the solemn grace of newts

A tumbling of thoughts, diverse yet connected:

1.  Derrick Jensen, who is a regular contributor to the wonderful Orion magazine, used to bug me.  His tone was condescending, his essays harsh.  I'm not sure if it's he or I who has changed, but lately I have found myself murmuring constant amens while reading his pieces.  His piece in the latest issue is no different.  He talks about how so many of us (particularly those in power) lack imagination in this world.  Most of us cannot, for instance, imagine our lives without electricity (and the non-renewable resources much of that energy is dependent upon), yet it was not so many generations ago that the entire human population lived without electricity, and even today nearly 2 billion people continue to survive, and even thrive, without it.  Derrick Jensen then writes, "Imagine if we were to say we cannot imagine living without the heart-stopping flutters and swoops and dives of bats, and we cannot imagine living without hearing frog song in spring.  Imagine if we were to say that we cannot live without the solemn grace of newts, and the cheerful flight of bumblebees."

2.  In church this morning the Old Testament lesson was from Exodus, the story of Moses and the burning bush, of God calling Moses to be God's ambassador to Pharaoh and to the Israelites.  The voice from the burning bush told Moses to remove his sandals, for he was standing on holy ground.  Pastor Jean asked us where, and what, is our holy ground.  Where are the places where we are called to be more than we are, where we are stretched to be the fullest versions of ourselves?  At the end of her sermon she looked out at us all and said, "THIS is holy ground.  Right here, we are standing on holy ground."  And she pulled off her sandals, set them aside, and asked us to do the same.  I jiggled my flip-flops off my feet and rested my soles on the smooth, cool wooden floor of the church.  When the time came for communion, I walked up the aisle, feeling the soft texture of the carpet beneath my feet.  As I put the fresh, yeasty bread to my mouth and felt the sharp tang of wine wash it down, the taste and texture of both seemed intensified, as though the nerve endings in my toes and heels were increasing the sensitivity of my taste buds and the nerves of my tongue and throat.  I was reminded of the physicality, the tangibility, of this sacrament; reminded of an essay I wrote for my thesis that explored this physicality; reminded that I am a physical being in a physical world.  Reminded that I am.

3.  An article in the most recent issue (Sept/Oct 2011) of Sojourners Magazine also caught my attention.  It is the story of a church in Tennessee that welcomed the building of a mosque across the street, and the Muslims who were building it.  In a time when so many people in this country are giving in to irrational fear of their Muslim neighbors, in a time when hateful acts towards Muslims in America are common, this story stands out as a shining and poignant example of what happens when we act with love, peace, and acceptance instead of hatred and fear.  When the pastor of the church found out that a mosque was being built in the neighborhood, he put a sign in front of the church, welcoming the new mosque.  This grabbed the attention of the Muslims building the mosque, who decided to reach out to the people in this church.  And that opened up the door for a relationship between the Christians and the Muslims in one little piece of Tennessee.  When the mosque wasn't finished in time for Ramadan, the church let the Muslims celebrate their evening Ramadan prayers in their building--for the entire month.  "Jesus told us to love our neighbors," says the pastor, Steve Stone.  And this is certainly what Heartsong Church is doing.

4.  At the Good Food Store today, Greg picked up a copy of the Fall issue of Yes! Magazine, a magazine I had never heard of before, but which I love already after reading just a few articles.  (Yes, I know, this post is turning into a plug for a number of magazines, but really, they're all incredibly worthwhile!)  There's an interview with W.S. Merwin, two-time Pulitzer Prize winner and the U.S. poet laureate, who lives in Hawai'i in a home with solar electricity and its own water supply.  A few of his thoughts:

• "I think that as a species we're in a very dangerous place.  I'm not optimistic about it at all.  I think it's because of an attitude we've got which is deeply ingrained, which is that we have some right to treat all the rest of life just the way it suits us and throw it away when it doesn't profit us at all.  I don't think that realistic.  I don't think that's true."
• "I think the thing that distinguishes the human species is the imagination."
• "All things that really matter to us are impossible, you know.  They say translation is impossible; sure it is.  We do it because it's necessary, not because it's possible."
• "I think it's natural--literally, in every sense--to love being in the world around us."
• "I would like to have this place [his home, where he has been restoring native rainforest] saved as much as possible, just because of what it is and what it can reassure people of.  It can be a place that people can come and think, 'Oh, yeah, the world is really here, still.'"

