Three Elizabeths and the Sensory Life

I've been remiss in telling you about my reading. I stopped midway in Elizabeth Shackleton's Touring Through France, and it sits on my bedside table yet. I was thick in the middle of Elizabeth Goudge's The White Witch, an historical drama set in Civil War England, when friend Lisa sent me a lovely temptation: Elizabeth Gaskell's The Life of Charlotte Bronte. Not many books could lure me away from Goudge, but the powerful combination of Gaskell and Bronte won out in an instant.
So many Elizabeths. 
I gave away all my books by Alexander McCall Smith because the Dalhousie book I read did not attract me, and I don't have reading hours to sacrifice to books less than what I love.

Living has changed much since I was a girl. Cell phones, computers, the internet, Alexa, GPS and Google Maps, Amazon Prime and Netflix. I, like some of you, am ironically conflicted between using and wanting these things, and missing the simplicity of life without them. Would I turn the world back? Would I prefer life with only a land line, a set of encyclopedias on the shelf, and 3 major networks on a Motorola TV?

I want a sensory life. Living in front of a screen (of any size) for hours each day seems so killing to me. I want activities that engage all my senses; screens and internet overwork the eyes, give little to the ears, and leave the rest of me -- taste, smell, and particularly touch -- starving for stimulation.

In my studio, I keep incense burning, and often a candle, for the scent. I usually have tea and some little cookie or crust to nibble. I keep Pandora or a youtube channel or my turntable going. And then I turn my face from the screen and do something with my hands, giving my eyes a rest. What relief! My desk is a cluttered mess, as is the room, but what that means is there is lots to touch, lots to fuss with and sort through. Spinning is tactile. So is painting. Washing dishes, digging in dirt, petting a dog, hanging laundry -- I find myself longing for these things. Typing, on the otherhand, is hard on the fingers, a brutal, repetitive work that tires the hands and does nothing to satisfy them. 

I am only 54, but I am too old to be wasting any time. Eternity on a beautiful New Earth awaits me, but that's no reason to neglect life here, and not make it all God means for life to be -- chock full of beauty, kindness, gentleness, joy, and life. I ask myself more often these days, "Is this activity life-giving?" Does it give life and joy to anyone else, or to myself? If not, it's time to cut it out.

When the weather warms just a bit more (next week?) I may do a little walking tour video of the herb bed. I enjoy other people's youtube videos; why not contribute some myself? We'll see.

Beginning a new celery plant

Last summer's celery plant, miraculously surviving winter

Adam's organic potato, developing eyes

Last summer's tomato sauce, being reduced now to paste

A new batch of fleece cloud, dizzed moments ago

A tomato plant I dug from the garden last fall,
 that's survived winter somehow on the front porch

Saigon Asian Market

 Adam and I regularly need items from a South Asian market -- Pakistani/Indian foods. They sell the tea items for my chai and the spices Adam prefers to cook with. Today we drove to Wilmington, NC for various "to-dos," and visited the Saigon Market. It's the best Asian grocery we've ever found.

 First, I was hunting a good tea base for my chai. I've used this (above) for the past couple of years, and the bag was getting low. I found two more bags. This will last me at least five years.

Adam found both course and fine semolina flour, a Middle Eastern flour he's never found before, and has needed for several breads he wants to make. He was thrilled!

Also below you see whole star anise, which I was nearly out of, a ginger powder drink, and (in the tin) lots of whole nutmeg and part of a bag of mace he bought. Mace is the husk of a nutmeg. It has a lovely scent, a little milder than nutmeg.

They also carried the first tea base I ever bought for my chai, an Assam, so I bought a small bag of it also, and below you can see the mace again. It's so interesting looking!

Adam found some soy sauce (we were out) too. I was tempted by so many items, but restrained myself. Wilmington is only two hours away, and I'm sure we'll go back sometime. I loved the tiny Asian bowls there -- like little finger bowls. They sell all the whole spices I love to keep on hand: allspice, cloves, cinnamon, and cardamom. Having a kitchen with bags of all these spices makes me feel ridiculously wealthy. Asian markets sell these spices in quantities that show they are food, and meant to be eaten more than a 1/4 teaspoon at a time, ground up as we Americans buy it. If you have an Asian market in your town, be adventurous and go roam their aisles. You may find something to love.

We had other adventures in Wilmington today, and I'll share those with you next time --

Metoo

On facebook this week a new hashtag has sprung up: #metoo. Women post it who have experienced sexual abuse/assault or sexual harassment. Many friends, particularly younger ones, have shared that this offensive experience has been theirs.

I pondered. I've never been sexually abused. But have I ever been sexually harassed? At first, I thought, "No ... I don't think so." I reviewed my workplace experiences, and could not find an example. I've worked with and for some kind men who knew how to behave. And about 20 years ago, when sexual harassment became a more public issue for women, the workplace was the focus; women should be able to stand at the copy machine without their sexuality being brought up.

Then I remembered when I was 12. One Saturday I dressed in my favorite "cool" new outfit: cut-off blue jean shorts and a gray t-shirt that stated "West Virginia Is for Lovers." A strip mall across the street had a little store far in the back, in the dark inside of the mall, that sold something I was interested in -- I forget what. That mall was always empty. A guy was the sales clerk, and as I looked around the store at the wares, he began standing too close to me. Then he began brushing up against me, and it made me very uncomfortable. I wanted to think it was an accident, but when it happened a few times in five minutes, I knew it wasn't. I quickly left the store. I never went back.

