work of care-giving, gear that keeps us engaged in community outreach, gear that helps us respond to those who fear disaster, gear that kee</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >ps us connected to the health and healing of our wider world. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > The whole armor of God is a metaphor, a way of reminding ourselves that we cannot fight evil with its own weapons—we have to use something different. It is a reminder that God's loving, creative, redemptive power trumps all our clever human constructions, from fancy shoes to temples to pipelines and empires. It is a reminder that we are God's beloved family, bound into the same cosmic network of action and accountability. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > Especially, it is a reminder that this work is not for superheroes in a galaxy far, far away. It is here, now, in our own time and place, that we must take on the work</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > of living faithfully. It is here, now, that we shoulder the challenge of reconciliation and justice-making. It is here that we must learn how to walk, proclaiming with each step the Gospel of Peace.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > We have to stay awake. Because, all around us, people are trying to s</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0XCqRDX7M8rAhZchfgSbnRh4apTTil2TDwqVvw4yXLl-uHepruZz6kj4dtlNvu0nw5bkLczn2514LKq89DQVaLLNtLcv_4-QG9cCgLciY2yN73i8OimsCVyxwfptzx540ql03BoTSJxy/s1600/the-creation.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 282px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiI0XCqRDX7M8rAhZchfgSbnRh4apTTil2TDwqVvw4yXLl-uHepruZz6kj4dtlNvu0nw5bkLczn2514LKq89DQVaLLNtLcv_4-QG9cCgLciY2yN73i8OimsCVyxwfptzx540ql03BoTSJxy/s320/the-creation.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5781303165767515426" border="0" /></a><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >hove and shoehorn God into boxes and temples, trying to blind us to the glory of God tha</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >t </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >seeks to bust out in our midst. They're trying to weigh everyone down with the heavy armor </span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >of empires, until our helmets cover our eyes and we trip over our own chains. But we serv</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >e the God of the foreigner, the God of royal wis</span><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >dom and holy foolishness, the God of the last-in-line. We serve the God who longs for our wholeness— and the wholeness of Creation. </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"> <span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" > We serve a God for whom there is no containment system, and God's power and love spill out everywhere, transforming and healing each of us. This is the Good News. Thanks be to God!</span></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"><br /></p><p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-weight: normal; line-height: 150%"><i><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" >Photo credits: Solomon's temple found <a href="http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/Judaism/The_Temple.html">here.</a> Roman armour found <a href="http://historicconnections.webs.com/armour.htm">here.</a> Maine local lunch found <a href="http://www.mofga.org/Publications/MaineOrganicFarmerGardener/Spring2008/tabid/885/Default.aspx">here.</a> Ruth Duckworth's "The Creation" found <a href="http://www.artsmia.org/ruth-duckworth/preview4.cfm">here.</a> Sebago Lake map found <a href="http://www.pwd.org/environment/sebago/sebago.php">here.</a></span></i><a href="http://www.pwd.org/environment/sebago/sebago.php"><span style="font-size: 13pt;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span></a></p> MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-18278335703309653742012-07-31T11:57:00.006-04:002012-07-31T15:27:45.455-04:00ELEVEN!It's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Lunasdal</span> Eve, 2012.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Lunasdal</span>, (a.k.a. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Lughnasadh</span> or <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Lammas</span>), the old Celtic feast of the grain harvest, has been my mini-New Year for these last eleven years, ever since I boarded a plane in Scotland and ended up in Maine on August 1st to begin my post-seminary life on a new coast. Each year at this time, I do my own bit of in-gathering as I consider the harvest the past twelve months have brought.<br /><br />I hardly remember that first year, except for the waves of grief and despair that washed over me and lapped at the edges of every small, anxious attempt to explore new ways of working, thinking, loving and being. Just prior to my month-long Trip of a Lifetime in Scotland, I'd been told by the pastor of my home church that my gifts were not evident and my vocation to Christian ministry was unwelcome. Just prior to that, I'd graduated from seminary with honours in a beautiful ceremony that abounded with signs of grace, welcome, and radical inclusion. The pastor's words were a spiritual sucker-punch from which it took years to thaw out, heal, and recover.<br /><br />The Scotland trip passed in a blur, my intended joyful adventure lost in a fog of pain and betrayal. How I'd love t<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3l_ARnnH1zJA9y222lYQnGFdHXT7WFvk_64X_wRqXEOJ_KrHtbUwOf1R4Sik-BFmZmwYRoJVs_NH5INbcqfIp7M4SaPUP9p-OJcG7aOIs9CgydSMpRsDEX3xpTkepY0XApliBmnSiZqlS/s1600/022.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3l_ARnnH1zJA9y222lYQnGFdHXT7WFvk_64X_wRqXEOJ_KrHtbUwOf1R4Sik-BFmZmwYRoJVs_NH5INbcqfIp7M4SaPUP9p-OJcG7aOIs9CgydSMpRsDEX3xpTkepY0XApliBmnSiZqlS/s320/022.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5771401433446801954" border="0" /></a>o go back and experience those things while fully alive, fully engaged, fully awake! Still, it was a good gift and I tried to make the most of it, intellectually if not emotionally. There was a week at <a href="http://www.ceolas.co.uk/"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ceolas</span></a>, the traditional Scottish arts school on the isle of South <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Uist</span>. The Piper and her two sons travelled with me. During the days, I studied traditional singing with Margaret Stewart while The Piper and her eldest son studied with Allan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Macdonald</span> and other tradition-bearers. There was a week at <a href="http://www.smo.uhi.ac.uk/index_gd.html"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Sabhal</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Mor</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Ostaig</span></a> on the isle of Skye, where I took an immersion class in intermediate Scottish Gaelic with Muriel Fisher. There were wonderful rambles up and down and around the Highlands and Islands, with stops in Lewis, Harris, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Mallaig</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Oban</span>. Finally, there was a week on <a href="http://www.iona.org.uk/">Iona</a>, place of dream-pilgrimage, heart-home of Celtic Christians the world over.<br /><br />When I returned to the States, my head was buzzing with cultural riches and vocational longings, neither of which had any apparent outlet. I had only one firm plan in place: get to Maine and find a small place just big enough for my and my shadow to set up housekeeping. Essentially, I went underground, hoping that the old promises of seed and harvest would still prove true, hoping that time wrapped in darkness would one day lead to emergence and fruition.<br /><br />It was not the darkness of death. My Piper lived only one town away, and her constancy kept the darkness warm and rich and full of earthy promises. Slowly, slowly, I began to put down roots. Slowly, slowly, my new<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgjsr71A2ywAFZd1Z-4qrlYMbaVHQAlK6d-rCDZ1ITegpN_YQ2q3LPjp4rVoTO3Ta3LlZVpCowy8d04RXr962vExFEOZklavVQ5CHCzw4vEzp4oxoC6aqL1Ute61VlQypwA5onKzXRDJW/s1600/127.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBgjsr71A2ywAFZd1Z-4qrlYMbaVHQAlK6d-rCDZ1ITegpN_YQ2q3LPjp4rVoTO3Ta3LlZVpCowy8d04RXr962vExFEOZklavVQ5CHCzw4vEzp4oxoC6aqL1Ute61VlQypwA5onKzXRDJW/s320/127.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5771401444476842898" border="0" /></a> life began to unfurl. The string of hand-to-mouth jobs included <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">barista</span>, deli worker, house-cleaner, nanny, farm-sitter, craftswoman, Gaelic teacher, concert promoter, and "educational technician." Yet there were also days spent tending The Piper's garden and talking together of how we might create a shared life, a shared farm. There were nights among friends, singing our hearts out and playing centuries-old tunes into the "wee <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">smas</span>." While my seminary colleagues were out serving churches, raising families, and organizing labour unions, I was arduously seeking my place in the grand scheme, listening for the sometimes faint, but always present, whispers of guidance from a loving Cosmos.<br /><br />Many days, my conversations with God felt like the Burnistoun elevator sketch, where two office workers in Glasgow try to direct an elevator's voice-recognition system to reach floor number eleven. (Watch it <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NMS2VnDveP8">here</a>. Note: contains a smattering of terms common to frustrated Glaswegians.) There were so many things I wanted to share, wanted to give, wanted to offer up to my community and the world beyond, but I no longer trusted myself to communicate in ways that would reach others or be recognized. And then, one day, I found myself in church again--not the denomination I'd grown up in, but a different one, where I'd heard that all people were actively welcomed. Four years later, I have now passed my Ecclesiastical Council and Examination for Ordination in the <a href="http://www.ucc.org/">United Church of Christ</a>, and I'm now in the process of seeking a church to serve as a local part-time pastor. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Yeeeeee</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">haaaaaaw</span>!!!<br /><br />Eleven years: eleven season-cycles of fallow time, planting, growth, and harvest. In that time, I've planted fruit trees and watched them bear, taught students and watched them thrive, served churches and felt the Spirit move in our midst. (In between, there have been plenty of failures, plenty of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">frustra</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EuNJEuzwG7LyiOuRXNQHWXyWxvBVBXWq9DXYYZCDjNTEFDCIKE1H3OE8K1pxzeeLBcqzMxjQwkK_zBuo877FhHeKS5_tQzmKyaGBM_gV0xIuIuGln8zTFBoYRlQCYF3fuuY1PKJc07z9/s1600/143.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5EuNJEuzwG7LyiOuRXNQHWXyWxvBVBXWq9DXYYZCDjNTEFDCIKE1H3OE8K1pxzeeLBcqzMxjQwkK_zBuo877FhHeKS5_tQzmKyaGBM_gV0xIuIuGln8zTFBoYRlQCYF3fuuY1PKJc07z9/s320/143.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5771401469154537314" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">tion</span>, plenty of hand-wringing and exhaustion!) I've come to understand that my vocation to ministry includes this history-rich, nutrient-poor parcel of land on which The Piper and I have created our farm. Here, rooted in this place, surrounded by love and all the challenges and joys of our rural community, my spirit has been nurtured and restored. Other travellers have found their way here for a weekend, a fortnight, a season...and they have been restored and nourished too. Their paths toward wisdom have varied widely and rarely matched mine. This, too, has been a source of richness!<br /><br />Eleven years--and was it really two years ago that we bought the farm, after all those years of agonizing? Last year, we bought a Highland bull, a Tamworth boar, and a Devon sow. This year, with the help of friends and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">WWOOF</span> volunteers, we've raised two greenhouses and an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">artisanal</span> outhouse. We've welcomed a new heifer calf (born at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Bealtuinn</span>/Beltane) and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Welsummer</span> hens. A friend stopped by for a music session a few weeks ago, sized up the new greenhouses, and said, approvingly, "You know, this place is really <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">shapin</span>' up to look like a farm."<br /><br />Happy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Lunasdal</span>, Y'all. May your own hardscrabble efforts blossom and bear. May you be blessed with the riches of harvest, joyfully welcomed and safely <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">ga</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcLuZQETUPohIRNF4Fb-1bgdrSEnd3HqWgJMbR4LrldhPznbL6yT0kRh974cHAUGTWGhmwEG-XJFTy2zjxtsMFOkNFYqrzWyszcW1n2rC7iSM9BJ0WAQDZvwYnMqKWiyjerjjanvu5aI1/s1600/133.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIcLuZQETUPohIRNF4Fb-1bgdrSEnd3HqWgJMbR4LrldhPznbL6yT0kRh974cHAUGTWGhmwEG-XJFTy2zjxtsMFOkNFYqrzWyszcW1n2rC7iSM9BJ0WAQDZvwYnMqKWiyjerjjanvu5aI1/s320/133.