A Sabbath Table: The Magic of Ordinary Days

Was kind of an intense day today, going around mega insulating against scary little critters (see last post). Ticks, deer flies, fleas, very determined wasps, critters are in abundance and everywhere....seriously i've never seen so many insects before. And that doesnt even count the zillions of spiders i see everywhere, or the skeeters.....or the rattle snakes that are in this area (luckily have not seen one yet, thank you Lord). The locals tell me this is just an especially bad year here for insects, since the winter was so mild that it didnt check their populations like winter is supposed to. Hello global warming. I'm not longing for the city again, not by a longshot. In fact i still long for deeper yet wilderness. But ive had a very hard time with this insect party zone thing.

So today my Prince was outside insulating the place. And i was doing stuff in here, had been going at it since i got up. Early afternnoon he calls in the door..."So what's for lunch?".

Lunch? I hadnt even eaten breakfast, had just been grazing while standing up doing stuff because things felt so pressing. And had given him snacks for out there too, assuming he'd just do the same. I thought...."Lunch? We have so much to do here to get this place more bug proof, needing to have done it like yesterday....who cares about something like lunch?" But that wasnt said out loud, instead to make him happy i just started to make something. And was surprised at how happy it made me too...not sure why i'm always surprised when this happens. But when i am stressed and rushing and its the worst time in the world to stop and make something...somehow doing it anyway is what calms me down so much. The simple act of making a little cassarole, the making of it in itself, the mixing things, even doing the dishes...let alone the having a decent lunch, somehow made a rather stressful day so much calmer. I'm still not sure why i'm always surprised when this happens...my head knows it will. But my body, so caught up in the stress and trying to get something done i'm focused on...my body gets surprised every time.

The phrase "the magic of ordinary days" is what comes to mind. The ordinary mundane stuff...it still keeps amazing me how it's what seems to hold the healing perhaps most of all, for everyone in the house really. Am reminded of a favorite post, The Healing Hand of Home, from Lynn of All Things Bright and Beautiful:

"I got the call we all dread "I've had a bump in the car". I could hear the traffic racing by as my son stood chatting to me on the hard shoulder (emergency lane on the motorway). "No-one's hurt." I sighed a huge sigh of relief...

I made supper as usual, I tidied the kitchen as usual, I put laundry away as usual, I set the fire as usual. Then with my jobs finished I sat before the fire in a dark room & took stock ...I pondered on how, throughout the trials of the day, I had continued to be the keeper of my home & that had got me through. After the bad stuff, my family had come home. And yes, corny/cheesy or not we had all experienced the healing hand of home.

The rhythm of creating order at home had given me peace & calm which could later be enjoyed by the other members of the family. I use the word rhythm in preference to "routine" which for many sums up boredom & chores but to me routine is restorative.

Another of life's lessons learnt?
No matter what is happening outside this house, no matter how crazy the world becomes; what happens within the four walls of my home will set standards, traditions & peace that can be taken forward in our lives....

(Now) today I am home alone in a quiet house. Hopefully the day will be totally uneventful and I will do what I normally do as usual. But in the quiet solitude I am very aware of the healing hand of my home."

The magic of ordinary days. Big time. By the way the movie by that title (such a good movie!) is here. Well worth watching : )

And it's funny... i always think of the Sabbath as such a precious gift we are given...even if i'm still far below the mark in keeping the Sabbath as it should be (slowly working on this). But our "ordinary time", the preciousness of that too, the joy there, the GIFT....well the gift there seems to hit most of all as the Sabbath approaches and we are about to leave ordinary time behind for a bit. Or ideally leave it behind anyway...in my life entering Sabbath fully needs some deepening for sure.

Well, Good Shabbas All,
And a Very Blessed Sabbath...
And Happy 4th of July too : )

Inserted later: So far no wasps inside, happy happy dance : ) The nest building may have been halted by the seal off....but deeper still by His protection. Thank you thank you God for protecting here! : )

(Bottom image from here, top image unknown)

A Healing Table: Baking as Sacrament

Such a nice co-in-see-dance happened today. As was shared in the last post, have been extra excited about baking lately. And then this afternoon i came across this very heartening post from Corey of Tongue in Check. As some of you know, her mother is an amazing baker. But she stopped baking when her husband became very ill, and then he sadly passed away a few months ago. It is only now that she is beginning to bake again, and the resulting blessing is deep.... for the whole family. From here and here:

"My Mother loves to bake, it is one of the things she does best. As far back as I can remember the kitchen counter had a plate or two of cookies on it. When I recall my childhood home a sweet aroma instantly fills the air.

When my Mother bakes cookies she did it without thinking, certainly like prayer, it was her therapy. She would wake up early, and before going to morning Mass she would crack the eggs, cream the butter with the sugar, add the vanilla...with the recipe in her head. My Mother's hands steady and swift made cookies for those she loved, for those who would come to visit, for those who needed cheering up, for those at the rest home, for the neighbors and anyone who asked her for help. Yes making cookies was her way of giving communion to those of us in need....

The art of baking starts with having the right ingredients and follows with a knowledge that what you are doing is feeding the hungry with loving spoonfuls of goodness. My mom is baking again and the sweet aroma allows home to feel like home once more. The art of her baking is deliciously healing.

Everyone needs a helping hand no matter how small... my mother has many helping hands surrounding her (see one set of those precious little hands above, smile). After several months of not baking... my mother picked up her wooden spoon. The atmosphere was softly quiet as if we were baking a souffle. The children knew, as only children do, that this was a first step for their beloved Vavie (Grandmother)....With each turn of the wooden spoon, each lick of the beater, each stolen taste.... healing was being served. "

This reminded me so much of how sacramental baking actually is in its own way. Indeed so much of the seemingly mundane, the quotidian things in life...are sacramental. More and more, i feel that the more mundane and qoutidian/daily/"simply basic" something is, the more likely it is a truly sacred thing really.

