I'm moving ...

I'm switching to another blog site. I'm not all that unhappy with this one, but the new one is a little easier to use and has more features I like. For future blogs, click here.

Hope to see you there soon. A Dios!

CG

Hunger Moon

The calendar we use today is a fairly recent invention as far as human history is concerned. For most of our existence, we marked time by observing the seasons and the moons. Each of the twelve or thirteen moons that appeared while Earth made one full journey around the sun was named. Mostly those names derived from what was happening in the plant or animal kin-doms where a particular people lived. Systems for determining when one moon changed to another varied, too; some traditions considered a full moon the start of a lunar cycle, others the new moon and still others the first sighting of the waxing crescent moon.

In our neck of the woods we would likely be experiencing the Hunger Moon, which began about a week ago with the full moon on February 2. When our lives were closely connected with Earth's life systems, this time was often one of scarcity. Even following a good harvest, the winter stores of squash, corn and root vegetables would be running low. The little game that could be found was often scrawny from its own lack of nourishment.

The Hunger Moon. How far most of us live from that experience. Hop in the car and tootle on over to A&P: "fresh" vegetables and fruit line the produce bins; milk, eggs and cheese? no problem; beef, fish, fowl, pork? all here.

Over the past 50 years we've put the final touches on our disconnect from the Earthways of our ancestors. Personally, I think that's a great loss. (Besides, many of us would probably benefit from a "moon" or two of less food each year, and when the Sap moon appears in a few weeks, we'd all be tuned up for the fabulous taste of maple syrup.)

To everything there is a season. Perhaps, if we renew our relationship with the rhythms and systems of the sacred Earth from which we arose, it might be easier for us to recognize—and to heal—the false sense of separation that permits us to destroy the past 65,000,000 years of God's creative effort on this amazing planet.

I think that's a goal worthy of our undivided attention, our most fervent prayer, our all-out effort.

Another loss

Last night we learned that a very good friend died unexpectedly. She was way too young, and the loss of her presence on Earth is just now beginning to settle in.

Her life was hard and challenging, yet she was one of the most courageous, faithful and funny people I've known. Over the next weeks and months her passing will be marked by a rolling wake of confusion, shock and grief. She was the superior of a religious order, and her sisters will have to find their way into the future without her body or her voice.

I know that wake will eventually relax back into the great ocean of life. We will mourn for sure—and then we will all get on with the business of life. But the molecules of that ocean will never be quite the same. We have all been changed by knowing and loving her, and the mark of her being stays with us; the song of her life will dance in the air forever.

Poison in the Shadows

Today was interesting, enlightening, surprising, difficult, meaningful, hopeful — all of which came as a bit of a surprise to me. I'm attending an antiracism training.

I expected some shaking up; it upsets me when something poisonous creeps out of the shadows of my unconscious—like some horrendously bigoted, racist phrase. I learned a few such sayings at about the same time my first grade teacher was trying to get the idea of "subtract" into my head.

My mother taught me "sweatin' like a nigger on election day". Even in the context of this blog, it grieves me to admit I ever said such a thing. It was years before I really understood what it meant and how truly mean and arrogant it was.

Over the years I expunged those racist aphorisms from my speech, and by my early thirties I had a good working knowledge of what "white privilege" meant. I knew I had benefited from it all my life.

But that was head knowledge. Today I began to experience what it feels like to have sailed through life, free to get an education, compete for a good job, join any club or church I liked.

And it didn't feel good. I felt ashamed, frankly. I have been quick to judge my forebears in this country for climbing to wealth and privilege on the backs of the Native Peoples, but today I began to understand how I've kept that dynamic alive.

Cleaning out the shadowy corners is dangerous and not a little scary. It would be a lot easier to just dismiss the feelings and continue to think I'm not a racist because I don't say "those things" any more. But until the poison in the shadows is revealed, experienced and healed, I will continue to wear a face of racism.

I have no business claiming to follow Jesus until I'm willing to own up to my participation in the sin of separation, in any of its ugly guises.

Who moved the cheese? It was a group effort ...