He was a creeper, as we'd say now. I wasn't much damaged by the event except that I was scared. I was a child; he was an adult. We were in an isolated place. The physical contact was intentional and inappropriate.

For a funny story, about 15-20 years ago we were tubing down the French Broad River in Brevard, NC. It's the last time we went, because low water made for a tedious, painful ride. Failing to float over a rocky stretch, I picked up my inner tube and walked clumsily, bedraggled, plump in my ugly purple bathing suit, wrangling the tube, my wet hair plastered across my grumpy face. Suddenly I hear from the river bank a loud wolf whistle. For me! In such a state! I look over, and some very rotund geezer is standing there, grinning at me. I stood in mid river on the rocks, and I laughed. I laughed at him, and I made sure he could hear my assessment of his taste in feminine beauty. Because he was ridiculous (and blind) and I wanted him to know it.

When the #metoo thing came up on facebook, I asked Adam about these incidents, whether they qualify as harassment, and he said yes, they certainly do. He's a man, and he knows how men think. The whole idea that a man can look innocently upon the female form and, without a sexual thought, let out a big wolf whistle to let the woman know he's looking, is ludicrous. The man on the river bank was lewd, period. Adam said he probably was not primarily trying to communicate to me; he was probably doing it for the sake of his buddies in the truck.

I was about to post on facebook: #metoo, followed by a question mark. Because my very-mild experiences of harassment are almost an insult to the women who've experienced horrific abuse, assault, or harassment. I was about to post, I had my fingers on the keys to type ... and then I remembered.

I remembered the experience I should have thought of first, but I'd forgotten. It was the earliest, and certainly the most damaging, sexual harassment in my life of limited harassment. I was about 4 years old. It was spring, I think. We would move from West Virginia that summer. It was an ongoing experience over months. My four older brothers sometimes played football in the field next to our house with other neighborhood kids. A boy from down the street, probably 5 years old, would come find me and tell me to come into the big bushes with him. The bushes were tall and large enough that we could stand inside them like a little room. He would then take off his pants and urinate, and tell me to come watch. He also told me to urinate for him to watch, which I think I did once, but I didn't like that, so later I refused. I was scared and embarrassed, and he told me not to tell anyone. I was ashamed and guilty. This event happened various times - I don't know how many, or for how long. I was quite young. But when it became clear our family was moving away, he was upset, and he threatened to tell my grandparents (who lived in town) about what we'd been doing, if I moved away. His last name was Main; I don't remember his first name. I only give the name so that any childhood friends would not mistake some other family or boy for the offender.

He was five years old. Can a five year old commit sexual harassment? Was it sexual? He didn't learn such behavior on TV (back then), so where did he learn to threaten, to hide, to humiliate, to demand? What was happening in his home? 

I didn't tell anyone about this for many years. The shame of a 4 year old girl, scared in the bushes, lasted so long. I could have yelled for my brothers, who were only a stone's throw away, and they would've beaten him up. How did he know I wouldn't do that? How does a five year old boy balance thrill, risk, control, manipulation? What, in his character, was already so broken that he found this pleasurable in some way? I don't know.

So, yes. Me too. But women's experiences are so different, so unusual, so nuanced. My early experiences taught me to be distant with guys, intimidating, stand-offish. I became a young woman who, without an abuser in the family (thankfully!), was fairly safe as long as I did not allow guys close to me. I did not flirt (unless I knew the guy was safely off limits); I did not send out "bids" or invitations for romance. I would never be "caught in the bushes" again. That early harassment impacted my temperament, my relationships, and how people thought of me -- for decades.

I'm proud of those who are willing to say, "me too." We'd be wise, men and women alike, to think carefully about what constitutes harassment, about how we think about each other's sexuality, about how careful we are to treat everyone with dignity, privacy, and respect.

Justice vs. Sacrifice

An excellent article on marriage I'm reading just sparked an idea. (Here's the article.) The husband writes that we've all told ourselves, all our lives, that we must be true to ourselves, discover our own spiritual heights, be authentic to ourselves. As he says, "An authentic life means being true to ourselves, and there's nothing more inauthentic than doing something counter to our current emotional state. Basically, if I'm not feeling it, then I shouldn't have to do it."

That's a little crassly put, but we do all practice this principle. We teach it to our children and defend it in our culture: personal justice! Do not tolerate anyone treating you badly! Fight back and defend what's right! Push for personal justice and rights! Every group in the country (and the individuals within those groups) are encouraged to fight for personal justice. We tell ourselves that in fighting for me we are also fighting for others. Yeah.

And what's wrong with that?

If you're a Christian, I'll tell you what's wrong with that -- Jesus taught the opposite. He taught us not to seek our own good, our own way. He taught to present your second cheek to be slapped after your first is stinging. He taught us to absorb the wrong, and then forgive it. If you are His follower (in Scripture, the correct term is "bond-servant," i.e., slave) then you have given up your claim to personal justice for yourself. If you're not ready to at least make a half-hearted attempt at that, then reconsider your connections to the Man.

Seriously, people. Let everybody else hammer out how badly they've been treated. You should be busy with other things. The only justice Jesus ever told us to concern themselves with is justice for the truly oppressed -- the poor, the homeless, the abandoned, the orphans, the people whom organizations and institutions love to extort and use. We are to forget about rights and justice for ourselves, and seek it for them.

In Jesus's mind, the two are mutually exclusive.