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5771401480624691282" border="0" /></a><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">thered</span> in.MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-38168764751054370702012-06-10T17:56:00.003-04:002012-06-10T20:54:16.434-04:00Crackpot Jesus and the Bottle-Diggin' Pig<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"><u><b>Sermon for the First Sunday in Ordinary Time, June 10, 2012</b></u></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"><i>(copyright Mainecelt 2012, based on Mark 3:20-34 & 2 Cor. 4:7-5:1)</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Bridie, like most pigs, is a great digger. Ever since we expanded her fencing, our one-year-old Devon sow has been exploring her new digs—literally. Where once there was green lawn, there's now a lovely patch of dark, upturned earth punctuated by the portly form of a very happy pig.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> The first day or two she was mostly concerned with digging up the sod. But midway through the week, one of our farmhands found her chewing on something that was definitely not a proper pig chew-toy, something that went “screek!” and “clink” against her sharp piggy teeth. We managed to distract her with some two-day-old baked goods and took the object inside and rinsed it off. It turned out to be a sixty-odd-year-old broken glass bottle, the words “Casco bottling company” still clear on the scratched and dirt-filled glass. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuEMQ-Na8w37Ka1UYx_gJ_m1i2V7WgRa9q4Uy74E0n5jn51Pll1bb5x-wq540rJM1SlKG0d1e0-PQ813j8rdzyBmlyNLwqgBWN2keSJg8p7b_S7oPxl8pl04akDaTb1Xx1qMtpnIBxXef/s1600/119.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwuEMQ-Na8w37Ka1UYx_gJ_m1i2V7WgRa9q4Uy74E0n5jn51Pll1bb5x-wq540rJM1SlKG0d1e0-PQ813j8rdzyBmlyNLwqgBWN2keSJg8p7b_S7oPxl8pl04akDaTb1Xx1qMtpnIBxXef/s320/119.JPG" border="0" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size:small;"> We were surprised—and we weren't surprised. Like most old farms, our land is littered with the detritus of generations. Each time we turn up new soil, we find all manner of broken bits and artifacts. Mostly, we find old leather soles from children's shoes—the legacy of the eleven Edwards orphans who ran the farm in the fifties,hardscrabble to the extreme. The next two most common discoveries are broken crockery—mostly bean-pots—and the glass shards of old bleach bottles.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> The Edwards children became orphans during a hurricane, when their parents drove out through the storm and the floods to get some food. With the water over the road, they couldn't see that the bridge wasn't just covered with water. The bridge wasn't even there. Eleven children, motherless and fatherless, the secure structures of their family suddenly broken apart, and in the midst of their grief, forced to work the land all on their own, to feed eleven hungry mouths... sometimes we just stop and look around our land, our thoughts heavy with the memory of all that suffering.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Jesus understood what it's like when the strong walls, earthen vessel of family, begin to crack. In fact, his family had strong views about this idea as well, as we see in our Gospel lesson. Jesus is out there with the crowd, doing his thing, and his mother and brothers show up to bring him home and pound some sense into his fool head. They're pretty sure, based on reports through the local grapevine,that he's gone right off the deep end. One translation says, “they heard he was beside himself.” And the scribes who'd come down from Jerusalem—a group with a tendency to leap to conclusions—claimed Jesus was possessed by the Prince of Demons.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Basically, the word on the street was that Jesus was an absolute crackpot, and his family was determined to haul him home, even if they had to resort to hog-tying and carrying: </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> </span><span style="font-size:small;"><i>Then his mother and his brothers came; and standing outside, they sent to him and called him. A crowd was sitting around him; and they said to him, "Your mother and your brothers and sisters are outside,asking for you." And he replied, "Who are my mother and </i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"><i> my brothers?" And looking at those who sat around him, he said,"Here are my mother and my brothers! Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother."</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> They must have been some upset. There they were, trying to get their crackpot relative out of the public eye before he brought shame on the whole household, and what did he do when they called him out? Well, he turned right around and returned the favour, saying he wasn't much pleased to have them as kinfolk either. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> See,the household was what they called the “primary social and economic unit” of the first-century Middle East. There was no escaping it. The household you were born into determined everything that happened to you for the rest of your life: your social position, your choices for work, the approved vocabulary of your speech, the cut of your clothes, the way you wore your hair, and—especially--the other sorts of people you could spend time with, who all had to be from the same sort of household as yours.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDh0DavdkO5tvM346U5Zr9N0IGkKubpmWFY8HK1JanC4TdxUGtMfLUMxXvkOC239ARf7cNX7R4KGjAhjpda_Ko3c_SHYNvaRGTyNPYG4525rOSUxKDEpkLjTOmUbnLi6QgEJVsH61iShR/s1600/030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRDh0DavdkO5tvM346U5Zr9N0IGkKubpmWFY8HK1JanC4TdxUGtMfLUMxXvkOC239ARf7cNX7R4KGjAhjpda_Ko3c_SHYNvaRGTyNPYG4525rOSUxKDEpkLjTOmUbnLi6QgEJVsH61iShR/s320/030.JPG" border="0" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size:small;"> Now,on the surface, it's easy to take this story as the standard sharp-tongued retort of any rebellious young man. Nobody likes their mother—or their siblings—to embarrass them in public. We get that—and, if we don't, our young people are quick to remind us. But Jesus says something new, something different—something that proves to his birth family that he's a crackpot for sure. He redefines, completely, what a family can be. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> For Jesus, a true family is not the household into which you're born, but a community of people united by the love of God, a community of shared purpose, dedicated to seeking and doing the will of God in the world. It is a gathering of cracked pots, people united by an awareness that the world is broken—and WE are broken—and God wants something different and more wonderful than anything the world's rules and powers have ever offered up.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> It's a bit like the old story of the water-bearer:</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Once upon a time, in a village in India, there was a man whose job was to bring water from the river to his Master's house. It had been his father's job, too, and his father before him—for he came from a servant class that was expected to spend their lives doing just this sort of heavy, repetitive labour. Now, this man, like his father and his father before him, was very poor. He had very little in the world besides the clothes on his back and the work-gear his father had left him: two clay water jars and a wooden yoke from which they hung, so he could carry them from the river to his master's house,over and over.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> One of the clay pots was perfect in every way for its purpose. The other pot had once been just like the first one, but on the day the water-bearer's father died—when his old heart had stopped in the middle of his journey—the pot had fallen against a stone and developed a crack. Now, though the water-bearer had tried to patch it, the fact was: that pot leaked. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> It leaked so badly, in fact, that no matter how the water-bearer hurried from the river to his master's house each day, he never successfully arrived with that pot more than half-full of the precious water on which the whole household relied. He couldn't run too much faster,or he might spill the water from both jars. So every day he worked as hard as he could, making trip after trip, always with the fear that his master might decide he was unfit and hire another water-bearer for the job. Every night he lay down, bone-tired, and worried. He was miserable.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Finally,one day, he mustered up his courage and went to his master. "Master,” he said, “I am so very sorry. I work hard, hard as I can. Yet, because one of my pots is cracked, I've only been able to deliver a portion of the water to your household, and you don't get all you deserve from my poor efforts."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> The Master smiled at the water bearer, and invited him to go for a walk down to the river. “I know you work hard.” said the Master. “And because you try to make every step count, I know you watch the ground beneath your feet as you carry water to my house each day. Now, as we walk back from the river, I want you to lift your head. See what a beautiful place this is? People say my estate is like an oasis. Look around. Notice the lush greenery, the fragrant flowers."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYLCHHlMDJrpXSgcCDlh4-64klCX1dm-0LgInwHnnm9aVHbm87q55qJ5u64UQebC_khl_hXpxSn4G5NzI0Ii7WwuFgVoLteAnPzUtaI9INWwIz69Q1bDjaOau4mgr04fzMW0185arRYnH/s1600/067.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsYLCHHlMDJrpXSgcCDlh4-64klCX1dm-0LgInwHnnm9aVHbm87q55qJ5u64UQebC_khl_hXpxSn4G5NzI0Ii7WwuFgVoLteAnPzUtaI9INWwIz69Q1bDjaOau4mgr04fzMW0185arRYnH/s320/067.JPG" border="0" height="240" width="320" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> Indeed, as they climbed the path from the river to the Master's house the water-bearer took notice of the sunlight touching the beautiful flowers along the side of the path, and he noticed how the winds were softened by the leaves of young fruit trees. But when they reached their destination, his sadness returned. "Master, thank you for the honour of your presence and for sharing the beauty of your estate,” he said, "But I still must apologize for my failure."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> The Master said, "Dear water-bearer, you haven't understood what I was trying to show you. Did you notice that the flowers and trees only grew on one side of the path? That's because of your cracked pot. I planted flower seeds and saplings on that side of the path,and everyday as you walked from the river the water that leaks from your pot has watered them. I could have hired a new water-bearer, but I preferred to grow flowers and trees. With those flowers, I have perfumed and decorated many rooms, and these last few seasons the fruit of those trees has graced many tables."</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> We are all gathered into this community of faith as earthen vessels,each with our own rough edges, our chips and our cracks. As Paul says, in his letter to the Christians at Corinth,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> </span><span style="font-size:small;"><i>... We have this treasure in clay jars ...We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies. For while we live, we are always being given up to death for Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus may be made visible in our mortal flesh. So death is at work in us, but life in you. Yes, everything is for your sake, so that grace, as it extends to more and more people, may increase thanksgiving, to the glory of God. So we do not lose heart. Even though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. </i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;">“Yes,”he says, “we're all cracked pots.” We carry, in our fragile human bodies, both the death and the life of Jesus, and it shines through every crack and broken edge. For our lives, in faith, are formed from clay and fire, into something beautiful and broken that God can use for Glory.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> So,this is how we show ourselves as brothers and sisters of Jesus Christ. We root around. We find the shards and jagged edges, the chipped and broken vessels, and we wonder whether they have any use in this world. And then we open ourselves in prayer, inviting God to use all this brokenness, inviting God's healing spirit to bless it and use it to make something beautiful. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"> We are all cracked pots, and we follow a crackpot Savior who challenged the structures of his day, busted the bonds of death and cracked open the gates of heaven. We are his family, each one of us broken, each one of us holy. Praise be to God!</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size:small;"><i>(Thanks to Rev. Peter Heinrichs, from whom I learned the story of the water-bearer--and thanks to our WWOOF volunteers, who keep our livestock safe from sharp objects!) </i></span></div>MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-4546849187696705772012-04-25T15:09:00.000-04:002012-04-25T18:01:42.115-04:00Paint Yer (Egg)Wagon<span style="font-size: small;">So, we were sitting at <a href="http://mainecowgaels.blogspot.com/2009/09/whistle-stop.html">Fat Boy's</a> with Coyote, talking about chicken eviction...