Geneveive Kineke beautifully goes into the sacramentalness of a woman's work in particular, in her book The Authentic Catholic Woman. The sacrament of Baptism is mirrored in our everyday acts of cleaning and of hospitality. The sacrament of confirmation is mirrored in the act of counsel and encouraging the best in one another. The sacrament of reconcilation is surely a daily mirrored thing in our lives, that of peacemaking and forgiveness. The anointing of the sick and last rites are mirrored as well, in our healing and caring for one another in all the little ways that that happens. The sacrament of marriage and holy orders are mirrored in a man's daily providence and protection and a woman's daily nurturing (be it physical, emotional, spiritual or mental...even beautifying or ordering is a form of nurturing). And the sacrament of the Eucharist is mirrored in, you guessed it....that wonderful qoutidian mystery of cooking and feeding.

Okay, now i want to go bake something again, lol. Time to mix up some cornbread to go with the lentil soup for dinner. Sacramental living, more and more it just amazes me. What is common, what is daily...is so often what is most sacred....

(Images from Corey Amaro of Tongue in Cheek, from here and here)

A Grateful Table: Heart Prayers in the Kitchen

For those not familiar with rural living, allow me to paint a scene. I live out on what is basically a prarie here in Oregon. It boasts a tiny mom and pop market and cafe....and that's it. But if one saddles up and takes the journey (and it is a journey) into a neighboring town one can find such wonders as an ATM, a gas station, a still small (but bigger than the one in my area) market, and antique stores. So once a month or so i "go into town", and it feels i think like it might have felt to our ancestors...going into town is a real event.

Yesterday was just such an event, and a gift was found in an antique store that has been making me so happy....the perfect mixing bowl : ) I've been waiting for just the right mixing bowl for so long, a really special one...and this was it, the sweetest little Halls bowl, and blessedly affordable. I can't stop looking at it and touching its smooth soft surface. I keep baking whatever i can think of because i love using it so much (luckily the weather has been cooperating, has cooled off this weekend). It's the nicest feeling and have been so grateful for this! And it's reminded me of an old post i've been meaning to bring over, so reprinting it below. It was originally written on 3/25/08....

In his book "Maxims", Brother Lawrence writes, "Men invent means and methods of coming at God's love, they learn rules and set up devices to remind them of that love, and it seems like a world of trouble to bring oneself into the consciousness of God's presence. Yet it might be so simple. Is it not quicker and easier just to do our common business wholly for the love of him?"--from here

"How much better and faster this is than trying to use our own limited intelligence to search for answers and proof. How much more direct and gentle this is than running off on our own path full of detours and obstacles that so often lead nowhere or, even worse, keep us spinning in circles that become deep ruts. How much easier to do it God's way with simple gratitude."--from here

Mentioned awhile back was Brother Lawrence's core and simple "heart prayer" of "Thank you, God (hmmm, mistyped as "Thank of God", like "Think of God). His grateful way of being is just such a relief. The thing is, i think its our first natural reaction really, but we sadly learn to bury it (see here). Truly, "not burying" that thank you finally is such a relief, a re-mem-ber-ing that God is in control and that He is caring for us... the chest sighs, the breath slows. A bit more about this "Thank You, God" prayer, from from here:

"The Silent 'Thank You, Father'

"Please give Him thanks with me for His great goodness which I can never sufficiently express, and for the many favors He has done to so miserable a sinner as I am. May all things praise Him. Amen." ... Brother Lawrence

The most powerful expression of practicing God's presence is The Silent 'Thank You, Father'. These three words are the very essence of the holy habit. This phrase is the secret to living on earth and in heaven in continual conversation with God. It can start us and keep us moving forward on the path of practicing God's presence -no matter what.

The Silent 'Thank You, Father', is voiced from the heart. We repeat it inwardly at all times and in all circumstances -no matter what. In this way, The Silent 'Thank You, Father' brings us into instant awareness and communion with God.

We learn from Brother Lawrence that the things necessary for the practice of the presence of God are love, humility, simplicity, and faith. Contained within the three words, 'Thank You, Father', is a complete expression of love, humility, simplicity, and faith. When silently spoken at all times and in all circumstances -no matter what, 'Thank You, Father' expresses our accord with His good pleasure, His holy will...

The Silent 'Thank You, Father' is a full expression of faith because trust in Our Lord is the very foundation of living in God's presence...

The beginning is not easy. We sometimes feel like a hypocrite....(But He will help us, and in) time, when we diligently apply ourselves, this phrase transforms our entire outlook and assures a dynamic, personal relationship with God. Sometimes, just the thought of silently saying, 'Thank You, Father' (if needed can also add 'Lord, increase my faith' ) will flood our heart with His radiant presence. We may become so aware of this sense of presence that, should we slip out of it, we automatically form the words within.

At the very least, we will recognize when something is not quite right. If we slip into a mood or a troubled frame of mind, a round of 'Thank You, Father', sometimes a vigorous round of many repetitions, will bring us back into His holy presence.

This beautiful phrase is a prayer which acts much like the classic Jesus Prayer: "Lord, Jesus Christ, Have mercy on me, a poor sinner." When we inscribe these short, yet complete, prayers into the very fiber of our being, we form a lasting and holy habit of expressing our love, humility, simplicity, and faith."

That site above is an excellent one for reflections on Brother Lawrence. For his writings themselves though, i find this translation more poetic, from here. There is also a really nice audio version of that translation, from here. And a wonderful sermon on Brother Lawrence from here.

The image above of cakemaking may seem a strange one to post with stuff on Brother Lawrence, but not really...he did after all work in a monastory kitchen. However the real reason i was drawn to this image here is that its been using my mixing bowl in this little "abbey" here that's also making me so thankful lately. For years, becuase of my injury, i have not been able to use a mixing bowl. And there's just something so archetypal about using that mixing bowl, something i deeply miss. Lately though, from a combination of the injury being calmer lately, and also finding some ergonomic tricks to mixing (putting a wet towel under the bowl so it stays in place better, mixing with hands vs a spoon when its too hard to stir, etc), ive been able to use a mixing bowl more lately. And there is just something about that, something that brings such a feeling of ancientness, and of joy.

