Laughin' at the Hard Times...

Far to the west of here, on a small island in Puget Sound, there once lived three women who loved to sing. Actually, the island was full of people who loved to sing. There were church singers, garden singers, lullabye singers, and rock & roll singers. There were folk singers and filk singers, serious song scholars and raunchy tavern chorus-belters. The meekest music-makers kept to their showers--maybe allowed themselves to occasionally whistle for their dogs in public--but many folks believed that music was something to be shared.

The three women, Mary, Elizabeth, and Velvet, were music-sharers with a mission. They had been singing together for years--in community theater shows, workshops, churches and all kinds of other venues and get-togethers. They started writing their own songs and got together to perform them. They called their trio, "Women, Women & Song."

They sang about common, everyday themes: washing windows, raising children, braces and break-ups and long car rides. To each of life's frustrations they added sweet harmonies, hard-earned wisdom, and joyful comedic twists. I recall one summer appearance on the open-air stage at the Strawberry Festival, when they prefaced a hilarious madrigal-style primer on human sexuality with the warning, "the next song we'll be singing is a little 'blue,' so you might want to hand each of your kids a dollar and send them up the street to buy snow cones now." My mother and I laughed together at the lines that followed:
"Some of us like one lover and one only,
Some of us have lost count and still are lonely.
Some of us can do it just for fun;
Others of us have to marry everyone,
But most of us find a way to get the thing done,
For that is the way of sex."
Mom and I laughed til there were tears in our eyes as the song ranged through its perilous, hilarious territory. Then, mother and daughter, we faced each other with a gaze of mutual understanding at the final refrain:
"...But, ignore sex or embrace it,
In some way you'll have to face it...
For that is the way of,
That is the way of,
That is the way of sex!"

These three women--all around the age of my parents--sang me through adolescence with some of the best messages any young woman could hear. My teenage body-image angst was mitigated by a catchy little tune with these lyrics:
"This body is mine, it'll be what it will,
And I don't plan to change it with diets or pills,
And if you don't like it, go look for another,
'Cause this body's mine and I like it ruther."

They helped me weather other societal pressures and strengthened my resolve to make my own path and pursue my own joys. The following song influenced my mother, too--so much so that she and her best friend eventually started their own organic floral business to live out some of this song's aims:
"I won't wait to be happy.
I won't put it off 'til everyone loves me.
I won't wait until my ship comes in and the freight is all for me...
I won't wait to happy.
I won't put it off until the Great Someday.
I'm gonna grow a bunch of roses--and give roses away."

Women, Women & Song lifted me up and carried me along. I've returned to their music countless times, seeking--and finding-- much-needed courage and humour. There was one song, though, that I couldn't quite join in on. I just wasn't ready to sing it yet--at least, not with conviction. But--folks, I'm here to tell you--THIS morning, I'm finally ready:
"Well, I woke up this morning; didn't feel the same
Felt a new spirit in my heart but I couldn't quite give it a name.
Well, I felt kind of cocky. I felt kind of tall--
And then I remembered, and the mystery was solved:
I'm forty--and I don't care what people think.
I'm forty--and my life is my o-o-own!
I'm forty and I'm happy to just be here,
Laughin' at the hard times that I've known!"

Oh, AYE. With all the courage and wisdom and laughter I can muster, I am ready to face the NEXT forty--and who knows how many more years after that!

So, to Mary, Elizabeth, and Velvet--and all the other singers who've helped me find my own voice--Thanks for getting me this far down the road!


P.S. Women, Women & Song no longer perform together, but Mary is a regular contributor to Vashon's alternative newspaper and she blogs as "Spiritual Smart Aleck." CDs of WW&S are still available.

Credit where credit is due: all song lyrics copyright WW&S and/or the three artists of the trio: Mary Litchfield Tuel, Elizabeth Anthony, & Velvet Neifert. (I lost the cover of my old cassette tape, so I don't know for sure who wrote what.) Tile was made by my sister, Krissie, based on an embroidered jumper my mom sewed for me when I was small. WW&S image can be found here.

Rooting for Justice

(Note: Permaculture activist and Perennial Veggie Expert, Eric Toensmeier, planted the seeds that sprouted into this sermon. It is based on the true story of Nuestras Raices, a community garden project in Holyoke, Massachusetts. Any mistakes or inaccuracies are purely my own. The Lectionary texts on which this sermon was based may be found here.)

[A Sermon for Proper 10C, delivered July 11, 2010 at a UCC church in Maine]

They never meant to cause trouble. They never meant to agitate, to call attention to the sleeping giant sprawled in front of them. They'd spent their whole lives learning how to stay in the shadows, to say “yes, sir” and “no, ma'am.” They certainly never meant to start anything.

They were a bit like that Samaritan in the story—you know the guy, someone from “Away” with questionable morals and strange habits. You know the sort I'm talking about—they didn't talk right. They were probably even Yankees fans—well, know, I probably shouldn't go THAT far!

