2016 Archives
November 20
One of my favorite holiday indulgences are those chocolate oranges that come wrapped in foil inside a 2-inch-square cardboard box. I must have had one as a child and I tried to enlist the same affection for them in my own children -- but, alas, they don’t have my sweet truth. Anyway, I watch for them on the store shelves every year and this year -- after the presidential election and some personal setbacks -- I thought it wasn’t too early to indulge. I bought a couple, brought them home, set one aside for later, put water onto boil for a cup of coffee and opened the box. The golden ball rolled into my hand and I savored its weight before I saw the simple instructions glued to the top of this faux orange: whack and unwrap. I laughed out loud. I’ve probably seen those words dozens of times but this year, in the wake of Trump’s win and the daily progress reports on his cabinet picks, these seemed like words to live by. Question is, how many times will we have to whack and unwrap in the next four years?
November 23
Finally, someone has put words to my frustration: “Millions of Catholics helped to elect someone who has displayed contempt for much of what lies at the heart of Christian morality—compassion, forgiveness, humility, fidelity, and patience. (Trump’s) campaign proposals run directly contrary to core values affirmed by Catholic social teachings—solidarity, the preferential option for the poor, the common good, stewardship of the planet, and the intrinsic dignity of every person, regardless of race, religion, or gender. Most striking is his constant denigration of and contempt for society’s so-called “losers”—precisely those to whom Jesus paid the most attention.”
Read the whole piece from Commonweal, “Not the Time for Reconciliation”
November 24
This, Thanksgiving morning, is quiet in my house. No one got up early to start the pies, to mix the stuffing. Freddy is gone, but the memories of his mother’s stuffing recipe, his embarrassing Thanksgiving rap and his endless sniffing to see if he could smell the turkey yet. My youngest, Nels, is celebrating the holiday with his wife’s family in Idaho. My eldest, Ante, and his wife are hosting Thanksgiving for her family, me and their friends in Portland. I’m bringing cranberry salsa and cheesy potatoes. I miss the flurry in my kitchen and the long time-table I used to have to follow to get everything done almost at the same time.
But I am not feeling sorry for myself. I’ll knit through a Christmas movie, begin the scalloped potatoes and take a long hot shower. I am still thankful. For all the memories of Fred, for the boys we raised together into such good-hearted adults, for a meal that will be full of flavor and gratitude for a holiday that is difficult for many in this country to keep.
My day began with a tweet from @realdonaldtrump: “I am working, even on Thanksgiving . . . .” So, too, Donald, are all men and women fortunate enough to be able to cook, those who staff the stores for those of us who forgot to buy cilantro and Saran Wrap, those whose work is deemed -- rightly or wrongly -- essential and all who work hard coping with their own needs, seeking and accepting help. We are all working. Happy Thanksgiving.
Nov. 25
“There is a time for everything,” Ecclesiastes says, “a time to be silent and a speak.” This is that time. The 2016 election and Thanksgiving this year leaves some of us wanting to keep still and others longing to talk. News reports leading up to Thanksgiving offered advice for those of us hoping to avoid the subject of politics at the table and others determined to encourage thoughtful discussion and care-filled listening.
In the world of interfaith events, the difference was marked, too. In Berkeley, interfaith leaders organized a service without words, where music and meditation were meant to lift up hearts. It turned out to be controversial. “After the service concluded, the gathering devolved into a quarrelsome coffee hour. Participants argued about the silence, the venue and whether the event should have taken place at all.” See the story "Nobody dares speak at Thanksgiving interfaith worship service."
Here, we planned a service that revolved around words -- four longtime women activists from different religious traditions spoke of social justice issues on which they’d taken a stand, and what sustained them in that process. The plan was to spark dinner table conversations afterward, over a potluck supper. We hoped for 150 people. About 350 people came. They listened intently to the speakers, dove into small group discussions, waited patiently in the potluck line. The high school gym was filled with talk, with people hungry to hear each other speak. There may be a time for silence, but this may not be it.
November 28
A hipster Nativity. Of course, there is one. Silent night, selfie night.
November 27
I’ve just broken my favorite coffee mug. Cobalt blue, the perfect size, a souvenir of my glory days in seminary. I don’t remember actually buying it at Jewish Theological Seminary, but the motto “and the bush was not consumed,” has been inspiring, consoling and sometimes ironic through the years. Unloading the dishwasher, calculating what veggies in the fridge could go into the chicken broth simmering on the stove, the cup slipped through my fingers and broke into pieces. A sobering moment. I groaned out loud. I didn’t cry. I didn’t curse. This is who I am right now, I can’t find the emotion or the words to express what I’m feeling -- other than broken. Is there any good news? After all, it’s Sunday. I’m cooking a chicken carcass and planning to make soup.