It reminds me of my very favorite post from Home Living, one of the earliest ones there called The Mixing Bowl:

"I don't know about you, but I never just mechanically mix up something just because it must be done. There are a lot of things packed into this activity that you may not know. For one thing, I think of the women before me who may have stood at that counter and mixed up a batch of scones or pancakes. I remember the Pioneer women in the log homes or sod homes their husbands built for them. I'm stirring away, and thinking how valuable that mixing bowl must have been to the next generations. Grown children must have wanted their grandmother's mixing bowl, not just for something to use, but for the sentimental value. In using that bowl, the homemaker must have thought of the times of the life of her grandmother, and remembered some of the special occasions when she mixed up a batch of something. Pictures form in her mind of grandmother in her apron, with a contented smile, mixing up something special for her family. I think across the ages to the earliest people in history--even as far back as the women of the Bible making cakes, such as the woman of Zarepath, who made a little cake for Elijah in I Kings 17. So, it is more than just doing a job. It is a repetition of a custom from long ago. We are creating memories for our family when we use the mixing bowl, and one day someone will ask if they can have your mixing bowl...

In all the things we perceive as greatness in the world, this is one of the most cherished experiences for people of all ages. In doing this, the woman with the mixing bowl makes a statement about her life. This is her world, her time, and her freedom. She doesn't have to worry about time sheets and schedules and bosses, keeping her job, competing with someone else for better batter, or anything that takes place on "the outside" as I call it. She's not worried about losing her position if it doesn't turn out well. It is the doing of it that counts. She can think about that bowl, and if she got it at her wedding, the person that gave it to her. She can spend a few minutes quietly stirring and thinking about the people that made it possible for her to be as she is today, contentedly stirring something in the mixing bowl.

A woman who has claimed the freedom to create a cake or pudding from her own special mixing bowl, whether it is her own new one she got for her wedding, or the one passed down from her grandmother, has truly made it to the top, in life... It isn't just the act itself that is so comforting and reassurring to a home, but the end results. The enticing aroma and the final partaking of such a treat, holds a special feeling of anticipation for all members of a family, and their visitors, no matter what age. The mixing bowl transcends the so-called "generation gap" and even moreso the gap we often feel in time. In doing something that the Pilgrims, Pioneers, and Victorians did, these people that once walked the earth and have now "gone home" do not seem so foreign or so strange to us. Like you, there was once a woman in 1890 standing at her sink, glancing up at her family, with the mixing bowl in her arm. Somehow, their lives don't seem so distant from our own, when we are doing something so similar to something they did in their own generation."

I just love this!

(Image adpated from here)

A Hopeful Table: Home, the Miracle Place

I'm a big believer in dreams, but sadly can't always remember the night's dreams. Sometimes i'll wake up with more just a feeling from the dream instead, or a phrase will be there. The other morning, woke up with "make this a miracle place" as i looked around this little home here. And boy are miracles needed now! I won't bore y'all with the details, but its been tough to say the least.

So...making home a miracle place. Well, i sure don’t think we "create our own reality" or any of that nonsense. We are not God, and shouldn’t pretend we are, we cannot create miracles. But something about "making a miracle place" on the other hand, has really stuck. Something about beautifying one's place, about making it more prayerful and peaceful, it really does change something i think. It doesn’t create a miracle, but maybe it helps us to somehow believe in miracles once again. And that's definitely no small thing.

In one of my favorite posts ever (yes Ann, i'm quoting this one yet again lol) it gives a sense of this. From here:

"All once was perfect, ordered, pristine, back there, In the Beginning. In That Garden. But not now. Not in this house, not in this garden. Science may call it entropy, the second law of thermodynamics, the wearing down of all systems, the measure of chaos. I call it what You call it: sin and decay, and my daily battle. Weeds, dirty laundry, piling dishes, dust collecting...this is life after the Fall.

Yet, in small ways, I return to You and the Perfect Time Before when I order, wash away, sweep clean...beating back the chaos, the powers of destruction. Simple acts of cleaning are my humble, conquering efforts in the quotidian struggle between chaos and order, creation and disintegration, God and Death.

Deliberate, ritual motions maintain an easy order. Easier than wresting order out of invading chaos. And a tidy house ushers in the possibility of a tidy heart. A heart beating with Yours, in a place more like that place In the Beginning.

Is this housework a picture of entering into Redemption? To bring restoration to that which has fallen...

I frame this cleaning as my monastic beauty, my daily wrestle, to create, in imperfect ways, a world for these loved ones... like You created so perfectly for humanity when the world began...."

Truly, something about ordering and beautifying brings us back to that original beauty and innocence a bit more, that fairy-tale-ness....and that returns to us that fragile and precious hope in the miraculous. A hope that anything is possible through He who loves us, if it is His Will. And He truly has our loving care at heart. Now if that isnt miraculous : )

I've found myself turning to the sink/stove area more lately, tending the "kitchen sink shrine". One of the joys of this little place is all the vintage tiles and things, so the sink stove area has been really cleared lately so all the tiles show. And in the lattice work alongside the stove (this is hard to describe, its kind of like lace in feeling but made of white metal and glass, another really sweet vintage touch in this little trailer) are various favorite holy cards of the Holy Family, a little crucifix, a bluebird feather. The funny thing is, the more that area gets beautified, the more i truly long to be there more and more often, looking out that kitchen window, and out onto the water. It’s the same little window i cook by, the same window i wash the dishes by. It’s the same window the blue heron flew right by recently. Its the same window that will come with me even when i move (since i live in a trailer, it happily comes along). And the thing is, its always been here, just waiting to be part of "home, the miracle place".

Our own little kitchen sinks, the stuff of prayer places and fairy tales and miracles? Well why not : ) ? Our Matriarchs in the OT had their wells, we have our kitchen sinks. God was alive and miraculous back then, God is alive and miraculous today. He is everywhere, even in our humble little kitchen sinks. And i thought i'd gather today some posts that have really inspired in this area.

First, from Kitchen Madonna, i love this so much:

"Great saints of the Church have known that God may be found while elbow deep in suds and dirty dishes. Saint Teresa of Avila claimed that "The Lord walks among the pots and pans." Her spiritual son, generations removed, Brother Lawrence, a humble, 17th century monastery cook and clean-up guy, is famous for his conversations with a learned bishop about how to practice the Presence of God while washing pots and pans.

Simply put, Brother Lawrence enjoyed his life in the kitchen, especially the lowly, menial tasks because he was constantly lifting his mind, spirit, and body in prayer. Especially while he did the dishes. Doing all things as unto the Lord, as if for the Lord, transformed his kitchen sink into a kind of holy of holies. No wonder the other monks, monastery visitors, tradesmen from town, the bishop, and others who heard about his saintliness gravitated to his kitchen. It was a place of joy and peace.