But you know the type—they stick out like sore thumbs when you drive into the city. They wear strange clothes—nothing like the locals. When you see two or three of them together, their voices rising and falling with those rapid-fire, unintelligible words, you can't help but feel suspicious. Are they just talking about the high cost of groceries, the poor job market, their efforts to get their kids in a decent school? Or are they looking back at us, talking about us, judging us the way we judge them?

Maybe they're like the prophet Amos. Maybe, like him, they never intended to come here, but something bigger than them was at work. Like Amos, the country bumpkin called by God to take a message to King Jereboam and his high priests. Amos understood cattle, but he didn't understand the ways of the court and the city. He knew how to take care of fruit trees, but he didn't know what to make of the city's power and wealth. He knew a bit about worship, but the city's shrines were full of perfumed prostitutes and the priests' robes glittered with gold. When God gave him the courage and power to speak out, the high priests didn't appreciate his prophecy. When he shared the vision of God's plumb line being held against the city, King Jereboam didn't appreciate the idea that his place didn't measure up... Hold on to that thought. Let me get back to my other story.

Anyone in Holyoke, Mass could have told you those Puerto Ricans didn't belong. Anyone could have told you the way trouble seemed to follow them everywhere, like one of the half-wild dogs that roamed the beaches of their island home, waiting for the tourists to drop a morsel, a crumb, anything that might send their hunger into some partial retreat. Or maybe it was them who followed trouble. I mean, look at the place: block after block of crumbling brick boxes to live in, factories mostly shuttered, jobs vanished almost overnight—for THIS, they'd been sucked in by the lies of the recruiters? For this, they'd left the poverty—and the beauty—of their hardscrabble farms in the warm, green island hills?

Their children were upset, too: sad, angry, confused. The schools didn't know what to do with them—how do you teach a kid to read when their parents can't read either? Never mind that they knew how to raise the best peppers and yams you ever tasted. Never mind that they knew how to slaughter a goat or a pig and use everything but the squeal. If you wanted to live in Holyoke, you had to work the jobs they had available and live where there was room. The city had standards to keep and these people didn't pass all their tests. Thanks to all these immigrants--unwanted, uneducated immigrants--the schools had some of the worst scores in the nation. And what with the crime rate, and the poverty, the urban blight and the poisoned river, well—anyone could guess where the town was going.

The Puerto Ricans knew they were unwanted-- like the English, the Irish, The French-Canadians, the Germans, the Poles, the Jews, and all the other immigrants brought in before them, lured with the same false promises of good work and decent wages. But there they were, stuck in a dead-end post-industrial Northern city, their resources all used up, nowhere else to go, nothing to count on, nobody to turn to. And really, they didn't really mean to start something...

Who can say how it happened? Somebody drew a line in the dirt of an abandoned lot. Somebody planted a seed in a paper cup. Somebody, bored and frustrated, laid off from his construction job, went out and laid into the dirt with a pickax. His neighbor looked out, curious, and brought out a shovel. Then one day they saw the little old abuela, the grandmother, struggling with gallon jugs of water, trying to get enough moisture around the plants to keep them green, maybe even help them grow a little bit. A shy, quiet man surprised himself--and everyone else--with a surge of courage, went to the landowner, and requested permission to use the spigot and bring in two rainbarrels. A jogger stopped to admire the neat little green rows in the abandoned lot and found herself two days later donating a sturdy garden hose.

More people came. The city gave official permission to use the lot, to put up signs and lay out plots and build protective fences. Muscles and friendships grew. Fresh food—good tomatoes and squash, beans and even bright red and yellow peppers to give their meals a taste of home. People with little or no money found themselves trading, bartering squash for tomatoes, peppers for cilantro. When some of the tomatoes went missing, they formed a council to govern the garden. They named their new organization, “Nuestras Raices / Our Roots.” They elected two people to coordinate the plots and watch over everything. The drug dealers didn't do deals in the lot any more; it was always so busy. More people got involved—even local businesses and nonprofits. Everyone wanted to have something to celebrate in a city full of too much bad news.

Nuestras Raices organized workshops on cooking and preserving food. They paired young people up with wise elders who had decades of gardening and life experience to share. As they realized the various needs in the community—and realized their own ability to take action—they began to offer literacy classes, financial planning workshops, voter registration, lessons in civics. As they learned to read and write and organize, they started businesses together. They put on festivals to help others understand and appreciate their foods, their music, their language, their culture.

Mind you, they never meant to start anything. But after five other abandoned lots turned into beautiful community gardens, the city sat up and took notice. “What else would you like to do?” they asked. “We want to be treated with dignity. We want safer places to live. We want our children to do better in school. We want to know why they can't swim or fish in the river. We want to know why they keep getting sick.”