I see this every day at the afterschool program where I work. Here's how it goes -- I call the 31 children to make a line so we can go inside to the restroom. Instantly I hear, "She broke in front of me!" "I carried that basketball outside and I'm supposed to carry it in!" "She stuck her tongue out at me!" And on and on. The 'breaking in line' complaint is my personal favorite. I ask the child, "Are you the line leader? Do you have a particular place in the line anyway? Does it really matter if she's in front of you? Will you get to the bathroom any later?" Of course there's absolutely no practical implication, no tangible wrong done, if someone steps in line in front of you when you're seven years old. Or when your 47, or 70 either. But, oh my, does it make us mad! We have been wronged! We have been ill-used and treated rudely. It's the principle of the thing! We must never tolerate injustice in any form!

I agree that rudeness and meanness and ill-treatment are offensive in our culture. But I wish that we would all adopt this attitude: Never try to address any injustice against self; always address injustice done to others.

If we all did that (an impossibility, I'm sure) what a different world we would live in.

If we ceased seeking our own rights and justice in our marriages, and instead began seeking it only for our partners.

If we stopped seeking our own rights and justice at our jobs, and instead began seeking it only for our co-workers.

If we stopped teaching our kids to look out for their own rights and justice and began teaching them to look out for others.

If we stopped, as a church, looking out for our church's rights and justice at the hands of our government or culture, and began seeking the rights and justice of the oppressed instead.

And, last but not least, if we stopped expecting those who don't profess any relationship with Jesus to behave in ways that we who do profess this relationship, won't behave. Fighting for one's own rights and personal justice is perfectly normal in the world. Let the world do its thing. Be different -- that's all Jesus asked us to do, just be different. He knew it would be nearly impossible to deny ourselves, to sacrifice that way. So He did it first to show us that it could be done.

Shakespeare addressed these thoughts in Hamlet. Polonius advises his son, Laertes, "This above all - to thy own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man." The father dies at the hand of Hamlet, a man who struggled with this concept more deeply: "To be or not to be -- that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune or to take arms against a sea of troubles and by opposing end them." Laertes, in the end, murders Hamlet and then dies himself. What sad ends for men who found self-sacrifice so impossible!

Do we suffer wrongs? Do we rouse ourselves and fight against them? Are we true to self above all others? Look to Jesus. Be different.

The Silent Blog

I don't blog quite as much as I used to, and when I do I avoid topics I used to leap into -- theology, politics, culture. You know, the debatable things. I've been sticking to topics like knitting, farm work, and food because the overwhelming din of unkind arguing out there is painful. I've tried to stay out of it. I've unfollowed facebook friends. I've turned off the radio in the car. I won't talk about it at home or work. It's not just the U.S. election/politics. It's the general meanness in the world, the fear, distrust, emotional distance, and broken community.

I just saw this commercial on facebook:

I think it kind of put me over the edge.

It's not just old people who are mean, or Trump supporters, or young progressives with agendas, or immigrants or immigrant-haters. We're all shoving everybody away. I shudder when I hear Fox News and I shudder when I hear NPR. We are so busy polarizing and pushing away that we don't realize we're killing ourselves and ruining life for our children.

Here's another bite of food for thought, an article from a facebook friend:

"59 Percent of Millennials Raised in a Church Have Dropped Out -- And They're Trying to Tell Us Why"

The stats are shocking. Millennials are people 20 - 36 years old, this year. These aren't teenagers. These are young professionals and parents. They aren't "the next generation"; they are the generation. Basically the writer says this: The American church is self-centered, judgmental, out-of-touch, into its own politics, power, and money, and isn't interested in serving anybody. Oh, and there's this lovely quote from the writer's mother (who's probably my age) --

"Church has always felt exclusive and ‘cliquey,’ like high school, and I’ve never been good at that game so I stopped playing.”

I read this as a pastor's wife, and I know what she means. To people on the outside, church often looks like a nasty little game. There are really fabulous ministries in the U.S. dedicated to helping the poor/addicted/refugee/depressed/suicidal/homeless. But they're not usually based in the local church. I wish they were! If your church is an exception, I'm very happy for you. But if the bigger church -- members and leadership alike -- were as dedicated to helping and loving people in need as they were to the latest building project or covered dish dinner, 35% of people between 20 - 36 wouldn't be anti-church, i.e., think that the church is doing more harm than good.

Then there's the other thing preying on my brain, the Bible study that I'm teaching with older ladies at my church ... because all the ladies at my church are older ... because at 53 years old I'm the youngest adult woman in my church by at least a decade. Sigh. [They're lovely ladies. I just wish our church had a few millennials.] Anyway, we're studying Elisabeth Elliot's incredible book, A Path Through Suffering. Someday I might do a way-too-long post on it. If you struggle to understand why you suffer, or why anyone suffers, this book is helpful. Elliot is bold and unapologetic of her radical positions. Chapter after chapter she pummels you with arguments that suffering is designed, important, essential, useful, and brings joy. Yes, I just wrote that. 

Perhaps this is where all these distasteful topics come together for me, right now. Elliot says "the maturing process in the Christian ... is for one purpose, the giving of life." (97) How do we give life? Kindness. Openness. Loving instead of hating. Welcoming instead of pushing away. Sacrificing for others. Ceasing from judging. Why do Christians feel it is our job to judge the world right now?

"All who would bring souls to God and multiply His kingdom must do so through surrender and sacrifice. This is what loving God means, a continual offering, a pure readiness to give oneself away ...." (Elliot 101)

Surrender and sacrifice. Same thing as suffering. A thousand little deaths each day as you choose others over yourself. You choose your political enemy or your nasty neighbor, your annoying co-worker or your selfish family member. You choose them over yourself and your own agendas or ideas.

