What We Need Is Here

A gift economy

I was first exposed to this idea of a gift economy in middle school while studying Native American communities in the Pacific Northwest, where wealth and status were apparently at least partially derived by how much one gave. I'm not sure how accurate this description was, but it's an intriguing idea. 

I was reminded of it this week while I stood at the crossroad between all the people dropping off crates, boxes, and bags of produce from their farms and gardens and the folks coming through the doors for a good meal. 

The produce is verging on gaudy in June - boxes of red, purple, orange, and yellow tomatoes, next to a couple of huge zucchini that look like they would be at home in the land of the dinosaurs, three varieties of cucumbers, a bag of deep green jalopenos and spring green banana peppers, lavender speckled and deep purple eggplant, wide pole beans and slender green beans, handfulls of parsley, the last of the oranges, fresh blueberries and blackberries. I know the folks who have produced this food and how hard they work at it. But they walk through the door relaxed and beaming as they add their portion of abundance.  

At 9:30 in the morning, volunteers begin to gather to rinse, peel, chop and dice. Because it's June, a number of children are helping too. There is music in the background, as well as the sound of kids playing and adults laughing. Cutting boards and knives flow in and out of the kitchen as bowls of prepared produce begin to fill the countertop. The stovetop is steaming, the oven lights glow. We want to honor all this food and are determined to preserve its beauty while making it palatable for folks with few or aching teeth. 

By noon, the prepared versions are on the kitchen table - corn on the cob, lightly buttered, tender green beans, rings of baked "gigondo" zucchini filled  with broiled eggplant, roasted tomatoes, garlic and vidalia onions, a tomato-cucumber salad, and fresh bread spread with a choice of local honey butter or our friend's delicious goat cheese. It's beautiful and healthy, fresh and local, and as people sit down at the table to eat, they tell us repeatedly, all afternoon, how good it is. 

By then a lot of the food prep volunteers are back home and the gardeners and farmers are doing what they do. I am the lucky one at the crossroads, witness of beaming faces, and deep generosity. Once in a while things do work. People use their skills to create something beautiful and needed and it is received with gratitude, grace and celebration. We all feel our part in the abundance.  How good it is.  

The distant hope of yourself

For Lent this year, we've decided to return to a practice we engaged in several years ago - to not turn on lights or electronics after dusk each night. This time we may know what we are getting into and are anticipating the bad: hulu-withrawal and time-management challenges; but also the good: the peace, the earlier bedtimes, the glow of the oil lamp, the appreciation of light as the sun sets and the moon rises. I am looking forward to the change. 

Lent has often felt like a second chance at New Years or another go at Advent, both "holy days/holidays" so influenced by the franticness of Christmas that I feel I don't have the time to give them enough thought. Some people give up things for Lent - either things they want to leave behind for good, or things that will help them refocus their interest and make new habits. Others take a more positive approach - more exercise, more quiet, more reading, some volunteering, etc. Year after year it seems to be about finding balance and kindling a litle hope that - with some examination, intention, and focus - we can move closer to being the people we want to be for ourselves and for each other.

"Remember... to dust you will return." A damn good motivator. 

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
     but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."

- Mary Oliver

Five Things Friday

A weekly gratitude list: 

1. Rudy the dog. I am not a "dog person," or much of a pet person at all. We got Rudy for my son for Christmas five years ago, when he was still struggling with the aftermath of cancer, as a companion and something to look after. Ben has moved out and on with a wonderful, healthy life, but Rudy's still here and now heads up the hospitality committee at our house. When I walk him around downtown, people from all over holler, "Hey Rudy!" He barks once, quietly and politely, when the doorbell rings, and - being the most nonthreatening-looking dog ever - most people warm up to him quickly. He's an icebreaker for nervous folks and a general furry bunch of goodwill. I honestly love him. 
2. The hybrid Zipcar. I got to use our new Zipcar membership when I picked up Riley last weekend. He was thrilled to get to open the car with the membership card and watch how much gas or battery charge we were using while driving. Honestly, we both got kind of excited about that. 
3. Bananas. We rarely eat them since they're not local, but the Co-op had some very ripe ones for free a few weeks ago which I quickly snagged to freeze for smoothies. It was the proverbial slippery slope. Dang, they are good. 
4. Wine. John and I made a New Years resolution to drink a bottle of wine every Friday night. We are quite aware that this could be a very bad resolution for a number of folks, but for us - both virtual teetotalers our entire lives - it's something new and fun to look forward to doing together at the end of the week. I think we need a little help with wine choice though. I have been judging by how local and  organic they are and am seduced by artful labels.  This has resulted in some pretty awful stuff that needs to be turned immediately into sangria. I am also grateful it's orange season. 
5. My life at the Green House. Today when I was dishing out oatmeal and garnishing locally-grown (and donated by a friend) grapefruit with (also-gifted) strawberries, and watching people hanging out by the fire enjoying the good food and being so friendly and kind and happy to be eating here, I had a feeling of deja-vu. This is what I once dreamed of, and sometimes it looks exactly like I dreamed it. I used to have that feeling sometimes when my childen were little - that I had once imagined future children, and here they are, so much more than I expected. Now I realize how dependent this phenomenon is on my own inner disposition, whether I recognize these things once in a while, or ignore it, or even become aggravated by it (These kids are keeping me from the book I wanted to read! What? You want tea instead of coffee?!). I'm grateful for the times I see how good this is. 