The Mayor's office didn't see it coming. The Town Fathers were less than amused. Who did these people think they were, anyway? Did they even pay taxes? Did they even vote? It was one thing to get to show up for a nice ribbon-cutting now and then. It was another thing altogether to be asked to investigate toxic waste in the inner city. At first, the officials tried to ignore them, but the people wouldn't go away. They held more community meetings. They brought in outside help when they couldn't get answers from City Hall. They enlisted a team of high school students, with all the inquisitive passion of their age, and taught them how to collect scientific data with the support of the Environmental Protection Agency's “Environmental Justice” program. Here's a sample of what they found: between 1988 and 1999, more than 3.5 million pounds of toxic chemicals where released to the environment of Holyoke, mostly by industrial operations in inner city neighborhoods. The chemicals released were known to cause birth defects and learning disabilities in children, to damage lungs and kidneys, to destroy healthy blood cells and cause asthma and cancer, among other things.

The folks at City Hall didn't want to listen. The folks in the prettier, cleaner parts of town didn't want to listen either. Neither did the industry executives. How dare they hold up this kind of plumb line? But the people kept working, kept fighting to be heard, kept gathering allies and organizing. They had found their own voices and their own sense of justice. Their dreams of the past and their resentment of the present had given way to a clear vision of the future and a willingness to press forward together.

What does Holyoke look like now? Yes, there are still problems. But in the inner city, eight beautiful community gardens grow and thrive, tended by people of every age and every color, working together. The garden coordinators have become community leaders, listeners and advocates and problem solvers.

The youth program has grown by leaps and bounds. Now these young people paint murals together, help design and manage the gardens, continue their environmental justice research, and teach other kids how to work for change in their communities.

There is a women's leadership group too, and a green jobs initiative called “Roots Up” that teaches participants how to build and market solar hot water heating systems. There is a training institute that helps people learn what it takes to be successful entrepreneuers and project organizers. Oh, and then there is that land along the river—the place where the city wanted a riverboat casino. Now it has been christened “Tierra de Oportunidades, a community-designed garden and agricultural business incubator with 15 “new beginning” farms, public nature trails, an outdoor stage for concerts and festivals, tropical flowers and crops, a farm stand, and more.

No, they hadn't meant to start anything. Amos didn't mean to start anything either, but God called him from his orchards and his cattle: Then Amos answered Amaziah, “I am no prophet, nor a prophet’s son; but I am a herdsman, and a dresser of sycamore trees, and the Lord took me from following the flock, and the Lord said to me, ‘Go, prophesy to my people Israel.’ When he answered God's call to become a voice for justice, he was led among high priests, prophets and kings. He was called to hold a corrupt city accountable—not just to human standards, but to a greater standard of justice and righteousness.

And like the Samaritan, unwelcome traveler, despised foreigner--all his days filled with the taunts, threats, and hurled insults of others—-he never meant to start anything either. Who knows what made his broken immigrant heart more open to God's call for mercy and care? What matters is that he WAS open. He was open and the Spirit moved him to action, perhaps at great personal risk. He accepted the risk, took action, and became a shining embodiment of God's own compassion. This stranger, this unwanted foreigner, reached out and saved a life when nobody in power would. Jesus knew it was a wild thing to suggest-- like saying that, in a neat orchard of apple trees, the best fruit grew on a weedy little grafted tree, a recent transplant with a label that said “mango.”

God never stops trying to surprise us, to shake us out of our sweet repose, to open us to the ongoing work of the Spirit. God never stops showing up in our midst, lonely and hungry, daring us to recognize each other as brothers and sisters of Christ. God is still speaking. Are you ready to listen with all of your being? Are you prepared to embrace your own blessed calling? Perhaps some of you are called to plant seeds of God's kingdom. Perhaps some of you are called to prepare the ground for those seeds. Some may be called to share, far and wide, the healing skill of your hands, the good fruits of your labors. Perhaps some of you are called to reach out, in compassion and solidarity, to those still feel rootless, cut off from justice or joy or peace.

We don't have to be afraid of starting something. We don't have to feel isolated. We don't have to worry ourselves about whether or not we belong. God is right here with us, sharing the work, holding us in a circle of loving accountability, giving us a taste of God's kingdom wherever hope, justice and compassion begin to blossom. And wherever these things blossom, we will all move together towards that wonderful harvest feast where everyone is welcome and we all—every one of us—belong.

Image sources: Puerto Rican farm, Holyoke Brickbox, Community Garden, Mango Tree.

Purple Prose

(This is the sermon I preached last Sunday at my internship church. It explores the story of Lydia, a woman who helped create one of the earliest Christian churches. The sermon was based on two of the week's Common Lectionary readings: Acts 16:9-15 and John 14:23-27.)