I'm traveling at the moment; now in New York City for a two-day training. The Melrose sisters came down to the city convent yesterday for some meetings here, which usually requires a few little adjustments to our daily routines; call someone to come let Simon out and feed him, check on the cats, set the ducks up in their straw bale mansions if we won't be back in time to put them to bed before the big predators begin the nightly hunt.

This time we had a more unusual concern: I had (unwisely) begun making a wheel of cheese on Monday, forgetting that it really requires some periodic attention over a three-day period.

Uh-oh. The third day—yesterday—was the day for the cheese to soak in a brine solution for 24 hours, including a few turns so the top of the floating cheese would get the full brine-benefit to make its rind. Now what to do?

Ever creative, we put the cheese, brine and all, into a five gallon bucket with a lid on it, and hauled it down here. Of course the purpose of the lid was to keep the brine solution from sloshing out, so I put the lid on tight.

A little too tight, as it turned out. Once here I couldn't get it off, so I left the contraption in my room to attend the meetings. When I had a chance I asked Sr. Lilli Ana to give me a hand by trying to get the lid off, but our meetings didn't leave much time ... sooooo .... at 4:00 when we finished and the other sisters were ready to head home, the peripatetic cheese was still floating around unturned, the lid still jammed on the bucket.

Ah, well. I tried. The rind may not form properly. The cheese may crack. The whole shootin' match may fall apart in the car on the way back to Melrose. Or maybe everything will come out just fine and we'll have another wheel of delicious homemade cheese in three weeks. Maybe this odd trip will actually add something fabulous to the cheese that we'll want duplicate in future cheese production. We'll just have to wait and see.

That's one of the interesting lessons learned in reconnecting with food. Sometimes a lot of effort results in — a lot of effort. But sometimes all that work results in a taste (and health) treat unmatched in any corporate American grocery store. And oh, is it ever worth it.

So don't be afraid to take your cheese out for a little drive. Who knows? You may discover something entirely new and fabulous. It's worth a try.

Retreat

Today is a quiet day for me; I am "in retreat". At least once a month each sister spends one day in quiet reflection, mixed perhaps with a bit of physical labor to keep the body tuned. Today I finally covered my windows with plastic to keep the cold and wind from stealing heat from the house. A minor bit of work in service of Mother Earth.

The sky is painfully blue today, so Bob is stretched out in the afternoon patch of sunlight on the bed. I, too, am going to stretch a bit, though not to snooze and purr. I will practice a new form of meditation for awhile, a new path to keep me connected to the One.

Ah, blessed retreat ...

Bob Again

It's been too long since I've lived with a cat. I've forgotten an awful lot about how they communicate. I remember tail-swishing, the end of purring and laid-back ears as signals to lay off and back away. But Bob finds attacking me with no discernible provocation an increasingly enjoyable pastime, and I couldn't seem to figure out if he was a sad mental case or if I was completely missing his point, whatever that was.

I was missing the point.

I finally wised up enough to check out "cat behavior" results on an internet search. Duh. Cats like to play, for heaven's sake. When Bob first arrived he was content to enjoy his new, safe, rife-with-food digs. I offered a variety of toys, but he wasn't interested. Maybe mature males just don't have that playful bent, I thought, or at least Bob didn't. The toys went off to Smooch, and Bob and I settled in together.

Fine; I'm happy with a feline companion who sleeps a lot and likes to snuggle.

But when the urge to attack me appeared, and soon became more and more frequent, I began to get worried. An entirely unprovoked and nasty bite on the nose at 5 AM this morning sent me off to Google-land. Thank goodness a lot of good, well-informed folk are happy to share their wisdom. Bob isn't actually attacking me; he's just ready to play. In fact, he needs to play. Stalking and catching prey is what cats do, and they need to do it whether they are safely indoors or taking their chances in the wild.

An interesting digression: if you jerk your hand away when a cat bites it (and who wouldn't), you've just informed him that you are pretty good prey, and worthy of chasing down. If you just relax your hand (much easier said than done), and blow gently in his face, the game is off. The wind is unexpected and not much fun, and the prey won't move. Who needs that. The trick is to teach your playful little furball that a toy is good prey, your hand is not.

One delightful cat toy later we're on our way down the road to redirected kitty enthusiasm. I think Bob will soon be an all-around happier guy. If it works, I'm sure going to be a happier nun.