</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">See, there's a wee barn on our farm that was originally built for The Piper's Jersey cow, Biscuit. Biscuit and her calf, Red Emma, have been gone from the farm for many years. The "two cow garage" morphed first into a woodworker's storage shed, then was repurposed to hold gardening supplies, pigs and chickens. Now, after several generations of pigs and chickens, we have a new plan in mind: tear the whole thing down to the frame and turn it into peoplespace. We imagine book groups, workshops, some nice south-facing windows for seed-starting, and a place for the occasional swagman (or swagwoman) to waltz his (or her) matilda. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">That said, the chickens gotta go. We'd been thinking about this all winter and considering the process. We figured we'd cull the non-egg-layers (Mmmm! Chicken stew with dumplings!) and then put them into a moveable coop of some sort. We started looking around at plans and images and studying other people's portable poultry palaces, and the harder we looked, the more perplexed we became. Thankfully, along came Coyote, who had been raising and tending chickens for years and had some ideas and skills to contribute. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQwrC5L-3mtzkt6alHVSj1z7jPKEmwJi0mAUj_MdEfh9mQzfCSjW_KqLCpNvKT43qD_UgbktOUrUi3kjIYUIIiGS3zx0Yi54HxsuqHePn-OPrgRF0cUHXMHZx2wLQzHvaKtBPMNf2eCH7D/s1600/113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQwrC5L-3mtzkt6alHVSj1z7jPKEmwJi0mAUj_MdEfh9mQzfCSjW_KqLCpNvKT43qD_UgbktOUrUi3kjIYUIIiGS3zx0Yi54HxsuqHePn-OPrgRF0cUHXMHZx2wLQzHvaKtBPMNf2eCH7D/s320/113.JPG" width="320" /></a>We decided it was time for a hardware run. Coyote and the Piper and I headed out, with a stop at our favourite cheap seasonal eatery, Fat Boy's, for fortification. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Now, in addition to good, cheap, locally-sourced hamburgers, onion rings and frappes (milkshakes), Fat Boy's has another important feature: crayons and paper placemats. Many a farm project has been sketched on those placemats over the years. We set the paper cup of crayons in the middle of the table and set to work, tossing out possible names for the structure as we went. "Yolks-Wagon" was a solid favourite, but with my taste for the obscure I lobbied for "Taigh-Beak," a play on the Gaelic word for "outhouse." By the time our meal was consumed we'd come to no firm agreement on names, but we did reach the shared conclusion that our moveable coop, in order to fit with our farm's Celtic/British theme, should look something like a traditional Traveller/Gypsy wagon. Alas, due to a local dearth of Travellers and Gypsies, we had only our imaginations and memories to go on, so we boldly scribbled our best approximations of a few paint schemes and sallied forth to the hardware store for said paint and two sheets of red metal roofing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">After we got home, we searched the internet for traditional caravan images. Huzzah! Our paint choices were culturally and historically correct! <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMS5Ip2k1alHAxf2XLSCyz_E6NivRjZ-RKRYlKLrpILdffXbNO90iUG4lnPlWmz3SExYtAsA9fJi7muRAtvNFM8mee7KNEfkX6YvFjW5Qcr6o4h733XV6ljLUfc1rE1c28Ho9aKIHDd35/s1600/GypsyCaravan1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="271" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZMS5Ip2k1alHAxf2XLSCyz_E6NivRjZ-RKRYlKLrpILdffXbNO90iUG4lnPlWmz3SExYtAsA9fJi7muRAtvNFM8mee7KNEfkX6YvFjW5Qcr6o4h733XV6ljLUfc1rE1c28Ho9aKIHDd35/s320/GypsyCaravan1.jpg" width="320" /></a>(Well, mostly. It turned out that "Montpelier Red Velvet," which looked like a basic cherry red under the fluorescent lights of the store, turned out to be sort of a deep raspberry instead.) Our other colours, "Orange Glow," "Blue Flame," and "Globe Artichoke," were right on target. As soon as Coyote had finished the actual carpentry of the structure, with The Piper's occasional help and guidance, I primed the structure and started to paint.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">We got one coat of "Globe Artichoke" on the structure before Coyote left. Another WWOOF volunteer helped apply two additional coats, and then I started to play with the other colours. First, I tried out the red paint on the window trim and watched it dry into the aforementioned deep raspberry--not the effect I'd been going for. Next I tried out "orange glow," (really more of a school-bus yellow, but also close to the lovely deep hue of the yolks from our free-range chickens), on the lower portion of three sides. Well, that made everything look bright and cheery, but the big blocks of colour were also intimidating. How shall we get from these bold patches to the complex motifs commonly seen on old caravans? Well, I.....have absolutely no idea. My coop-painting muse has utterly deserted me--and besides, now that it's Spring I have other pressing priorities. It seemed a bit more manageable when the whole thing was three inches high, two-dimensional, and scribbled in crayon on a placemat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Meanwhile, the chickens seem utterly undisturbed by the paint scheme (or lack thereof). We've been leaving the front door of the structure open and the hens have been seen hopping in and out. I haven't found any eggs in the structure's two laying boxes, but the two-inch layer of pine shavings with which we lined them has definitely been disturbed. More than one hen has apparently been road-testing those nests. Within the next few weeks, I think we'll go ahead and begin culling, then shut the diminished flock in the new structure for a few days to re-imprint their tiny chicken brains with a new concept of "home." From then on, the little hatch on the side of the barn will be closed and their best option for evening roosting will be inside the yolks-wagon/taighe-beak. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wudWGQDdd2ruR8hL2xNTHBUjq8r9NQzZ_FMehyphenhyphennCyUK7tJvslXiBEGer-Bso4iiKh2prT9-VKYkOqGEhsrgr6JJhhbiXuRfAfXNvyT2N74v6BMOzLpkTae7V6N0ZBQ45IAbimb3iWb4_/s1600/046.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9wudWGQDdd2ruR8hL2xNTHBUjq8r9NQzZ_FMehyphenhyphennCyUK7tJvslXiBEGer-Bso4iiKh2prT9-VKYkOqGEhsrgr6JJhhbiXuRfAfXNvyT2N74v6BMOzLpkTae7V6N0ZBQ45IAbimb3iWb4_/s320/046.JPG" width="320" /></a> (With the chickens relocated, we'll be able to start cleaning out the barn in preparation for its overhaul and eventual repurposing.) After a week or two of reliable coming and going from their new abode, we'll move the structure a little farther from the barn each night, and eventually the wee chicken caravan will take its rightful place in the pasture where the chickens can clean up after the cows, following Joel Salatin's <a href="http://www.polyfacefarms.com/2011/07/25/pastured-eggs/">Polyface Farm model</a>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">And one of these days, maybe we'll even finish painting the silly wee thing.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">(All text and images copyright Mainecelt, 2012, except caravan, borrowed from <a href="http://www.flickriver.com/photos/anguskirk/sets/72157606693334125/">here.</a>)</span>MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-81658543835858871982012-04-08T14:35:00.005-04:002012-04-08T15:51:39.474-04:00Stranger/AngelAfter three wonderful weeks, we said goodbye to Coyote, our first WWOOF volunteer to arrive on foot. As with every one of our WWOOFers, the farm is better for Coyote's contributions: potatoes started in barrels of soil and seaweed, fruit trees gently pruned, (and the budded branches saved in a vase for forcing), blueberry bushes well-mulched, animals well-fed and tended, fenceline cleared...not to mention some serious sourdough bread-baking, ukulele-strumming, and a couple of epic scrabble games.<br /><br />Our first year as WWOOF farm hosts has been the best sort of adventure. Yes, there are risks. Perhaps it takes a certain temperament to open one's home to strangers, to gently negotiate shared space, to relinquish a measure of privacy, to build trust...yet the people who have chosen to travel here have truly blessed us. We have welcomed their widely varying stories and experiential wisdom as much as their energy and willingness to work.<br /><br />On this Easter morning, as the Piper played the sun up and--gathered at the town landing at daybreak--we heard the story of angels at the empty tomb, I looked over at Coyote, face to the water, perhaps pondering leave-taking and the next leg of a personal pilgrimage. The quilted patterns on Coyote's poncho hinted strongly of wings. Why not? If the risen Jesus could be mistaken for a gardener, why couldn't a travelling farmhand come with wings? There are deep reasons why, in many wisdom traditions, angels and strangers are closely intertwined...<br /><br />So, on this day of resurrections and possibilities, may we all be surrounded by winged strangers and shining gardeners. May we all be open to winds of change and wild gusts of blessing.<br /><br />A CELTIC RUNE OF HOSPITALITY <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8QuIXx1E41sSsCc3qvF_YO5gqCHB7i5JAMWdK37t-0Jti-CpfzlV52kD9kyR3rrDrmzkzrQg1r-1Y9tPBenNR_SxEal-AgVU6eMRCNLNl73Usxc467yMKqreGx0WKtqSjfL_mJ2bmpnC/s1600/134.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix8QuIXx1E41sSsCc3qvF_YO5gqCHB7i5JAMWdK37t-0Jti-CpfzlV52kD9kyR3rrDrmzkzrQg1r-1Y9tPBenNR_SxEal-AgVU6eMRCNLNl73Usxc467yMKqreGx0WKtqSjfL_mJ2bmpnC/s320/134.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5729119866333407586" /></a><br /><br />We saw a stranger yesterday.<br />We put food in the eating place,<br />Drink in the drinking place,<br />Music in the listening place,<br />& with the sacred name of the truine God,<br />[They] blessed us and our house,<br />Our cattle and our dear ones.<br />As the lark says in her song:<br />Often, often, often goes the Christ<br />In the stranger's guise.<br /><br /> --TraditionalMaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-67247643191268248852012-03-17T09:24:00.007-04:002012-03-17T18:59:09.678-04:00St. Patrick's ConfessionHappy Saint Patrick's Day! Here's my latest hand-crafted "Wise Tiny Creature" to greet you. He has a wee confession to make:<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEd3YlORS0wCebuEOBublqIfYaMXDlU0MK7EL0ql_vtNQNVPbtZtOxBHZ82EsnZmVuTwqAl7RNo3bgZl9_zG4yM3BpTR5HeQiXpGiLIeCcirEXVlAl1uLsKtCpw46g1Ddins5Dmyex6gpO/s1600/DSC00723+%2528640x480%2529+%2528600x450%2529.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEd3YlORS0wCebuEOBublqIfYaMXDlU0MK7EL0ql_vtNQNVPbtZtOxBHZ82EsnZmVuTwqAl7RNo3bgZl9_zG4yM3BpTR5HeQiXpGiLIeCcirEXVlAl1uLsKtCpw46g1Ddins5Dmyex6gpO/s320/DSC00723+%2528640x480%2529+%2528600x450%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5720857696046801618" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />PATRICK'S CONFESSION<br /><br />Serpents of Ireland, I'm sorry.<br />You did not then, nor now, deserve my ire.<br />These last few centuries,<br />I've learned a thing or two,<br />Cooling my heels under the gentle rains,<br />Conversing with worms in the earth.<br />They have taught me with their slender, winding ways<br />Of the goodness of snakes,<br />How even our Dear Lord loved them,<br />Telling his disciples to be as wise.<br /><br />Yes, I've been thinking,<br />Hidden away from the weary tread of pilgrim feet--<br />No zealot now, no fire-starter,<br />This dark cradle a subtler, slower crucible of sorts--<br />As I and earth transform<br />Into each other<br />And shallow shamrock roots<br />Spread a ticklish carpeting over my head<br />How did I ever believe<br />The Trinity could be my Own Big Thing<br />In the already ancient, intimately wise<br />Thousand-green three-in-oneness<br />Of this scarred and shining land?<br /><br />Serpents of Ireland, I'm sorry.<br />In my arrogance, I sinned against you.<br />You, no less than all God's other creatures<br />Deserve to live unmolested,<br />Blessed, not cursed, from the beginning.<br />These things--at last--I understand<br />Now that I, too, have shed my skin.<br /><br />--copyright MaineCelt 3/2012<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEJh8cr5O2MBi4RhhyphenhyphenWzqnCBGO6sqOctMyk2z_u9O0ubTmpGngMudHEMg_FOHiRGtpzNduwifvLeX_GMVot2nDTGbKCUOdyms9N6iALWVrh2UmixqVGo0CyjK5kcSh3WU98g340kIVVeH/s1600/DSC00727+%2528600x450%2529.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguEJh8cr5O2MBi4RhhyphenhyphenWzqnCBGO6sqOctMyk2z_u9O0ubTmpGngMudHEMg_FOHiRGtpzNduwifvLeX_GMVot2nDTGbKCUOdyms9N6iALWVrh2UmixqVGo0CyjK5kcSh3WU98g340kIVVeH/s320/DSC00727+%2528600x450%2529.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5721003371346119794" /></a>MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-11673583138552906492012-02-25T21:26:00.003-05:002012-02-26T08:23:36.395-05:00Wild Beasts and Angels<span style="font-weight:bold;">Wild Beasts and Angels: A Meditation for Lent</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(Based on Genesis 9:8-17 & Mark 1:9-15, common lectionary readings for the first Sunday of Lent, year B.)<br /> </span><br /> Ten nights back, and the moon was still bright, just past its full, round glory, waning gibbous above the faithful remnant of snow. The wood stove had been well-fed, that night, and the warmth had poured up through the grate into our half-attic room. There, in the midst of February, the small room had become stifling. We opened the window half-way and settled in for the night, the bright moonshine spilling in over the sill.