At Market

AT MARKET

Pea-shoots spring into waiting bags
A waft of hunger floats on pretzelled air
Crab-cakes sell fast; they must have legs
And green perennials are always there.

Oh, butter! Oh local yoghurt, milk and cheese!
Oh, dahlias dancing bold in bloom!
Will you bedeck my woodworn table, please?
Or grace my fridge? I'll make some room...

The common and the elegant share space
From booth to booth, such bounty they reveal
I cannot wait to say this heartfelt grace:
The market feeds my soul--and what a meal!

--Copyright Mainecelt 6/29/2011

EnRaptured

Six o'clock came and went, like the swift spatter of summer rain that swept across our farm this afternoon. There were no little piles of clothing dotting the landscape, unless you count the shirt and stocking blown off the clothesline. We were left behind, it seems, by the latest in a long line of apocalyptic billboard-buying End Times trumpeters. The Rapture did not happen here. It did not include anyone we knew. It did not include us.

And yet...we did share the experience. While there was no packing of picnic baskets or precarious perching on rooftops, we did prepare ourselves for something glorious, something potentially life-changing: another day on the farm.

There are ritual elements even here. We go down on our knees regularly. Who's to say if there's a difference between planting a seed, gathering a freshly-laid egg, or offering a prayer? We fill the cup--or the trough--for each blessed creature. We break bread and scatter it for a flock, and who's to say our chickens are any less worthy of the sacrament of communion? In this place, communion is something we celebrate every day, as the creatures of the earth are tended and fruits of the earth are gathered in to be prepared for our shared table.

Today, we shared the day's work joyfully. Our first official WWOOFer contributed to our lifted spirits considerably. ("WWOOF" stands for "Willing Workers On Organic Farms" or "World-Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms." Traveling volunteers trade work for room, board, and agricultural education.) With her enthusiasm and our combined energy and effort, we plowed through a formidable list with light hearts and earnest determination. Our shared laughter rose like a hymn to all that is good and right in the world: communion, indeed.

"Prayer," says Parker Palmer, "is the practice of relatedness." Four days of wet weather have quieted and slowed the urgent growth and activity of this season, and we've been keenly aware of that relatedness- keenly aware of just how many lives rely on the return of the sun. When, early this afternoon, the clouds finally dispersed, we celebrated the sudden surge of activity. We reveled in the preening of poultry, the opening of damp blossoms, the exodus of hungry honeybees. The cattle lifted their shaggy wet heads in the pasture. Muddy ground firmed up and soil temperatures warmed, awakening plump, well-watered seeds.

We are ready for the rapture--not because we are waiting for it to happen, but because we discover it unfolding, continually, all around us. We are enraptured by the revelation that we have NOT been taken. We are Left Behind to attend to the holiness with which the tattered, beautiful world is already imbued.

We are called--it is our vocation--to remain in this richly challenging place and serve as stewards of its goodly gifts. There is no greater embodiment of grace.

Who Cooks for You?

Out along the edge of the moon-feathered woods, the Barred Owls sound their call: "Who cooks for YOU? Who cooks for YOU? Who cooks for YOU-all?"

Tonight, one of our farmhands has taken on the task, stepping gracefully into the gap on today's chore list. The Piper and I worked off the farm today and had resigned ourselves to bacon and eggs when we first noted no one had signed up for supper. Instead, I arrived home from a day of hospital chaplaincy and she arrived home from a day of social work to find...a three-course dinner kept warm on the stove. There are pork chops. There are apples simmered with raisins, spices, and nuts. There are buttery rosemary mashed potatoes. He shares the news of his day on the land: thirteen eggs collected, snowpeas and lettuce nearly sprouting in the hoop house, snowbanks melting away, healthy livestock and a well-exercised dog.

We aren't fools enough to count on good news, nor do we count on such feasts. The food was unexpected and tasted sweeter for the surprise. Weather changes, priorities change, people change, relationships require maintenance and even promises require occasional renegotiation. Besides all that, it's early Spring. Our muscles are twitchy and our brains are itchy. You just can't count on much, this time of year, except melting snow and a whole lot of mud.

So, we try to pry open the tight fists of Winter. We try to open up a bit, stretch our bodies and our minds and our spirits. We flex the muscles of gratitude and remind ourselves to meet each day on its own terms, with whatever grace and goodness we can muster. Sometimes, the firewood's all wet and we slip on the ice. Some days, all we can see is the mud. And some days, we walk wearily in and find a warm supper waiting, a farmstead well-tended, and owls calling at the edge of the woods, questioning each other sweetly under the great, round moon.

Pay It Forward!

Over a year ago, MamaPea hooked me in to the fun. Now it's my turn.

RESOLUTION

Despair comes all too easy--grim and goth and oh-so-hip--
Cynicism is the fashion of the day.
Pollyannas make folks queasy: "Darken up, Girl! Get a grip!"
But I declare: I'm going out to play.

Hope is harder. How it stretches the weak muscles of the mind.
How we ache with angst as spirits reach and grow!
How we wonder, wander, bend as our fashioned fears unwind,
Giving grace the shape of all the seeds we sow.

Now's the season for beginnings. Life's returning with the sun.
Time to laugh in fear's false face; be a creator!
To receive a handmade gift, post a comment! Join the fun!
The first three will win, and Pay It Forward later!

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.

