why I vote the way I do: thoughts of a Christian Democrat

It's a week until the election, and I am so looking forward to "election season" being over.  And I don't even watch television and am thus not subjected to political ad after political ad after political ad.  Ad nauseum, indeed.

I admire those of my Facebook friends who feel comfortable sharing their political views.  Perhaps most of their friends have similar political leanings; perhaps they simply feel completely confident in their views; perhaps they want to spark debate and conversation.

I have never felt comfortable posting my political views on Facebook, mostly, I think, because I want to avoid conflict.  Most of my close friends and most of my Missoula friends share my political leanings.  Most of my extended family and many of those in the community in which I grew up do not.  I suppose I just haven't wanted to go there.

But lately I've been wanting to articulate my beliefs, and to do so more than just to Greg and my immediate family and my circle of friends here in Missoula.

I am a Christian, and I am a Democrat.  I know there are plenty of us out there (and I am so very grateful to organizations such as Sojourners that give a very articulate voice to those of us who believe in God and also care about social and environmental justice), but I know that many liberals think that Christians, in general, tend to lean toward the (far) right, and that many Christians, in general, tend to think that Democrats are wrong/misguided/unChristian.

But there are those of us who identify as both Christian and liberal, and our voting decisions stem directly from our worldviews and our religious beliefs.  Yet I know that my conservative friends and relatives also make their decisions based on their beliefs.  And we both think we are right, and that the other side is wrong.

Whatever happened to respectful conversation, to a safe place in the middle where we can meet, discuss, learn from one another?  I hear negative comments from both sides.  I hear anger and desperation and despair from both sides.  I hear self-righteousness from both sides.  When did this happen?  When did we become so disconnected from each other?

So I thought that, perhaps, I would just share a little bit about why I vote the way I do.  I am not a theologian.  I am not some political expert.  I don't want to write 5,000 words on My Political Perspective, or anything like that, but simply open a window into the mind of one Christian liberal in the US of A.

Social Justice
This is the primary reason that I vote the way I do.  Time and again, the Bible commands us to care for the poor, the orphan, the widow, those less fortunate.  The command to care for the poor is mentioned more often than just about anything else.  And it seems to me that that the Democratic Party, with its focus on affordable health care for all, programs to support families in poverty, strengthening our public education system so that all children have access to a good education, and taxing our wealthiest citizens at a higher rate (particularly at a time when income inequality is at its highest--right now 25% of our nation's earnings and 40% of the wealth belongs to 1% of the population), does a better job of caring for those who are most disadvantaged in our country.  Several times in the past few weeks I've come across comments or essays that remind us that we need to think beyond only ourselves when voting--that we need to consider what is best for the greater population, not only about what is best for us.  (Joel Schreurs, a former classmate of mine who is now a pastor, wrote an excellent blog post about this very idea.)  FDR, in his second inaugural address, put it this way: "The test of our progress is not whether we add more to the abundance of those who have much; it is whether we provide for those who have too little."  And so I try to vote for the candidates who have more than their best interests in mind--and who seek in particular what is good for those citizens who have the least.

Women's Rights
This has become a huge issue in the current election, and one that is, naturally, of great importance to me.  I've long believed in gender equality.  I've long been frustrated with male and female stereotypes.  I believe that all people, no matter whether they are biologically male or biologically female, have feminine and masculine qualities, and that, when it comes down to it, people are simply people, and no one should be looked down upon because of her (or his) sex.  I am so grateful to see more and more women running for office.  I am so grateful to have a female pastor (and I have absolutely nothing against male pastors--it's just that I've had male pastors all my life and am glad to experience something new).  I look to Genesis, where God created people in God's image, male and female.  I think of how Jesus reached across the gender divide (so much larger in that time and place than it is in ours) to treat women as equals.  I am so grateful to have a husband who cooks and cleans and does the dishes right along with me, and sees me (and all other women) as equals.