Finding the sacred in the everyday is as simple as doing the tasks before you with great mindfulness, not worrying about the overdrawn checkbook or tomorrow's meeting. Losing yourself in the task at hand, simply put yourself in the Presence of God, letting go of any distracting thoughts as they invariably surface. This is what is classically known as the discernment of thoughts, what the Church offered centuries and centuries before that secular gift known as cognitive therapy. Constantly return to the trust and peace that comes with abandoning yourself to Divine Providence. In time, you won't notice how long it takes to wash the dishes because you will have entered Kairos or eternal time. God's time.

Of course you may make yourself pleasing to the Lord by praising Him and by interceding for others and yourself. And if someone wanders into your kitchen with all of this going on, true charity naturally requires dropping it all and being receptive to their hopes, desires, and needs.

I don't know exactly when the window sill above my kitchen sink became a shrine. It started off with a saint card here, a printed prayer card there, especially prayers I wanted to memorize like the Memorare or the Divine Praises or the Anima Christi. I've written out Bible verses and put them there so I could memorize them; in time, the ink usually drips with water splashes. There is the miniature tea set given to me by my best friend, and I think it serves to remind me of our many discussions over the years about what it means to be a daughter of the King and other feminine mysteries. Sometimes a statue of a saint but always a crucifix. Now there are some dried roses hanging upside down and suspended with silk ribbon.

And of course, when one steps back a foot or two from the sink, there is an ever-changing tableau of dishes that changes much like time-lapsed photography and with the position of the sun. An offering of clean dishes with the new day. Breakfast dishes and then lunch dishes that may or may not get cleaned up right away. But certainly a pile of pots and pans by sunset. And somebody - if you are lucky - hungering to find some peace and joy in your kitchen."

And from Very Calm is this lovely relection:

"I suppose most of us spend more time than we'd like at the kitchen sink but it happens that the view through the window beyond mine is quite pleasant...Time doing mundane chores is oftentimes a good time for ponderings. I noticed that the bluebirds, which apparently are somewhat used to seeing me on the other side of the window, happily enjoyed their breakfast (while i watch them), quite unruffled by my intent amusement.

Helen Steiner Rice's well-know poem came to mind, one I often prayerfully consider as I work:

God, teach me to be patient
Teach me to go slow
Teach me how to wait on you
When my way I do not know.
Teach me sweet forebearance
When things do not go right
So I remain unruffled
When others grow uptight.
Teach me how to quiet
My racing, rising heart
So I may hear the answer
You are trying to impart.
Teach me to let go dear God
And pray undisturbed until
My heart is filled with inner peace
And I learn to know you well!

-Helen Steiner Rice"

And them there's this precious poem that was hanging right by my grandmother's kitchen window growing up....and i'll bet in so many other kitchens as well:

"THE KITCHEN PRAYER
By Cecily Hallack or St Teresa

Lord of all pots and pans and things,
Since I've no time to be
A saint by doing lovely things or
Watching late with thee,
Or dreaming in the twilight or
Storming heaven's gates.
Make me a saint by getting meals or
Washing up the plates.

Although I must have Martha's hands,
I have Mary's mind, and,
When I black the boots and shoes
Thy sandals, Lord, I find.
I think of how they trod the earth
What time I scrub the floor,
Accept this meditation, Lord,
I haven't time for more.

Warm all the kitchen with thy love,
And light it with thy peace,
Forgive me all my worrying
And make all grumbling cease.
Thou who didst love to give men food
In room or by the sea
Accept this service that I do
I do it unto thee."

Gotta go, that cozy corner in the kitchen beckons. And i know to some that will sound odd indeed...but really, it does. After all, it's here at home, the miracle place...

(Image from the article All things Are Possible, and the second image is simply a close up of the church outside the kitchen window there, just love that)

An Enchanted Table: Halloween and the Magic of Life

Online time is still sporadic. But as i've been thinking of Halloween lately, i cant help but think again of the magical, what is truly magical rather than tbe occult nonsense we are told. A qoute jumped out, from the book "The Abbey on the Hill" that i thought i'd share:

"In The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life, Thomas Moore says it so well. 'The soul craves ordinary pleasures, depth of feeling and relatedness, wordly delight that is not inimical to a spiritual practice, human scale in the making of culture, and exposure to the magic that lies just beneath the surface of familiar things.'

Sometimes my stuff is just stuff. Sometimes i get too attached and I lose all perspective about what it was meant to be, And sometimes, an old watch, worn long and serving well, holds the magic of God's creation just beneath the surface of its created silver face.""

And i see this feeling a bit in the image above too. The calm cozy and orderly, yet swimming with secret joy underneath, type magic of the domestic and creative....that of hearty soups and and healing teas and cozy creations and long walks and sweet dreams...."the magic that lies just beneath the surface of familiar things".

Our ancestors and loved ones and Saints that we especialy honor at this time of year live in a world where the viel over this magicalness of life has been even more lifted. A life of "the flash" as Emily of New Moon might say. And i have to admit it comforts me to know this.

I am grateful to the loved ones and Saints who have worn so smooth this narrow path before us, their hands holding ours along the way. May they be blessed.

Wishing you all a truly magical Halloween and All Saints Day, one filled with "the magic of God's creation just beneath the surface"...

(Image is from here)

A Table Still in Transition: Lessons from a Dream

Hope everyone is well. So far i dont have internet here really and end up going out for it instead.... so blogging will be sporadic till a solution is found.

Thought i'd do a little an update. As most of you know after the fun little fiasco of the place i was moving into flaking two days before moving in, there was a scramble to even find anything. So i found a temp situation for a month which was moved into a few days ago. The place itself is horrible frankly, but the area is quite lovely since its right accross the street from the ocean and walking distance to cute little antique stores etc, its a sweet little town. So my hope is that perhaps i was put here to find another place in the area? Will have to see what unfolds.