Friday Five: Music of the Spheres

Songbird, at RevGalBlogPals, writes, "...It was the same Martin Luther who said: "I have no use for cranks who despise music, because it is a gift of God. Music drives away the Devil and makes people gay; they forget thereby all wrath, unchastity, arrogance, and the like. Next after theology, I give to music the highest place and the greatest honor." On this Friday before Reformation Sunday, let's talk about music. Share with us five pieces of music that draw you closer to the Divine, that elevate your mood or take you to your happy place. They might be sung or instrumental, ancient or modern, sacred or popular...whatever touches you."

Oh dear. Only five?!?

When I read the instructions for this morning's Friday Five, I immediately raced over to my music-box (one o them fancy 4-in-1 things) and put on my CD of "Sing Lustily & With Good Courage" by Maddy Prior with the Carnival Band (CD-SDL 383, copyright 1990 Saydisc Records, England). The recording, commissioned by the BBC for the 250th anniversary of John Wesley's spiritual awakening at Aldersgate, takes its title from Charles Wesley's "instructions for singing," found in most Methodist Hymnals and also posted in the choir room of the United Methodist church in which I grew up. Look up the full instructions when you get a chance-- they're a delightful read and, even now, an excellent set of instructions for group singing.

The lusty, courageous singing and instrumentation of this recording are a real, well, EAR-opener for anyone who thinks "traditional" hymns are dreary and boring. They were, in the 18th century, a rather shocking innovation. Not only did they stray from strict adherence to the texts of biblical psalms, they often employed tunes that verged on being rambunctiously secular. But that wasn't all that upset the BigWigs and Hie-Heid-Yins. As Andy Watts says in the liner notes, "What made the hymns so different form the old metrical psalms was their expression of personal religious thoughts and feelings in vigorous, emotional language. They spoke of God's love for sinners, salvation for the individual, the liberating power of Jesus, the inner experience of the Holy Spirit, strength to withstand oppression and the promise of future glory. This was abhorrent to most of the Anglican Establishment and the ruling classes."

So, with my customary delight in doing things abhorrent to the ruling classes, here's my list of five:

1.) "O For A Thousand Tongues To Sing." Once you get past the ridiculous mental image, it's a wonderful tune of upwelling joy. I always heard it as confirmation of a multilingual path towards spiritual truth-- that no single tongue, no single voice or language is sufficient to teach us all there is to know about God's Grace and God's ongoing involvement in Creation.

2) "Be Thou My Vision" This mystical hymn wraps itself around me like a warm embrace from my spiritual and cultural ancestors. The tune, "Slane" is an old Irish one, dated at least to the 6th century. The hymn's imagery echoes old Celtic praise-poems and travelers' prayers of protection. Curiously, it also represents one of my few quarrels with the move to "inclusify" and democratise the language of American hymnals. I much prefer the old words, in which Jesus is proclaimed "High King of Heaven." Admittedly, the reference is lost to American singers, but this refers to the old hierachies of the Celtic Lands, in which many small local kingdoms deferred to a "High King" as their ultimate leader and wise arbitor. With all the petty kingdoms and tiny idols we modern folk worship, I still find it meaningful to understand Jesus as a wise leader whose stories and virtues inspire us to extend our gaze beyond our own navels.

3)"Lift Every Voice" (words: James Weldon Johnson, music J. Rosamund Johnson, c. 1921) Unlike "Be Thou My Vision," this anthem emerges from a struggle outside of my culture and ancestry, but I do not love it less. It makes me feel connected to the deep and powerful "soul-force" of the African-American freedom struggle. When I sing it, every breath re-embodies the truth that "an injury to one is an injury to all." The forceful rhythm draws my footfalls into a greater march. The music lifts and even shoves my spirit upwards and onwards. This anthem holds me accountable for my own role in the great drama of justice-seeking.

4)"Freedom Come-All-Ye" (Hamish Henderson) Many Scottish folk continue to call for this song to be named the new National Anthem of Scotland. It was written by one of my personal heroes, a Scottish soldier whose wartime travels to Africa and experiences of shared suffering somehow moved him to transcend hatred and bigotry, to love "the fellowship of man" MORE fully and deeply. (I use the gender-specific term on purpose, as Henderson's experience was truly one of brotherhood with his fellow soldiers.) Here, he has taken a pipe tune from the First World War, "Bloody Fields of Flanders," and put Scots words to it that draw a connection between Scotland's own history of struggle and oppression and the South African struggle against Apartheid. (Henderson was a long-time correspondent with Nelson Mandela during his imprisonment.) It's a visionary masterpiece that has become one of my own "get-my-courage-up" songs.

5)"The Joy of Living" (Ewan MacColl) Ewan wrote this song in his own struggle to come to terms with the approaching end of his life. I learned it from the singing of Alison McMorland and Geordie McIntyre, two Scottish tradition-bearers who knew MacColl very well. Their recording of it was played at my grandmother's funeral. Just now, I keep this song in mind as I mourn the crossing over of another dear one, my friend Bruce. I think Bruce and Ewan would have gotten along famously--they shared an intense desire to live each day to its absolute fullest, to do all the good they could in their years' span.




(Image sources: Language Tree from here. Celtic Mandala from here. MLK art from here. All other images copyright Mainecelt 2009.

Life Imitates Arc

Yesterday evening, heading north under a bruise-dark sky, we were blessed with the sight of a glorious double rainbow, arcing above the incandescent trees. Even with wild winds, storm threats and encroaching darkness, we were unable to escape the world's demands to be noticed in all its paradoxical grace and beauty. There it was, arrayed before us, thrumming with energy, dancing, singing to us in tones by turns coaxing and strident: "Lift up your eyes! Move beyond your small miseries! Open yourself to all this bedazzling abundance!"

Who were we to deny this? How could we turn away?