<br /><br /> For a while, all was quiet. Wrapped in the cares and business of the day, we gradually eased our whirring minds down into sleep. A truck went grumbling down the dirt road. Again, silence, then—blessed sleep, deep, restoring, healing sleep, peaceful oblivio—WHAT THE HECK WAS THAT?<br /><br /> We struggled awake, sat up in bed, and strained to make sense out of the unearthly series of noises, the rising, dipping pitches, the staccato yips and echoing, resonant howls. “Ohhhhh. Coyotes.”<br /><br /> Once or twice a year, in the deep eroded stream beds that carve through the 30-acre woods behind our house, the coyotes gather. It's often more than one pack that converges, and the range of voices is eerie and amazing. Have you ever heard the coyotes when they gather and begin to sing? One wild call rises into the night, answered by another. Other voices join, and they go on for hours, vying for attention, trying out for solos, and then breaking out into a rolling, wild cacophonous chorus that goes on almost too long to bear, full of spell-binding syncopation, intense dissonance and hackle-raising harmonies. <br /><br /> We lay there, in the over-warm house, in the cold blue moonlight, trapped between the security of our blankets and the unleashed wilderness just beyond our half-open window. And that's as good a place to begin as any. No matter where you are, it's a good place to begin the season of angels and wild beasts, the season of Lent. <br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">In those days Jesus came from Nazareth of Galilee and was baptized by John in the Jordan. And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased." And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.<br /></span><br /> Immediately. It's one of Mark's favourite words. He is so eager to get out the Good News, so hungry to share the power of this life-altering experience, this world-transforming story! Never mind the baby in the stable. The gospel leaps right in at the Jordon, with Jesus being baptised by John. And immediately, the heavens are torn apart, and the Spirit descends like a dove, and a voice names him as God's Beloved child! And before we even have time to figure this all out—before JESUS has time to figure this all out—he's driven, lobbed, forcefully flung right out into the wilderness.<br /> <br /> What would have happened if the story took a different direction? “Jesus was baptised, and then immediately went back home.” No, that's not how ministry works. “Jesus was baptised, and immediately went into town.” No, town is for commerce, not transformation. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-sAqJxZXkiVEZvgHhA-XriTXrxHZ0U5umR7JVtfEe5wEvWEQ9EgSX1BdVNFML7llchDbWLeK5scBHIUu8kvE-UwSxk9AHLtx2_BfvLwclbFar57hmAehx3YAf7XR6TATD-6rLplwqjkX/s1600/013.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL-sAqJxZXkiVEZvgHhA-XriTXrxHZ0U5umR7JVtfEe5wEvWEQ9EgSX1BdVNFML7llchDbWLeK5scBHIUu8kvE-UwSxk9AHLtx2_BfvLwclbFar57hmAehx3YAf7XR6TATD-6rLplwqjkX/s320/013.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713432471184909906" /></a><br /><br /> He had just been <span style="font-style:italic;">baptised</span>. He had gone under the surface of the water. He had been submerged in the flood, a ritual drowning of all the old ways, and he had broken the surface and emerged into light and air and possibility again. He was the new Noah, water streaming off of him, there with a dove of promise and God's voice to declare a new covenant. And, like Noah, in a radically altered landscape, he had to figure out life all over again. Yes. Wilderness. There, with the wild beasts, tended by angels.<br /><br /> Because wilderness isn't just a place we go. Wilderness is something <span style="font-style:italic;">inside</span> of us. We each carry, inside our hearts and minds, a bewildering landscape full of barren places and tangled thickets. It is full of strange characters: shadowy schoolyard taunters, lost and lingering loves, and other ghosts that haunt us, the harsh or compassionate faces of our ancestors, the sweet and frightening demons of our dreams. <br /><br /> We wake and walk with this, move through the world with this wilderness inside us. And, in the neat compartments of home and school and office, in the blind repetition of the daily grind, we cannot expect this wildness to make sense. The paved roads and square rooms—the ones that work so well for machines—do not work so well for our suffering, searching souls. <br /><br /> There's a reason seekers have gone into the wilderness—or created quiet times and sanctuary spaces—for century after century. Whether we hike or paddle into actual wilderness or simply set aside time to pray, meditate, and wander our inner wilderness in God's good company, these spiritual adventures feed our souls. <br /><br /> For the good of our souls, we need time and space away. We need stones under our feet. We need rough old trees. We need the purity of deserts, the rough angles of mountaintops. They help us unclutter our vision until we can see the wideness of God's love. They help us empty out all the competing voices until we can name our personal demons...and only those pure, elemental spaces can bring us the needed clarity. And we don't need to be afraid of this adventure. Remember what happened to Jesus when he went out: <br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">...the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him.</span><br /><br /> Yes, he faced temptation—really, more of a series of spiritual tests: hurdles to leap on a marathon journey of the soul. But Satan, the great tester, was not his only company. He was with the wild beasts, and angels waited on him. You see, they go together, those angels and wild beasts. God made the rainbow sign as a promise to <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> of Creation, every blessed thing that lives and breathes in that wonderful, fragile, ferocious, wild and wonderful community of life. <br /><br /> In the wilderness, Jesus was among his sisters and brothers—some furred, some leafy, some buzzing or burrowing, some smooth or scaled, some fringed, some feathered. There, with his wild kin, he was never isolated, not even in his deepest fear, rage, grief and anxiety. Tended by angels, he was shown the blessing of hidden springs and the beauty of unexpected wildflowers. His soul blossomed with them. And after forty days in such company, Jesus was ready to live into the promise of his baptism. He was ready to face the extraordinary work that God was calling him to do.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwI91e7cJRIuGJ9yTqyYEFV8Bu5bJlRsnygMlsvHE7RO7d3IcseNa0WyEH-GN_ZuFOYpuSs7OIeO6gGJ93DNbC8bzIvJO6S1QSvBEN6HUquFQ5gTBTZ6nmVdlf0iJdnXAGFLmYgPAhjdc/s1600/048.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqwI91e7cJRIuGJ9yTqyYEFV8Bu5bJlRsnygMlsvHE7RO7d3IcseNa0WyEH-GN_ZuFOYpuSs7OIeO6gGJ93DNbC8bzIvJO6S1QSvBEN6HUquFQ5gTBTZ6nmVdlf0iJdnXAGFLmYgPAhjdc/s320/048.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5713432962345097010" /></a><br /><br /> So, the adventure begins: immediately, whether we are ready or not. We can hide if we want to. We can pull the blankets over our heads or turn up the volume and stay hunched over our little glowing boxes. We can drive faster so we don't see the wild things moving beyond the pavement's edge. But the season of Lent beckons to our spirits, welcomes us into wider and wondrous possibility.<br /><br /> Listen: the wind is rising. Bulbs are starting to stir under snow and half-frozen mud, down in the dark earth. Listen: the stars are dancing above us, pulsing and shimmering to a celestial rhythm we were meant to notice, learn, and share. There are crows in the branches, throwing their glossy heads back with raucous laughter, joyfully urging us on with all their might. Listen: there are coyotes outside our windows, calling us out with their soaring songs. <br /><br /> Come, all you, baptised and blessed. Let us go, immediately, into this season of pilgrimage, these forty days of wild beasts and angels. Let us launch out, immediately, where our inner wilderness and God's creative wildness can meet!MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-21374540050877398932012-02-22T08:35:00.002-05:002012-02-22T08:57:53.388-05:00Dust to Dust: A Poem for Ash WednesdayAs I work through my winter reading list, (mostly Kirkpatrick Sale and Wendell Berry, with an occasional dip into Madeleine L'Engle), I've been thinking a lot about dirt--and angels.<br /><br />Ancient stories are full of people freaked out by angels, terrified to come into close proximity with The Light & Power of the Divine. Today, in this hyper-tech age, we seem more likely to reach for, grasp at, and embrace anything that hints at God-like power. Our cities are now so bright they drown out the stars people used to regard with awe.<br /><br />So... it seems we have the opposite problem of the ancients. We are not frightened by divinity. Instead, we are completely freaked out by dirt. We cringe at the "antiquated" language of "ashes to ashes and dust to dust" because we really can't bear to acknowledge our proximity to decaying matter. We really can't handle being that intimate with earth. <br /><br />Tonight, I will celebrate Ash Wednesday. For those unfamiliar with this ritual, the dry and brittle palm fronds saved from last year's Palm Sunday are saved and burned into ashes, then mixed with water or oil. In a quiet, meditative service, often after nightfall, we pray together, perhaps sing together, and receive the "imposition of ashes." A finger or thumb is dipped into the ashes and simple cross is marked on each forehead, usually accompanied by the words, "remember: you are dust, and to dust you will return." We then move out into the night in silent meditation.<br /><br />Here, then, is my offering: a prayer/poem for this strange, earthy, ancient day:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">INVITATION TO ASHES:</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">We are people of the earth: <br />the grey blowing grit of it, <br /> the shoe-sucking mud of it, <br /> the rich fertile muck of it. <br />Our bodies are the soil where dreams decay <br /> and seeds of new hope spring up. <br />In our bones sleep the ashes of ancestors, stuff of old stars. <br /> We are mountains tumbling into sand. <br /> We are crushed stone. <br />Wait. Be not resentful, nor ashamed by earthiness:<br /> Even dust rides on the breath of the Spirit. <br /> Even the darkest rot is God's fertile ground. <br /> So, Beloved, come: feel the gentle touch. <br /> Accept the ashes. <br />Wear the dark smudge with quiet joy: <br /> a holy sign that we are never far from Creation's embrace, <br /> and a promise that not even fire can destroy <br /> the startling traces of God's abiding love.</span><br /><br />--copyright MaineCelt 2/22/12MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-22234026620303667562012-01-31T22:16:00.003-05:002012-01-31T22:33:30.270-05:00Happy Imbolc! More Farmyard Haiku!Imbolc is here again: the old Celtic celebration of women, poetry, milk, and fire. I've tossed back a celebratory mug of hot chocolate, sent off a few letters to women I admire, and stoked the wood stove... so now it's time for poetry!<br /><br />Here's a haiku almanac of the last few months on the farm:<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">HARVEST SEASON:<br />Our thirteen guineas<br />fed dogs, hawks, and foxes too. <br />"Free-range" comes with risks.<br /><br />Chanterelle shining<br />Amidst shadows in deep woods:<br />Gold in them there hills!<br /><br />Celtic year's turning<br />small lights guide along dark paths<br />Tonight, we shall sing!<br /><br />Old Celts used turnips<br />To light the dead home. Pumpkin's<br />A New World trade-up!<br /><br />Into year's dark half<br />We delve. Opposite of Spring<br />Isn't Fall, but Root<br /><br />Brought home hay today<br />So pigs can burrow and build<br />a grand storm-proof nest<br /><br />Come, sweet autumn rain:<br />All the tools are put away<br />And pig's got a roof!<br /><br />O, well-carved pumpkin<br />Weep not. Full of light you go,<br />Now to join the saints.<br /><br />Rural peace of mind:<br />high woodstacks, jam-full pantry,<br />Pig's jolt-squeak (fence works).<br /><br />Bare witness of trees<br />documents the naked truth<br />at the branch office. <br /><br />November closes<br />Wet snow swells the woodland streams<br />in shade, mushrooms bloom<br /><br />Little Shiitake,<br />such goodness in such small space:<br />Edible haiku!<br /><br /><br />WINTER SETS IN:<br /><br />Ice-rime all around.<br />Farmstead feathers stir, birds cluck:<br />Tea-time for chickens!<br /><br />(Holiday Dollmaker's Lament:)<br />Artisan's eyestrain<br />overtakes. Help! Need some elves <br />to finish more elves!<br /><br />Ah, Christmas! Warm fire,<br />Frozen fields, frozen streams, and...<br />Frozen shower drain.<br /><br />Oh, pipes, won't you sing?<br />Warm, uncrystalize and flow.<br />I need a shower!<br /><br />Drink deep, my cattle.<br />Hose uncoils, fills trough to brim<br />Before ice returns.<br /><br />Subzero at dawn<br />hens huddle in nestboxes<br />laying eggsicles.<br /><br />Ah dinnae ken gin<br />Ye can screeve haiku in Scots;<br />Thocht I'd hae a gae! <br />(I don't know if / you can write haiku in Scots / Thought I'd give it a try!)<br /><br />Dawn o Rab Burns Nicht<br />Craitures blether poetry <br />tae toast Scotia's bard.<br /><br />(Thoughts on retrieving wayward livestock after nightfall:)<br />We heed neighbor's call,<br />with rope and boots in snowstorm.