All that to say that I also believe, then, that there is absolutely no reason that a woman should be paid less than a man for doing the same job.  There is absolutely no reason that men should have say over women's bodies.  There is no excuse for rape.  There is no excuse for domestic abuse.  And I will vote for legislators who support my right as a woman to make choices about my body.  And, unfortunately, the word "choice" has become synonymous, in this situation, to the word "abortion."  I do not like abortion.  NO ONE likes abortion.  But in a world where some men do not respect women, where some men think that they can do to women whatever they want, where comprehensive sex education is not offered everywhere, where some women and men have not been taught about the intricacies of their reproductive systems, where the cost of contraceptives can be cost-prohibitive, where some men have not learned how to be whole, where too many women haven't had the opportunity to see themselves as strong, beautiful, capable people--in this world, in light of these realities, I strongly believe that the decision of what happens to a woman's body should be left to that woman and not decided by the government.  And rather than simply voting for a candidate because he or she is against abortion, I am interested in voting for candidates who look to the underlying causes of abortion--the underlying causes of "unwanted" pregnancies--and working to rid our society of these underlying problems.  Abortion is the tragic result of much deeper and insidious issues.

And then this comes around, again, to social justice--to taking care of the poor.  Too often (not always, not in the cases of all conservative candidates/legislators) those who are "pro-life" seem to me to be more "pro-birth" than "pro-life"--wanting to abolish abortion, forcing even victims of rape to keep children conceived in violence, but then being uninterested in providing support for these women and their babies after birth.  These women (and, for that matter, all people) should have access to good healthcare for themselves and their children, to healthy and plentiful food, to homes, to the opportunity for a good education.  And I will vote for candidates who will work to put (and keep) these programs in place.

. . . A Moment of Gratitude
We live in an amazing country.  When I think of all we have here--so many rights and privileges, so much freedom, so much beauty--I am deeply grateful.  And even though I don't make a huge amount of money (though I am by no means poor), I am more than happy to give a percentage of it to the government for the roads I drive on, the parks I enjoy, the schools that educate our nation's children, and programs that keep the poorest in our society able to feed and clothe themselves and their families.  I would be even happier to have far fewer of my tax dollars go to our defense budget, and happier still to have my tax dollars go towards a universal healthcare system.

I wonder sometimes what's happened to America in, say, the 70 years since World War II.  The citizens of this country united then for a cause.  They gave up things like sugar and gas.  They planted Victory Gardens.  They were willing to live with less for the greater good.  Sadly enough, I cannot imagine such a thing today.  There's a kerfluffle over the New York City law that prohibits soda from being sold in cups larger than 32 ounces.  People may still drink more than 32 ounces of soda--but they have to stand up and walk across the room to the soda machine to do it.  The folks upset about this law probably wouldn't be too willing to give up sugar or gas or anything else.  Wouldn't it be something, though, if we were willing to give up some of our luxuries (and to see them for what they are--luxuries rather than necessities)?  What a difference it could make . . .

And that brings me to my third (and, for now, last) topic:

Environmental Issues
I wake up, sometimes, at night, and worry.  Did you know that our brain chemistry is different in the middle of the night (around 3am in particular) than it is during the day?  It predisposes us to worry--we don't see things as they are; reality is distorted.  Unfortunately, however, I usually wake up around 5, when my perception's mostly back to normal, and I worry about the world that I will grow old in.  I worry about the world my (as-yet-hypothetical) children will grow up in.  Fact: we are using up our natural resources at an alarming and unsustainable rate.  Fact:  we are poisoning our oceans and our air. Fact:  we are causing a mass extinction of species.  Fact:  we are not caring for this earth as we should if we want to continue to live on it.  Sadly, neither Republicans nor Democrats go far enough in terms of sustainability.  What I would love?  If we began a rapid shift from using coal, gas, and oil to more sustainable energy sources.  It's bad enough that the extraction of these non-renewable resources pollutes land, water, and air, and worse still that it has caused global climate change (right now: Frankenstorm, hitting the East Coast, and this after the hottest summer on record.  No, it's not just chance.).  What scares me is that we--not just Americans, but all of humankind (particularly the wealthiest and thus most resource-using) on this planet--cannot continue to live the way we do.  We need to change, and change quickly.

I believe that those of us who are Christians should have a special interest in caring for this planet. This was the overarching theme of my master's thesis:  that environmental activism should be a particularly Christian activity, not dismissed as an unChristian activity.  Through my work at the Montana Natural History Center, I've been learning more and more about the brilliant intricacies of the natural world, particularly the flora and fauna and landscape of western Montana.  There is such beauty in this world, such beauty in the balance and rhythms of nature.  From snowfleas (which are not insects), with their ability to stay alive in the cold because of an anti-freeze substance in their bodies, to larch trees, those fire-resistant deciduous conifers whose needles turn gold in the fall, drop off, and then leaf out in the brightest green imaginable in the spring--I see constant reflections of a Creator who loves and delights in this physical world.  And I believe with the core of who I am that Christians are called to work for, care for, and protect this creation, from snowfleas to larches, from coral to whales, from polar bears to phytoplankton, and the air and the earth and the water, too.