Don't be afraid

Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. – Frederich Buechner

I am in the kitchen making coffee and buttering toast for “breakfast@TheGreenHouse.” This is a new project, designed to provide not only a little coffee and sustenance at the beginning of the day, but to be a place to go for folks who sleep outside and don’t have another place to be until things begin to open at 9. Hank Williams is singing softly in the background, and I can hear the voices of people in the dining room as they greet each other kindly. I am amazed at the general good nature of the folks who walk through these doors, at this time in the morning, under these circumstances - and by the stories they bring. There are so many ways to be a human being.

• You could be born premature and suffer from seizures that keep you from holding down a job, and give advice to someone new to town, offering to share your room if they need help.
• You could take your little girl with you on the bus ride across town to teach art lessons to people who long for recreation and companionship and the chance to make something beautiful.
• You could ask for a place to leave your little bag of personal belongings while you look for a job, and being told that there is no space, smile and nod and then go hide it under the table and hope for the best.
• You could spend your childhood falling through society’s safety nets and be arrested repeatedly for sleeping in public spaces as an adult, but hear the voice of George Bush in your head telling you these arrests are unconstitutional, and so ignore the probation officers and the court system until they give up. 
• You could spend your days methodically walking the streets of Gainesville with your belongings on your back until your skin is so tanned and leathery that your eyes shine bright blue against it.
• You could wash fifty plates and then sit on the front steps and have a respectful and understanding conversation with an addict because you’ve been there and you know what it’s like.
• You could walk from North Carolina down to Florida and back, asking locals for advice about the quietest roads, to which natives will respond enthusiastically with their oak-lined, pine-pillared, moss-strewn favorites.   
• You could make the most extravagant desserts and share one serving with your kids and donate the rest to people who have rarely tasted anything so fresh and delicious.
• You could find Jesus and start picking up trash and wishing everyone you see a blessed day.
• You could buy tents and sleeping bags for Christmas and give them to people who don’t have homes.
• You could dress in fatigues and wear combat boots and speak to no one but dogs.  
• You could transform your suburban lot into a farm and then give almost all the food to the hungry.
• You could choose to “live in nature” and attend the “school of the universe.”
• You could earn advanced degrees from accredited universities and raise a family, then spend your retirement sharing your resources, your hard-won experience, and your extra bedrooms with folks in need.
• You could talk to your reflection in storefront windows.
• You could ride a skateboard in your forties and direct plays written by and starring homeless folks.
• You could live in your car so you can send your social security check to your daughter who lives up north and is a single mom.

Being human is so challenging. We are born into situations that we have no control over and which shape us profoundly. But we also have a hand in creating lives that are beautiful and brave.

Monday wondering

WONDER: A feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable.

Skating by Sound. Blind from cancer at the age of two, skating since he was ten. This will make your day.

50 Life Hacks.

get∙unstuck. Unplug for one day each week.

Good books for little girls (and their families). How many have you read?

First steps toward fixing our broken food system - by famous foodie Mark Bittman. 

{photo: Outside Ledigo - Camino de Santiago}

 

Five Things Friday

A weekly gratitude list: 

1. The change in the weather; it finally feels like January!
2. The bounty of the downtown farmers market garden at City Hall and the generosity of Florida Organic Growers for donating so much of the delicious produce to us. We thank you, and the seventy hungry folks who ate at our café on Wednesday thank you too! 
3. Green smoothies. I jumped on that bandwagon after getting myself a juicer for Christmas and have been slurping down spinach/chard/tatsoi/kale-packed concoctions since. Some taste delicious. Some taste like chewed-up grass. The latter make me feel I am at least making a good effort toward health - kind of like taking cod liver oil back in the day. 
4. Parenthood.Today is my oldest daughter's birthday - my parenting anniversary! If we'd had any idea what we were getting into, we would never have done it. And that would have been a huge shame. Today I celebrate ignorance and innocence, and the shocking, sweet, tormenting, and ecstatic ride parenting is. I would do it again.
5. A good night's sleep. Thank you again, cooler weather.  

{photo: gainesville, 1989/90}

We all need ramps

It’s not often that I hear something new. It must be my age. But a presentation I attended earlier this week, part of the "Friends Across the Ages" speaker series, had such a different spin on it that it really opened my mind. It was on dementia, which is not a favorite subject of mine. It hits too close to home; my father has it as did both of my grandmothers, and I am, honestly, terrified of it. I dragged myself to this meeting because the title held a little promise: “Strengthening Relationships with Those in Your Life Who are Dealing with Memory Loss.” I went out of daughterly duty to my dad, hoping for something to help my family. I came out with a new perspective, and a good deal of hope.