FRINGE BENEFITS

I went and did it: I took one of those temporary jobs with the U.S. Census. I sat through four long days of training where the crew leader was required to lecture us, verbatim, from a massive textbook. We learned how to process all the necessary forms. We learned how to affix and protect our identity badges. But most importantly, we learned how to apply ourselves to the enormous task of counting everyone—not just the people who responsibly filled in and sent back their forms, but also the people who got busy and forgot, the people who accidentally threw them out, the people who had convinced themselves that one person more or less really didn't matter, in the big scheme of things.

As I started to travel up long dirt driveways, to grand, hidden houses, mobile homes, and even one abandoned shack, I thought a great deal about what it means to make people count—and to stand up and be counted. To the government, it means one set of things: balancing money for public programs, making sure each state gets the right number of congressional representatives. But what does it mean to a community of faith?

This week's reading from Acts introduces us to another woman who wondered: Lydia. Not Lydia the tattooed lady, but Lydia of Philippi, a purveyor of purple cloth.
Her purple cloth was beautiful-- some the colour of ripe grapes in sunlight, some the colour of the river just after the sun goes down. Sometimes a lot of cloth came out almost the colour of lapis, perfect to match the stones in a fine silver necklace or fancy finger-rings. Sometimes it was almost crimson, the colour of blood.

There were buyers waiting for all of it—courtiers seeking the blood-coloured cloth sought after by royalty, foreign buyers looking for cloth of rare quality and hue, wealthy men and women seeking a calculated splurge. Lydia counted on all these customers, for purple cloth was the ultimate status symbol, and the more deals she made, the more secure her own household might become. After all, in a colonial town, you had to make your own way. A woman couldn't count on authorities to protect her. The best course was to offer something the people in power wanted, and impress the people you needed to impress.

So Lydia learned all the details of her trade: how the sea-snails must be gathered by the tens of thousands to produce one garment's worth of dye, then heaped in vats to rot, the stench horrible beyond imagining. She learned the secret recipes and methods the dyers used: just how much sea-salt to add to the dye bath for the colour of priestly robes, and how to use two different types of snails—a double-dip in two stinking vats—to achieve the colour preferred by royalty. She learned how to keep track of accounts, who to flatter, and who to bribe. She learned which traders would give her a fair deal on fine cloth and the precious purple dye, worth its weight in silver.

Bit by bit, she made her way. She earned respect in the marketplace for her exquisite goods and she could walk freely there, a wealthy woman unchaperroned, proud, alone. She managed her business and her household with dignity and skill. Even her servants were elegantly clothed and well-fed.

But Lydia was still hungry. Something was missing, though she couldn't put her dye-stained finger on it. She found herself awake in the night, restless, anxious for no reason she could name. She was surrounded by beauty, but she had no peace. Her dreams, when they came, were full of broken shells and stinking dye vats. Though she had earned the freedom to stride through the marketplace, her spirit still felt trapped, shut up like coins in a box. And so, one day, she changed her usual route. She gathered her servants around her and headed down, past the temples and elite villas, past the glittering business of the marketplace, past the walled gardens and the city gates, all the way down to the river. She looked for a place to wash her stained hands, though she knew the stains were too old and deep for that. The other women stood and sat and kneeled at the water's edge, some of them washing clothes, some washing children or themselves. As they talked, they laughed—not the hard, cynical laughter of the marketplace, but a sound like the river itself: loose and musical and free.

They had gathered at the river to impress no-one. They were there not for trade, but for friendship, to listen to each other's stories and support each other with prayer—not prayers to the usual temple gods, but to another sort of God who seemed to care for people, actually cared for people instead of leaving them to their fate.
Something happened to Lydia, there. In the midst of her business, she began to carve out time for more visits to the river. She listened keenly to the other women's stories, her mind stirred by their different ways of life. She moved her mouth silently along with their prayers, unsure what to believe, trying out the feel of the words on her tongue.

And then, one day, some men meandered down the bank. The laughter and laundry and storytelling came to an abrupt halt. “Apostles” someone said. Apostles? What could they possibly be doing here, those hard-travelling holy men who ought to be headed for the synagogue? Lydia sized up the man called Paul with her shrewd merchant's eyes. His bearing was bold and confident. What was he doing outside the city gates? Why was he speaking to these women at the fringes? His accent betrayed a fine education and good breeding—clearly part of the fabric of society—yet he seemed to shine with untamable joy...
What happened then, the Book of Acts retells:
On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.
When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.

“Come and stay at my home.” It sounds so simple—almost childish. “Come and stay at my home.”--as if that means nothing more than sprucing up the guest room. But this is not the hospitality of vacation rentals and hotel chains. This is something deeper and more powerful. This is hospitality of a kind that can't be bought or sold like so much pretty cloth. Lydia opens her heart to the Holy Spirit, and her open house becomes a richly gifted Christian community—one of the first true “churches” of the New Testament. Lydia opens her heart to the Holy Spirit, and the people at the fringes are gathered into the center. Blossoms blow between the walled garden and the riverbank. The old rules of society are unthreaded and rewoven into a cloth more durable and colourful than before.