Most of the energy's been focused on all the details of moving really, and also on the continuing search since this place is only for a month anyway so no roots can be put down yet... havent even unpacked/put out most of my "special things" yet. I feel a bit like Ma Ingalls when they lived in this company housing sort of place while Pa was working a season (forget which book that was in). Because when he asked her why she wouldnt put out her special little statue they kept on the hearth she firmly said something like "no, it doesnt go out till we are in a real home and this isnt it". Thats exactly how i feel. But still, a couple of things have stood out. On the old blog i'd mentioned a bookbinder's dream i'd had some time ago (had it a year or more ago) and it came up again during the move so i'll share it again so what came up will make sense.

The dream began with a walk to the beach. It was modern times, and early morning. I was in a new area and it was my first walk down to the water and i was excited. But an older lady (a very old-world feeling Russian peasant type woman) saw me and waved her arms telling me to go back. She seemed nice enough, but her caution irritated me at the time because all i wanted to do was go and see the water and i felt like her fear of whatever it was was ruining it. I thought, "what's she doing trying to tell me it was too cold or something...well bah, i want to get down to that water and noone's going to stop me". So i waved hello to her but ignored her warning arms waving and kept on going towards the water. And several minutes after walking suddenly a whole troop of buses came along and nearly ran me over since this was a teeny tiny road. The buses themselves hardly fit on the lane and i just barely avoided getting hit. The woman who was trying to warn warned me had been right, seems she knew that this troop of buses came at that time of morning and i definitely should have listened to her to find that out and done something differently.

Next scene in the dream is different. I'm in a very ancient quaint feeling village with my finace, only in the dream we are married already and have been for a very long time. We are bookbinders, in this ancient village where books are rare and precious and bookbinding is a sacred and serious craft. One inherited this bookbinder's role i believe. Kind of like how craft-lines were passed down in the middle ages, and the town itself was kind of like the middle ages, and yet also something else special that i can't put my finger on.

At any rate, me and my partner were a bookbinding couple, and there were strict rules about this sort of thing. It was very much like icon making although really i didnt even know that at the time since i didnt know much about icon making back then when i had the dream and its actually only very recently that i've connected the dots there. But certian colors and certain patterns etc were to be used for certian themes in our bookbinding in the dream. And this bookbinding work had to be done quite calmly and prayerfully, if one was upset or unfocused one had to stop working and pray and come to a better place inside and then come back to working. Which again, i ending up finding out later was exactly like icon making really.

And so in this dream we both just loved it. We loved the prayerfullness, the calm, the order, the beauty, the way there was a tradition of certain colors and images and patterns we were to be carrying forward. It made us feel we were being carried by, and carrrying, something greater rather than just ourselves. It felt so "right" to us that rather than being an artist type who created something based on our own individual instincts we were instead carrying forward something traditional and sacred. Again, i've learned later that that this is like icon making...in icon making one isnt considered an artist but rather a writer, becuase in making icons you arent making an individual artistic creation so much as you are copying a sacred manuscript in a sense, preserving that past not reinventing the wheel....like they did it in the middle ages when they copied manuscripts in monastorys (a craft i've always fantasized about with such longing btw...i'm learning my draw to monastic living isnt about the aesteticism much of monastic living has turned into but rather about these ancient prayerful sacred traditions they had carried there like manuscript making etc, i get so mega drawn there).

Its funny, but so much is making more sense now. I hadnt fully connected the dots from this dream to icon making before, and yet for months now i've had this phrase in my head about having an "iconic rule of life" (see old blog).... that is, having a "rule of life" (rythym of the day, way of doing things etc) that is like the principles of icon making. Its only been recently that i've realized this dream was showing how somehow. And for months i've been drawn so deeply to the feeling of the picture of the bookmaker above too, and its always gone along with that "iconic rule of life" phrase. Now i'm realizing it goes with the dream too, they are all connected. This dream was telling me my role in life i think, my "work", and my partner's too (he has a similar draw in this prayerful living and crafting area). And this image above has been drawing me so much lately i'm trying to find the right way to make it the blog header too (its up there now but i hope to find a better format somehow, upcoming...anyone know how to shift template colors and width and such?).

Anyway, this dream had continued too, becuase there is another big layer here. In the dream, most the traditions me and my partner loved--the ancient way of living in this village, the ancient ways of our bookbinding craft too. Except for one thing, and it was a biggie. There was a strict division of what the men and women bookbinders were each to do. And in general we loved the traditional male-female roles in this village, they felt very right to us, but not in this one part, there we had a real problem. The thing was, the women were supposed to be the ones to weave the special cloth for the books, and the men were supposed to be the ones who sewed the special designs onto it. And we were so incredibly unsuited to this. The broad strong motions of the weaving really hurt my spine and shoulder injury and the fine minute stiches of the design-sewing hurt my partner's arthritis in his hands. And it was mental and emotional too, i was just way more "geared" to the sewing part, found real joy in it and was good at it....and i was just terrible and miserable at the weaving. Likewise my partner just loved the weaving, and was very good at it, and hated the sewing. We sure didnt want to just toss the craft or this traditional way of living either, we embraced it all except for that one "little" weaving/sewing glitch...but we knew from a deep place that that part about the weaving and sewing just had to be switched....and without tossing the heart of the tradition. So what we did was we carried on with our living and craft in all the traditional ways but with one big change: he did the weaving part and i the sewing, and we kept the curtains drawn to keep the neighbors from seeing that switch. In the dream, it worked.

This dream has been in my mind lately for two reasons. One is that sometime last week i dreamt a kind of "part II" of the dream. Dreamt i was with the ancient Russian (?) woman who had tried to warn me about not taking the path to the ocean when the buses were coming that way (the beginning of the original dream). When i saw her in this new dream i apologized for not listening to her before, and i asked for her advice in my so-in-transition life right now. She didnt seem worried about the future even though i was, she seemed to think things would be fine. She took my hand and looked into my eyes and said "You are simply carrying forward tradition in an untraditional way, that's all". She smiled, telling me without any more words that that was just fine somehow. I woke up comforted, even though i'm not sure how you carry forward tradition in an untraditional way, seems like kind of a contradition. But i'm sure it will unfold over time.