<br />Wanna buy a bull?</span><br /><br /><br /><br />Alright, folks: your turn! 'Tis the season for poetic inspiration and creative merry-making. Leave a comment with a haiku or two!MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-55316312232775930272011-12-31T21:11:00.010-05:002012-01-14T21:57:07.963-05:00Muckle Thanks!Somewhere on the other side of this continent, my <a href="http://www.slighe.com/">Slighe nan Gaidheal</a> friends are first-footing their way through the streets, romping and merrymaking, singing and hailing the incoming year with warming libations and lumps of coal in hand. <br /><br />We're having a quieter night, but our hearts still sing with the joys of fellowship and the many gifts that threshold-crossers bring. This night, we look forward to the unfolding of another year-full of possibilities, a year of wee craiture-bairns and towering trees, berry-blessed bushes and mushrooms that will silently unfurl from the damp, dark forest earth. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNrz8TRKDpbcgisi7Vn9zqnYNgsRl5Z4SglOnpUARObhZqUdx8-IuZilZwwy3u8T9obqnXZ5XapQEKpaipbLIsZn8vQzbZ-XikhkW9XlPDfRoNBCP8sTsiuAduq2s3oCIcldbuh9vewLs/s1600/WWOOFers4.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNrz8TRKDpbcgisi7Vn9zqnYNgsRl5Z4SglOnpUARObhZqUdx8-IuZilZwwy3u8T9obqnXZ5XapQEKpaipbLIsZn8vQzbZ-XikhkW9XlPDfRoNBCP8sTsiuAduq2s3oCIcldbuh9vewLs/s320/WWOOFers4.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697680484177719010" /></a><br /><br />The year ahead would be nothing without the year behind. Our greatest gifts of 2011 came in the form of <a href="http://www.wwoofusa.org/">WWOOFers</a>, blown in from the four winds with unexpected capability and vigor. We weren't sure to expect, and that was part of the magic: each traveller arrived with his or her own distinct interests and skills, as well the specific insights and stories of their richly varied life experience. A farm temporarily hampered by three-kneeness was transformed, by these travellers, into more than we thought possible. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuqKXCskxRY4BgC5akRQgkbSrznj7uRESVeS58CU6f_pFd1w7Bjuxdp3n_Hzf0Lu55jwTGlwzt9BTJ_utgL6M_cP3aFyXPkL9xHb2ZejDhX47kSr2lUsOeO760Un1pCUi89zPWPPaYU1r/s1600/WWOOFers2.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixuqKXCskxRY4BgC5akRQgkbSrznj7uRESVeS58CU6f_pFd1w7Bjuxdp3n_Hzf0Lu55jwTGlwzt9BTJ_utgL6M_cP3aFyXPkL9xHb2ZejDhX47kSr2lUsOeO760Un1pCUi89zPWPPaYU1r/s320/WWOOFers2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697681058307666834" /></a> We watched more soil get tilled, more seeds get sown, more buildings rise, more trees turn into logs and chips, hoop houses and hugelkultur beds take shape, and mushrooms get foraged, cleaned, and laid out to dry in the sun. <br /><br />Other important tasks were accomplished as well: meals and laughter shared, board games played, instruments strummed, poems written, pictures taken, tales told and songs sung. Oh, and let's not forget the most important work of all: Zoe the Border Collie got to play ball with every single one of them, over and over and over and over again.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQ33SX5vi9VGW1-Xi9uHWMUe55a2wMyveFEXGJ5gco0Sg84A4GZsO1jNRZeaZu1ANpUs6OrM5_qd1AhN9AzuOFe9Q5F3kRO7AgvNHEp_eIRdRiJRipQgvAzPG78WrsXil44_1W7Hvfy9V/s1600/WWOOFers7.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinQ33SX5vi9VGW1-Xi9uHWMUe55a2wMyveFEXGJ5gco0Sg84A4GZsO1jNRZeaZu1ANpUs6OrM5_qd1AhN9AzuOFe9Q5F3kRO7AgvNHEp_eIRdRiJRipQgvAzPG78WrsXil44_1W7Hvfy9V/s320/WWOOFers7.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697685241876069394" /></a> We have loved the adventure of opening up to wider possibilities, the adventure of sharing this place, of sharing the skills and resources we've acquired and the lessons we've learned with people who share our passion for good stewardship of the land. We have loved working side-by-side with our WWOOFers, and we have also experienced the joy of coming home from other obligations to find animals and pastures, gardens and woodlands well-tended and our temporary farm companions glowing with the quiet pride of honest labour well-done.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1doAWAEpL2rvAvmVqQlC39Vx8wBtV0uXRTLYuDlo4HDc-3PiBbDm9vMgEnNwLwu69jPg5J1sVrb458vjwxxws3TaVtAj7OacXEcytPI5vrokIQtCMVBmWJIFOAYwFfsEdUBez49lRHFr/s1600/WWOOFers1.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht1doAWAEpL2rvAvmVqQlC39Vx8wBtV0uXRTLYuDlo4HDc-3PiBbDm9vMgEnNwLwu69jPg5J1sVrb458vjwxxws3TaVtAj7OacXEcytPI5vrokIQtCMVBmWJIFOAYwFfsEdUBez49lRHFr/s320/WWOOFers1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5697686091157223378" /></a> Thank you, 2011 WWOOFers. You have been the greatest--and most unexpected--gift of this initially challenging year. We are profoundly grateful... and we look forward to a whole new year of more adventures, more accomplishments, more shared creativity!<br /><br />Blessed Solstice, Merry Christmas, & <a href="http://www.rampantscotland.com/know/blknow12.htm">Happy Hogmanay</a> <br />from the CowGaels to All of You!MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-34200413476533524202011-11-16T19:25:00.009-05:002011-11-21T14:07:46.153-05:00In The Dark: A Celtic New Year Sermon(I was invited to be a "guest preacher" last Sunday at my home church. It always seems a bit funny to serve the role of a guest when I'm already part of the family there! Since this month marks the start of the "dark half" of the Celtic year, and since one of <a href="http://lectionary.library.vanderbilt.edu/texts.php?id=169">this Sunday's lectionary readings</a> talks a lot about light and darkness, it seemed natural to dwell on the interplay of shortening days and lengthening nights.) <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Sermon for Proper 28A: In The Dark</span><br />(based on I Thessalonians 5:1-11, NRSV)<br /><br /> Every morning, as the light reaches in between the dark spines of the trees on the ridge, we watch and wait. First the rays of pale gold stretch across the dark hollow of our farm to touch the trees on Gloucester Ridge. Then, slowly, the angle of the light changes and dips down to gild the empty branches of the ash tree, the oaks, and the maples on our own land. Finally, the light spreads to the cold earth itself, and the hard edges of the frost begin to melt off the pasture grasses. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_Jmsj9zmM0N4j3j_5WSbwtzUEF900x9gvUfIsuGHwr6I81sUylk919PxpMjcO8WjUjIek802FZ1EuQ2nRTpQrZ3mctyQiZPxmwnS1cOSuBpMlJJ9dssGHDsSXIGgji0LJ6w-PzB5CvwZ/s1600/058.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW_Jmsj9zmM0N4j3j_5WSbwtzUEF900x9gvUfIsuGHwr6I81sUylk919PxpMjcO8WjUjIek802FZ1EuQ2nRTpQrZ3mctyQiZPxmwnS1cOSuBpMlJJ9dssGHDsSXIGgji0LJ6w-PzB5CvwZ/s320/058.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675786954634087314" /></a> One of us ambles down to survey the situation, then returns to the wood-fired warmth of the house. Every morning, lately, the other one asks the same question: “how many legs?”<br /><br /> We've been waiting for calves to be born. We know what day the bull arrived, but—I hope you don't think I'm being indelicate here—there are certain other details we seem to have missed. It's just as Brother Arnold warned us last year, when we went over to the <a href="http://www.maineshakers.com/default.html">Sabbathday Lake Shaker Community</a> to discuss their own herd of Highland Cattle and get some ideas. We'd told him our tale of woe, about the challenge of finding and affording a vet who could work around those wild-looking, big-horned beasties of ours, to say nothing of the challenge of timing. Brother Arnold nodded his head knowingly. “You won't see many signs of readiness,” he said, “Highland cows are...well, they're very subtle.” <br /><br /> Subtle, indeed. So, here we are, ten months after the bull moved into the pasture. It takes nine months for a calf to be ready, just like a human baby. Ten months have past and our two round-as-a-barrel cows show no sign of imminant calving. So, we wonder. We worry. We ask ourselves what went wrong, and what could still go wrong now. Sometimes, we dream: a new calf could offer so much to our farm: the expansion of our herd, the proof of their capacity for new life, and the promise of another fine full-grown animal to transform into needed income or good, homegrown meat. <br /><br /> So, each morning, we cast hopeful eyes out towards the pasture, and we count legs, looking for a sweet gangly little body tucked alongside one of the cows. “How many legs? Still twelve?” “Still twelve.” There's nothing we can do to hurry it along, and—although there are signs we can watch for—there's no way we can predict the exact moment of the herd's increase. We're kept in the dark about it. It's subtle. We have to keep wondering. We have to hurry up and wait.<br /><br /> This morning's scripture comes from another bunch of people-in-waiting. Paul is writing to the fledgling church in Thessalonica. That little church was caught up in in the fashion and fervor of the day, waiting for the Rapture, the Day of the Lord. There were signs all around them: earthquakes, floods, plagues, riots in the streets, cities being destroyed, governments shifting and falling, and different religions battling it out, each claiming to have exclusive access to the “Truth.”<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSnWhqrNqfHbdwqOVaYOcTo6It3xnIorVKj8FVJD00a6oGRw84r87DpKun7hVR7gkrAWXmBZDosCL58T_gYC-gW9lwbH69pR4TKmOr9uizA0RXOFtmVE9u7z6rUI4r-yrccNBzTPwNFrE/s1600/Hellbasket.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 274px; height: 184px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnSnWhqrNqfHbdwqOVaYOcTo6It3xnIorVKj8FVJD00a6oGRw84r87DpKun7hVR7gkrAWXmBZDosCL58T_gYC-gW9lwbH69pR4TKmOr9uizA0RXOFtmVE9u7z6rUI4r-yrccNBzTPwNFrE/s320/Hellbasket.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675800732316786914" /></a> Sound familiar? And if you weren't sure what to believe, there were street preachers to tell you where you'd go and street vendors to sell you just <a href="http://www.donnaseagergallery.com/art_of_the_book/artists/Kathleen_Edwards/index.htm">the right handbasket</a>!<br /> <br /> It's hard not to be afraid when everyone around you is talking like that. It's hard not to let all the fear-mongerers and doomers get to you. When the loudest voices cry out, “pain and suffering! Death and destruction!” no matter how much you try to laugh it off, it gets a little harder to sleep at night, a little harder to keep peace in your heart. <br /><br /> Remember how the Rapture was predicted by a radio preacher, who declared Judgement Day for <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/may/21/apocalypse-not-now-rapture-fails-materialise">May 21st, 2011</a>? Did you hear about this? Did you find yourself checking your calendar? After the day came and went, he recalculated for October. When November came, did you breathe a sigh of relief, or did you get a little nervous, because now we're almost to December, rapidly honing in on the next big date for the End of the World...?<br /><br /> A good teacher once said,<a href="http://thearchdruidreport.blogspot.com/2011/11/choice-of-contemplations.html"> “What you contemplate, you imitate.”</a> Whatever stories you tell yourself, whatever dramas or sitcoms you watch on television, whatever magazines you read, whatever ads flash in front of your eyes—all these things echo around inside you, the images shimmer and reflect, until it all becomes part of the way you understand the world. We can't help it—what we contemplate, we imitate. We tend to copy what we see and repeat what we hear. Now, that's one thing when you're a new Christian sorting through the competing tales of Roman politicians and travelling preachers. But there's a whole extra layer of difficulty in an age of mass-media and instant communication.<br /><br /> What if the stories we hear and and the images we see are mostly lies, carefully crafted by marketing experts? What if every commercial is a lie, a message that, by yourself, you're a weak, ugly nobody, but if you buy whatever they're selling, you could be SOMEbody, even somebody strong and beautiful? Bit by bit, the carefully-crafted lies eat away at us. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtOLhB-RY3lYhO3FkiJNKq5CJ6owKCZ2E2Q4tvGD_IMQMeW64OkZV5AuB-64Qr7fymmScw1UuoC0qwFqGI7ZewrLV1bK7EzaKgTIgmVcDOsOxFrvBffwBjMcLMpulqu7IfpNACRZx-sL1/s1600/Calvin-worship-TV_3852.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 245px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVtOLhB-RY3lYhO3FkiJNKq5CJ6owKCZ2E2Q4tvGD_IMQMeW64OkZV5AuB-64Qr7fymmScw1UuoC0qwFqGI7ZewrLV1bK7EzaKgTIgmVcDOsOxFrvBffwBjMcLMpulqu7IfpNACRZx-sL1/s320/Calvin-worship-TV_3852.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675797772312448226" /></a> The marketers sling mud until it covers our souls. We lose perspective. We give up our power. We learn to live in doubt and anxiety and fear. What you contemplate, you imitate. Little by little, we forget how to shine. We become children of the darkness. <br /><br /> Writer Jeffrey Pugh <a href="http://devilsinkblog.com/2011/06/07/release-the-kardashians/">imagines a demon</a>, writing a management guide from his basement office in hell. The devil explains his latest strategy: <br /> “As part of my toolbox I’ve always used distraction to deter them from truly considering the world as our opponent wants it. I like it better when they become fascinated with the things that do not feed their souls. In the old days, of course, we had bread and circuses, but in the age of technology we have even more wonders at our disposal...We don’t want them to cultivate ways of living that bring them together. We want them torn apart, polarized, and at each others throats. Any question about how they should live needs to be buried under the scandal of the day... I want an entire planet entertaining themselves to death. No, seriously, I mean it. If they start to think seriously about the world they build and see the possibility that the world could be different, well, it’s time to Release the Kardashians!!” <br /> <br /> Now, get that clever devil out of the spotlight and listen to the Good News:<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;"> But you, beloved, are not in darkness, for that day to surprise you like a thief; for you are all children of light and children of the day; we are not of the night or of darkness. So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake...</span><br /><br /> Children of the light: that is how God made us. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIW57N4_fWqk-TB4J8JUk0mRKCYna8R_TiQc9oehetukzKVdmhrKW4iT3_fmDfjaMHQfLQwVQhlMcncjnmE0X-e4lsKZyETQ4npjVuMWTV8kvAryuSp7Qh8eyav1UAfdSRJpnD-uRy-24v/s1600/010.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIW57N4_fWqk-TB4J8JUk0mRKCYna8R_TiQc9oehetukzKVdmhrKW4iT3_fmDfjaMHQfLQwVQhlMcncjnmE0X-e4lsKZyETQ4npjVuMWTV8kvAryuSp7Qh8eyav1UAfdSRJpnD-uRy-24v/s320/010.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5675783517000039122" /></a> There was a beautiful mystic tradition among the Jews and early Christians that God was the first, best and brightest light in the whole universe, and everything God made had God's light trapped inside: flowers, weeds, bushes and trees, rocks, rivers, snakes, salamanders, codfish, sharks, woodchucks, camels, even bugs—all just bursting with God-given light, full of sparks of divine fire. <br /><br /> That's true of people, too—not just the wealthy and powerful, but everybody: the bank president with the elegant shoes and the woman in scuffed sneakers at the laundromat. The construction foreman with the gleaming new truck and the greasy-haired guy who works nights at Gas-n-Go. We are—all of us—children of the light, all created with the potential to shine, to brighten the world with hope and healing, possibility and promise. Most of us maybe don't know it. Some of us start out knowing it, but we forget. We let our minds fall on other things. We dwell on failure and fear. We stop shining. We stop noticing all the other divine sparks around us. Our vision gets hazy. We get drunk. We fall asleep. <br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">...we are not of the night or of darkness. So then let us not fall asleep as others do, but let us keep awake and be sober; for those who sleep sleep at night, and those who are drunk get drunk at night. But since we belong to the day, let us be sober, and put on the breastplate of faith and love, and for a helmet the hope of salvation. </span><br /><br /> Do you hear that? Wake up! Listen up! WE—We, right here, all of us—are full of divine sparks, stuffed almost to bursting with God's beautiful, radiant, powerful light. Fear and anxiety are not our masters—God is! As soldiers discipline themselves for battle, so should we discipline ourselves for the challenge of making peace. Give the muscles of faith a workout. Build up the stamina of your hope. Get ready to love longer and harder and more deeply than you ever have before. Repent—change your ways—because the Beginning is Near! <br /><br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">For God has destined us not for wrath but for obtaining salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ... so that whether we are awake or asleep we may live with him. Therefore encourage one another and build up each other, as indeed you are doing. </span> <br /><br /> As Paul says, “Build each other up.” In a culture geared to pettiness and appearances, it can be hard to make this change. I suggest an exercise, what they used to call a spiritual discipline: Turn away from the false and intoxicating lights of all the little glowing screens around us. Remember: what you contemplate, you imitate. <br /><br /> In this season of darkness, seek illumination from a different source. Light a candle. Sit with that small flame and pray. Reflect on the light. Make space for God's light to stir and shine within you. Wipe away the mud and clear away the debris until you find the deep smoldering goodness of your own soul. Breathe with it. Feed it. Let the wind of the Holy Spirit stir it, like a sudden gust across the coals of a campfire, until sparks catch fire and dance up into flame. Wake up each morning ready to search the landscape for signs of new life, ready to celebrate the wonders that may be born on this day of New Beginnings. We are Children of the Light. We are brothers and sisters of the Light of the World. Let it shine! Let it shine! Let it shine!!! <br /> <br /><br />(All images copyright Mainecelt 2011 except for Calvin, borrowed from <a href="http://fishoutofwater-christian.blogspot.com/">here,</a> and handbasket, borrowed from <a href="http://images.fineartamerica.com/images-medium-large/going-to-hell-in-a-hand-basket-karl-frey.jpg">here</a>.)MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-28588205378377082712011-11-03T19:57:00.008-04:002011-11-03T21:40:03.664-04:00Toast a Stove, Bake a Flower?This morning I woke up hungry for muffins--steamy, moist, full-of-yummy-bits muffins, fresh out of the oven. There's only one problem: We don't have an oven. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjWEdT8SYweDcWTzDlyrpbyiucabsxYKJlNJXM3rV6asxKoJ-G07961XSFjBHraT_SRpPDuYbeKiGjc-SZUj_S0M0dKNyzlZoWOQabrtnoNCtGuHPsPep9lrqvBYq_awaKwlWETyD1asa/s1600/015.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOjWEdT8SYweDcWTzDlyrpbyiucabsxYKJlNJXM3rV6asxKoJ-G07961XSFjBHraT_SRpPDuYbeKiGjc-SZUj_S0M0dKNyzlZoWOQabrtnoNCtGuHPsPep9lrqvBYq_awaKwlWETyD1asa/s320/015.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670946387063829938" /></a> Remember Hurricane Irene? Well, during our four-day power loss, (which involved two freezers full of chicken and lots of escaped pigs), our Helpful Neighbors offered the use of their Really Big Generator for a few hours each day to keep our freezers from thawing. It was a very generous offer and we were pretty worried about losing so much meat. We were also pretty exhausted from chasing six pigs around, since they'd discovered their fence was entirely uncharged. So, when the neighbors offered, we didn't think everything through. We just said yes. <br /><br />Helpful Neighbor--a contractor by trade--ran some nifty wires into our electrical panel and told us to unplug everything we didn't need before he switched the power on. We don't have a lot of electrical appliances that draw much power, so I figured I wouldn't have to unplug much. I unplugged the toaster oven and the coffee maker and a couple of nearby lamps. Then I paused a moment to ponder what else I should unplug. Helpful neighbor mistook this for a pose of completion and flipped the generator on...followed a second later by the sickening *pop* of two lightbulbs exploding, then another louder *POP* and a puff of smoke rising from the Piper's desktop computer. Our little farmhouse had apparently just been hit by a power surge that fried every solenoid and microchip on the premises. That included all our clocks and radios, our CD and record player, our rechargeable drill, and--oh dear--the digital panel that controls the oven portion of our gas cookstove. The range still works just fine, but the only way to turn the oven on is with that little panel, which--according to our extensive post-*POP* research, is no longer made and cannot be replaced.<br /><br />Sooooo, we've been without a regular oven since the first week of September. We could surely find a used cookstove for under $100, but the cost to unhook the old one and hook up the new one would be an unavoidable $200 extra, and that's not in the budget. But, hey--we're creative, resourceful farm women, aye? We can manage, 'cause we still have this toaster oven...<br /><br />We can cook almost anything without the big oven, except for muffins or popovers (the tins don't fit) and large roasts. So, what's a woman to do when she wakes up dreaming of muffins? Ah: make healthy oatmeal cookies instead, 'cause cookies will fit on that tiny baking sheet in that wee toaster oven just fine.<br /> <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowpD7hYN9EGDM97dDKCtD_a3KpFdIU7xWGBg-84OLwHxz3PEihGnAwxFlO3GfXuCpebB1xd48S9Y57BOXq6e5maqRRE9hxrMHLjtFOuzGFimFp_RV50jtPQwx9r61rBp4SmnqrDPf3fwC/s1600/031.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjowpD7hYN9EGDM97dDKCtD_a3KpFdIU7xWGBg-84OLwHxz3PEihGnAwxFlO3GfXuCpebB1xd48S9Y57BOXq6e5maqRRE9hxrMHLjtFOuzGFimFp_RV50jtPQwx9r61rBp4SmnqrDPf3fwC/s320/031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670945823949877666" /></a> I started with a basic oatmeal chocolate chip cookie recipe. Then I started playing, in that lovely way an early morning baker can play before the Inner Critic wakes up and kicks in. I imagined a cookie full of floral notes, something elegant and uplifting but not overly rich or cloying. I pulled out a bottle of this and a jar of that, got out a wooden spoon and the big blue-and-white mixing bowl, and commenced to play with my food.<br /><br />Here's the result: <br /><br />CHOCOLATE FLOWER COOKIES<br /><br />1 and 1/2 cup sucanat (unrefined cane sugar granules)<br />2 very fresh eggs (gathered from the henhouse the day before)<br />2 sticks salted butter (you can use unsalted ones if you like)<br />1 cup or so rolled oats (not too thick--"quick oats" work well)<br />1 cup or so ground or slivered almonds (I toasted mine first)<br />1 and 1/2 tsp orange flower water<br />2 and 1/2 cups unbleached wheat flour (or gluten-free alternative)<br />1 tsp baking soda<br />1/4 tsp sea salt (adjust to your preference)<br />1 tsp ground ginger<br />1/2 tsp ground cardamom<br />3/4 cup each semi-sweet and milk chocolate chips<br /><br />Set butter near stove while you cook scrambled eggs for "breakfast, part one" so the heat from the skillet softens it up a bit. Measure the sucanat into a nice big ceramic mixing bowl, add the butter, and stir with a wooden spoon until blended. Remind yourself that this method burns calories, uses no electricity and produces almost no noise, so you can make cookies early in the morning without anyone else waking up and catching on.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj99z0UlkhEgy3WgedJZoY45r9yUqxsWYDDtRu1ubCbj_aBLP1RyjdsL9mymx7ZWLna68svWxabKe8xSJcW_fpM8Vd_VU2QWQiz8Ta-k5tCoZErDN4RMgn0VMRoyYng2t7UZrKtpqUxUHVl/s1600/029.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 242px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj99z0UlkhEgy3WgedJZoY45r9yUqxsWYDDtRu1ubCbj_aBLP1RyjdsL9mymx7ZWLna68svWxabKe8xSJcW_fpM8Vd_VU2QWQiz8Ta-k5tCoZErDN4RMgn0VMRoyYng2t7UZrKtpqUxUHVl/s320/029.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670946709518343682" /></a> Preheat oven (hopefully bigger than ours) to 400 degrees fahrenheit. Add the eggs, one at a time, working the first egg in thoroughly before adding the second one. Blend thoroughly with wooden spoon. Good job: you're burning more calories. Think about your grandmothers. Next, add the orange flower water. Dab a little on your wrists for good measure. My, don't you smell nice! <br /><br />Fold in the almonds and rolled oats. Consider whether to stop at this point and just call it breakfast. Decide cookies will be worth the extra effort. In a fine-meshed sieve over the mixing bowl, combine flour, baking soda, salt, and spices. Shake mixture onto wet ingredients, then fold gently but thoroughly together until fairly well-blended. <br /><br />Line metal baking sheet with parchment paper and drop spoonfuls of dough so that there's about an inch between the dollops. Bake for 10-20 minutes, depending on the vagaries of your oven and your preferred level of done-ness. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaO5qev3zfJ3m16uFXcUO2qPwKi2lGxgV9Flv8Jnf08FYdr0MGnpS72IvvnCvpw6sf6exExV6M1qBN6p1fWOC0ACEZ0vLWkHZfqXwL275j1DZQH5qaTYDLGz5mtjkcFKoeAuGc5_MTFNFX/s1600/033.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaO5qev3zfJ3m16uFXcUO2qPwKi2lGxgV9Flv8Jnf08FYdr0MGnpS72IvvnCvpw6sf6exExV6M1qBN6p1fWOC0ACEZ0vLWkHZfqXwL275j1DZQH5qaTYDLGz5mtjkcFKoeAuGc5_MTFNFX/s320/033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670947112619045890" /></a> Remove from oven and admire with all available senses. Remind yourself that three cookies is probably enough for breakfast. Wake the rest of the household up and share or, if you live alone, hand-deliver a few flower cookies to someone who could use a bouquet. <br /><br />NOTE: These cookies probably don't need much tweaking to be made gluten-free. Just replace the wheat flour with your preferred mix of GF flours,(coconut flour might be especially apt), and--if needed--binding agents, and be sure to use gluten-free rolled oats.<br /><br />P.S. Don't ask me how those amazing sticky buns jumped on to the plate behind the finished cookies. That's a whole 'nother story from a whole 'nother baker. If you want to know more, go ask our WWOOF volunteer, <a href="http://familycampkitchen.wordpress.com/2011/11/03/cows-cats-crazy-roots/">Andrew</a>.MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-91684254753814805942011-11-01T20:29:00.006-04:002011-11-01T21:15:46.093-04:00Saint PumpkinIt is now, according to the liturgical calendar of many Christian traditions, the Festival of All Saints. (Rumour has it that church officials moved it from mid-May to November 1st because Samhain and other pre-Christian seasonal observances were so compelling that the church adopted an "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach.)