The Scholars don't quite know what to make of Lydia. Some say she was the first European Convert to Christianity and the Matron of the house church at Philippi. Others claim her name was merely shorthand for a whole group of women who helped found the earliest churches. The writer of the Book of Acts recalls her as a generous and influential leader. Later in the story, when Paul and Silas are suddenly freed from prison, Lydia's house is the loving and supportive community to which they run.

Scholars may still disagree on the particulars—after all, it is in their professional interest to do so—but Lydia still stands as a witness, holding open the door with her dye-stained hands. She stands to remind us what can happen when we look beyond our own circles, when we step beyond our own well-worn path. She beckons us to heed our spiritual hungers. She nudges us to venture to the fringes, to learn and listen and pray with those at the edge. Whether our hands are calloused or soft, manicured or stained, she calls us to reach out in welcome, daring to embrace the whole family of God.

Photo Sources: dye vats,
Gangites River at Philippi, Villa Fresco.

Lydia, Lydia, Have You Met Lydia...

In the midst of all those lovely Maytime tasks--piglet-tending, seedling-planting, power-washing the barn--I've dived into some additional adventures: a temporary census job and the ongoing challenges and opportunities of my ministry internship at a local U.C.C. church.

This coming Sunday, I'm supposed to lead worship and preach. The assigned lectionary readings include the story of Lydia. I've heard the old song about "Lydia the tattooed lady," but this biblical Lydia is a bit less "revealed." In fact, she is almost completely obscured by the purple cloth she purveys. We know very little about her, except that she appears to have been a successful business- woman who opened her home to some wandering apostles, whether they wanted to stay there or not. Some scholars suggest she was a devout follower of Judaism. Others say she was a foreign woman of questionable repute, possibly a Goddess-worshiper. Some say she didn't exist at all, but was merely written in as a symbol for the sort of people whose hospitality made the early house-churches possible. I wish I could know Lydia better... so I tried to imagine what her life was like in the Roman colony of Philippi, what brought her down to the river, what moved her to be baptized and then to ask those apostles, devout but dubious, into her home:

Acts 16: 13-15 (NRSV)
On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there.
A certain woman named Lydia, a worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul.
When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.

Here's the Lydia I met in my mind's eye, crafted (so to speak) from whole (purple?) cloth:

LYDIA

The purple wouldn't wash off. Still,
Stubborn and savvy as ever, she planned her path
past market stalls, walled gardens, city gates
past the buzzing, glittering temple,
to a place outside: a praying place.
She went down to that dirty river and
prayed for the soft golden skin of her youth,
the bangles jangling on slender wrists,
the traceries of henna,
painted lines of prettiness and praise--
She prayed with hardened hands for better days.

She went down to that rough-edged river and
prayed for the soft smiles of all her servants,
so deft and deferent, so smooth and skilled
she could not quite learn whether she'd
earned—or merely bought—their trust--
She prayed with oil-rubbed skin and the taste of dust.

She went down to that deep old river and
prayed for the soft hollow of her soul,
the empty ache under the fine fabrics of her trade,
like a weeping burn, all bandage-bound.
She prayed at the river, where the women gathered.
She prayed at the river, where men seldom wandered.
She prayed at the river till a stranger prayed with her,
and the purple folds of her heart fell open
and the stains of her trade no longer concerned her
and she opened her house to apostles and pilgrims
there at the river,
there at the fringes,
where the Spirit weaves through
and the floods bring fertile ground.


--copyright MaineCelt 5/2010

Photo Source: The Global Spiral

Rockin' the Big House: a Tribute to Bruce Malcolm Cole

I preached my first funeral last Saturday. It was a rather unusual service.

How unusual?

Well... let's just say I am now part of a rather small club: the association of clergywomen who have stood in the pulpit of a large Catholic Church and led a Celtic New Year-themed service on Halloween.

It was Bruce's idea--Bruce, dear grace-filled trickster, who knew he was dying and was determined to go out in style. You see, Bruce was the kind of guy who loved to move behind the scenes. By profession, he was a facilities manager, the man with all the keys who understood all the mystical mechanics and secret spaces. As his wife wrote about the church, "He always referred to it as "the big house", but with affection, like a nickname for a cherished friend." Indeed, Bruce poured himself into the meticulous care of the schools and churches he tended, taking pride in details nobody else might ever notice. Yet he also had a theatrical streak, and he loved to be the center of attention. The best times for Bruce usually involved the chance to feast, the chance to tell stories in diverse company, and the chance to play with fire. (The picture give you a hint of his sense of humour. It comes from a charity fundraising calendar called "Under the Kilt.")