I refuse to continue judging the culture around me, pointing my scrawny finger at its blemishes and faults. Church, you are to judge yourself. I am to judge myself. What am I doing to be a life-giver? What am I doing to make a kinder community? Reader, who is your enemy? With whom do you disagree? If you cannot reach out in love, can you respond with it? It's quite difficult, simple kindness. 

Sometimes I feel like a referee between two bloody prize-fighters intent on murder in the ring. It's one thing to reject ISIS or Westboro Baptist Church or Kim Jong Un or Neo-Nazis. Shouldn't we agree on where the hatred is coming from, and reject that together? But we ought not hate one another, we who say we want peace. "Trust in the Lord and do good. Cease from anger and forsake wrath." (Ps. 37)

About That T-Shirt Video

Recently I viewed a video on facebook about gendered t-shirts for kids. Specifically, a young girl was unhappy that "everyone thinks that girls should just be pretty and boys should just be adventurous." She dislikes that children's clothing is separated into "boys" and "girls" at all, but she's really offended that girls are labeled as "pretty," as if there are not other traits that are important in being a female.

If the video were accurate (they viewed only 6 shirts), I might agree. But it isn't. I know this because I see about 125 kids every day where I work. I see the shirts the girls wear, and their messages are much broader than that! So today I randomly asked all the girls I saw who wore t-shirts with words on them, if I could take photos of their shirts. Here's what I found:

 

 "Fear Less Sweat More" is more typical of what these girls wear.
Their parents want tough, independent girls who will not be preyed upon.

 

There's a real push to encourage girls to be themselves,
not to cow to pressure from anyone to deny themselves.

 

 

The one on the right says "Ruling" - as in, girls rule.

This shirt shows that girls can feel LOTS of different ways!

Later, I saw two more shirts but had no chance to photograph them. One said "Girls Rule!" and the other said, "I'm the fabulous one in the family," Fabulous was, for some reason, another term in the video that the little girl didn't like. Why? I don't have a clue!
We should all be aware that some folks in the world make videos and memes and write articles for the sole goal of goading people to feel a certain way. They want to make you feel angry, feel victimized, feel marginalized, feel afraid. They may even prompt you to feel offended for another group other than yourself, as in this case. We're supposed to be affronted for all the girls in the world who are being fed a vapid, dangerous message: You're physically beautiful, and all that matters is your looks!

Except that's not what girls are being told, thankfully. They're being told they're strong, athletic, in charge, capable of anything, emotionally complicated, cool just as they are, and lovers of the world. That's pretty good, I think!

Longing for Community

I've been watching Britain's Escape to the Country. It's my relaxation screen-time right now. And on every show the presenter is quick to tell us that the quaint little village we're visiting this time has a local pub or two in easy walking distance. Often they're hundreds of years old with antique signs swinging out front declaring "The Red Lion" or "The Queen's Arms" is there. A village pub says community to me -- a place where everyone can go, cozy, quaint, warm, friendly, full of good food and good drink and good company.

Why don't we have village pubs in the U.S.A.?


Anna is living in Japan now, so we're eager to learn more about Japanese culture. Yesterday Adam shared a youtube video from a young married girl, a transplant from the US to Japan. She loves  to visit Japanese "onsun," local bath houses that are scattered all over that country.

Onsun bath houses are not expensive. It's a lovely, peaceful spa, immaculate and soul-restoring. For about $6 this young woman can calm her ruffled feathers for an hour and experience quiet community with other Japanese women. To enjoy this in the states, I guess I'd need to visit a fancy spa and pay a lot of money, something I've never done. And these Japanese bath houses are fed by underground springs, and the water is changed every evening! They provide all the amenities you need.

Why don't we have local bath houses like that in the U.S.A.?

For years I loved watching Rick Steves every Saturday and traveled around Europe with him. Did you? It seemed like every Italian town, every French or Spanish village, every English hamlet had a market once or twice each week -- every village had its own little market. These fresh markets filled the village square (another lovely idea!), and everyone shopped there for bread, veggies and fruit, meat, fish, even clothes or antiques or books. I was mesmerized by such a central community event held every week for hundreds of years. What a neighborly thing! What do American towns have to compare? The local strip mall?

Why don't we have village markets like that in the U.S.A.?

I'm not trashing my country, I promise. But I'm wondering if we lack an essential element of community-mindedness that is assumed in other parts of the world. I'm trying to think if we have anything really comparable to these deeply-ingrained community gathering places in other lands. We have playgrounds and parks, but sometimes they seem scary, and certainly everybody doesn't frequent them. Shopping malls don't have a personal or friendly feel; like the rest of America, they are purely consumeristic. Do any of you feel we are missing this element in our culture? What could we do to try to reverse it, one town at a time? I know some small towns (Oriental is one) do have a rich feeling of community, but most do not. I think it requires a public location for people to gather -- a green, a coffee shop, a market. People move in and move out and never feel they belong. There's nowhere to go to begin to fit in. No local pub. (And a bar in the U.S. just does not at all have the same effect!) No hundred year old market. (Walmart is a sad substitute!) No onsun. I wish I had such a place!

What do you think?

Cutting the Wireless Wires

Yesterday morning I put on farm clothes, gathered my trowel and work gloves, and headed to the greenhouse to put tomatoes into the garden bed.

And I almost picked up my cell phone too. Half the time I have no pocket (especially now that we're past jacket weather), and I must carry the thing in my hand.

But yesterday I decided to leave the phone in the house and give myself a break from the constant, low-grade demand of that gadget.

