HuckaMeme (September 2015) by Keith...again

HuckaMeme (September 2015) by Katie...again

HuckaMeme (September 2015) by Josh

HuckaMeme (September 2015) Keith

HuckaMeme (September, 2015) Katie

Fear (July 2015) by Katie

My boot pushes through the tall grasses on the way to the chicken coop

I keep a watchful eye for snakes and wonder

Why is it that I never see a snake when I’m looking for one?

We cannot always be so alert – it would be exhausting, distracting, wasteful

I stick my fingers through the deer-proofing wire barrier to the coop

Highly aware of the spider webs I am touching

I very nearly step on the thinnest end

Of a thick, egg-eating rat snake

How? How could I not be expecting this

When I was that very moment thinking about it?

The things I fear in life are like a snake in the coop

I'm going to run across them

But fear won’t prepare me

Mother's Day (May 2015) by Katie

Last Spring I blogged here about prayer and a "consuming hole at my core that is emptiness and loneliness and also what it means to be alive". And I can't get the thought out of my head.

I'm glad others raise the issue as well. Joy, Kate, and I talk about it a lot - this unquenchable thirst. This melancholy. This "God-shaped hole".

And we talk about our reaction to it. To fill it or numb it; to watch shows or eat treats. To prove each day was busy and successful. To reminisce about better times, to dream about better times.

I found a quote that hits the nail: "I am homesick for a place I am not sure even exists. One where my heart is full. My body loved. And my soul understood."

In last Spring's prayer post I reflected on a scene that still comes to mind: An incident where Wren was sick. She could not be consoled. She clung to Joy crying, "I want Mommy".

I know that feeling. 

I want what "Mother" represents, beyond the bounds of human capacity. I want the female divine.

---

I don't know what we're supposed to do with this emptiness. How to be with it.



It has driven humanity to explore and create; to chase the sun past the horizon; to paint the likeness of animals on the inside of caves; to reach up and touch the moon; to splice the cells inside us; to build, to cure, to discover, to invent, to achieve.



And still we are incomplete.



And that's a good thing. If we could fill the hole ourselves, as maybe we still assume we can, our entire motive would be to compete and consume. But that unquenchable piece of us pulls and pulls until we realize we need more than the story we can weave with our own spool; more than what we alone can know or do. For all our success as evidenced in salaries or Facebook posts or checklists, we feel incomplete. And so there must be something we cannot quantify. Something unnameable, even, and certainly not human. Maybe God. Maybe Goddess. Maybe the spirit of life around us; an inter-being, and a rediscovery of lost relationship and balance. I've touched all of these, and I have felt great, big feelings of connection and fulfillment, heart, body and mind.



And still I've ached with want.



How do we respond to this urge in a way that does not pillage and consume? In a way that does not numb or distance? What is left but to accept and love our incomplete selves?


It may be that women have an advantage in this arena. What distinguishes women from men if not holes and caverns. Empty wombs. Shedding of walls.


And mother's must know it even more acutely: That the world needs the low and empty spaces.

Mother's Day (May 2015) from Joy

I Stop Writing the Poem by Tess Gallagher

 

I stop writing the poem

to fold the clothes. No matter who lives

or who dies, I'm still a woman.

I'll always have plenty to do.

I bring the arms of his shirt 

together. Nothing can stop

our tenderness. I'll get back

to the poem. I'll get back to being

a woman. But for now

there's a shirt, a giant shirt

in my hands, and somewhere a small girl

standing next to her mother

watching to see how it's done.

This is the Expected and Holy Day (April 2015) by Keith

This is the Expected and Holy Day (April 2015) by Katie

“It must be nice to have a slower pace to life.” I hear this a lot when I travel to the office for work. And there’s truth to what they say, even if it isn’t my felt experience. Life seems busy; busier, even, than my ‘fast paced’ city or suburban life, but the tasks that keep me going “from can to can’t” take time.

I used to wake up five minutes before I had to run to my car, because I could. I’d roll out of bed, throw on some clothes, brush my teeth, and out I went. Here, it takes thirty minutes to get a fire going if you’ve lost the coals. In the summer it was the morning time that made the most sense to pick your harvest from the garden, since the afternoon would be spent prepping it for canning, freezing, or eating.

Taking care of animals has its seasonal occupations as well. In the winter, there’s keeping water in its liquid state, and picking away at frozen chunks of chicken shit so you can open the coop door (#Living the dream). In the summer, it’s chasing the escapees who are tempted beyond the fence for the lush surroundings.

And while this all keeps me moving forward, it does so at a slower pace. One does not simply catch a chicken. It’s a sluggish herding process. If you hurry, it takes longer, especially when you have an easily excited dog as your shadow.