And so we watched, awestruck and open-mouthed, as the colours glowed ever brighter and the rainbow refused to fade and die. Every turn of the road brought the possibility of a new vantage, a striking new perspective. My body, still clenched from the day's desk-bound parsimony, at last began to loosen its needless grip.

Surely, surely there is a way to move more freely in the world, to live more fully into the presence of such arcing beauty. Surely there is a way to be drawn up and out, to feel more fully Creation's surrounding wealth, to draw on it and be sustained!

This morning is washed fresh. The air and ground and trees are spangled with leaves. The season is turning. I too, must turn. So it is that I step forward, reaching out my open hands. So it is that I raise my empty basket to the sun and gather a harvest of light. Such riches! I am surrounded by gold!



(An Beanneachd Oirbh / Blessed Be!)

Journey to the Center of the Mirth (Part Two)

It has been a largely unbloggable week here as we deal with the "joys" of farm refinancing. To remind myself of life's more celebratory aspects, I'm taking some time to chronicle our recent trip to the Pacific Northwest.


FRIDAY, AUGUST 28th
Another awake-at-five morning, after which we struggled (successfully) to fall back asleep. Two hours later, we were awakened by the sound of a door shutting, a dog barking, and a car engine starting...ohmygosh! Mom & Dad had left for the ferry without telling us! We knew they had to leave early, as Mom had taken on the triple tasks of flower-grower, flower-courier, and flower arranger for my big brother's wedding. The need to keep the flowers cool and minimally stressed required an early-morning travel schedule from the island down to Portland, Oregon.
A call to my Dad's cell-phone eased my worries. Unlike them, we had no crucial time-table for our own arrival, so we eased a little more gently into the day.

Suitcases, kilt, bagpipes, alb, and little brother (a comic-book fan henceforth known as "Z-Man") tucked safely into the car, we headed down the road towards the 8:50 boat and made it with time to spare. The Piper had never driven on to a ferry before. As feared, they directed her to the outermost lane where she had to navigate my parents' minivan between metal colummns into what looked like the automobile version of a cattle squeeze chute. She did a fine job.

We drove down I-5, joining the commuters and speeding holiday hordes on this massive western corridor. By noon, we were eager for food and a break from the Interstate's pace, so we pulled off and headed towards Kelso.

Kelso is one of several Scottish town names in Washington State. The list also includes Fife, Elgin, and Aberdeen. Euro-American settlers displaced the Cowlitz tribe--for which the county is now named--to create a booming milltown where thousands of stately evergreen trees were "processed" and shipped away daily. Although we did see a couple of logging trucks trundling down the road, overly-zealous logging practices have combined with the overall economic downturn to depress this extraction-based economy. The place looked it.

We drove through the flat, grey industrial landscape in search of a decent eatery, but all we saw were railroad yards and drab lots full of dusty, banged-up equipment. Following signs to "city center," we reached one of the most depressing main streets I've ever seen--almost colorless and ghostly, full of empty storefronts and letterless marquees. There was a Tudor-style YMCA that must have been grand in its day, but the rest of the buildings were flat-roofed and eerily featureless. We pulled into the only establishment that showed any life: a stuccoed cement drive-through advertising "Comida Mexicana" via sprawling letters painted on the windows. Three people sat at a booth inside--the largest gathering we'd seen anywhere in town.

The Piper and I split a chicken chimichanga. Z-Man got a seafood taco plate. I enjoyed the kitchen staff's banter as we waited. My Spanish is rusty, but I caught just enough to know the cooks were good-naturedly teasing each other. A young man came in after us and ordered in rapid Spanish. The cooks hurriedly packed his order to go, and he was out the door again in three minutes. I'm guessing the place caters to Spanish-speaking workers, both settlers and migrants, on whom the local economy now depends. Our food came just a few minutes later: nothing special, but good, fresh, filling and reasonably-priced. Twenty minutes later, we were back on the road.

Z-man made use of his superhuman navigational skills and got us safely off the freeway, through city construction zones, past roundabouts and into my Big Brother's driveway. Preparations were underway for the rehearsal dinner--a potluck in their backyard. The Bride-to-Be came out of the house just as we pulled up, welcomed us all with hugs, then fired up a string trimmer and attacked the front yard. (For purposes of this blog, we'll refer to her henceforth as "Dr. Honey" because, well, she IS a doctor, as sweet as she is smart. Her ten-year-old daughter will be known as Elf, because I think she is one!)

Big Brother (a martial artist henceforth known as Monkey King) excitedly showed us through the house and yard, detailing his adventures as a new homeowner: the pulling up of damaged floors, the planting of gardens, the replacement of exploding appliances, etc. Talk about a carpenter's holiday-- hardly fifteen minutes had passed before The Piper and my uncle bounced on the spongy wooden deck, discussed the impending influx of heavy guest traffic, and declared the deck in need of immediate repair. Half an hour later, The Piper was ripping up boards, I was hauling two-by-fours, and my uncle was operating a circular saw. Why, the place felt just like home!

