For me and many of my generation, the practice of religion was something that was passed along to us by parents who mostly left it up to our parochial schools to apply meaning and explanation to our “faith.” Church on Sunday was an obligation, like cleaning your bedroom or visiting relatives; there wasn’t much joy to be found in any of these. Furthermore, the word “God” was typically associated with verbs like “punish” and “fear.” When you are told (over and over) to obey someone lest you be punished, or that your actions should be driven by fear of retribution, this “God” fellow hardly seemed like someone you’d want to spend much time with, let alone get to know.
The concept of “God” equaling “love,” never made it to my doorstep (maybe it hadn’t yet come into fashion) and until I spent some time with this radical idea, I was never able to develop a relationship with God that was spiritually significant. Ironically, the first time “God is Love” entered my consciousness was when I saw the phrase sprayed on the underside of a pedestrian bridge outside of Lake Placid, New York. How sad that twelve years of Catholic schooling couldn’t deliver this life-altering message as effectively as one daring graffiti artist.
In the Maronite Tradition, God’s name is invoked in this way: Oh, Lover of all….
The late Jesuit Fr. Pedro Arrupe wrote: “Nothing is more practical than finding God, that is, than falling in love in a quite absolute final way. What you are in love with, what seizes your imagination, will affect everything. It will decide what will get you out of bed in the morning, what you do with your evenings, how you spend your weekends, what you read, who you know, what breaks your heart, and what amazes you with joy and gratitude. Fall in love, stay in love, and it will decide everything.”
When you are in love with a person, you want to spend as much time as possible with that person; you want to share in every aspect of their life; you want to wrap yourself up in that person; you willingly share every part of your being with them (including your hopes, dreams and fears); and, in intimacy, you submit to them and their desires with the hope of furthering your relationship. Imagine the perfect lover — giving, caring, compassionate, patient, someone who tells you look great even though you’re 20 years older and 20 pounds heavier than when you first met — and you’ve found God.
For me, thinking about God as a lover, my lover, opens up a whole new understanding about what God gives me – every day – and what he asks from me in return. Ironically, thoughts of punishment and fear are never part of the conversation.
10 June 2008
08 June 2008
07 June 2008
How I spend my Saturdays...
Last week, I lamented the absence of routine since leaving the 8-5 office job that had pretty much defined my 30s and 40s. To be clear, I still have clients and deadlines and projects demanding my attention. It’s just that now, I apply myself to these tasks in a way that fits my circadian rhythm. So, often I am at the keyboard at 11 p.m. and still asleep at an hour when, two months ago, I would have been sipping coffee and checking emails.
But, dear ones, I haven’t been totally honest with you about my changed routine. I do have one weekly task that has developed quite rapidly into routine. And it’s quite unlike anything I’ve ever undertaken before. It involves the Farmers’ Market and it goes something like this:
Each Saturday, I wake to the BBC news at 5:45 a.m. After a quick shower and dress (according to the weather), I’m out the door at 6:30. It’s just a ten minute drive into Mankato and I stop at Happy Dan’s gas station on Victory Drive for a small coffee. It cost 78 cents. There’s always a friendly exchange with the cashier, because honestly, who can be crabby at the dawn of any new day. I jump back into my car and by 6:45, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Mankato’s Madison East Center. I arrive first and that makes me happy. I enjoy the few moments of solitude I get because I know they will vanish shortly.
I leave my car parked behind the small shack, which is set in the center of the lot, grab the padlock which secures the shack, unlock it and open the door. Inside, there are three stacks of orange cones, a half dozen metal signs, a garbage can, a few tables, a bulletin board, a chalk board, a flag, a plastic bin with office supplies, including a whistle, a box of Minnesota Grown directories, and a box of T-shirts. I pull out the three stacks of orange cones and enough of the other things to make room for business activity. You see, every Saturday morning, this shack is my office.
It’s likely 6:50 a.m. by now and a late model pickup with old plank tables tied to the bed topper pulls up to the shack. Behind the wheel is a bearded, lanky and always smiling man named Joe. I return his smile and we spend 60 seconds catching up on each other’s week. Then Joe drives to the end of the lot and starts the process of unloading the tables on which he’ll set out perennials, vegetable plants, and baskets where flowering annuals were lovingly selected for how their color and shape complement their companions.