It’s not a matter of opening the fridge, or turning a dial for the heat. Those are aspects of a fast paced life. And I’m sure I lose some accomplishments by spending more time taking the ‘hard’ way. But I gain two things:

#1: A bit of boredom.

Not distraction. Not numbing. Boredom. A special state that leads to increased awareness and thought. Weeding the poison hemlock from the garden is repetitive, and does not stimulate my mind in the same way reading a book or writing a curriculum does. But it stimulates me in other ways. I tune in to the color and shape of the plant; the sounds of my efforts; the smells of the mud; the very moment I’m living in.

It’s the same when I wash my clothing by hand. It takes an incredible amount of time, and keeps me from the other successes a day can hold, but it also brings me outside, delights my ears with the sound of sloshing water, and anoints my hands and feet with a welcome coolness in summer.  I take note of my clothing in a new way; the fabric and stitching; the memories of the dirt and stains.

#2: Relationships.

All this boredom and stillness and noticing allows me to develop relationships. Noticing when the blue jays return, and what the crows are up to. Listening to a hen lay an egg while I pick tomatoes, then collecting that egg and turning it into a meal with those tomatoes, returning the scraps to her coop coming full circle.

I am motivated in a new way to identify trees; to know their density and where to find them in the forest. Harvesting wood is very relational, lifting their heavy bodies one by one into a truck. Feeling the lay of the land on unpaved roads. Pushing a chainsaw through them, then using your whole body to swing an axe and chop that wood. Carrying it into your home piece by piece and sitting patiently as you try to get it to catch. And then feeling the heat blow over your face when you stand directly above the stove. It’s something you don’t hurry away from.

Lent (March 2015) by Katie

The Me that is bigger than myself waits until the smaller me falls asleep. Then she gently takes the remote control out of my gripped fist, wraps me in a paralyzed embrace, and whispers truth into my ear in a singsong lullaby.

My dreams are consumed by the feelings I suffer all day to ignore. Feelings too big, too overwhelming, or too hollowing to acknowledge at the door; to invite in for a cup of tea and some awkward conversation.

But when the permeable boundaries of my subconscious allow these feelings to slip into my sleeping mind, they bring with them a reserve and a capacity much larger than my own. I am strong and competent. I am my feelings, and I am ok.  

I died last night. It was not immediately so. It was a slow fade. I came to realize it with those I loved. We did not panic or protest. We sat together.

Though I was sad, there was no trace of anger. I did not feel hurt or wronged.

Two realizations consumed me. First, that all my potential to influence the world as I knew how, as one among the living, had passed. And I knew, absent regret or shame, that I could have done more. I could have lived less in my head and more in this world. I could have been more vulnerable in my relationships.

The second thought I had was that I would miss my body sorely. In whatever way I might continue, as spirit or soul or memory, my body would take a separate journey.

But the Me that is bigger than myself can be cheeky, too.

I am floating down the Ganges with other dead bodies. Everyone is quiet and I like that. Being dead is just the thing I needed.

But suddenly I’m not dead anymore. I’m at a spa. I’m supposed to undress to go into the sauna, but I’m too self-conscious about my body.  

So I slip out and walk down the road to a tattoo parlor. I decide to get a tattoo the length of my body to draw people’s attention away from what they might otherwise see. Who is going to pay attention to <fill in the blank> when a tiger in the style of Van Gogh’s starry night has a tail beginning at my ankles, and whiskers reaching up my neck?

I return to the sauna. A woman with the perfect body sits beside me. None of the imperfections of my body matter; it is just the canvas for this beautiful and unique art. 

Whether this transition called death takes years, or comes in the next instant, we count time as nothing if not fleeting. These are our last moments on Earth. We have so little time in our own skin, sharing with it this hand-in-hand experience of fear and joy that pounds in our hearts as much as our heads. 

 This might not be all there is, but it is all we have. And I wish for my waking self that I could hold it with the same gentle and awe-some reverence as I do when I am connected to a collective conscience.

I am awake now. I see you standing at the door Shame. Come in and tell Loneliness to get in here, too. Let’s talk this out Fear. Honey in your tea, Anger?  

Food (August 2014) by Josh W.

Dough

 

I enjoy eating dough.  Dough or batter of any kind: bread, piecrust, cookie, biscuit, roll, scone, brownie, cake, pancake, any uncooked goodness.  Thinking about it now makes my stomach growl.  I don’t really understand my affinity for it.  It does have some nostalgia associated with it.  Helping my grandma make pies.  Or hovering while my grandma made pies is probably more accurate.  She would throw in the ingredients without measuring, mix it up and taste a little.  Add something and taste again.  I thought it was fascinating.  That she knew what to add based on taste.  She would let me taste the final product.  And I couldn’t get enough. 

 

Another memory is making sugar cookies at Christmas time with my mom and brothers.  There’s always a little bit of scrap once you cut out a cookie.  That piece can’t be wasted.  So I salvaged and savored each morsel of leftovers. 