I consciously decided to throw myself back 30 years ago, to a time in my life that I didn't feel the need to have a phone on my person 24/7. Do you recall that feeling? The freedom? The calmness? The absence of urgency?

A cell phone is a kind of addiction -- even when it's not dinging or ringing, folks feel a compulsion to "check it" to make sure it didn't forget to ding or ring them with some urgent message ... like, "Here's a photo of a silly dog lol" from a friend they haven't seen in twenty years. Or perhaps their cell phone company notifying them of how many minutes they have left. You know, really important things that we allow to invade our private peace every minute of every day.

With a cell phone, you're never alone, and perhaps that's the point. We've forgotten how to relish being alone.

I'm planning to do this more often -- leave my cell phone in the house. If somebody calls, I can find out later. I have a right to personal, private peace. Time with my own head. Time when nobody can reach me unless it's so urgent they drive to my home and physically find me.

Why did we think wireless technology would free us? We are attached to the petty world of constant communication by the invisible wires of compulsion, of obligation, of addiction to the next message. I'm snipping those wires deliberately. If you need me, leave a message. I'll get back to you when I'm done in the greenhouse.

Back to the Munsters

Last night after dinner I told Adam I missed the old days when you drifted from the the kitchen to the living room, sat on the couch, and watched a little light-hearted T.V. Gilligan's Island. Brady Bunch. Bonanza, for goodness sakes!

The thought of plopping on the couch, opening my tablet, and spending an hour scrolling through Facebook posts was more than I could bear! I'm weary of Facebook.

I feel guilty saying that. It sounds like I'm tired of my friends and prefer Marcia Brady and Mr. and Mrs. Howell. Adam was obliging, He found The Munsters on Netflix, a show I never, ever watched as a child. He and I had radically different family television viewing habits :)

Why am I tired of Facebook?

#1 None of my siblings or their spouses are on Facebook on any regular basis.
#2 None of my children are on Facebook on any regular basis. Anna is, a bit, but she doesn't post much.
#3 Very few of my nieces or nephews are on Facebook regularly.
#4 My parents are not on Facebook.
#5 Although I do have good current friends on Facebook and some good friends from years ago, most of the personal posts on my feed are from people I know so little that they might as well be strangers. I know nearly nothing of their lives outside of Facebook. More important, I have absolutely no contact with them, other than Facebook.

At some level, Facebook is a superficial friendship medium.

That's not to say that I don't treasure the contact (and fun personal information) I view from some friends. And I will always appreciate Facebook for bringing me back into regular contact with some friends that I thought I'd lost forever. Those are the reasons I've stayed.

But now that I know I can find those friends, I can contact them, is it a good idea to spend an hour each day with glazed eyes panning over irritating political memes and vapid, ignorant comments from people I don't know? It has the same low-grade irritation as a skin rash. Finally last night I said, "No!" And we watched The Munsters.

I told Adam I wanted a screen to look at that demanded nothing of me: no emotional reaction, no political response, no guilt tripping meme about Jesus or soldiers or cancer patients, no friend request from a total stranger, no weepy videos about tragedies afar, no passive-aggressive click-bate.

Remember the day when a few silly T.V. commercials were more than we would tolerate, and we switched to DVDs? Look how far we've descended, how many slaps in the face we'll take from a screen! Well, no more. I'm reminding myself that the screen is here to serve me, no the other way around. I'm going back to reading blogs of people I enjoy. I'll dash into Facebook when I need to see a friend there, but I won't be a slave to the newsfeed.

Tomorrow night, however, I may ask for Bonanza instead of The Munsters.

Yeah, they're not quite so green.

Some Of Us Never Left the Kitchen

Even though she's a little loony, I do read Penelope Trunk's blog. Occasionally she has a post so revolting I can't finish it, but that's only happened twice so far. She gave two links today that I found interesting:

The Retro Wife -- This article from New York Magazine discusses how young moms these days are choosing to stay home, and loving it. The mom in the article is a self-avowed flaming liberal, but she adores her husband, lives totally for her two pre-school children, and advocates that women have careers they can walk away from.

Disclaimer: When online articles are forever long, I don't usually read them to the end. I read the first page, unless they get too verbose and repeat themselves. Then I stop. Just sayin'.

Is Michael Pollan a Sexist Pig? -- This was fascinating. I disagree with a lot of the article (duh), but still found it so interesting. The writer seems to assume that being a back-to-nature, slow food, chicken-raising woman means you must be a progressive liberal who fled an urban life. Not so! I cannot count the number of conservative, Christian friends I have who are also lock-stock-and-barrel into this movement. They're environmentally sensitive without buying into climate change. They were homeschooling for decades before the progressives decided the public schools weren't meeting their kids' needs. They were canning tomatoes twenty years ago. But I digress. Like the other article, this one states boldly something that would make a dead feminist churn in her grave: women can find a fulfilling, satisfying life at home, doing domestic things. Shocking!

Ha. Those of you reading Edith Schaeffer's The Hidden Art of Homemaking (published in 1971) know that this is yawn-inducing old news to conservative Christian types. Still, we're very happy that other women are discovering it. Schaeffer takes what these article writers hint at, to a deeper level. She doesn't just call it fulfilling; she calls it ART. And it doesn't just make you feel satisfied; it's of spiritual value, eternal value.

There you go.

Regardless of how you arrive at it, the destination is fine -- the home is a comfortable place to be, and when a woman is in charge of her home, she's in charge of her world. And isn't that what the feminists were wanting in the first place?