I watch Joe untie his tables as I carry cones across the lot to set up a perimeter.
“You’re always smiling aren’t you?” Joe yells to me.
“What’s not to smile about?” I yell back.
“Yeah, I like life too,” he replies.
Bernie typically pulls into the lot second. He pulls a trailer filled with newer, plastic tables and he sets his flowers and plants as far away from Joe as he possibly can. Bernie and Joe don’t smile at each other. Or talk to each other. Ever.
By 7 a.m., vehicles become a stream. I’m just now getting to know the makes and the drivers and thankfully most go directly to pre-determined spaces without any input from me. But every Saturday, there are one or two new cars – new or one-time vendors who seek me out on my appointed rounds – either setting out cones or signs – for help.
By 7:30, most of the spaces in the lot are full and still-half-asleep people are busy fidgeting with their coolers and canopies, the latter which is important no matter what color the sky brings. While the vendors set out the fruits of their labors, I finish setting out signs, raise the window on the shack, hang the flag, try to come up with a catchy phrase or two for the chalk board, take attendance, help where I’m needed, and keep an eye on the clock because early sales are prohibited before the 8 a.m. opening whistle — and I have the whistle.
By 7:55, there is a line six persons deep waiting for Linda’s artisan breads, which she baked a day earlier in the brick oven in her backyard. There also are four or five people across the walkway loitering over Dee’s pies. Today, she has brought blueberry, raspberry, rhubarb and apple; I bought one of her apple pies last weekend and hubby and I finished it by Sunday night. And then, there are people walking toward the half-dozen farmers who provide springtime’s most popular vegetable – asparagus. The green stalks are definitely a draw. When sales are finally allowed, the exchanges begin in earnest and business is brisk.
After 8 a.m., I relax and take it all in. There is something about the scene that appeals to my inner capitalist. I stand in the midst of a free market, after all. Up and down the makeshift walkway (that I created) the basic economic force of supply and demand is in play; people who want produce come face-to-face with people who grow produce and everybody get’s their needs met. What could be more simple or perfect? There are no advertising campaigns that feed the demand, there is no ridiculous packaging or flashy display created by a marketing department that thinks it knows best for the consumer, and best of all, there’s very little involvement by any government entity. Except for the rules the farmers impose upon themselves, they truly do participate in a “free” market.
I’m not without duties during “open” hours. I answer questions, welcome musicians or master gardeners or civic activists who want access to the market to share their talent or knowledge or ideals. I collect fees, sometimes hand out food samples, ask bicyclists to walk their bikes through the market, and once-in-a-while will ask a pet owner to remove their dog. Oh, and most importantly, I keep smiling because it’s Saturday morning and that’s my Saturday morning routine. For now.
But, dear ones, I haven’t been totally honest with you about my changed routine. I do have one weekly task that has developed quite rapidly into routine. And it’s quite unlike anything I’ve ever undertaken before. It involves the Farmers’ Market and it goes something like this:
Each Saturday, I wake to the BBC news at 5:45 a.m. After a quick shower and dress (according to the weather), I’m out the door at 6:30. It’s just a ten minute drive into Mankato and I stop at Happy Dan’s gas station on Victory Drive for a small coffee. It cost 78 cents. There’s always a friendly exchange with the cashier, because honestly, who can be crabby at the dawn of any new day. I jump back into my car and by 6:45, I’m pulling into the parking lot of Mankato’s Madison East Center. I arrive first and that makes me happy. I enjoy the few moments of solitude I get because I know they will vanish shortly.
I leave my car parked behind the small shack, which is set in the center of the lot, grab the padlock which secures the shack, unlock it and open the door. Inside, there are three stacks of orange cones, a half dozen metal signs, a garbage can, a few tables, a bulletin board, a chalk board, a flag, a plastic bin with office supplies, including a whistle, a box of Minnesota Grown directories, and a box of T-shirts. I pull out the three stacks of orange cones and enough of the other things to make room for business activity. You see, every Saturday morning, this shack is my office.