And in "real life" lately i've just been noticing little things about the whole "weaving and sewing" thing, just how much that image applies to me and my partner and that we should just accept it. It was really hitting me one day last week when he had loaded the heavy glass patio table the car to go store it. He had loaded the table and hadnt even noticed the water hose was left untidyly out in the open out on the patio in its wake, and that some other smaller things were left out too. This is the kind of stuff that tends to upset me, the details missed. But last week it was hitting me....it's just that he's weaving and i'm sewing. No way could i do the "broad motions" of moving the bigger stuff etc, and i accept that limit in myself. Well likewise he's not cut out for the "sewing"/looking at the little details as much, and i need to accept that limit in him. Limit isnt even the right word, we just each have different strengths. It applies to lots of thing i think. I love for example Fascinating Womanhood's chapter on handling finances, that the husband takes care of all the details ("sewing") there, and so handles all the billpaying and buissiness etc. But there's just no way that will work for us really, my partner is not geared for the details of "buisiness stuff" so i can already see it coming...likelyvhe will be doing the "broad strong motions/weaving" of earning the living and keeping the car and home in good repair etc and i will be doing the "fine minute" details of the actual organizing (sorting, planning, this goes here, redoing this, cleaning that, we need this for that etc) of things, and also the bill paying, buisiness calls, etc. He is also far better at the whole keeping connections/peace with the neighbors thing than i am, while i am better at organizing and keeping track of the details/ planning/steps etc of the things we need to do....while the stereotypical image folks have of traditional roles is that that stuff is reversed. But i'm learning that that's fine,that maybe that's a way of simply "carrying forward tradition in an untraditional way".

After all the heart of the traditional provider/nurturer roles are still there we are just carrying them forward in a bit of a different way. Keeping the archetypes but knowing the stereotypes are optional. There really is a difference i think between the archetype of something and the stereotype. Maleness and femaleness, Adam's "curse" and Eve's "curse", the deeper heart of traditions... these are archetypal it feels, rich, deep, alive. The minute "how--to's" and frozen expectations there...those are stereotypes it feels, not as core. No way am i tossing the archetypes but the stereotypes are becoming less and less important over time. Its kind of like a woman's role of keeping at home....that's archetypal. But the how there doesnt have to be the sterotype, we are not all cut out for the for the energetic domestic dynamo so idealized by some, some of us may be more like a sort of Laura Ingalls Wilder type who keeps house with a book in one hand (my favorite part of her life lol) becuase our focus is a bit different there, or maybe we tend towards Beatrix Potter's way of bringing healing to the home with her stories instead of the more expected hands on way of carrying forward home, or just fill in the blank. STILL carrying forward the tradition of women and home-centeredness, just in a non-traditional way. This is very different from being a revolutionary and scrapping tradition. This is instead really longing to bring out more and more the heart of tradition, cherishing that, just finding a way that you can carry it forward that works. Just like in scripture folks found new ways to carry core things forward in different ways. Debrah's way would have been different from Tamar's, Leah's from Rebekah's, Martha's from Mary's. None of these women were revolutionries, none of these women wanted to run from their traditional roles, they only longed to know how they were being called to best fufill them.

Anyway, just noticing lots of little things like this lately amid all the moving and such. Guess its a time of not just outer transition but inner too. Or something.

An ending qoute that's been inspiring me lately amid all the home turmoil:

Thank God, O woman, for the quietude of your home, and that you are queen in it. Men come at eventide to the home; but all day long you are there beautifying it, sanctifying it, adorning it, blessing it. Better be there than wear a queen's coronet. Better be there than carry the purse of a princess. It may be a very humble home. There may be no carpet on the floor. There may be no pictures on the wall. There may be no silks in the wardrobe; but, by your faith in God, and your cheerful demeanor, you may garnish that place with more splendor than the upholsterer's hand ever kindled.
~ T. De Witt Talmage

Guess that applies even to a home in transition, even to a home where the "pretty things" are still packed away till the real move later. Kind of like the time of manna in the desert for the Isrealites... women still carried their touches of home-ness there i'm sure in their own ways even amid all the packed up things and wandering, a woman's home-ness comes accross i think just in how you live somehow. I dont think you can wander too far if you put yourself in God's care and realize that when it comes down to He is your Home. We are "keepers" of home, but He is home.

Anyway, thats a little update for now, and it may be a bit before writing again. Hope all are well : )

(Image from here)

A Table of Quiet Strength: Thoughts on Growing Gracefully

I've been thinking about the future lately. Here i am at midlife pretty much, and my finace is even further ahead. I long so much to grow older gracefully, and settle more and more into a life that will be a blessing somehow...and hopefully at home. Several places around the blogosphere lately have been speaking of the area of older women being at home, and i'm so glad this is being looked at. Yet the general take out there seems to be this: That world at large tells us that once a woman has no (young) children at home she doesnt need to be there becuase there isnt as much "to do" there then.....and so, the typical response has been to say: well there's plenty that older (or childless) women can "do" such as volenteer their little hearts out while at home to stay nice and "busy" etc. Basically saying: see, a woman can still be Martha, still be outward productivity focused, even in her childless or later years....and therefore she has value at home. And while i'm grateful this area is finally getting more attention, sadly this typically one sided sort of view ends up leaving the rest of us kind of out in the cold, the rest of us who long to be more Mary oriented than Martha...and who can offer just as much "value" (though i don't even like that word anymore with the productivity-as-god connotations we give it) in our being at home, just in different way.

We all grow old differently. Growing older in a way that is energetic and active and busy (even if a woman is home based), well this needs no introduction really-- one can look in plently of places to find support for that. And there's nothing wrong with it of course, the world really does need Martha, she is one of our models for a good reason, went on to become a beloved Saint. But she is not the only one we can look to, we also have her sister Mary. And so what still bothers me is that the busy Martha-ish way is seen as the way by many, what gives value to a woman when it comes down to it, including in this area of older woman being at home. Sure, folks will give their nod to the value of a few more contemplative Mary-ish things things in life, but thats not the same as them being the bigger focus.

There is more than just a "productivity contest" way of being at home, at whatever age. And a gift of growing older can be that one calms more, slows down more, grows in wisdom and peace and presence. An older woman's home may deepen in peace and prayer, and its slower pace and more intimate communion help calm those around her. The same might be true of her person, maybe it too has slowed and calmed and deepened in spirit and is a warm and welcoming place to turn to for wisdom or comfort for those around her. The world truly does need women like this, women with this sort of thing as thier deeper focus, not as a mere sidenote like it is for the busyness oriented Marthas of the world. Just a nod/small focus on these more subtle things cannot bring these things to as deep a place, and the world truly needs them. We need Mary. We need Marthas and Marys both, and yet we expect most everyone to be Martha when it comes down to it to be "worth" anything.