<br /><br />This day always puts me in mind of one of my favourite poets: Nancy Willard. Here is a poem of hers that--creepy and elegant by turns--draws together our seasonal folkways and the observance of Hallowmas/All Saints' Day:<br /><br />SAINT PUMPKIN<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMl3oeGSMrVJMqKdfUVWXvKzXQrjifNnBPlOtDk_PQAeIff0gZSwg55FA80aOcQqHjnZGhg8RBQiQzHauXzEhGG94JVY-biVDY61t_LOEE0JSYdkVZVAuqaBJvhCWH8MRYZhaNL1e4QZG/s1600/005.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfMl3oeGSMrVJMqKdfUVWXvKzXQrjifNnBPlOtDk_PQAeIff0gZSwg55FA80aOcQqHjnZGhg8RBQiQzHauXzEhGG94JVY-biVDY61t_LOEE0JSYdkVZVAuqaBJvhCWH8MRYZhaNL1e4QZG/s320/005.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670198995710450482" /></a> Somebody's in there.<br />Somebody's sealed himself up<br />in this round room,<br />this hassock upholstered in rind,<br />this padded cell.<br />He believes if nothing unbinds him<br />he'll live forever.<br /><br />Like our first room<br />it is dark and crowded.<br />Hunger knowns no tongue<br />to tell it. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWv35OJmQ2rKX-aje7WxSzjp_6vXtJFprrfB1LbMzLj6E-8BOoYdPdz3RAKlGNqNE01-zZ0vbS2o9y7dQAgZPh-HZWDlcjZi84KJ-yfOKQerfhRxntW_olNTXP_YF9xYJJ7Q43timd5Oy4/s1600/004.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWv35OJmQ2rKX-aje7WxSzjp_6vXtJFprrfB1LbMzLj6E-8BOoYdPdz3RAKlGNqNE01-zZ0vbS2o9y7dQAgZPh-HZWDlcjZi84KJ-yfOKQerfhRxntW_olNTXP_YF9xYJJ7Q43timd5Oy4/s320/004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670199507268215698" /></a><br />Water is glad there.<br />In this room with two navels<br />somebody wants to be born again.<br /><br />So I unlock the pumpkin.<br />I carve out the lid<br />from which the stem raises<br />a dry handle on a damp world.<br />Lifting, I pull away<br />wet webs, vines on which hand<br />the flat tears of the pumpkin,<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwor8Qhyphenhyphen9OSQXW14I0gx6XJOrMMMk4l6kOGS1RzkGTVJKdnP_6YT7kgBPm9VtyQJXqsEjRLdQFWQTRnie1y-5rdIm0OwruU-oQJTmJcVhxXUSuCJNOvGcs3OfsEs67JBkzsAgbx0xiK_jS/s1600/031.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 309px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwor8Qhyphenhyphen9OSQXW14I0gx6XJOrMMMk4l6kOGS1RzkGTVJKdnP_6YT7kgBPm9VtyQJXqsEjRLdQFWQTRnie1y-5rdIm0OwruU-oQJTmJcVhxXUSuCJNOvGcs3OfsEs67JBkzsAgbx0xiK_jS/s320/031.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670200054559644354" /></a> like fingernails or the currency <br />of bats. How the seeds shine,<br />as if water had put out<br />hundreds of lanterns.<br />Hundreds of eyes in the windless wood<br />gaze peacefully past me,<br />hacking the thickets,<br />and now a white dew beads the blade.<br />Has the saint surrendered<br />himself to his beard?<br />Has his beard taken root in his cell?<br /><br /> Saint Pumpkin, pray for me,<br /> because when I looked for you, <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpZG56oBk8Wws0LGXAqL5qUomhg-xz0W6VbCj_2ypWNlgSECPIsE2iw5LgBcTfr135do2Q-H51b3hGabLu5YMh-iao8FxktokswNm0J0wCJcUoWg7HuBH9yp-ztWsw715HDvw2bmh6vXw/s1600/033.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidpZG56oBk8Wws0LGXAqL5qUomhg-xz0W6VbCj_2ypWNlgSECPIsE2iw5LgBcTfr135do2Q-H51b3hGabLu5YMh-iao8FxktokswNm0J0wCJcUoWg7HuBH9yp-ztWsw715HDvw2bmh6vXw/s320/033.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5670200621761920610" /></a> I found nothing,<br /> because unsealed and unkempt, your tomb rots,<br /> because I gave you a false face<br /> and a light of my own making.<br /><br /><br /> --Nancy Willard, from her 1975 collection, "Household Tales of Moon and Water"MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-3878079108021391472011-10-31T09:38:00.007-04:002011-10-31T11:16:38.643-04:00Quoth the Raven: Galore! Galore!Samhain comes at sundown. The Celtic New Year signaled, for our ancestors, the end of a half-year's intense outdoor labour. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6Gl17hcpwueJT7NOamNjW2lgJWeAPFDJtMAkD-bG-AU8vYaaMPZ9T5_2INX-fs0yf-Ow-JSe1IlHZoEb9PfwUrzA6nGGO5WRYjN67z2CimI3UFkJflxIQJFsI4xl-u2rrZKi-ByLs3Tf/s1600/138.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEii6Gl17hcpwueJT7NOamNjW2lgJWeAPFDJtMAkD-bG-AU8vYaaMPZ9T5_2INX-fs0yf-Ow-JSe1IlHZoEb9PfwUrzA6nGGO5WRYjN67z2CimI3UFkJflxIQJFsI4xl-u2rrZKi-ByLs3Tf/s320/138.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669671225469922674" /></a> Samhain ("sow-when", literally "summer's end") heralded the onset of the year's dark half, a time to come indoors, gather around the fire, share stories and music, and re-weave the deep roots of cultural wealth and wisdom that bond us to this dear old Earth. Samhain--or, if you prefer, "All Souls' Night"--is also a time to honour our ancestors and all other dear ones who've gone before us, a time to acknowledge and even befriend our grief. Older reflections may be found <a href="http://mainecowgaels.blogspot.com/2008/10/into-gap.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mainecowgaels.blogspot.com/2009/11/rockin-big-house-tribute-to-bruce.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mainecowgaels.blogspot.com/2010/11/autumn-thaw.html">here</a>. <br /><br />It is a time to embrace the gapped and tattered nature of life. On a recent foraging walk in the woods with two of our <a href="http://www.wwoofusa.org/About_WWOOFUSA">WWOOF</a> volunteers, one of them noticed that, in the woods, almost everything was nibbled at the edges. Every leaf, stone, hump of earth or bit of bark was food or shelter to some living thing. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqToudecF2hFq3-BkNDhU-U-GJ-eppQ3itAlCyskcfb2f97AgRTXXsS26LGZ2J3AP3BieA2YXVEmU1tUV33iTK7_KUKG7W_K1qSPyEbXHAbXoIm7-U2D-wSHasPZWaM9RVRk8sF0lIMv7/s1600/181.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVqToudecF2hFq3-BkNDhU-U-GJ-eppQ3itAlCyskcfb2f97AgRTXXsS26LGZ2J3AP3BieA2YXVEmU1tUV33iTK7_KUKG7W_K1qSPyEbXHAbXoIm7-U2D-wSHasPZWaM9RVRk8sF0lIMv7/s320/181.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669671871381459154" /></a> Most of the mushrooms we found had been delicately edge-munched to satisfy some itty-bitty appetite, but creatures seemed content to share. Nothing was left perfectly whole, but neither was anything eaten down to the stem. Just as all foodstuffs of substance were nibbled, so too were gaps quickly mitigated: an ongoing dance of presence-absence-presence. Edges were quickly claimed by lichen, mushrooms, and insects. Other creatures claimed hollows as water or food caches, hiding places or homes.<br /><br />There is a word for this strange harvest-time ache of awareness, the wisdom that comes from working with bushel baskets and sharp-edged knives. The word is GALORE. It comes from a Gaelic term variously spelled <span style="font-style:italic;">gu leir, gu leoir,</span> or <span style="font-style:italic;">gu leor</span>. It means both "sufficiency" and "abundance." In the Gaelic worldview, we are surrounded by abundance--and we are also expected to honour this abundance by living within the limits of the goodness the natural world provides. There is no need to hoard or overconsume: with goods gathered sufficient to our needs, we have wealth galore. The key is to perceive and celebrate this basic truth: Enough IS abundance. Or, as a related Scottish proverb says, "enough is as good as a feast." Perhaps our greatest "sin," as humans, is our tendency to forget this truth, to hoard and grasp too much, to dwell in the illusion of scarcity so masterfully crafted by the magicians of merchandising. When we take only what we need and give the rest back, the anxieties dissipate and we are freed to unclench, to recreate, to heal and dream.<br /><br />We have gathered in the gifts of the earth. We have harvested herbs, flowers, and vegetables from our gardens. (The land was gracious and merciful: when all of our squash vines withered, pumpkins and butternut vines sprang forth from last year's pig-grazing range and mostly ripened in time to harvest before the frost!) We have gathered berries and apples and preserved them for the cold months to come. We have respectfully raised and butchered birds for our winter meat. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cD8XNqEoxSIba-uhfn8LCNPFljI2qq3u4HIptEeYVhREvGXf2ksn7K0UwqnrPLphG6ees569htb1HRa-74gNZb2CtH1I4-s-FzaJLUEaOZA0nQ6nHW9CoT95R_bDzrjCj6Pvw68UqMPm/s1600/203.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_cD8XNqEoxSIba-uhfn8LCNPFljI2qq3u4HIptEeYVhREvGXf2ksn7K0UwqnrPLphG6ees569htb1HRa-74gNZb2CtH1I4-s-FzaJLUEaOZA0nQ6nHW9CoT95R_bDzrjCj6Pvw68UqMPm/s320/203.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669674559184703842" /></a> We have taken five well-tended pigs to the butcher so we may feed other families as well. We have foraged for wild mushrooms and harvested them gently, always leaving some for the rest of the woodland creatures to enjoy. Now the larder shelves and freezers are full and the dark is rapidly descending. Music of thankfulness wells up in us. We dwell in remembrance of all the lives that enable our own. <br /><br />So it goes. We enter the dark half of the year ready to share stories, ready to sing, ready to dance. We carve pumpkins as our ancestors carved turnip-lanterns: a creation of absence and presence, of wholeness made hollow and emptiness illuminated, all to shine the Old Souls home to the Land of Plenty. Welcome to the season of Samhain. May you all be graced with sufficiency and abundance, goodness and grace galore! <br /><br />P.S. <span style="font-style:italic;">Buidheachas gun sgur</span>-- unceasing thanks to Andrew, Amy, Robert, Antonn, and all of our other WWOOF volunteers who have contributed to our sense of abundance. Without your contributions of time, enthusiasm, curiosity, and energy, we would have much less to celebrate!MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-11218633713991054032011-09-13T16:56:00.011-04:002011-09-14T21:52:00.410-04:00On Women WarriorsWe were two drab birds in a sea of pink feathers. It was "Race for the Cure" day, and hundreds of women had convened, along with the occasional spouse or offspring, in the city park on a bright September morning to run, raise awareness, and raise funds toward "the cure" for breast cancer.<br /><br />Many of the women--and men--had race numbers pinned to their shirtfronts. Most also had pink placards pinned to the backs: "I run in celebration of... Aunt Sibyl." "I run in memory of...my Mom." Some had multiple names on their backs, or stitched on their pink baseball caps, or painted with glitter-glue on their running shoes. It was clear that each person there had some history of suffering or loss, some painful connection that they were determined to honour, to remember, or perhaps even transform with the beating of their hearts and the pounding of their feet. The joyful silliness of their various decorations was an understandable attempt to inject some levity into a serious remembrance.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2ScLQYr7hHivNXmyJWSJBu-TnL7iTpnrpK8uX6q4_q8L7fcJpf0EhBdQzxHdqKDvNDwnt16rRPW5c5yKGLQgaQE3x31g3dYeyZ8U6On5faPVpekJ6I7BFGEUBdwqDv0k2voKjLm9EF7h/s1600/flamingos.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 275px; height: 183px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip2ScLQYr7hHivNXmyJWSJBu-TnL7iTpnrpK8uX6q4_q8L7fcJpf0EhBdQzxHdqKDvNDwnt16rRPW5c5yKGLQgaQE3x31g3dYeyZ8U6On5faPVpekJ6I7BFGEUBdwqDv0k2voKjLm9EF7h/s320/flamingos.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652036175476152690" /></a> We were there because my partner, The Piper, had taken this on as an annual volunteer gig. She was in her usual tartan gear, pleated wool in dark greens and blues, befitting the job. No-one would have expected otherwise. I, myself, had dressed to go off to church afterward, and I'd chosen a blouse and pants of earthy brown. As we walked into the pink-balloon-bedecked park full of colour-coordinated racing and walking teams, I hesitated. I felt like a wild moorhen who had blundered into a flock of migrating flamingos. <br /><br />The park periphery was lined with booths from event sponsors. The Dunkin Donuts booth was mobbed, race-goers squealing with delight at the thought of unlimited free donuts and coffee. Across the way, the Hannaford supermarket booth workers were handing out healthier fare: apples, granola bars, and bananas. They had far fewer takers. (I admit I helped myself equally: one donut, one banana. They both looked perfect but tasted, well, somewhat less than that.) I looked around at the piles of "bling" arrayed in each booth: magenta shoelaces, pink ribbon temporary tattoos, treats and whigmaleeries of every description, all of them dyed or emblazoned or bedecked in some variant of rose, fuchia, blush, raspberry, carmine, cherry blossom...<br /><br />The brightest display was at a booth near the stage. A banner above the booth declared "<a href="http://www.ford.com/warriorsinpink/wip/">FORD CARES</a>." Three pert young blonde women stood in the booth, each sporting a bright batik scarf tied in a uniquely fashionable style. Two men flanked the booth, handing out bling-bags to everyone who walked past. I ventured up, curious. One of the men flashed a smile and handed me a bag. I opened it to find the same scarf, with a "made in China" sticker and two brochures for Ford's charity line of Breast Cancer Awareness clothing: "Warriors in Pink." Above an array of abstract "tribal" symbols like spirals, wings, chevrons, hearts and birds, the brochure declared, "EVERY WARRIOR NEEDS AN OUTFIT."