Heehee. Did you just hear me say that? "A woman is in charge of her world."  If any of you believe that any of us puny humans can ever truly be in charge of our worlds, please let me know how you did it. I'd like to know! Perhaps what happened with feminism (The first article says it's fizzled.) is that it simply discovered the truth:  whether in the home, in academia, in the office, in the military, or in the street, women cannot be in charge of their lives anymore than men can. Life happens. What matters is how you behave when you realize at last that you're not in charge.

But read the articles, or at least part of them. Especially if you only watch Fox news -- stretch yourself a little. Not because you'll radically change your views, but because it's really useful for living in this world to know how and why other people hold their views. It reminds us all that we are all humans, and of incredible value.

Adam, in "Plaza Suite"

Adam is a thespian! Today was the third and final performance of Plaza Suite at Oriental's Old Theater.

It was a lovely afternoon to spend in the village.

Adam had only a handful of lines, which was nice.

Here's the set. The acts take place in suite 719 of the Plaza Hotel in New York City. This lady on the phone is Mrs. Hubley. Her daughter Mimsey, who's supposed to be getting married, has locked herself in the bathroom.

Here, Mimsey's dad checks through the keyhole to make sure she's really in there.

Adam, who played the groom's father, chats regularly on the phone with Mimsey's mom, wondering if his future daughter-in-law is ever coming to the wedding!

The cast came out to take their bows. Adam stands next to our good friend, Russ. He played the bellhop.

The cast party was a great meal, Mexican, of course, in celebration of Cinco de Mayo.  This lovely lady is Bama, who runs Oriental's Village Emporium, one of our yummiest restaurants. She turned out a lovely spread for the cast and crew!

Look at that pile of melty nachos!

I don't know what these little meat-filled packets are, but they were good.

Dessert included brownies and two kinds of margarita cake.

The volunteers (well, that's everybody) each got a plaque like this. I'm assuming that's a photo of the real Plaza Hotel in NYC. Hey! We've got culture down here in li'l ole Oriental too!

Thirty Years

Thirty years ago I was a girl of 19. I thought I was from a second-rate generation. The generation before me had the Beatles, and the flower children, and Woodstock, and war protests. What did my generation have? Big hair (but not as big as the 60s!), John Travolta, disco, and a few offensive things like Kiss and Alice Cooper. One thing was for sure:  we knew what life was about. It was about music, and summer, and friends, and meaningful relationships.

I'm sick today and lying in bed with my Itunes playing. I'm listening to the one Joni Mitchell album I still have access to, Blue. I own quite a few of her albums, and Dan Fogelberg's, my two favorites from my teen years. The vinyl discs are in a crumbling cardboard box in my parents' basement. The last time I looked in the box, years ago, a whole stack of the LPs were warped. I couldn't bear to look further, so I sealed the box and put them away. But throw them away? Never! It would be like carving out a part of my heart.

Because I miss those days when beautiful music was made with one voice and one scratchy guitar -- enduring music with eternal lyrics and haunting harmonies. When we got up from saggy couches where we were talking, to walk across the shag carpet, to flip the album, balancing its edges in our palms, waiting for the scratchy needle to begin running its laps. Our stereos were huge and took up more space than our clothing when we moved to a new apartment in the back of a VW bug.

I miss heating up food in a dented saucepan on the stovetop because nobody had a microwave. Driving with the windows down because the air conditioning didn't work, but he smells and feels of the outdoors on your face were exhilarating. We spent more time outside in the sun. When's the last time you saw a lithe sixteen year old girl and her two friends, lying in a side yard on bath towels for a tan?

I'm not griping really. My generation was addicted to T.V.; our children are addicted to a different screen. I no longer have T.V. in my house, so maybe someday they'll tire of their addiction too. It's just ... I think life was more tangible then. Our bodies, our senses, interacted more with our world -- the physical world. I think we were more sweaty and dirty and hairy and messy back then. It took longer to do things, and longer to clean them up. Our family went to a restaurant once a year when I was a girl. I remember when the first pizza parlor opened in our city, Mississippi's capital. Food was at home, and the process of buying it, carrying it, cooking it, eating it, and cleaning up afterward, required lots of time and human interaction.

My husband was praising the internet a moment ago; it produced for him a schematic of his outboard engine, with all the parts drawn clearly and spread out. He can repair it himself. Thirty years ago, he would have asked for help from a dad or brother or uncle or neighbor or hardware store guy or stranger on the street. Plenty has been said about the isolation that this technology brings, along with its ease. But what I miss is the messy time-consuming nature of life. A time when Adam would have walked around our small town, hauling his outboard in the back of a pickup truck, consulting with buddies and strangers who all had wisdom to impart, sharing a Coke, hearing somebody's life story, telling them his. Getting his hands and nails dirty, his ears worn out, wasting unwasted time. This can still happen, oh yes. But it's not the norm. Thirty years ago, it was the only way. Now it's our distant past.

Does anybody else miss those days?

My mother's not on the computer at all. She giggles that she has neighbors who get her things on their computers when she's desperate. I told her yesterday that she has many extra hours in her day because she's kept herself computer-free. When my eyes are on this laptop screen, they are captives. My mind is captive; it must focus on the content of the screen. We enslave our brains all day long. Doesn't it feel lovely to close the computer, cast your eyes up to the ceiling and let your mind drift? Rather like cutting off the outboard and letting the sailboat sit silently in the lapping water, wandering. Or pulling the VW bug off the side of the two-lane road and waste unwasted time gazing across a newly-plowed field with nothing and everything in your mind. Everything. Did you ever, when you were young, open the door, step out of the car into the field, and walk? Walk to the tree line, stare at the dirt clods, take off your shoes, sit with your back against a tree, ruminate on the dirt around you -- that you will one day be dirt. That the dirt under you is full of generations of the dead. Did you ever tenderly  clutch a handful of last fall's leaves and help them toward their decay?