I think thats why i was moved by a movie seen recently, the 1938 film "The Young in Heart". It showed growing older gracefully in a bit more Mary-like way. I am feeling more and more a deep longing for such models...

Well, Good Shabbas All

And Blessed Sabbath : )

(image source unknown)

A Shabbas Table: Recovering Wonder

Well, if it isnt already painfully obvious, i'm longing for the coolness of the change of seasons. Shabbat with a bear? Christmas in August? Well sure... on this blog, hehe.

Anyway i've been thinking alot about hot and cold, sun and moon. Earlier in the week we had a full lunar eclipse and i stayed up for it, just glued, it was so amazing. I'm definitely a 'moon person' and it hit me just how much i missed it, being out on the patio moongazing. Its not really set up for it here, but maybe when i move.

Its not that i dont love the sun, i do. I love the soft golden warmth in the sky, and the fire of the hearth as well, cherish it. And i love the sunrise and sunset, they are truly miraculous and you can feel it. But i'm no fan of harsh sun, or brilliant blinding bright...the kind of weather most folks love so much. Sun instead needs to be tempered with me....give me a sun beautifully softened by mist or rain anyday, or a warm sun upon cool snow. I need that balance. I love this qoute of Emily of New Moon (my favorite of Montgomery's books), from here:

She watched the funeral procession as it wound up the long, grassy
hill, through the light grey rain that was beginning to fall.
Emily was glad it was raining; many a time she had heard Ellen
Greene say that happy was the corpse the rain fell on; and it was
easier to see Father go away in that soft, kind, grey mist than
through sparkling, laughing sunshine.

Mistiness feels so soft, kind, softening the edges. It feels to have the softness and wonder of mystery, which i love. Back to Emily of New Moon, who understood the wonder of mystery so well:

She put the faded blue hood on over her long,
heavy braid of glossy, jet-black hair, and smiled chummily at her
reflection in the little greenish glass. The smile began at the
corners of her lips and spread over her face in a slow, subtle,
very wonderful way, as Douglas Starr often thought. It was her
dead mother's smile--the thing that had caught and held him long
ago when he had first seen Juliet Murray. It seemed to be Emily's
only physical inheritance from her mother. In all else, he
thought, she was like the Starrs--in her large, purplish-grey eyes
with their very long lashes and black brows, in her high, white
forehead--too high for beauty--in the delicate modelling of her
pale oval face and sensitive mouth, in the little ears that were
pointed just a wee bit to show that she was kin to tribes of
elfland.

"I'm going for a walk with the Wind Woman, dear," said Emily. "I
wish I could take you, too. Do you EVER get out of that room, I
wonder. The Wind Woman is going to be out in the fields to-night.
She is tall and misty, with thin, grey, silky clothes blowing all
about her--and wings like a bat's--only you can see through them--
and shining eyes like stars looking through her long, loose hair.
She can fly--but to-night she will walk with me all over the
fields. She's a GREAT friend of mine--the Wind Woman is. I've
known her ever since I was six. We're OLD, OLD friends--but not
quite so old as you and I, little Emily-in-the-glass. We've been
friends ALWAYS, haven't we?"

With a blown kiss to little Emily-in-the-glass, Emily-out-of-the-
glass was off.

The Wind Woman was waiting for her outside--ruffling the little
spears of striped grass that were sticking up stiffly in the bed
under the sitting-room window--tossing the big boughs of Adam-and-
Eve--whispering among the misty green branches of the birches--
teasing the "Rooster Pine" behind the house--it really did look
like an enormous, ridiculous rooster, with a huge, bunchy tail and
a head thrown back to crow.

It was so long since Emily had been out for a walk that she was
half crazy with the joy of it. The winter had been so stormy and
the snow so deep that she was never allowed out; April had been a
month of rain and wind; so on this May evening she felt like a
released prisoner. Where should she go? Down the brook--or over
the fields to the spruce barrens? Emily chose the latter.

She loved the spruce barrens, away at the further end of the long,
sloping pasture. That was a place where magic was made. She came
more fully into her fairy birthright there than in any other place.
Nobody who saw Emily skimming over the bare field would have envied
her. She was little and pale and poorly clad; sometimes she
shivered in her thin jacket; yet a queen might have gladly given a
crown for her visions--her dreams of wonder. The brown, frosted
grasses under her feet were velvet piles. The old mossy, gnarled
half-dead spruce-tree, under which she paused for a moment to look
up into the sky, was a marble column in a palace of the gods; the
far dusky hills were the ramparts of a city of wonder. And for
companions she had all the fairies of the country-side--for she
could believe in them here--the fairies of the white clover and
satin catkins, the little green folk of the grass, the elves of the
young fir-trees, sprites of wind and wild fern and thistledown.
Anything might happen there--everything might come true.

And the barrens were such a splendid place in which to play hide
and seek with the Wind Woman. She was so very REAL there; if you
could just spring quickly enough around a little cluster of
spruces--only you never could--you would SEE her as well as feel
her and hear her. There she was--that WAS the sweep of her grey
cloak--no, she was laughing up in the very top of the taller trees--
and the chase was on again--till, all at once, it seemed as if the
Wind Woman were gone--and the evening was bathed in a wonderful
silence--and there was a sudden rift in the curdled clouds
westward, and a lovely, pale, pinky-green lake of sky with a new
moon in it.

Emily stood and looked at it with clasped hands and her little
black head upturned. She must go home and write down a description
of it in the yellow account-book, where the last thing written had
been, "Mike's Biography." It would hurt her with its beauty until
she wrote it down. Then she would read it to Father. She must not
forget how the tips of the trees on the hill came out like fine
black lace across the edge of the pinky-green sky.

And then, for one glorious, supreme moment, came "the flash."

Emily called it that, although she felt that the name didn't
exactly describe it. It couldn't be described--not even to Father,
who always seemed a little puzzled by it. Emily never spoke of it
to any one else.