The repair was finished--just barely--by dinnertime. The rehearsal dinner was so relaxed, I began to wonder if a rehearsal was included in the evening's plans. Friends and relatives were scattered around the pretty little back yard, some casual and some elegantly dressed, all chatting amiably and enjoying the delicious array of food. Fortunately, a stalwart FOB (friend of the bride) marshaled everyone into their places and got us all rehearsed with remarkable efficiency--no easy task, with a wedding party that included a wild band of little Amazons as flowergirls! Afterwards, we held a hurried conference and typed up the ceremony on my laptop, then repaired to our various designated sleeping places for an attempt at rest before The Big Day.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 29th
Up at five. Back to bed. Up at six. Back to bed. There we were in a big city hotel, thanks to my parents, in a lovely quiet room with a comfortable bed. Could we relax and enjoy it? No, apparently we are now hard-wired for morning chores and the sound of roosters. At 6:45 we heaved a sigh and headed down to try out the hotel's "continental-plus" breakfast. Senator Kennedy's funeral was being shown on a large (but thankfully silent) screen. We kept our voices hushed and respectful, eyes flickering up to the screen and back to our own kith and kin, busily discussing the wedding-prep schedule. The screen's sea of black umbrellas and somber coats cast a strange tension over our own anticipatory joy. In my mind, my professional interest in the close-captioned funeral homily warred with my professional need to finalize wedding homily wording and find a place to print it out before the ceremony.

Cut to the chase: fifteen minutes 'til designated start time, and my mother's flowers are everywhere: in vases on the reception room tables, in urns flanking the wedding arbor, pinned onto dresses and jackets, and tucked in my hair. I've just helped one sister place the last flowers on the cake she made herself. It's beautiful, and so is she. Z-man is showing off his own handsome outfit, complete with a very stylish new tie. I scurry to the back room and pull on my alb. My other sister has arrived with her personal aide and a young man who introduces himself as her boyfriend. She taps out the words to me on her letterboard: "Hi, Sister. I miss you." She gives me a furtive hug, then ducks her head and moves away. She needs to find a few seats at the back, where she can slip away if anything overwhelms the delicate balance of her neurological system. I was her caregiver for several years, so I don't pressure her to stay and chat. I understand how hard it is for her to brave this situation, even on an occasion of joy.

The Bride is late. The word passes through the crowd that a flowergirl--a friend of her daughter--jumped from a treehouse and put her foot through a metal chair while the bride was attempting to get herself be-gowned. Finally they arrive. I can't tell which flowergirl was injured. They all look sweet in their pretty dresses, and not one of them has a telltale limp, though one girl's smile looks a bit grim. The guests take their seats again, The Piper strikes up a tune on the bagpipes, the wedding party lines up, and the procession begins.

First the welcome and greetings and introductory remarks, then a special blessing from FOB. Next, the sharing of handwritten vows, the exchange of rings...then the time comes time for that homily I printed out (whew!) in the hotel lobby. (Readers, please note that blognames in the homily are in brackets. I didn't really address my brother as "Monkey King" in front of all those guests!) Here we go:

"...The first time [Monkey King] brought [Dr. Honey] to meet me, it was high summer on our farm in Maine. The cows were dozing under the apple tree in the middle of the pasture. The pigs were meandering sleepily into the shade at the edge of the woods. The chickens were taking afternoon tea in the garden—-or at least helping themselves to the cherry tomatoes and an occasional bug.

My partner and I were about to embark on a year-long home renovation. We were living in an worn-out 1830s farmhouse, soon to start work on rehabbing a 20-year old post-and-beam woodshop to make ourselves a warmer, healthier home. But when [Dr. Honey and Elf and Monkey King] came to visit, it was a freshly-emptied, not-yet-reinvented space. It was no longer a shop. It was not yet a home. It was just a 30' x 30' plot of potential and possibilities.

I'll never forget our first meeting. [Monkey King] showed up, radiating happiness, with this strong, lovely woman and blythe, impish child at his side. There were the requisite introductions and awkward embraces, then a rambling tour of our fledgling farm. The sun began to sink lower in the sky and Maine's infamous mosquitoes and black flies found us, so we retreated inside and began to discuss things in earnest. [Dr. Honey] leaned over to me with a confidential air. “Do you mind if I ask you something personal?” My mind began to race. Would this be a comment on my female partner? Something about past relationships or children? A question about our odd vocational blend of farming, social services, bagpipe lessons, and Christian ministry? I nodded nervously, not wanting to seem impolite. She leaned a little closer with a quizzical expression and spoke in a half-whisper: “I've been wondering: does EVERYONE in your family take photographs of your food?”

Okay, so maybe this family IS a bit different. Some families just share the same facial features, the same genes, but we've come together from different parts of the world. There are other things things that bind us. We love a good meal. We love a good story. We don't always say what we mean, but we celebrate well-placed words. Mostly, it is our laughter that binds us, and a shared conviction that family is as family does—that we find brothers and sisters wherever there is justice, hospitality, and celebration.

There are many ways to create a household, to make a home, to make a family. We are proud of our diversity and the sometimes odd, often entertaining, connections we've made amongst ourselves. I didn't actually take pictures of my food, until [Dr. Honey] brought it to my attention, but now I find myself reaching for the camera at the table now and then. It makes me smile. It makes me feel close to my sister, with her passion for good design, and my brother, with his passion for food adventures. And it makes me feel close to my newest family members: [Dr. Honey], my first ever sister-in-law, and [Elf], my first ever niece.

Over these past two years, we've followed each other's stories. We've woven together our struggles, twisted together through our frustrations and our fears. We have traded tales of renovation, news of new nests. We have gone swimming in the same oceans. We have taken turns drowning sorrows and leaning on the arms of others, reckoning with grief and death.

Slowly, sometimes subtly, we have laid the groundwork, the sturdy foundation, for a bountiful and beautiful abode. And we have learned, working together, about each others' rhythms and styles of engagement.

[Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey], like [The Piper] and I, have spent part of the last several months immersed in the work of home renovation. There is, perhaps, no better metaphor for engagement than this! The work of renovation demands engagement. It demands hands-on, total-body engagement—the kind that sometimes leaves you aching with bruised shins and ragged nails, the kind that marks you with paint splatters and with scars. It demands that you work, sometimes, in a noxious atmosphere, your breathing laboured, your eyes watering from the fumes. A loving partnership makes similar demands. [Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey], you have weathered so much together, engaged so fully with each other, that I feel confident your home—and your love—will endure. Wallboard may crumble. Appliances may stop working. Deck planking may need to be replaced. But your true home, your deepest sense of peace and shelter and security, will endure, because you have made your home in each other's arms.

We all have looked on, lent a hand, and shared this engagement with you. Your marriage will be blessed not only by your own home-making, but also by this ready and willing crew of consultants, groundskeepers and carpenters. Look around you, now, and know that, whenever the work seems too much, whenever the burden seems too hard to bear, we are all here, ready to share our tools, to lend a hand, to help with future repairs, improvements, and renovations.

In lives filled with movement, may this loving circle of friends and relations be the solid structure of support on which your home depends. May you feather your nest with the laughter and love of many—peers, elders, and children. May your walls resound with stories of adventure and songs of peace. May the wise old earth cradle your abode, and may it be known as a place of joy and grace.

[Monkey King] and [Dr. Honey]... welcome home.


The rest of the wedding went well, although the Beloveds snuck in two quick kisses before I officially told them they could! Nobody seemed to disapprove, though. We all knew how wonderfully, deeply in love they were, and we all blessed them together. The reception included dancing for the grown-ups with the added fun of hula-hoops, courtesy of Elf and her friends! As for me, I had barely changed out of my alb, grabbed some food and plunked myself down at a table when everyone around started teasing me, saying, "Where's your camera?" and "Aren't you going to take pictures of your food?" With a begrudging grin, I went back to the dressing room and rummaged around, came back with my camera, and dutifully documented the feast. Only then was I "allowed" to eat!

Finally the time came for the Cutting of the Cake. The blurry sweetness of the day all came into sharp focus as Bride and Groom lifted the knife and lowered it into my sister's beautiful creation, careful not to disturb the flowers. They fed each other bites of cake, and it was lovely, and everyone clapped and cheered...but the best was yet to come. They beckoned to the Elf, standing nearby in the shadows. She walked up to them, wistfully glancing at the cake, eyeing their finery, clearly pondering how and where she fit in. Then, as her eyes widened in joyful surprise, they both leaned down and, together, fed her a bite of their cake. None of us could contain ourselves. The room erupted in shouts and laughter as people wiped their eyes, cheered, and cheered, and cheered.


Tomorrow: stay tuned for Part Three, featuring more ferryboats, the Arts & Crafts Press and flowers bigger than your head.

Photo credits:
MV Rhododendron: http://www.ferryjobs.net/ferrynewscurrent.html
Old lumber mill: http://www.columbiariverimages.com/Regions/Places/mount_coffin.html

What the Gussuck Said

I went to college in Alaska, where the Alaskan Native students sometimes referred to us pale-skinned incomers as "Gussucks." The word was sometimes a playful jest, sometimes a stronger epithet. I understood it to mean, to them, what "Yankee" means to a Southerner and what "Sassanach" means to a Gael. Even when used among friends, with winks and grins, the word has a cutting edge. It was not, shall we say, a compliment.

This morning I participated in a sunrise ceremony to cap a week of indigenous observances known as "Wabanaki Days." The clergyman who usually shares in the service was unable to attend, so I was invited midweek to step in. I was asked to offer a Gaelic invocation and a brief homily that would acknowledge the connection between Euro-American immigrant heritage and our state's indigenous peoples.

This was not an easy situation--Native elders would be participating with drumming and prayers from their traditions, and I was not only the new kid on the block, ceremonially speaking, but a gussuck as well. The invocation wasn't worrying--I had a volume of the great Hebridean ethnographic work, Alexander Carmichael's Carmina Gadelica, and it was full of prayers honoring the elements, creatures, and Creation. I drew on prayers to the sun and the new moon, as well as a blessing that speaks of "power of raven, power of eagle...power of storm, power of land, power of sea..." These ancient prayers allow the Gaelic tradition to speak for itself, while affirming other indigenous earth-centered traditions.

The homily was harder. I knew the sight of a clergyperson in an alb could trigger anger, distrust, and generations of resentment. I debated whether to wear my alb at all, but I wanted to wrestle with the challenge-- the challenge to myself, to conduct myself with utmost humility and respect, and the challenge to them, that my witness might move them to reconsider their long-held assumptions about the general toxicity of anything associated with the Church. My offering of words would be a part of that witness...but hey, no pressure, right?

When we arrived, the stone ridgeback of the point was shrouded in heavy fog. Only barely could we make out the shapes of others emerging from their vehicles in the pearly half-light of dawn. I saw one of the elders cast a disapproving glance my way as I pulled on my alb over my regular clothes. A couple minutes later, she came up to me and asked what church I came from. I said, truthfully, that I'd worked with many different groups and gatherings, but I was a part of the U.C.C. (United Church of Christ.) She leaned close and looked me squarely in the eye. "Is that one of them conservative churches, or liberal?"

"Progressive...er...liberal." (I tend to stumble when using the L-word, as I find it an unhelpful and troublesome term, but I knew she was waiting to hear one or the other of the words she'd offered me.)

She leaned even closer, her eyes squinting slightly, pinioning me with her glare. "So, which kinds of folks does your church exclude?"

An unintended smile of pure relief spread across my face. Of course she had every right to be suspicious, to be angry. But what a wonderful question, and how deeply satisfying to say, with absolute honesty, "why, we belong to this church because it doesn't exclude anybody! We welcome everyone!"