When Bruce received his diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, he understood that it was serious. He understood that such a diagnosis came with a lifespan of mere months, sometimes mere weeks. He spoke of "beginning to live in two worlds"--one in which he maintained a powerfully positive outlook with a fierce focus on future living, and one in which he pragmatically began to put his affairs in order to prepare for a fast-approaching end. Soon after his diagnosis, he approached one of the priests of the large Catholic church where he worked. He knew full well the merit of his work, knew how to play his hand as their only non-Catholic employee...and really, when a man says he's dying and wants to have his service in your church because the place means a lot to him, how could anyone say no?

The venue secured, he proceeded on to the next step of his subversive plan. At a Scottish Heritage society meeting, he pulled me aside. Would I, as chaplain to the society, officiate at his service and see to it that his heritage would be honoured? Again, how could anyone say no? In my mind, I pictured a quiet, intimate gathering in a rustic chapel somewhere...peaceful shadows and flickering candlelight...a simple, unadorned place without too much fuss where a youngish clergywoman could manage, decently, her first attempt at a funeral. Silly me. I don't know what I was thinking.

As the weeks and months unfolded around us, Bruce battled his cancer with all the courage and dedication you'd expect of a serious caber-tossing athlete. He stormed through chemotherapy and other treatment protocols in a blaze of glory, gritting his teeth and grinning at the slightest hint that he might be winning. He sought out an energy healer and seized the opportunity to improve the well-being of his spirit as well as his body. Yes, there were days when the strain showed, waves of nausea and sudden urgent trips to the doctor...but those of us at the sidelines found ourselves frequently bewildered by Bruce's newfound vigor. He was so determined to embrace life, to live fully in every moment, that some days he actually seemed MORE healthy, not less.

Bruce flexed his growing spiritual muscles and exercised them frequently. For years he had been mentoring others, but now every meeting was another chance to impart wisdom, and he tried not to waste a single chance. When we complained of our frustration with The Disappearing Plumber, he told us to "stop being angry and let it go." When we got wound up about things, he would say things like, "you may think it matters, but it doesn't. It really doesn't matter as much as you think it matters." Then he would counsel us to turn our attention elsewhere--to love, to shared comfort and laughter--and get on with the business of real living.

Over shared meals, Bruce gradually ate less and less, but we feasted together on laughter. He could build up a story, then suddenly flip it around, leaving its legs treading the air and leaving us nearly helpless with laughter. He had known plenty of rage and anger in his own life--he often reminded us that we would not have liked him when he was younger--but he clearly was intent on a different path now. Bruce, mighty-muscled and built like a tank, entertained himself now by mentoring amateur athletes for the Maine Highland Games, building runs and feeders for the wee wild beasties in his back yard, crafting traditional Scottish knives and elegant walking sticks as gifts for his friends, and weaving his own words and music together with the help of a good guitar. He counted his riches in the affection of his beloved wife, his two rescued "special needs" dogs, and the diverse range of folks he counted among his true friends.

Diversity-- that was another thing that mattered to Bruce. He welcomed both myself and my partner into his circle of friends and lauded the way we cared for each other. And when his ecclesiastical employer chose to vocally advocate the overturn of Maine's recently-passed same-sex marriage law, I suspect Bruce decided to have a little good-natured fun at their expense. So it was that he secured a huge, ornate Catholic church for his funeral venue, then asked me to lead the service and asked my partner to play the pipes.

And so we did-- three days before election day. His wife and I planned the service together and settled on the Celtic New Year as a day with particular meaning for Bruce, who deeply loved his Celtic heritage. We used the funeral service in the UCC hymnal as a guide, but included a prayer from this book along with a poem that echoed Bruce's earthy, earthly spirituality. So: Catholic church, check. Woman in pulpit, check. Pagan Celtic readings, check. Prayer for lightning not to strike me down in the middle of the homily: check.

Now, I've officiated at weddings, at christenings, at house-blessings and tree-blessings and other rituals, but I'd never done a funeral. When the full impact of the situation hit me, I confess that I got a little, well, freaked out. I don't put much stock in conspiracy theories, but after stepping into that sanctuary and seeing all the contribution envelopes for the "Stand for Marriage" campaign at all the entryways, I did feel a bit like I'd been sent into hostile territory and would soon be found out and "removed." I had to remind myself that we were there to celebrate Bruce, and that hate and petty sectarian bickering had no place in his celebration. We called the administrative head of the parish and asked him to start the service with some words of welcome. We called another priest and asked him to say the prayer of invocation. They both agreed. Now it was up to me to walk the line, to call up every ounce of worship-planning skill and diplomacy in the service of honouring my friend.