So.  Despite the fact that neither major political party goes far enough, the Democrats are definitely ahead on supporting alternative energy such as wind and solar and biofuels, which are viable, proven technologies, and are already changing our energy dynamic; agencies like the EPA; new fuel-efficiency standards for cars, etc.  Unfortunately, many conservatives are resistant to the truth that global climate change exists, and their legislation mirrors that resistance.  I want this planet we call home to be healthy--not only for me, but for my children and grandchildren and far, far beyond.  I want us as human beings to learn to live in balance with the rest of the natural world.  I want human beings to steward the earth as we are called to do in Genesis, to care for and respect the non-human creation that God loves as deeply as God loves us.  I don't want any more Frankenstorms or Katrinas or intense droughts or long, drawn-out fire seasons or melting glaciers or rising oceans, and I will vote for legislators who acknowledge the severity of the situation we as a global community are in, who are working to make changes that will mitigate--and, I hope, reverse--our seemingly-headlong rush to ecological devastation.

As I said, I wake up early in the morning and worry about these things.  I am tired of worrying about them--which is part of the reason that I'm finally writing this blog post.  Writing is a form of action, and it is time for me to act.

Wendell Berry, one of my favorite writers (who is also a Christian, and an activist, and, in all he does, is a constant inspiration to me), wrote a poem that I gratefully recall in those times when "despair for the world grows in me":

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

And in that freedom, in that hope--in that peace of wild things that comes from a loving Creator God--I live my life, I make little daily decisions to try to make the world a better place, I act (not enough, but I try, step by faltering step), and, every election, with hope and prayer, I vote.

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.

April . . . showers?

I'm sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, with my computer on the coffee table, listening to Seth Martin & the Menders and smelling the delectable wafting scent of the double chocolate layer cake that I'm baking for two of my co-workers' birthdays, which happen to be only a day apart.  I may have to exercise some particularly deliberate self-control to keep from sampling this cake before tomorrow . . .

I don't know about the rest of the country, but Missoula has had a particularly grey and chilly spring.  I know that warm weather will come, but I am ready for it NOW.  To be perfectly honest, I don't mind the chilly weather so much as the grey.  It is sunshine that I am craving, so when I woke up this morning to a clear blue sky and dazzling sunshine, I was thrilled.  Of course, by mid-afternoon the clouds had blown back in, along with some whirling snow flakes, making my bike ride home rather brisk, but the sun did have a final say this evening, and argued quite convincingly for the beauty of both snow/rain (look close; you can see the precipitation!) and sunshine:

Two weeks ago we woke up to this:

One week ago we hiked on the north side of Mt. Jumbo, looking for wildflowers.  We found numerous patches of snow:

And--success!  Buttercups!  Of course, buttercups usually arrive in March, and by April there should be yellowbells and bluebells and blue-eyed Marys . . . but this year, thus far, we are content with these bright little harbingers of spring.

This past Saturday, we got wind and rain and sun all mixed together, making for a wild and beautiful wedding ceremony for my friends Ann and Nathan.  I have no pictures of the ceremony, but here's the nearby sky and landscape just a few minutes before the wedding:

And then another glorious mix of rain and wind and sunshine and snow this evening:

I'm so grateful for these moments of sunshine--looking at my pictures, I realize they have been present this spring, but I am looking forward to full days of sunshine.  Yet these moments when the sun radiates through, in long golden shafts of light between earth and clouds, bring me hope and remind me of the beauty in all types of weather on all types of days.

Before the wedding last Saturday, I spent the morning with a group of volunteers, clipping the seed pods off invasive species in a local natural area.  It was overcast and grey, and had I been home I would have been lamenting yet another dark day, but being outside, smelling the freshness of the earth and the creek and hearing the singing of dozens of birds (and realizing, once again, that I have a long ways to go along the path of bird identification)--I was just so very content to be outside and part of all that life and springtime energy.  Note to self:  spend more time outside on grey days!