It wasn't the answer she was expecting. She actually looked a little disappointed, a little unsettled by my response. But by then people were joining the circle, gathering to take part in the ceremony. We both turned our attention to the work at hand: the acknowledgement of arrivals, the hailing of honored guests, and the clearing and blessing of this sea-carved, salt-washed, mist-wreathed sacred space.

There were words of welcome. A match was set to a small bundle of sacred leaves cradled in a seashell, and the smoke wafted among us, ritually purifying all that it touched. The drummer lifted his drum and sang, in its rhythm, words our bodies could all feel even if some of our minds could not comprehend. Two elders shook rattles in time to the drum. They spoke more words, some in their native languages and some in translation, for the benefit of us gussucks. At their invitation--a nod in my direction with the statement, "Now, I guess we're gonna hear some Christian-churchy-Lord-in-heaven prayers..." I offered the Gaelic invocation I'd prepared, along with an English translation. Two tongues, two languages, slowly revealed the meaning of the prayer, and with each stanza their eyes widened. "Oh King of the elements, be ours a goodly purpose toward each creature in Creation..."

Perhaps they felt a little of the shock of recognition I felt, when first I discovered those words more than a decade ago. My Pacific Northwest upbringing had exposed me to the stories and teachings of many Native peoples, and the words of Black Elk and Chief Seattle were regarded with the same respect accorded to the Christian Gospels. I grew up hungry to embrace teachings that honored the Earth, yet I was fiercely aware of the innate wrongness of "playing Indian." Only when a visiting bard--David Whyte--gave a lecture series on "The Celtic Imagination," did I discover the mythic characters of Salmon, Raven, and Deer in a context I could wholly embrace without borrowing the cultural trappings of others.

Other words, silence, and music followed. The Piper offered her own musical gift, and as she struck in to an eerie tune on the pipes, the elders reached out and signaled for all of us to take hands and make a circle around her. The thrum of the drones, like the beat of the drum, moved in our blood and our bones as well as the mist-laden morning air. It seemed like a suitable and satisfying end. I tucked my now-damp folded notes behind my back, hoping I was off the homiletical hook. No such luck. The same elder who had confronted me at the beginning fixed me, once again, in her sights. She nodded to me. What was I doing there? I was no elder, no great storyteller. Surely I didn't belong... But she was, after all, in charge, and she was telling me to speak. I took out my notes, apologized for relying on them, and began:

We are border people. Like a basket's woven design or Celtic knotwork carved into stone, our life shows most clearly at the edges. What beauty we have lies where pieces are split and broken, where the ragged ends are tucked and woven in.

We are journeying people. Along these edges we move, back and forth, backward and forward, and we carry this history on our back. It weighs us down, like a creel full of seaweed. It pulls and presses, like a basket heavy with stones.

My ancestors were Scottish and Scots-Irish immigrants to Maine. They came on ships from the lands of their people, the coastlines and hillsides that knew them best, held their stories, held their bones. They came as unwilling passengers on packet ships. They arrived awkward and ignorant and scared, like many of their fellow immigrants, having been burned out of their homes and pushed off their land by poverty, circumstance, or government agents.

A story: The British government spent years conducting military campaigns against the Scots and the Irish before they made their raids on the so-called New World. Francis Drake, Walter Raleigh, and others used Ireland as a proving ground, a convenient neighborhood of savages to be cleaned up and cleared out. After four years on the blood-soaked frontier, one English correspondent sent this description back:
“Out of every corner of the woods and glens they came creeping forth on their hands, for their legs would not bear them. They looked anatomies of death; they spake like ghosts crying out of their graves... in short space there were none almost left and a most populous and plentiful country suddenly left void of man or beast.” The “void” meant vacant lands for English resettlement. This was the Irish frontier in 1596.

Meanwhile, the SSPCK--the Society in Scotland for Propagating of Christian Knowledge--was intent on stamping out “the barbarian tongue” of Gaelic, the first step towards civilizing the “Wild Scots” of the Highlands. They also busied themselves with New World heathens. In 1735, they began a search for a missionary to preach to Native Americans in the Colonial territory of Georgia. They settled on one Reverend Iain MacLeoid. A Gaelic-speaker, they believed, would be able to converse with the natives quite easily--one barbarian to another.

Less than a generation later, my ancestors came. Like other immigrants, they came for many reasons. Some were good reasons. Some were less than good. Whatever their reasons, they did not arrive entirely without skills--they may have known how to weave and spin, how to carve stone or tend livestock, how to write or keep accounts, but they did not know all that was needed to survive in this unfamiliar land.

Some were so used to fighting, they never learned how to unclench their fists. Kicked out of their own land, they signed up as soldiers to shove other people off their ancestral lands. They remembered how to fight, but they lost touch with the ancient codes of honour that once governed their battles. We cannot be proud of what they did, but we can try to understand the reasons behind their ignorance and fear. We remember them as we remember the dark length of our shadows in the clear light of the rising sun. We cannot shake their darkness away from us. It will follow us always.

Some of our ancestors did not forget the old ways. They remembered that, at the shining heart of their culture, there were sacred rules of hospitality. They understood what it meant to offer food to hungry wanderers, to offer shelter to a stranger. They were humbled to receive the compassion and care of this land's Native Peoples. Without this kind and patient guidance, they would never have survived the biting cold and the bitter winds. With it, they endured beyond the edges of starvation. And because some of them kept the old ways alive, they understood that such actions bind people together and create community, as surely as two colours interwoven become a beautiful design.