It’s likely 6:50 a.m. by now and a late model pickup with old plank tables tied to the bed topper pulls up to the shack. Behind the wheel is a bearded, lanky and always smiling man named Joe. I return his smile and we spend 60 seconds catching up on each other’s week. Then Joe drives to the end of the lot and starts the process of unloading the tables on which he’ll set out perennials, vegetable plants, and baskets where flowering annuals were lovingly selected for how their color and shape complement their companions.
I watch Joe untie his tables as I carry cones across the lot to set up a perimeter.
“You’re always smiling aren’t you?” Joe yells to me.
“What’s not to smile about?” I yell back.
“Yeah, I like life too,” he replies.
Bernie typically pulls into the lot second. He pulls a trailer filled with newer, plastic tables and he sets his flowers and plants as far away from Joe as he possibly can. Bernie and Joe don’t smile at each other. Or talk to each other. Ever.
By 7 a.m., vehicles become a stream. I’m just now getting to know the makes and the drivers and thankfully most go directly to pre-determined spaces without any input from me. But every Saturday, there are one or two new cars – new or one-time vendors who seek me out on my appointed rounds – either setting out cones or signs – for help.
By 7:30, most of the spaces in the lot are full and still-half-asleep people are busy fidgeting with their coolers and canopies, the latter which is important no matter what color the sky brings. While the vendors set out the fruits of their labors, I finish setting out signs, raise the window on the shack, hang the flag, try to come up with a catchy phrase or two for the chalk board, take attendance, help where I’m needed, and keep an eye on the clock because early sales are prohibited before the 8 a.m. opening whistle — and I have the whistle.
By 7:55, there is a line six persons deep waiting for Linda’s artisan breads, which she baked a day earlier in the brick oven in her backyard. There also are four or five people across the walkway loitering over Dee’s pies. Today, she has brought blueberry, raspberry, rhubarb and apple; I bought one of her apple pies last weekend and hubby and I finished it by Sunday night. And then, there are people walking toward the half-dozen farmers who provide springtime’s most popular vegetable – asparagus. The green stalks are definitely a draw. When sales are finally allowed, the exchanges begin in earnest and business is brisk.
After 8 a.m., I relax and take it all in. There is something about the scene that appeals to my inner capitalist. I stand in the midst of a free market, after all. Up and down the makeshift walkway (that I created) the basic economic force of supply and demand is in play; people who want produce come face-to-face with people who grow produce and everybody get’s their needs met. What could be more simple or perfect? There are no advertising campaigns that feed the demand, there is no ridiculous packaging or flashy display created by a marketing department that thinks it knows best for the consumer, and best of all, there’s very little involvement by any government entity. Except for the rules the farmers impose upon themselves, they truly do participate in a “free” market.
I’m not without duties during “open” hours. I answer questions, welcome musicians or master gardeners or civic activists who want access to the market to share their talent or knowledge or ideals. I collect fees, sometimes hand out food samples, ask bicyclists to walk their bikes through the market, and once-in-a-while will ask a pet owner to remove their dog. Oh, and most importantly, I keep smiling because it’s Saturday morning and that’s my Saturday morning routine. For now.
05 June 2008
Sun in my shower...
It's hard not to see beauty in a spring shower, even when rain comes with such abundance that an afternoon walk around the property reveals puddles on the driveway, puddles on the lawn -- and worse -- puddles in the vineyard. (Rows 1-4, & 9 to be specific.) Still...Residents of California have just been ordered to ration water as their Governor just declared the state officially in "drought." And farmers in the southeast portion of the country, especially in North Carolina, are suffering a drought for the ages.
Just last summer, here at Four Cedars, we had a memorable stretch of rainless days that lasted more than 60 days. So we're thankful ... hopeful that the stress these damp plants endure is less than the stress imposed by parched land.
I won't get too frazzled about four inches of rain falling in the span of a week, even though it was fairly wet spring. I'd rather done my rubber clogs than kick up dust in sandals. And I rather enjoy marveling at the sun as it breaks through clouds that are still spilling their guts on the land surrounding me. The dark, damp soil of Blue Earth County.
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