Since this is a bit of a rambly post, I'm also going to mention something interesting I've noticed lately in my yoga practice.  In just the past week or so, I've found myself processing noisy thoughts and strong feelings during yoga.  Whatever I might be worrying about at the moment becomes more present and persistent when I begin my yoga poses, and this forces me to notice that worry, to really look at it, and then, as I breathe in and out, go from forward bends to bridge to upward dog, to work through it.  And, no matter what the issue, whether work or friends or politics, I come to a more peaceful place by the time I begin my meditation.  Perhaps it's not a place of complete peacefulness, but I always feel as though I've  reached some sort of resolution, an inner quiet space.  Inhale.  Pause.  Exhale.

Six days till Facebook!

Spiritual Practices

Today is Mardi Gras.  Fat Tuesday.  The day before Ash Wednesday, which means we are about to enter the liturgical season of Lent.

Did you know that the word Lent means “spring”?  It is derived from the Germanic languages, for instance, from the Old English lęncten, which roughly translates into “lengthen,” as lengthening days are characteristic of spring (and boy, oh boy, am I so grateful for each minute more of daylight we get as we move towards the summer solstice!). It is only in modern English that the word has come to have ecclesiastical meaning as well. Both senses of the word, however, have to do with seasons, seasons that begin in cold, dark places, slowly working their way towards warmth and light, culminating in an abundance of new life.

I find it more than just coincidence that this year Lent is beginning at a time when I am ready to make some changes in my life.  Nothing huge, but I have been struggling lately to figure out my place, my vocation, what I am meant to do in this world.  Certain things have been coming into focus for me, at least in some small ways, but there remains so much that is out of focus.

This morning I did a few minutes of yoga for the first time in months.  I love doing yoga, and I've missed it.  I ended with some deep breathing meditation, which I've never done before, and, as I went through the Sa TA Na Ma mantra (Totality, Creation, Dissolution, and Regeneration), I came to the realization that I wanted to commit to some spiritual practices for this year's Lenten season.  I hope that this process helps more things to come into focus for me.

By the time I finished my yoga this morning, I had a vision of the spiritual practices that I want to commit to these next 40 days.  Here they are:

1)  A hiatus from Facebook (yes, I'm keeping the meat, not that I eat much of it anyway, and giving up FB.  Such are the times we live in).
2)  Daily yoga and meditation/prayer.
3)  Working to eat more healthily and holistically, and allowing that to be a gradual process.
4)  Addressing God in the feminine, e.g., Mother God.
5)  Journaling/blogging throughout this process.

I admit that this is a bit of an unusual list.  Let me share my reasoning behind these choices.

#1 & #5.  I realized that I have been spending too much time lately in front of digital media.  At work, I'm in front of a computer for 6 hours, and there's not much I can do about that.  But I've also been spending what I feel is an unhealthy amount of time in front of screens in my non-working hours, whether that be watching movies (we have a TV, yes, but it's an old analog one without an adapter; the only reason we have it is so we can watch movies on it), checking Facebook, or checking email.  And when I look at how I spend my non-work computer time, FB is the biggest time suck.  I need a break from the FB vortex, and I think it will be good for me.  I'll work to minimize my email and other online time, though I do want to continue to post here.  I've felt empowered by the blogging medium these past few weeks, and I want to share my process in these spiritual practices: it will help to keep me accountable.  Journaling and/or blogging throughout the process will also, I hope, help me to see how I shift and change: how my spiritual practices make a difference.

#2.  As I mentioned before, I love doing yoga.  It is empowering, healing, balancing, life-giving, calming.  When I take the time to do it every morning I am more happy and peaceful (not to mention more flexible).  I have two books that I use, Yoga for Your Life, by Margaret D. and Martin G. Pierce, and Yoga for Women, by Shakta Kaur Khalsa.  Along with the yoga comes meditation, of which I have not done much, at least in a disciplined way, and prayer, with which I do have a fair bit of experience.  I have a feeling that the prayer and meditation, with practice, will pop up in other parts of my days as well.  Recently I have begun taking a 10-15 minute walk in the afternoon, after lunch, as a break from my computer screen and a breath of fresh air, and when I slow down enough and truly look at the world around me, the river and sky and mountains, a deep quiet and peace settles in.  I need more of that in my life.

#3.  Pretty straightforward, I imagine.  My yoga books have some lovely suggestions for healthful eating and living, and of course there's always common sense.  I'm trying to give myself some slack on this one; this is not something I'll force myself to change all at once, but gradually as the days and weeks go by.  I want to be realistic, after all.