I am missing a slower, richer, more physical world. It's comforting to know that it's still out there, waiting. I just need to close my laptop.

Life Without T.V.

We don't watch T.V. We don't have reception for T.V. If you didn't grow up with a large Motorola in your living room in the 1970s, you might not understand how shocking this is. My brother Marshall and I were hard core T.V. addicts: Petticoat Junction, Bonanza, Andy Griffith, Brady Bunch, Gilligan's Island ~~ Every. Afternoon. Accompanied with a batch of Pioneer Mix homemade donuts. It was our after-school life.

T.V. costs money now. You can't stick an old set in your living room, turn it on, and hope to get a few channels. Lest you think we're holy or off-the-grid, fear not! We simply get no reception, don't want to buy fancy antennas or pay for cable. And who needs T.V. anyway?

We have Netflix. There's so much to watch on Netflix that my college-age son cancelled his account. It was affecting his grades. Right now, I'm experiencing Doc Martin. I think I watched the entire third season on Thursday when I had the stomach flu and was in bed.

I could have watched Downton Abbey at 9:00 PM on Sundays. Instead, we watched it Monday afternoons, online at the PBS website, at a more humane time. Same for: Call the Midwife, Once Upon a Time (ABC website), and others. Watch when you want to.

This is the thing: why are we enslaved to tolerating commercials 20 minutes every hour, and plunking ourselves down on the couch at a dictated time, to watch a show? There's no need. Did you ever try to pause a T.V. show for a potty break, only to discover that you couldn't? Haha!! I don't think I could sit through commercials ever again. I've been spoiled by the convenience of online viewing and DVDs when we like.

Um, don't worry about our lack of screen time. There isn't any.

I must admit though, on Saturday afternoons, I still miss these guys, A Lot:

Especially Bob. He gave me so many nice naps! But I bet they're all available online somewhere. I just need to look.

This is very similar to our old Motorola.

On Judging Others

I’m in a quandary. From friends and acquaintances on many sides, I get this message:  Do Not Judge.  Don’t judge anyone. Don’t assess other people’s behaviors or decisions. It’s not your place. The Bible says not to judge. If you judge others, you’re putting yourself in God’s place. It’s unkind and breaks up the Body of Christ when Christians judge each other. Only kind and gentle words, please.

Sound familiar?

But my mind tells me this: (Oh, that’s a dangerous way to begin!) Be Wise! Be discerning. Evaluate everything and everyone around you. Assess everything through God’s Word. Be a critical thinker. How can you live righteously if you don’t examine the people and world around you and determine whether they are holy? And although you must always sprinkle your words with the salt of gentleness, you must not shy away from addressing evil or wrong-thinking. Christians are called to test the spirits, to be wise as serpents.

Am I making a mountain of a mole-hill? Can you refrain from judging others in any way, and simultaneously use critical thinking regarding your world? I don’t know how to do it. I usually err on the side of being the critical thinker and assessor, trying to do so objectively and never hatefully. But I get plenty of flak for it. (Just looked up that spelling for “flak.” The word means “strong criticism.” When other people criticize me for criticizing others, is that a double standard?)

I toyed with waxing eloquent about several links I’ve read lately that pertain to this judging theme, but I think I’ll just link to them and leave the reading to you. I agree with many parts of them. Here they are:

Cheetos for Breakfast - a Letter to Young Mothers, very refreshing

Troc, Broc, and Recup - a Pause in Lent, "Fast from judging others"

Holy Experience - The Command that could Resurrect the Church

My bottom line is this: We must have the freedom to assess. We should never be cruel, thoughtless, or malicious in our criticism. But we must be able to look around at people’s parenting, public behaviors, opinions and writings, and think, “That is right,” or “That is wrong.” We may need to voice this also, for our good or someone else's. And we’d better be able to support our views, not being arbitrary or flippant. I agree with Voskamp that unity and love in the Body of Christ should remain a paramount concern. But that unity is preserved both by the assessor being thoughtful and careful, and by the ‘assessee’ accepting in a godly way the criticism that comes. He must work out how to accept such criticism gracefully. For every time I’ve seen a person do criticism badly, I’ve also seen a person accept wise criticism badly. Both sides must learn how the game is played properly, especially among Christians. The metaphor of the body is apt. We do not sever a body part with cruel words. Neither do we shy away from correct care of a body part in trouble, when correction is required. Such care can be painful for a wounded or dysfunctional part, but it must be done. The medicine that hurts, also heals.

  This isn’t easy. I’m no expert! But we do the Body of Christ a grave disservice when we preach loudly, “No Criticism Allowed!” We should examine our terms carefully. To Judge means to sit oneself upon the bench as a judge over others, i.e., to determine whether they are guilty or innocent and to dole out punishment accordingly. To judge spiritual matters additionally means to decide eternal guilt and dole out eternal punishment. None should aspire to judge in this way. But that is entirely different from critical thinking and critical assessment. I’ve spoken out of turn before. I’ve also held my tongue when a word would have been useful. Both are wrong. Real wisdom is knowing when the word is needed, is helpful. Lord, help us all to know!