It had always seemed to Emily, ever since she could remember, that
she was very, very near to a world of wonderful beauty. Between it
and herself hung only a thin curtain; she could never draw the
curtain aside--but sometimes, just for a moment, a wind fluttered
it and then it was as if she caught a glimpse of the enchanting
realm beyond--only a glimpse--and heard a note of unearthly music.

This moment came rarely--went swiftly, leaving her breathless with
the inexpressible delight of it. She could never recall it--never
summon it--never pretend it; but the wonder of it stayed with her
for days. It never came twice with the same thing. To-night the
dark boughs against that far-off sky had given it. It had come
with a high, wild note of wind in the night, with a shadow wave
over a ripe field, with a greybird lighting on her window-sill in a
storm, with the singing of "Holy, holy, holy" in church, with a
glimpse of the kitchen fire when she had come home on a dark autumn
night, with the spirit-like blue of ice palms on a twilit pane,
with a felicitous new word when she was writing down a "description"
of something. And always when the flash came to her Emily felt that
life was a wonderful, mysterious thing of persistent beauty.

She scuttled back to the house in the hollow, through the gathering
twilight, all agog to get home and write down her "description"
before the memory picture of what she had seen grew a little
blurred. She knew just how she would begin it--the sentence seemed
to shape itself in her mind: "The hill called to me and something
in me called back to it."

And from here, after she has learned her father has little time left to live..

"I wish you--could take me right through the door with you,"
whispered Emily.

"After a little while you won't wish that. You have yet to learn
how kind time is. And life has something for you--I feel it. Go
forward to meet it fearlessly, dear. I know you don't feel like
that just now--but you will remember my words by and by."

"I feel just now," said Emily, who couldn't bear to hide anything
from Father, "that I don't like God any more."

Douglas Starr laughed--the laugh Emily liked best. It was such a
dear laugh--she caught her breath over the dearness of it. She
felt his arms tightening round her.

"Yes, you do, honey. You can't help liking God. He is Love
itself, you know. You mustn't mix Him up with Ellen Greene's God,
of course."

Emily didn't know exactly what Father meant. But all at once she
found that she wasn't afraid any longer--and the bitterness had
gone out of her sorrow, and the unbearable pain out of her heart.
She felt as if love was all about her and around her, breathed out
from some great, invisible, hovering Tenderness. One couldn't be
afraid or bitter where love was--and love was everywhere. Father
was going through the door--no, he was going to lift a curtain--she
liked THAT thought better, because a curtain wasn't as hard and
fast as a door--and he would slip into that world of which the
flash had given her glimpses. He would be there in its beauty--
never very far away from her. She could bear anything if she could
only feel that Father wasn't very far away from her--just beyond
that wavering curtain.

And that's what Shabbat does too in a sense, pulls back that precious misty curtain, giving us a taste of the deeper sacredness behind it all, a sacredness we hug close to us so we can carry it all week. To paraphrase Emily, We can bear anything if we can only feel that Our Father isn't very far away from us--just beyond that wavering curtain...

Good Shabbas, and Blessed Sabbath : )

(Image is from Adrienne Ségur's 'Misha, the Little Brown Bear')

A Listening Table: Opening the Windows of Life

Both this image and this passage from Alison of Brocante Home Chronicles. For me they kind of echo that "making space" inside as in the Poustina (a few posts down), but in a more day to day domestic sense:

One must also accept that one has "uncreative" moments. The more honestly one can accept that, the quicker these moments will pass. One must have the courage to call a halt , to feel empty and discouraged."
Etty Hillesum.

Sometimes I go away. Not literally. For the most part I go no further than the garden gate. But still I am away. Away from everything that usually drives me. Away from the voices in my head forming sentences I will speak later. Away from constant shopping lists and television. Away from nights sat up for no reason other than it is too early to go to bed. Away...

(Away becuase) it isn't only the big things that pre-occupy me. It is the pile of newspaper cuttings in the blue spotty file I am yet to read. It is the as yet untried recipe for a watercress tart I can't stop thinking about and it is the wonder of seeds turning into shoots and shoots turning into bold upright dancing plants that is also filling my mind. I lie in bed and wonder what is happening to my little seedlings. Whether you really can create something wonderful out of something so tiny. I've never really been green fingered. Never stopped to consider the teeny miracle that is planting and hoping and watching and growing and being. You take things for granted don't you? You see gardens created by nature and you don't give it a second thought. My beloved little chamelia blooms year after year and I never go near it, terrified of interfering with something I do not understand. And yet for the first time in seven years my daffodils are blind: they needed human interjection, to divide them and re-plant them. To give them hope for another year.

I didn't know you see? Didn't know my daffodils needed me.

And so this is how it happens. Life in it's own softly spoken voice reminds us what is to be done. I become pre-occupied with things I have never thought of before. Tiny lessons I need time to learn. And so I go away. I climb into bed early and finish piles of books I've not had the brain space to absorb before. I switch off the noise and potter around the house in silence, noticing all at once what needs doing, what will not see me through another year. I peek in the the little green cupboard and whisper to my seedlings and make an occupation of planning my little potted back yard. Tracking down the perfect tomato plants and finding wonder in the sheer possibilities contained in the smallest seed packets. I bake and clean and tidy and dream and find my way back to my everyday.

The Shining Table: The True Magic that is Love and Care

I just love the feeling of this table (yes i know, a Hanakuh table in june, but hey it fits lol). Love and care from the homekeeper truly do make the home SHINE. This keeper's new "manifesto", thanks to Elise's posting:

Let me show loving care this day in the cleaning of my house, the buying of my stores, the cooking of my meals.
Let me show loving care this day in the tending of my linen, the tidying of my cupboards, the doing of my flowers.
Let me show loving care in the freshness of my person and the neatness and niceness of my clothes.

From the beginning of homemaking in modest tents on the sand, women have served their families, and their guests.
From the beginning of homemaking in simple homes of baked mud, women have whitewashed and scrubbed, and set out their pretty things.
From the beginning of more comfortable houses, with handwoven carpets and furniture of cunnng craftsmanship, women have kept open house.

May Christ be my guest this day.

--Rita Snowden from A Woman's Book of Prayers

(Image source unknown)