#4.  The final (and, I think, best) essay I wrote for my thesis explored the feminine side of God.  It seems monumentally unjust that Christians have spent millennia seeing God as male, when really God is both male and female, or perhaps neither--but either way, God encompasses both feminine and masculine qualities, yet we constantly refer to God as He/Father/Him/Lord, etc.  (I will attempt to refrain, at this point, from going into my thoughts on how this created the patriarchal hierarchy that causes so many imbalances and injustices in this world . . . ) So, to balance out my thinking of God as male for nearly the past three decades, I'm going to spend these weeks, and probably more, referring to God as female.  Not that this changes who God is . . . but perhaps I will learn to understand Her better.

As I look over this list, I realize that the core of these spiritual practices is balance.  I am taking a break from something in my life that has been given too much space.  I am putting into my life something that will slow me down and give me time to reflect and to BE in the midst of the busyness.  I am acknowledging femininity in what is still a predominantly masculine culture.  I am taking time to let God speak instead of me doing all the speaking.  I am addressing not only my spirit, but my mind, heart, and body, all of me, together.

I am interested to see where this takes me.  And I am grateful to my dear Greg, who said to me this evening (when I asked him if he thought I was crazy to do this):  "Allison, trying to make all these changes for 40 days is a very difficult thing.  But to make these changes just for tomorrow, just for Wednesday, is easy.  And then you can do the same for Thursday.  One day at a time."

As Anne Lamott's father put it, "Take it bird by bird."

I can do that.

And now, to bed.

We Are Still Marching

When I turned to the Montana section of the Missoulian today this is what I saw:

Isn't it beautiful?

It's the winning art piece from the annual Martin Luther King, Jr. contest.   I'm going to cut it out and put it on our fridge.

Here's the winning essay:

For Dr. King

There are no segregated
     buses, schools,
water fountains or
     bathrooms.
But there are
people sitting on the streets
who no one notices
and children who are
     hungry.
There is violence and hatred
     and war.
Until there is peace
     and justice
your dream
is held in the hands of many,
like women dressed in black
on the bridge
     holding signs for peace,
and those who
work in food banks
and health clinics
     helping people in need.
We are still marching
towards a better world.

Zoe Wilson, Grade 4


When I was in 4th grade, I was not this aware.  I am grateful that these children are.

In today's paper there were other stories.  There was the story of a Montana boy who lost both of his legs and four of his fingers in Afghanistan, and of his courage and spirit, which are still intact.

There was a story about 9 civilians--families, with children--who were killed by a bomb in Afghanistan.

There was a story about the upcoming bill in the House of Representatives which would do away with the new health care plan.  Congresspeople who support it know that even if it gets past the House it's not going to pass in the Senate, and Obama definitely will not sign it.  They know it's not going to work, but they're wasting precious time trying to do away with a health care plan that will help millions of people  instead of working to bring our soldiers home from Iraq and Afghanistan, or working on climate change legislation, or thinking about ways to create new jobs, or figuring out how to lessen the deficit (why aren't we raising taxes for the obscenely wealthy again?) . . . or, oh, any number of issues that are far more essential and useful, not to mention relevant.

We are still marching
towards a better world.

I find such irony in the juxtaposition of this children's art & essay contest and the story demonstrating the pettiness of our congresspeople.  These 10-year-old kids get it.  They write and paint about friendship and peace and love and justice.  Their creative expression is helping to make the world a better place.  Why do some people seem to lose that desire?  I simply cannot believe that so many of our elected officials, despite the fact that they should be working to make the best possible decisions for the people they represent, seem to be doing the opposite.  How will taking away this new health care bill help people?  How will lowering taxes help us, in the long run?  How does spending untold billions on an unnecessary war and its aftermath benefit anyone?

Whatever happened to loving our neighbors?  Whatever happened to helping others, to the idea that our government has all its people's (not corporations', not those in the highest income bracket, not the tobacco or oil industries') best interests in mind?

And, on this day when we remember Martin Luther King, Jr., and his incredible work for justice and equality for all people, I wonder:  why are we still so afraid of those who are different from us?  It's been almost half a century since the Civil Rights movement and we are still afraid.  Whites are still afraid of blacks.  We are afraid of Muslims and gays and homeless people on the streets. Whatever happened to acceptance and understanding?  Why do we have such a hard time remembering that there is so much beautiful strength in diversity--whether of race or gender or sexual orientation or religion?

How can those of us who are Christians say we believe in a God of love--a God who not only loves the whole world but who created it, with all its complexities and diversity and wildness and beauty--and at the same time show hatred (born out of fear) to people God has created?