5.  Yes, the world is really here, still.  The solemn grace of newts, the feeling of grass beneath our bare feet, friendship between people of differing faiths, human imagination that can envision the healing of our broken world, the amazing ability to do what is necessary, even if it seems impossible:  this is our world.  This is the place in which we live.  This is holy ground.

abundance

Despite occasionally wishing for a little bit more space, I know there are many advantages to having a small house.  One of them is that, on any given lot, a small house means a larger yard.  Having a larger yard means having more space to garden.

And in August, having a big garden is a happy, happy thing.

For instance, one does not need to buy nearly as much fruit.  One can simply go out to the backyard . . . 

. . . and pick blueberries (this was all we got this year, but still.  It's three more than last year!) . . .

. . . and blackberries . . .

. . . and raspberries.  This year, especially raspberries.

One also does not need to buy as many, if any, vegetables.   There are peppers to eat . . . 

. . . and garlic . . .

. . . and kale, carrots, beets . . .

 . . . and soon, very VERY soon, there will be tomatoes.  Masses and masses of tomatoes, if these are any indication:

Not to mention potatoes and currants and onions and cucumbers, and, soon, corn and beans and squash and cabbage, and even a few grapes and soybeans.

Have I mentioned lately how much I love my little bungalow and the big yard that comes with it . . . not to mention my garden-crazy husband?  

big house, small house

I've been thinking about space a lot lately.  Not outer space, but our need for space, how we use our space. Greg and I live in a little house.  It's a little over 1100 square feet.  Granted, we also have a full but unfinished basement, which is great for storage, but we don't use it as living space, per se.  (Thank goodness for that basement, though.  Space for washing machine, deep freeze, canning jars, camping gear, recycling, and oh, yes, the kitty litter.)

But 1100 square feet is not large.  The average American home is somewhere around 2400 square feet, and I admit, sometimes I wish we had more space--or at least that it were arranged a little differently.  (For instance, I would love to have a bathtub in the house.  The shub is great and all, but SOMEDAY this house is going to have a bathtub.)  Most of the time, however, I'm very content with the space we have.  For the two of us and our kitties, it's ample.  Living room, study, dining room, kitchen, bedroom, and bathroom on the main floor, and in our low, slant-ceilinged upstairs, our "large" bathroom and hobbit room, which is perfect for watching movies and hosting guests.  

The reason I've been thinking so much about space, however, is due to the various places I've stayed during my recent travels.  My parents' house in Sioux Center, the house I grew up in, seems huge.  Such high ceilings, such big open spaces!  Four bedrooms, actual bedrooms with closets!  Plus a sewing room, plus an apartment in the basement!  Enormous!  My brother and sister-in-law's house is even bigger.  In fact, their GARAGE is 1100 square feet.  Yes, their garage is the same size as our house.  Ah, northwest Iowa . . . .  I walk through the rooms, marveling at the huge kitchen, the airy dining room, the four bedrooms upstairs, the huge finished basement with ample space for my nephews to play.  Like my parents' house, it's a great house for a kid to grow up in, a great house to come home to.

Then there are the houses I stayed in this past weekend, when Greg and I went to Spokane to visit his sister Wendy and her family (who were visiting friends in the area).  The first afternoon we spent with the family of a friend of Greg and Wendy's, who live in this spectacularly lovely home in a quiet, shady neighborhood.  Again, it's huge, and old, built in 1912.  I loved the shelves hanging from the ceiling in the middle of the kitchen, with the sink and dishwasher built into the island beneath it.  I loved the glossy wooden beams crossing the ceilings of the living and dining rooms.  I peeked upstairs (yes, I'm nosy!) and loved the little sitting area connected to the master bedroom, and the room at the end of the hall that had been converted into a huge, light-filled bathroom.  