November 20
One of my favorite holiday indulgences are those chocolate oranges that come wrapped in foil inside a 2-inch-square cardboard box. I must have had one as a child and I tried to enlist the same affection for them in my own children -- but, alas, they don’t have my sweet truth. Anyway, I watch for them on the store shelves every year and this year -- after the presidential election and some personal setbacks -- I thought it wasn’t too early to indulge. I bought a couple, brought them home, set one aside for later, put water onto boil for a cup of coffee and opened the box. The golden ball rolled into my hand and I savored its weight before I saw the simple instructions glued to the top of this faux orange: whack and unwrap. I laughed out loud. I’ve probably seen those words dozens of times but this year, in the wake of Trump’s win and the daily progress reports on his cabinet picks, these seemed like words to live by. Question is, how many times will we have to whack and unwrap in the next four years?
November 23
Finally, someone has put words to my frustration: “Millions of Catholics helped to elect someone who has displayed contempt for much of what lies at the heart of Christian morality—compassion, forgiveness, humility, fidelity, and patience. (Trump’s) campaign proposals run directly contrary to core values affirmed by Catholic social teachings—solidarity, the preferential option for the poor, the common good, stewardship of the planet, and the intrinsic dignity of every person, regardless of race, religion, or gender. Most striking is his constant denigration of and contempt for society’s so-called “losers”—precisely those to whom Jesus paid the most attention.”
Read the whole piece from Commonweal, “Not the Time for Reconciliation”
November 24
This, Thanksgiving morning, is quiet in my house. No one got up early to start the pies, to mix the stuffing. Freddy is gone, but the memories of his mother’s stuffing recipe, his embarrassing Thanksgiving rap and his endless sniffing to see if he could smell the turkey yet. My youngest, Nels, is celebrating the holiday with his wife’s family in Idaho. My eldest, Ante, and his wife are hosting Thanksgiving for her family, me and their friends in Portland. I’m bringing cranberry salsa and cheesy potatoes. I miss the flurry in my kitchen and the long time-table I used to have to follow to get everything done almost at the same time.
But I am not feeling sorry for myself. I’ll knit through a Christmas movie, begin the scalloped potatoes and take a long hot shower. I am still thankful. For all the memories of Fred, for the boys we raised together into such good-hearted adults, for a meal that will be full of flavor and gratitude for a holiday that is difficult for many in this country to keep.
My day began with a tweet from @realdonaldtrump: “I am working, even on Thanksgiving . . . .” So, too, Donald, are all men and women fortunate enough to be able to cook, those who staff the stores for those of us who forgot to buy cilantro and Saran Wrap, those whose work is deemed -- rightly or wrongly -- essential and all who work hard coping with their own needs, seeking and accepting help. We are all working. Happy Thanksgiving.
Nov. 25
“There is a time for everything,” Ecclesiastes says, “a time to be silent and a speak.” This is that time. The 2016 election and Thanksgiving this year leaves some of us wanting to keep still and others longing to talk. News reports leading up to Thanksgiving offered advice for those of us hoping to avoid the subject of politics at the table and others determined to encourage thoughtful discussion and care-filled listening.
In the world of interfaith events, the difference was marked, too. In Berkeley, interfaith leaders organized a service without words, where music and meditation were meant to lift up hearts. It turned out to be controversial. “After the service concluded, the gathering devolved into a quarrelsome coffee hour. Participants argued about the silence, the venue and whether the event should have taken place at all.” See the story "Nobody dares speak at Thanksgiving interfaith worship service."
Here, we planned a service that revolved around words -- four longtime women activists from different religious traditions spoke of social justice issues on which they’d taken a stand, and what sustained them in that process. The plan was to spark dinner table conversations afterward, over a potluck supper. We hoped for 150 people. About 350 people came. They listened intently to the speakers, dove into small group discussions, waited patiently in the potluck line. The high school gym was filled with talk, with people hungry to hear each other speak. There may be a time for silence, but this may not be it.
November 28
A hipster Nativity. Of course, there is one. Silent night, selfie night.
November 27
I’ve just broken my favorite coffee mug. Cobalt blue, the perfect size, a souvenir of my glory days in seminary. I don’t remember actually buying it at Jewish Theological Seminary, but the motto “and the bush was not consumed,” has been inspiring, consoling and sometimes ironic through the years. Unloading the dishwasher, calculating what veggies in the fridge could go into the chicken broth simmering on the stove, the cup slipped through my fingers and broke into pieces. A sobering moment. I groaned out loud. I didn’t cry. I didn’t curse. This is who I am right now, I can’t find the emotion or the words to express what I’m feeling -- other than broken. Is there any good news? After all, it’s Sunday. I’m cooking a chicken carcass and planning to make soup.