Perhaps Bruce's spirit was still "facilities manager" that day. Somehow it all came together. Somehow, it all worked, and it was beautiful. Somehow, I sat between two priests in the front of that opulent sanctuary, in front of hundreds of people, and I never triggered their "heretic and abomination" alarms. There was a massed bagpipe band in full regalia in front of the church. There was a Celtic harper inside, weaving a gentle, comforting web. There was the most heartbreakingly beautiful a capella rendition of Danny Boy--a song I usually deride--I'd ever heard. Bruce's niece played a Bach sarabande on cello. All of the readers offered scripture and poetry and prayers in clear, strong voices. Hundreds of voices joined together in "Be Thou My Vision" and "Amazing Grace." Amazing it was--and, yes, full of grace. At the end, the sound of the bagpipes swirled up and echoed from the high stone arches. Together we wept, and together we smiled, bound together in grief and love for a truly remarkable--and gleefully subversive--man.

Common Ground 2009: All's Fair in Love and Chore, Part Two

Here, as promised, is the second installment in our "film strip" from Common Ground Fair. Rose Freedman and Justin Lander of Modern Times Theater (an outgrowth of Vermont's venerable Bread & Puppet Theater) teach us about the word "Chore", the art of farming, and how to strike a blow for freedom.






"Chore lives high on the hog, low on the hog, and makes soup from the rest of the hog."

(I regret that the details of their hand-painted posters don't show up as well as I'd hoped due to the low resolution at which I was filming. You'll still have a pretty good sense of the images they're indicating, however.) If you ever get the chance to see these two brilliant buskers in person, I highly recommend it!

Common Ground 2009: All's Fair in Love and Chore, Part One

We interrupt this blog to bring you a word from our sponsors.

No, that's not quite it...

We interrupt this blog to bring you a word from our mendicant mentors, our creative co-conspirators, our avant-garde agricultural artisans.


The following images and film clips come to us courtesy of the organizers of Maine's Common Ground Fair--and also courtesy of the freshly-charged rechargeable batteries I had the foresight to put in my digital camera that morning! The fair is one of the high points of the agricultural season here, a celebratory reunion of hard-working, passionate folk as well as a three-day showcase of sustainable, community-minded farming and northern New England creativity. It is held on fairgrounds that also host a heritage-breed apple orchard, a working educational farm complete with resident journeyperson farmers, a sustainably-managed woodlot, and the offices of our state's venerable organic certifier and all-around advocates of healthy farming, MOFGA (Maine Organic Farmers and Growers Association).

We attended on Sunday this year, narrowly avoiding Saturday's record-setting crowds thanks to a most moderate and manageable bit of precipitation. We ogled the prize veggies in the exhibition hall, oohed and aahed over the beautiful handiwork in the crafters' pavilion, gathered brochures from the educational displays and signed petitions in the "Social Action Tent." Shortly after noon, as we were strolling among the savoury array of food vendors, munching on a "rainy day special" of two-for-one calzones made with grown-in-Maine veggies, meat, and wheat, a voice came over the loudspeaker. Partially lost amidst the noise of vendors and fairgoers, we caught the all-important words, "Small Farmers Journal" and "surprise guest speaker."

Could it be? Could it possibly be? We rushed over to the greensward and the small platform--still empty--where the fair's keynote speakers typically held forth. A nervous half-a-minute later, we caught sight of that familiar figure with his wiry frame, neatly-trimmed beard and weather-worn hat. Yes! It was indeed Lynn Miller, self-proclaimed "farmer pirate" and editor of one of our favourite publications, Small Farmers Journal. He had snuck in to rouse the rabble once again, with the gleeful assent of the folks at MOFGA.

Here is a portion of his speech given on September 27th, 2009 at the Common Ground Fair in Unity, Maine. Note that this portion finishes up with Miller's introduction of a Vermont theatrical troupe. Their brilliant and clever presentation--an attempt to restore and celebrate the richly meaningful word, "CHORE," will be posted shortly!

No More Bull.

Friday the 13th came on a Thursday this month... at least for Broilleach, our 2-year old Scottish Highland bull. He's still a wee lad compared to some of the newer, more hybridized beef animals you'd see on other farms, but it was definitely Time For Him To Go.

We were clear about our plan from the very beginning: any female cattle born on our farm would become breeding stock, to be kept or sold as needed, but male offspring would be raised for beef. As confirmed meat-eaters, we chose to raise our own meat animals. (I have considered vegetarianism in the past, but strong allergies to soy and other non-meat proteins led me to an omnivorous option.) We committed ourselves to animal-rearing practices that would ensure optimal health and well-being for all of us. As Joel Salatin advocates, we would create an environment where pigs could indulge in their full "pigness," cows could revel in their full "cowness," and chickens could...um...be all chickeny and stuff.

Broilleach, whose name means "Beef Brisket" in Scottish Gaelic, was the first calf born on our land to Iona, our Cattlefold matriarch. We charted out a plan for one initial two-acre field and three additional fields to be developed the following year for rotational grazing purposes. Thanks to a one-year delay in field development, those fields weren't ready when we needed them. The forages in that central pasture could not keep pace with the needs of one cow, two heifers, and one hungry, growing bull calf. Broilleach started seeking low spots along the fence line and busting the spring-wire gate to find better food. The female cattle never initiated any similar behavior, but if he busted through, they were happy to follow once they were sure of the gap.