We are still travelers, still border people, living at the thresholds of land and sea, standing between cultures, standing at the threshold of survival itself. We still reach, blindly, in our dreams, for that sweet promise of a land called home. We still struggle to find our place in Creation's intricate design, a place in the great pattern of justice and peace where we genuinely belong.

What we must acknowledge is this: we have not made our own way in this world. We arrived here and survived here through the care of countless others, people who helped us over the threshold, cared for our bodies and souls, and ensured our survival in a thousand different ways. We live as a result of their risks, their gifts, their love.

This, then, is how we honor your ancestors and ours: we come back to this place of rough edges, and with the Creator's gracious Spirit and the Travelers’ tales to guide us, we remember. We strive not to repeat the mistakes of our oppressors, who called everyone savages and brutes and other less-than human names. Instead, we humbly recognize that we share this land and this fully human story. We humbly acknowledge that we must listen more deeply as stories and old ways are shared. We are called to move together in this open space, to weave together, from our rough edges, a design of healing and promise, a design of wisdom and beauty.

--copyright Mainecelt July 2009

Source notes: this homily made use of material from the following history texts: Ronald Takaki, A Different Mirror: A History of Multicultural America, (Boston, Little, Brown & Co., 1993)

Michael Newton, We’re Indians Sure Enough: The Legacy of the Scottish Highlanders in the United States, (Saorsa Media, Auburn, NH, 2001)

Photo of Alaska Native mask found here.
Basket image from Diane Kopec collection at the Abbe Museum.

Ev'ry Gal Needs a Sowin' Machine!

Today, we present another low-tech marvel: the sowing machine. Most folks, when they think of farm machinery, tend to think on a grand scale: giant combines and harvesters grinding their way across the acres, mowing down miles and miles of "amber waves of grain." As we've mentioned before, we own no such monsters. Our farm has a different economy of scale.

There are no amber waves here. The rocky, acidic soils of Maine make grain-growing difficult. The rocks can foul up even heavy-duty tines and blades. Our own farmscape offers the additional challenge of steep slopes and ravines. Although an old picture shows this entire parcel cleared and pastured, the second- and third-growth forests have reclaimed our "back thirty". Decades of poor management prior to our arrival resulted in nutrient depletion and serious erosion, a combination that has rendered that acreage suitable only for wildlife habitat.

The only land flat enough for pastures now rests between the woods and the road. For the past three years, we've been working with our local Conservation District to better manage this land. We've done soil tests to determine the soil's acidity level and nutrient needs. We've stabilized fragile hillsides by planting a "conservation mix" of erosion-controlling plants, and we've removed diseased and invasive plants to make way for healthy natives. With help and advice from conservation district technicians, we drafted a rotational grazing plan and set about reclaiming two old, overgrown fields.

There was a bit of a hiccup in the plan last year when a 30-ton load of wood ash (a natural liming agent used to "sweeten" acidic soils) got delivered on the wrong side of the property when we weren't home. Over forty calls to landscape companies and tractor owners were made during Spring/Summer 2008, but no-one seemed willing or able to relocate and spread that mountain of ash. So much for the Usefulness of Big Equipment! This year, though, we happened to share our tale of woe during an Easter breakfast at church. Turns out our breakfast companion just happened to have a small tractor and some extra time on his hands. Providence!

Earlier this week, Mr. Tractor Hero moved the ash into the two new cleared fields and spread it around. What next, we pondered: fence the fields in, or sow them with clover and pasture grass? With the ground freshly worked and rain on the way, we opted to get the seed sown right away. Considering that we've been putting the cows out on our yard to let the permanent pasture recover, it's best to get some new grass growing sooner rather than later!

A few hours later, we were back home. The same wagon that carried eight piglets now cradled a few hundred pounds of seed mix: annual and perennial ryegrasses, Kentucky bluegrass, fescue, timothy, red clover and alsike clover. (Note that orchardgrass and reed canarygrass were our preferred choices for the purposes of rotational grazing, but they were almost twice as expensive as the mix we cobbled together.)

We emptied the bags into the farm cart, then raked and turned the seeds with our fingers: elongated, smooth-husked grass seeds in pale gold and greyish-green, mixed with tiny round black and red seed-beads of clover. We marveled at the gathered mass of tiny pastoral possibilities, but a gust of wind reminded us not to marvel too long. The rain was coming. It was time to bring out...the sowing machine.

Nobody's certain just how we acquired it--probably at some yard sale back in the eighties, when few cared about such stuff. The cloth top has been repaired multiple times with various weights and colours of thread and string. Printed in bold black ink on the stained, weakened canvas is the following inscription:
PEARCE'S IMPROVED
CAHOON
BROADCAST
SEED SOWER
MADE BY
GOODELL COMPANY
ANTRIM, N.H.U.S.A.

With the double Irish reference, I imagine the device being made in a factory full of recent immigrants--words of Gaelic mixing with the harsher words of English, scraping and tumbling like so many metal filings onto the dirty shop floor. Did they dream of better fields and healthier crops than the rotten praties of Home, or did they curse the work of farming and embrace the noise and heat of industrial labour?

Whoever made it, they made it to last. The metal backplate is riveted solidly to the hopper. The wooden crank-handle is well-turned and nicely varnished. The seedplate adjusts without fuss for different rates of flow. The gears rotate smoothly with a cheery wee clankety-clackety-hum. The hopper-sack and neckstrap show the most wear, but they still perform in spite of haphazard repairs. All in all, this is a wonderful device, well-crafted and a genuine pleasure to use.