<br /><br />What?<br /><br />I looked around again at the hundreds of pink-bling-bedecked women around me. I thought about <a href="http://www.mnwelldir.org/docs/history/biographies/carson.htm">Rachel Carson</a>, who wrote "Silent Spring" and died of breast cancer herself. Breast cancer is an environmental disease. It is caused by a complex array of factors, many of which are linked to the pervasive, endocrine-disrupting toxicity of the chemicals we eat, wear, drink and breathe in our mass-manufactured society. Those chemicals could be in the free pink plastic water bottles and the free temporary tattoos. They could be in the colored paper and the glitter paint. They could be in the very dyes and fixatives and wrinkle-preventers of those free "Warriors in Pink" scarves. The garment workers in China--probably women--who make those scarves could be exposed to much higher levels of those toxins than we are, we privileged North American recipients of this well-designed, well-marketed corporate charity bling. <br /><br />The opening ceremonies began and The Piper went up onto the stage. I watched her stand, compose herself, and strike in the pipes. A murmur went through the crowd and people turned to look at the tall, tartan-draped figure playing tunes from another century. The harmonic drones of this ancient instrument took me back to my own "tribal" roots, and I thought about the women warriors of the Celts and the Picts. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwEpWu3EIjr9XnX1R7T6XcrZ8kKOx-GIfP0lUQCeltJvVW7xJA3F_v67m99YyBw0uXcwlbHzT6AGSNLHfqVMGtF-92zaNC3K12pIUKwCTAhxXXt4-zrosPNA0r3pTvoGBbVVvhvBdGiBl/s1600/PictWoman.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 266px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtwEpWu3EIjr9XnX1R7T6XcrZ8kKOx-GIfP0lUQCeltJvVW7xJA3F_v67m99YyBw0uXcwlbHzT6AGSNLHfqVMGtF-92zaNC3K12pIUKwCTAhxXXt4-zrosPNA0r3pTvoGBbVVvhvBdGiBl/s320/PictWoman.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5652032684087601138" /></a> They earned the respect of their enemies not for their outfits, but for the lack thereof. They were known for charging into battle with very little on indeed, a demonstration of pure intention, confidence, and bravery that came from years of careful discipline. There is some evidence that ancient schools existed to train <a href="http://www.celtlearn.org/pdfs/women.pdf">warrior women</a> in the Celtic/British/Pictish lands. They began their training as girls and grew into powerful women and formidable adversaries.<br /><br />The fight for cancer is unaffected by outfits. Every warrior does NOT need one. We contribute to the fight against cancer when we refuse to use the host of unnecessary chemicals around us. We build our defences by deflecting the pointed arrows of corporate target marketing. We fight cancer by refusing to pour poison in our yards and in our homes. We fight cancer by refusing to apply chemicals to our hair, our nails, and our faces. We fight cancer by educating ourselves and each other about environmental toxins. We fight cancer by speaking up and speaking out, demanding more regulations to protect our bodies, our air, our soil, our water, our land. We fight cancer by declaring that our poorer sisters and brothers in industrial waste zones deserve the same standards of <a href="http://clusteralliance.org/category/disease-cluster-community-news/delaware/">environmental safety</a> that we do.<br /><br />We may yet be warriors. Let the beauty of the earth be our ritual decoration. Let our own empowered active lives be our tribute to the fallen. Let our bodies and spirits reflect the purity and healing we seek. And when a restored and healthy planet answers our efforts with showered blush-tinted blossoms, THEN we shall bedeck ourselves in pink.MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-81826496390417446182011-08-13T16:59:00.006-04:002011-08-13T18:28:19.100-04:00The Knights Who Say, "KNEE!"It's been a few weeks now since the Piper underwent surgery to repair her knee. I'll spare you the details, but suffice it to say that some cartilage ended up somewhere it really ought not to have been, and the surgeon was, well, impressed--not in the way you WANT a surgeon to be.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxZ3pwBkd97NrMbGle4hPn0cUC1020Y7-oM18JKW04KUnUfHTP8ZnKWqSu2bFQMidPjIeW3VDddZ7o54BPbuyJAY4i7HZg1CygXXjQTZqVAHCbr8paTZQvNvrUkkrUqp9STW6ZiLF7G3j/s1600/063.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpxZ3pwBkd97NrMbGle4hPn0cUC1020Y7-oM18JKW04KUnUfHTP8ZnKWqSu2bFQMidPjIeW3VDddZ7o54BPbuyJAY4i7HZg1CygXXjQTZqVAHCbr8paTZQvNvrUkkrUqp9STW6ZiLF7G3j/s320/063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640468827426523538" /></a><span style="font-weight:bold;"></span>After months of debilitating pain, followed by a fairly uncomfortable post-surgery recovery, the Piper is inching toward full farmerdom again. Last week, she sat in the midst of everyone else's activity and snipped branches down into kindling. Now she is proudly--if gingerly--hauling cartfuls of whey-soaked bread and wilted veggies down to the pigs in the name of "therapeutic strengthening."
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<br />The piper is not one to sit still while others work, so these past few months have been especially hard on her, even with WWOOFers cheerfully pitching in to take over her chores and ease my burden of managing the farm alone. She doesn't respond well to requests to slow down, rest, or be careful. In fact, if it wasn't for the fact that she's an avid Red Sox fan, I'm not sure how I would have gotten her to slow down at all--thank heavens for the concept of the "DL" (Disabled List). Only after a reminder that "even star players end up on the DL for months at a time..." could she be convinced to lay down with an ice pack for the afternoon. (It also helped that, thanks to the clock radio, she was able to lay there and listen to baseball games!)
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<br />She found the first couple of post-surgery therapy visits pretty excruciating. The muscles hadn't been engaging properly due to the inflammation and misplaced cartilage, so her kneecap was no longer being held in place and riding smoothly where it ought to be. The Piper dutifully performed her prescribed strengthening exercises and acquired a special brace to keep the kneecap from "floating."
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<br />Last week, she came home from physical therapy with a new look. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6njb1DONK7RjDsjnX0XkinzAs_3ryF1XJ_N-Qo6TVcXXWjvRfNJqwn-75ydD5xyTZUHriqmd8bTofUCzS1WqMRhGD23GfRqc9trganPsiBDVv-OjqnDS7QRhkXeWJrwzbXZWBRd-SUHQ/s1600/043.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl6njb1DONK7RjDsjnX0XkinzAs_3ryF1XJ_N-Qo6TVcXXWjvRfNJqwn-75ydD5xyTZUHriqmd8bTofUCzS1WqMRhGD23GfRqc9trganPsiBDVv-OjqnDS7QRhkXeWJrwzbXZWBRd-SUHQ/s320/043.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5640467847404142626" /></a> Like so many other veterans of Wounded Knee before her, the Piper had borne her suffering bravely and displayed tremendous courage and fortitude. The therapist recognized these qualities and sent her home a newly-decorated hero: MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2291573287494895984.post-50402374225149282992011-07-07T16:42:00.005-04:002011-07-12T22:38:20.560-04:00The Gael Who Cried WWOOFActually, this post has nothing to do with crying. We are dancing joyful jigs, here on the farm, even if we do have only three knees between the two of us.<br /><br />Back in November, the Piper hurt her knee while shifting a bag of "pig bread" on uneven ground. Ever since then, it's been a challenge for her to manage the daily farm chores. Physical therapy provided a brief respite, but pain and swelling have continued and even the knee specialist confessed some measure of bafflement.<br /><br />In between my part-time job and a several-month stint as a hospital chaplain, I wasn't much help to the Piper at Wounded Knee. The young couple who stayed with us during the winter helped somewhat, but their hearts were full of their own farm dreams and they moved on as soon as they found a place of their own. (That move occurred right at Beltane-- May 1st, the traditional start of the outdoor work season.) <br /><br />So, what can a couple of farmers do when they have one bull, two cows, six pigs, eighteen chickens, twenty-four garden beds and three functional knees? It was time for these two Gaels to cry, WWOOF!!! <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0DOLTkvpoTw1lULO8AlxMy2N4DiAEZYlaLIEeQj0PxTsiUiyQ9LePnEP3H1t8ISjb-d5ll_MU76k5vWIASftnnlYknBTUo4LHM7gif3oNHo0Ms40wNO3LXvV7Hj5hPEk9RUIFdvY1lLT/s1600/063.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEji0DOLTkvpoTw1lULO8AlxMy2N4DiAEZYlaLIEeQj0PxTsiUiyQ9LePnEP3H1t8ISjb-d5ll_MU76k5vWIASftnnlYknBTUo4LHM7gif3oNHo0Ms40wNO3LXvV7Hj5hPEk9RUIFdvY1lLT/s320/063.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628660442939386994" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.wwoofusa.org/">The WWOOF program</a> counts as part of our Celtic/British agricultural emphasis, as it began in the U.K. about forty years ago. (WWOOF stands, variously, for "Willing Workers On Organic Farms" or "World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms.") Essentially a networking system, it allows member farms to seek assistance while allowing "WWOOFers" to seek hands-on education in sustainable agriculture. Farmers and volunteers arrange the details of each informal internship--everything from a single weekend stay to full-season or full-year engagements. While details vary widely, the program's generally accepted standard is that each half-day of volunteer labour is compensated by a full day's room and board at the host farm.<br /><br />We signed up with the program in April, as soon as we confirmed our Winter couple's departure date. Inquiries started to reach us a few weeks later. WWOOFers tend to embrace opportunities for travel; our first month's inquiries included folks from Quebec, Tennessee, New York, Taiwan and Seattle. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvIfoTh7ET1X0IkVJJT31graQ3roLmpoTjUh-njQ3hl-dNbm7N8ItHMRAzOqe-HgOC99yMMaiPRfcd_x73Pi3HnNa4IMxGcpE5TuuWOxa0J43oT14LoO3fWCVpFyhmO1BGRRqYpGhQjym/s1600/089.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvIfoTh7ET1X0IkVJJT31graQ3roLmpoTjUh-njQ3hl-dNbm7N8ItHMRAzOqe-HgOC99yMMaiPRfcd_x73Pi3HnNa4IMxGcpE5TuuWOxa0J43oT14LoO3fWCVpFyhmO1BGRRqYpGhQjym/s320/089.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5628659403102904354" /></a> We sent e-mails back and forth, trying to ensure the best match between what we could offer and what others might want to learn. We realized we would be educating ourselves, too--expanding the range of skills needed for task-sharing and delegation. We began to brainstorm. We made lists. We talked with other farmers about the specific challenges of hosting volunteers. We invested in extra blankets and pillows. We developed our own list of questions for potential volunteers and began sending them out as e-mail inquiries appeared...and then we chose our first WWOOFer and the real fun began!<br /><br />So far, the program has been everything we hoped, and more. Our WWOOFers have pitched in with enthusiasm, demonstrated a wonderful eagerness to work and learn, shown good humour, flexibility, and stick-to-itiveness. We've been fascinated by their wide range of life experiences, their travel stories, and the range of things they've seen and learned on other farms as they WWOOF their way around the world. They're not perfect--they do come to learn, after all, and occasionally a tool gets left in the rain or a veggie plant gets pulled instead of a weed--but overall the experience has been genuinely lovely. Each one comes with their own delightful surprises, too--One WWOOFer turned out to be an absolute wizard in the kitchen and helped us work on a new website for the farm. <iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxGT1b6Wh_1y_0YtRrlArw9Tc4csSu9YM6gdpwOhMu20qIUTZUJFjunKQDc7WT5Dm3xxtge0aiH4vD5CsBgww' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe> Another has a great way with a camera and has captured our creatures in some wonderful images and videos. A third came along to the farmers' market with a typewriter and raised money by creating custom poems for market-goers on the spot--an effort I'm doing my best to carry on. Shared evenings around the table are another side benefit--we've found the kind of camaraderie, diverse perspectives and wide-ranging discussions on which we thrive.<br /><br />WWOOFing may not work for every farmer. We have to relax our expectations and give up some of our perfectionism. We have to remind ourselves sometimes that these folks are still learning; many of them love the idea of farming but are unfamiliar with foundational concepts and basic skills. Others come with tremendous skill AND enthusiasm and we have to reign them in a bit, as we lack the resources to tackle the range of projects they ask to undertake. It's a balancing act, to be sure, but isn't that true of farming and life in general? Might as well meet new folks, share what we know, and make new friends along the way!<br /><br />So here we are, in all our three-kneed glory, dancing. With each new WWOOFer, we learn a new way to move to the music, a new way to dig the beat (beets?) and enjoy the grooves (furrows!) of this land. The WWOOFers complete our broken circle and help us keep in time as the season calls the tune.MaineCelthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06318937035647123010noreply@blogger.com2