That night we stayed with other family friends, who also lived in a large, old house built in 1912.  Theirs was classy in a different way; they had done their best to maintain the historical integrity of the house, keeping the old windows (whose glass had gone all wavery as it settled) and finding antique furniture and light fixtures.  There were myriad nooks and crannies, fun little rooms that added character.  The slant-floored sunroom upstairs, with windows on three sides, that was meant to be a sleeping porch.  The wide upstairs hallway, with pleasant rooms opening off of it.  The homey kitchen, splashed with colorful reds and blues.  The large back deck, built off the main floor but rising high off the ground due to the sharp slope of the backyard; sitting on it, I felt as though I were in a treehouse, because of the big maple with branches encircling it and arching above it.  

The next night, we stayed with yet another set of family friends, and their house was a little newer, less elegant and more homey, but large and comfortable.  Scott and Nancy are gardeners and naturalists; I loved the case of animal skulls in their living room, and their garden, orchard, and chicken pens are amazing and an inspiration.  My favorite room in the house was the den, which was added on at the time when having a big extra family room was popular.  It was an enormous room, perhaps 500 square feet, and just . . . open.  Light-filled.  Windows on three sides.  No television--ahhh.  Lovely.  A room to relax in.  Add to that their acre+ of land, the native ponderosa pines scattered behind the house, and a pleasant deck off the back--well, it was a great place to stay.  

It's hard, when one spends a night or two in places like these, to be as content with 1100 square feet and a 1/8-acre lot.  I come home and see my little bungalow through different eyes.  But as I sit here on my living room couch, with the window open and the sound and smell of rain floating through, and Greg sitting cozily in the study, I am content.  We have enough (and more than enough) space for our books, our furniture, for eating and sleeping, for entertaining guests (23 people ate dinner here and nine people slept here two nights before our wedding!).  We have enough space in our yard to grow all the garlic and potatoes we need for the year, plus a plethora of other crops.  We have enough space for chickens, a picnic table, a clothesline, a hammock or two, AND lounging on the grass.  Yes, all this is enough and more than enough.

There is one house I visited that I have not yet mentioned, because it did not fall into the category of huge and spacious.  I visited my good friends Tricia and Benjamin a few weeks ago. They live in a lovely piece of southern Illinois in what used to be a 600-square-foot A-frame home.  They've recently built an addition, so the living space is now perhaps 750 or 800 square feet--for Tricia and Benjamin, their two children, and two cats.  Whenever I need to be reminded of how very possible it is to live comfortably in a small space, I think of them.  Despite the small size of the house, it holds two bedrooms, a study, a living room, kitchen, dining area, laundry room, bathroom, and guest room, and, when it's not 105 degrees outside, it's a very pleasant place to be.  And when I return home from visiting them, I am reminded of how relative these things are:  our "little" house seems positively palatial.

What am I trying to say here?  Perhaps it is simply this:  that it is not always easy to be content with what I have.  That sometimes I long to live in a big, historic house on a quiet residential street.  That sometimes I wish I had seemingly simple things like a bedroom with a closet and a bathroom with a bathtub and a dining room with space to expand the table . . . and an acre or two of property on which we could plant an orchard, have a goat or three, and harvest all the veggies we need for the year.  And perhaps someday we will have some of those things.  In the meantime, I strive to be content with the many wonderful things that we do have.  It is good for me to list them occasionally, as a reminder.  

So here I go again, working on needing less--for, as G.K. Chesterton said, when we want to have enough, needing less is the only alternative to accumulating more.  Accumulating more is not only expensive, it's unsatisfying.  Whenever I focus on needing less, however, I feel freed.  Here's to that kind of freedom for us all.