I tuck my head through the neckstrap, and improvise side-straps from some camping gear, as this is the only original part that is missing. I tighten the straps so that the backplate rests comfortably against my middle and my neck doesn't bear all the weight. After making sure that the seedplate is down, I use a grain scoop to pour seed into the hopper-sack until it bulges and the old-fashioned lettering stands out. Ready, set, sow!

With my first step forward, I nudge the seedplate up and begin slowly turning the hand-crank. The gears start clattering and the wheel starts spinning. As the seeds tumble down into the wheel, they are sent spinning and tumbling out, some in the middle and some spraying out to either side. I stride the field and I sow the field, the seed landing in evenly distributed bands, all under my own human power. The whirr of the gears is not so loud that I cannot hear a cricket's chirp or a bird's song.

I could turn the gears even faster. I could get the job done in half the time, but truly the work is so pleasant, and the weather so kind, that I find myself slowing my stride. I move slowly enough to monitor my work, to be sure that the seeds fall thickly and evenly. As I walk, I imagine these fields full of lush green blades, full of clover blossoms, full of bumblebees and earthworms and countless other crucial, delicate living things. I envision the sweet contrast of shaggy red-brown kye ambling through the vibrant green, pulling up tender mouthfuls with slow-motion bovine enthusiasm.

This is what it means to steward the earth, to engage both soul and soil, to walk slowly enough to see. When we work on this blessedly human scale, we rediscover the truth that there is little need, on this small farm, for petrochemical-belching behemoths--and if the wood-ash had been dropped at the field's edge, as we intended, we could have spread even that with a shovel, a rake, and a cart.

To be a Luddite, one need not abandon all industry and innovation. What is required, instead, is a careful reflection on sources and benefits, a thoughtful deliberation on tasks best shared and tasks best managed alone. Walking the new fields with my old-fashioned sowing machine, I stitch myself back into the fabric of creation. I move with a natural rhythm and contribute to an older, deeper song.

Into the Gap...

The Bluebirds of Gappiness showed up again on Saturday. This time, it was a mated pair, flitting between milkweed stalks and fenceposts by sudden, urgent turns. I wonder how much longer these messengers will remain before they start their annual migration, leaving Wise Old Raven behind as official mystic courier of the Frozen North. Perhaps they'll make the switch at Samhainn, (pronounced "sow-when"), which literally means, "Summer's end."

It's almost time... which, as a person with so-called A.D.D., is a state of being with which I'm most familiar. (I prefer to think of myself as "multifocal," since it's not a lack of attention, but non-singular attention, that best describes my style of engagement.) One book about A.D.D. describes the afflicted as "hunters in a farmer's world." While it's true that hunters spend a lot of time scanning their horizons, I don't buy this idea either. I've never met a farmer who DIDN'T have to keep their minds on a hundred things at once.

The more I study my Celtic roots, the less my so-called disability distresses me. Celts, it seems, have always understood the complex and flexible nature of time. Celtic philosophers and theologians have long recognized time as an embroidered tapestry, a mesh of the interwoven, the knotted, and the wrapped. An old Gaelic hymn to the Christ Child includes the declaration that, "although You are not yet born, people are praising the great things you've already done." The Divine Child is both "already" and "not yet." This speaks deeply to me. It describes my state of being, much of the time. It also reminds me that, as a Chronos-bound creature, I have my work cut out for me. I know, full well, that I can't afford to stop TRYING to do things "on time." I will never stop struggling to do business promptly and show up prior to the official start-time of shifts, classes, and meetings. This may never be an arena of particular personal grace.

Yet Grace does come--and it comes, most often, when it's "About Time." It is when I am most awkward, most unsure, and most open that the Holy Spirit shimmers and flutters and blazes into view. Poet Ted Loder calls this, "teetering on the edge of a maybe." I perch on the edge of self-doubt, which strangely doubles as the edge of cosmic acceptance. Grace unfolds in those awkward spaces between naughts and oughts. I am challenged, continually, to live more fully and step more willingly into the gaps.

And now it is Almost Time for one of my favorite Gaps of all: Samhainn, the Celtic New Year. Like Christmas and Fat Tuesday, this has long been celebrated as a "time beyond time" when the shackles of society are shaken off in favor of wildness. Yes, there's a sinister side--tricks can be cruel and damage may be done--but the essence of this time is a holy one. Where and when else, in our fast-paced, artificially brightened lives, are we given permission to see and acknowledge the dark?

Like the Jewish people and many other ancient agricultural societies, the Celts recognized darkness as the necessary time/place for all beginnings. Each new day begins at sundown. The year starts when the cold creeps in, the light wanes and the hard labours of harvest come to an end. It's a welcome respite, a seasonal sabbath. Seeds rest in the soil, new life sleeps in the dark womb, and all wise people take time to laugh and rest, doing the crucial work of re-creation, singing and sharing tales among deep shadows and flickering light.

Among the shadows: not an easy place to be. Yet our shadows demand attention, as our brightness continually invents them. Samhainn may wear the disguise of No-Man's Land, but what it really offers is Common Ground, a place for honest hopes and unreasonable fears to meet. Here is one meeting I will not miss. Here is one lesson for which I dare not show up late. (Hurry! Finish the wiring in our new house, so we can turn off all the lights!) Now is the time to step into the darkness, dance and wrestle with the darkness, shake the grief loose from my bones, mourn for all things returned to earth, and dream of new life that shall spring.

Happy New Year! May this "Almost Time" become a celebration. May we dance and weep around the bonfires of loss, feast on the richness of our memories, and--in dreams--step into the future's blessed embrace.