"You'll never be able to do in your first one..." So said Iona's previous owner when he sold us our bred heifer. We smiled back at him and said that, if the first calf born on our farm was a male, we most certainly would, because we did not have the money to keep such large animals as pets. Broilleach's name (pronounced BROYL-yock) was chosen as a reminder to ourselves. True to our promise, we raised the bull calf for the standard 18 months recommended for Highland beef cattle, then kept Broilleach just long enough to be reasonably sure that he'd bred both our heifers. After that, well, that grass-guzzling fence-breaker had to go.

Mr Bisson and his boy came down to our farm yesterday morning with their trailor. We had Broilleach and the other cattle up on the front lawn, roped in with portable electric fencing. True to his nature, Broilleach made one last successful plunge through the fence, but it seemed to be mostly for show-- after a few defiant chomps on the rugosa rose bushes and a momentary tangle with the forsythia, we routed him back towards the lawn and he stepped daintily over the dropped-but-live fence wire. Thanks to two years of frequent handling including hand-fed treats and regular brushing, Broilleach stood a couple of feet from the open trailer and calmly allowed Mr. Bisson to drape, then tighten, a rope over his horns. After the end of the rope was secured inside the trailer, Mr. Bisson grabbed one horn, his son grabbed the other, and they led that great, hairy beast up and into the trailer. Now THAT'S grabbing the bull by the horns!!!

In a few days, we'll get a call from Bisson's butcher shop, then we'll drive up to pick up our boxes of pretty white packages. We'll also take home his horns--I have a rather indulgent, silly dream of having them made into something splendid like a pibgorn, a Welsh member of the bagpipe family--the only one I've ever successfully tried to play. (We wanted to save his hide and have it tanned, but the cost was sadly prohibitive.) We'll sell about half of the meat to cover our butchering costs and keep the rest for our own freezer and table. Our winter meals will be seasoned with the savoury knowledge that this animal lived a good and decent life, free from the stress of toxic management and the cruelty and disease of feedlots.

So, look out world-- our house is days away from being done and our horrible year is behind us. In September, we'll finally fence in those new fields. Next year, there'll be enough grass for cows and calves both. Goodness knows whether we'll get heifer calves or more baby bulls. For now, though, this is one farm with NO MORE BULL!

The School for Wild Girls

"I look forward to becoming old and wise and audacious." --Glenda Jackson

I grew up among strong and beautiful women. They weren't beautiful like the sylphs in magazines. They were all shapes and colours and sizes, some quiet like deep rivers and some bold as a marching brass band. There were women with silver wings in their hair, women ample or ascetic in form, and women who relied on wheels instead of feet.

When I longed for an older sister, I scanned the choices available in community theatre, school, and church. I picked one--okay, more than one--and my choices happily reciprocated. Even though my own mother was more than capable, I borrowed extra mothers too: a couple of Sunday School teachers, the leader of an after-school arts program, and even the woman who played my mother in our local production of "The Music Man." They would check up on me when we met in the grocery store. They would invite me over for tea or take me out for lunch. They gently schooled this awkward, unsure child in the social graces. They encouraged me to voice my dreams and listened--really listened--to my halting attempts at vocational articulation.

I've always felt keenly this debt. I aspired to be like them--not only in their varied and fascinating lives, but also in their mentoring abilities. Now, at long last, I have a base from which to operate and the wherewithal to share some life-lessons and resources of my own. Conveniently, this farm even offers potential "mentees" a chance for instant payback in the form of meals cooked, beds weeded, and other much-needed chores and projects done.

This week, the farm will be transformed. Instead of a quiet two-person operation, we will become a household of four. Two young women, thousands of miles apart, recently contacted us to request short stays on our farm. Whether by providence or happenstance, their schedules somehow meshed together. Now they are both in transit and will shortly converge on this farm for a week of outdoor work, skill-building, and personal discernment. As per their requests, there will be bagpiping and Gaelic lessons. There will be experiments in group cooking. There will be a trip to a botanical garden and a trip to the beach. There will be weeding and raised-bed building, feasting and merrymaking. And amidst all of this, there will be stories. Here, in this green place, we will tell our own tales.

There will assuredly be laughter. There may well be tears. But the best thing of all will be the honesty and courage of shared struggles. We will find strength as we discover points of connection. Like my young visitors, I, too, hope to be en-couraged and emboldened. I, too, hope to exercise my ability both to name--and be held accountable to--those things which form my deepest and best self. I may be somewhat older and--perhaps--somewhat wiser than my young visitors, but I hope we shall all be equally and joyously audacious!

(photo of Barbara Cooney, Maine author and illustrator, from http://www.favimp.com/BBsample.html.)