 

Also, as a kid, we would have cinnamon rolls out of a tube each Sunday morning.  And my brother, who knew how to work the oven, would take them out early so they were still stringy and doughy.  And we would utterly destroy them.

 

So maybe my affinity for the stuff is related to home.  I’m transported home when I consume a nice chewy glob of raw dough.  And sometimes it’s nice to be home. 

Food (August 2014) by Katie

We really jumped around this summer. From Finland, to Palestine, to Nepal, to Thailand. Each destination a culinary delight. And each stop with its own vice.


In Finland it was ciders and beer. Our friends were eager to show off the lush-ness of Finland. And we obliged.


In Palestine it was shisha. I'm not normally a fan of 'sweet'. The more it tastes like smoke or just like 'burning', the more I tend to like it (I have a theory this is why I wasn't as bothered by the tear gas as Keith). But the hookah I like.


In Nepal it was fried food. Especially Josh's Didi's fried cabbage and potato cakes. Mmmm.


And in Thailand, it was the sugar. I hadn't remembered what sugar-laden menu I enjoyed in Chiang Mai. Sweet teas and coffees. Banana and corn rotti. And sugar on the garlic bread. But then again, they sprinkle salt on their strawberries.

Food (August 2014) by Josh W.

My neighbor Jackie is an amazing cook.  She teaches a cooking class every week to interested individuals.  I’ve never been.  Cooking is not one of my favorite things to do.  I’d rather just do the dishes after someone else cooks.  Jackie has cooked for many years. Her mother is Burmese while her father is Indian.  She looks Nepali.  She has lived in India, Bermuda, Australia, the UK, and now Nepal.  She garnered cooking techniques and ideas from each of these places.

 

One day Jackie made a pumpkin curry with a secret ingredient.  For a super taster it wasn’t too difficult to determine that peanut butter had been added to the mouth-watering sauce.  It was garnished with cilantro and the pumpkin pieces were pleasantly plump.  It wasn’t difficult consuming three servings.  She served it on local Basmati rice cooked fluffy and pure.  Afterwards she served a coconut custard pie with passion fruit.  It was a blend of sweet, tart, and coconuts.  It was the best meal I ate in Nepal.

Tunes (June 2014) by Josh W

This reminds me of middle school days on the bus. Woof...

Currently, my most listened to song: 

Tunes (June 2014) by Katie

Courage (May 2014) by Josh W.

“When problems overwhelm us and sadness smothers us, where do we find the will and courage to continue?  The answer may come in the caring voice of a friend, a chance encounter with a book, or from a personal faith.” –The White Stripes album Elephant “Little Acorns”

Courage is a visceral sensation, somatic and spiteful.   Many corporal words can be substituted for it: intestinal fortitude, guts, nerves, heart, balls.  It stems from the pit of your stomach, you retch it forth in spite of your situations.  Life goes on and you persist.  It’s whimsical, uncalculated, and illogical. Shirking a draw towards complacency, despair, apathy, avoidance, and self-preservation.  It’s a fire from within, a stubborn persistence to act.  Tenaciously, problems are faced head on.  There is nothing to fear, except for the seed of fear taking root and choking out courage.  But even if you are fearful, life goes on.  And the choice is to courageously plow forth or begrudgingly trudge onwards.  

Courage (May 2014) by Katie

When the sun and all its visions slips around the corner to trick the other side of the world, step out, look up, and see. Really see. We are standing in eternity. One dot, staring out at a thousand others, with more emptiness than substance between. 

When the sun returns, she draws the blue shades, and turns on the lights, to illuminate that which is immediate and close. 

Is it more fearful to be tethered to this rock, or floating in space? 

There will be a day when it ends for us. There can be no other way. A day when one generation will not beget the next; when a generation will be the last generation. 

And who can say what is worse? The horrors of that moment, or all the horrors around the world on any given day, or all days cumulated throughout time. Our time. This strange human existence. 

Both day and night, we are powerless. We are as clueless about meteors and black holes as we are about relationships and our own ambitions. 

It doesn't feel like our choice. We just have this life. And this black and blue sky. And this awareness. 

And, it seems, awareness will always have fear as its shadow

and courage in its bones.

Courage (May 2014) by Katie

Most of our lives have progressed with help. Our journey was mapped out. Begin school. Move from first grade to second. Years were marked with change, and we had no say in it. We graduated high school and could continue with undergrad or begin working, but we couldn’t stay seniors. We graduated college, and the world was open to us, but we had to move somewhere. As an adult, it is different. There is no one telling us when it is time to take that next step. I think it takes a lot of courage as an adult to try something new. And it takes courage to not follow your cohort. To stay.

Courage (May 2014)