Carolyn Lukert, from the Center for Dementia Education, opened by asking what our reaction might be if a friend or family-member called to tell us they had just been diagnosed with dementia. The responses were variations on a theme: sadness, grief, fear, confusion… She went on to say that many people feel the way I do – that they would rather die than get the diagnosis.  My father said the same thing once. A diagnosis of dementia, for many of us, is not only a death sentence, but a tragedy – a dehumanizing tragedy where the victim will live the rest of his or her life embarrassing others and humiliating him/herself. How else to respond but with sorrow?

Well. Lukert framed it as a diagnosis similar to what cancer was fifty years ago. You got the diagnosis and disappeared, prepared to suffer. It seems unbelievable now, but my own grandmother and grandfather were so embarrassed by her breast cancer symptoms that they wouldn’t speak of it. Now we have pink ribbons and speeches and marathons and all kinds of support. We walk with people with cancer and laud them as “survivors,” however long that survival lasts. We have learned to accompany people with cancer, to appreciate their struggle and to help them continue to live their lives with human dignity and grace.

Is it possible that a change in attitude could transform a dementia diagnosis as well?  It is according to Lukert.  Yes, people with dementia may say and do embarrassing things, and god forbid we should feel awkward, but what if we granted them the same abundant patience and humor we do with young family members? What if we concentrated on spending meaningful time with our loved ones with dementia instead of shunning them because “they don’t know whether we’re there or not.” What if we learned to help them enjoy their lives, making accommodations when they become confused or agitated? How can we educate them, as well as ourselves, to better handle their loss of mental capacity – much like we educate people with cancer to handle their losses? Lukert gives a number of practical suggestions from how to touch them and talk with them to how to accompany them in doing the things that have always given them pleasure – from shopping to going to baseball games. She suggests that by offering to help a dementia patient count change at the grocery store, order at a restaurant, or re-meet an old friend we are doing something similar to what we do to help folks in wheelchairs enjoy life to the fullest. We build ramps.

These are ramps of understanding and good humor and love for people regardless of their mental capacity. She brought up some examples from her own experience of visiting residents in a nursing home where the right kind of touch, tone of voice, and attention could reach a person in the most advanced stages of dementia. It’s our responsibility to learn how to accompany people through this disease, to endure the awkwardness, to help them to enjoy their life as much as possible for as long as possible – out of love and out of respect for their continued humanity.  We all need ramps at times, and often it is these very people who made them for us when we were young or lost or needing help and guidance in our own changing lives. There is so much real life to be lived and shared during difficult times of change; it's a shame to miss out on the good in it out of fear of the awkward. 

At the end of the presentation, Lukert asked us if our minds had changed at all or if we might have a different reaction when that phone rings someday. She suggests this:  “I will be with you, whatever comes. We are in this together.” 

                                       {photo: my sweet father shortly after his diagnosis}

Real Life

Begin here. It is raining... I am here alone for the first time in weeks, to take up my "real life" again at last. That is what is strange--that friends, even passionate love, are not my real life unless there is time alone in which to explore and to discover what is happening or has happened. Without the interruptions, nourishing and maddening, this life would become arid. Yet I taste it fully only when I am alone here and "the house and I resume old conversations."

~ Mary Sarton, 'Journal of a Solitude'

Five Things Friday

A weekly gratitude list: 

1. The beauty of breakfast (for us morning people) - hot coffee, veggie quiche, some homemade cinnamon bread, and good company. 
2. Riding a bike up 8th Avenue hill - a love-hate relatonship, feels so good at the top. 
3. The presence of kindness and humanity even in places often bereft (courthouse). "Life will out!" as Joseph Campbell, Doctor Who, and someone on Jurassic Park have proclaimed.    
4. Siblings - and how families can remain families even with the distance of years and miles between members.
5. Sunflowers in December and flowering broccoli. I try not to think about global warming when I look at the sweet warm faces and bursts of color. 

Work and Labor

Work is what we do by the hour. It begins and, if possible, we do it for money. Welding car bodies on an assembly line is work; washing dishes, computing taxes, walking the rounds in a psychiatric ward, picking asparagus -- these are work. Labor, on the other hand, sets its own pace. We may get paid for it, but it's harder to quantify... Writing a poem, raising a child, developing a new calculus, resolving a neurosis, invention in all forms -- these are labors. 

Work is an intended activity that is accomplished through the will. A labor can be intended but only to the extend of doing the groundwork, or of not doing things that would clearly prevent the labor. Beyond that, labor has its own schedule. 

... 

There is no technology, no time saving device that can alter the rhythms of creative labor. When the worth of labor is expressed in terms of exchange value, therefore, creativity is automatically devalued everytime there is an advance in the technology of work. 

                                              - Lewis Hyde, in The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World

[photo: green house knitters - learning, teaching, making]