Rosaria Butterfield

 I'd like you to watch the video below. It's a little over an hour long, so find a slot in your day when you have time. It's an interview with Rosaria Butterfield. If you haven't heard of her, she wrote this book:

The book has been around a bit this past year, caused a stir. I haven't read it because I generally don't buy new books; they cost too much. In a nutshell, here's her story:  she was a lesbian English professor at Syracuse University in upstate New York. She was happy in her lesbian lifestyle with a partner, a home, and a tenured position doing research she loved. But an unlikely friendship with a pastor and his wife, and thorough readings of the Bible for her research, jointly propelled her onto a crash course with God. As she says, it wasn't easy, and it wasn't pretty.


The video above is interesting for much deeper reasons than sex, thankfully. Butterfield digs earnestly into issues the church needs to address.
1) How do we befriend the non-Christian, and particularly the gay/lesbian person? Do we need to revise our out-dated models of witnessing and judging?
2) Emerging from a life-style of sin is always painful to lots of people. There's no way around it.
3) Why don't we talk about our sins? This one really hit home. Butterfield's sin was "out there," and public. Everybody knew she was lesbian at the church she eventually attended. But what about the other worshipers there? She asked them, "What did you have to give up, to come to Jesus?" She had to give up her girlfriend. We really don't like to talk about the sins we have to give up, to have Jesus.
4) She addresses the "I'm born that way" discussion, regarding gays/lesbians. And she agrees -- which I personally felt gratified to hear! As she says, "We're all 'born that way' -- whatever way it is."  I was born a deeply ingrained coveter. I know people who were born to be bitter for decades, holding grudges. Many are born with a sexual sin ingrained. We're all hard-wired for some sin.  Pick your poison. So if you're ever chatting with a gay person and they say, "Hey, bud, I was born this way. I had no choice,"  you can agree with them, and then tell them the offensive trait you were born with. We're all born sinners, born with specific sins too. We're all trying to kill off the sin inside, one day at a time, with Jesus's help.

Anyway. It's a great, great video. She's so honest. She has a new perspective, a good one.

Being a "Period Piece"

Ah, how we love our British period pieces!

Downton Abbey? Pride and Prejudice? Jane Eyre? House of Eliott? Call the Midwife? Whether set in 1800 or 1950, we adore them more  because there's such attention to fine, accurate detail. Remember the episode when Lady Sybil entered the drawing room sporting a pair of pants?

Everyone was adequately shocked, and we smiled. We like our period pieces to be accurate to the time, you see, right down to the waistcoats and toasters, pants and bobbed hair -- and the reactions to them. How much money do they spend making sure each tiny piece of furniture and jewelry, each passing car and street sign, is just right. There's a whole industry providing these props to such shows, like Farley Prop House.
Have you ever stopped listening to and watching the plot and characters, and just examined the kitchen at Downton Abbey?

How would you react if Lord Grantham reached into his dinner jacket and answered his cell phone? Or if Cousin Violet mentioned her affinity for Days of Our Lives? What if Mrs. Patmore used a pressure cooker, which apparently was not presented for home use until 1938?  We would curl up our noses and declare that the directors were doing a horrible job!

All that to say, we have no tolerance for anachronism in our period pieces.

Except.

Except with ideas and cultural trends. Thus, Downton Abbey can introduce an active homosexual, known as such to everyone in the house -- an aristocratic house in rural England, no less! -- and the characters smile, accept this fact, and Lord Grantham plots a way for the criminal (at that time) to remain on his staff -- as his own valet, helping him dress and undress, traveling with him, or serving his guests! Thomas's presence in the household is as out-of-place as a wide-screen TV.

Or Ethel. An fallen woman who became pregnant out of wedlock, who chooses to keep her baby, and later becomes a prostitute in London. Did those sins occur in the 1920s? Of course. Did women like Ethel usually keep the baby when wealthy family want to adopt him? No. Babies like that were commonly placed elsewhere and a woman like Ethel was not trusted, not allowed, to raise a child alone. That's a modern ideal. And Ethel, cooking and serving lunch in an aristocratic home? Ludicrous! We may deplore Lord Grantham's vitriol and anger, but his reaction was certainly more in tune with the times. The women's placid response, Violet's interest in only the food, would be unheard of. In fact, Ethel would never have been hired there in the first place.

My point is that yes, Thomas and Ethel existed in the 1920s, but they were so buried, so unspoken of and unknown in good society, that they would not have touched Downton Abbey's characters or plot. A home like Downton was the height of rigid tradition. The directors make a flacid attempt at mock shock toward homosexuality and fornication, but they present it so that the audience dislikes such censure. We prefer the drama of introducing characters and thinking wholly unsuited to this supposed "period piece."

These pieces are not history. When we watch them, we should not fool ourselves that we're learning anything accurate about the times they claim to depict. We learn only how modern directors, producers, and actors desire to reinterpret those times. Sadly, they interpret the history (or literature) in light of their own cherished vices. Sometimes they are subtle enough that we tolerate them. If they over-reach, we occasionally roll our eyes and turn off the TV.

I did this with Miss Marple. How many Miss Marples have there been? I adore Joan Hixson. I spent many years reading Christie's mysteries over and over. I knew her mind, her world. But when the new series with Geraldine McEwan arrived, I could not watch. It seemed at every episode there was an attempt to wheedle homosexuality into a story where I knew Christie had never placed it. Why? The answer was clear:  Adherence to Christie's world was not the goal.  Introducing homosexuality into something I love and already accept -- that was the goal. It's a blatant manipulation, a cultural maneuver.  Being a "period piece" is pure sham.

I'll continue to enjoy the beauty of Lady Mary's dresses and hats, but I'll do so with a critical eye.