There is simply so much that needs to be done.  There are so many hurting people in this country and in this world.  What makes sense to me is working to feed the hungry, care for the sick, shelter the homeless, grow and eat healthy food, keep the air and water and soil clean, provide wild places for wild animals, to use our resources carefully and sustainably.  What doesn't make sense is spending time passing (or trying to pass) laws that do none of these things.  What doesn't make sense is feeling irrational fear of Muslims or blacks.  What doesn't make sense is people trying to elevate themselves by belittling those who are different.

I am so deeply angry, sometimes.  I feel such hopeless despair, sometimes.  And yet, if I can make what small differences I can in my little corner of this Earth--teaching 10-year-old kids about the beautiful wildness of Montana, growing my own food, recycling, reusing, driving as little as possible, loving the people around me, knitting scarves for my friends--perhaps that despair, that anger, will rise up and dissipate like smoke.  It's all I can do.  And who knows when what seems to be such a small act may have powerful, beautiful consequences?  Who knows how many people felt a stirring in their hearts while looking at Anwen Tobalske's lovely vision of hope, while reading Zoe Wilson's insightful poem?

I leave you with the far-reaching words of two wise men.

First, from Wendell Berry, one of the most thoughtful visionaries of our time:

THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

And second, from Martin Luther King, Jr., one of the most thoughtful visionaries of half a century ago:

Let us not wallow in the valley of despair, I say to you today, my friends.
I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: "We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal."
I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.
I have a dream that one day every valley shall be exalted, and every hill and mountain shall be made low, the rough places will be made plain, and the crooked places will be made straight; "and the glory of the Lord shall be revealed and all flesh shall see it together."
With this faith, we will be able to hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope. With this faith, we will be able to transform the jangling discords of our nation into a beautiful symphony of brotherhood. With this faith, we will be able to work together, to pray together, to struggle together, to go to jail together, to stand up for freedom together, knowing that we will be free one day.
And when this happens, when we allow freedom to ring, when we let it ring from every village and every hamlet, from every state and every city, we will be able to speed up that day when all of God's children, black men and white men, Jews and Gentiles, Protestants and Catholics, will be able to join hands and sing in the words of the old Negro spiritual:
Free at last! Free at last!
Thank God Almighty, we are free at last!


We are still marching.

Rainy Day Ponderings

It’s August, and it’s raining. Clouds this morning, an even slate grey, water-filled. The rain came down steadily while I lay in bed, the rich wet air breezing in around me. I love this, this unexpected, unusual August rain.

It rained last August, too. I wonder if climate change will make August rain in Missoula usual rather than not. It doesn’t seem as though it would be a bad thing . . . and yet what repercussions may it have?

Russia is in flames. Temps over 100, steadily, for the past several weeks. And flames, flames, flames, burning through small Russian towns, smoking out Moscow, killing people, destroying homes and crops and livestock. That’s climate change, too, and not such pleasant change as we’re experiencing in Missoula.

There’s a part of me, deep inside, that whispers, “At least it’s not like that here, this summer.” And another, larger (I hope) part feels guilty. Because we’re all in this together. Yes, it’s nice that our low-snow winter isn’t affecting us as negatively as we’d feared. Yes, it was pleasant to have three weeks of rain in June and verdant hills such as we rarely see around here. Yes, it’s nice to have this soaking rain today, in August. I am grateful. We are grateful. But what of the massive rains in Iowa? The storms in the south? The heat wave and flames spreading across Russia? The tornadoes in central and eastern Montana?

It is so easy to read the news, feel some shock or sadness, and then put it down and get on with my day. More deaths in Afghanistan and Iraq. Fires in Russia. Tensions in Palestine and Israel. Radical climate change in places other than my tiny little bubble of Missoula, western Montana. I read these things and feel an ache, deep down inside. It’s not a sharp ache. I’ve padded it with too many other things to feel the slicing sharpness—self-centeredness, numbness, busyness. And good things, too: friends, books, hikes, food. But what if I were to pull off these layers? What if I were to let that ache free to slice me raw?

Mother Teresa prayed, “Break my heart so wide open that the whole world falls in.”

I am afraid to do that. To let the ache be so sharp that it cuts a hole big enough for all the world—oh, it’s too much vulnerability. Too much openness, too much rawness. I am not strong enough to feel the pain of the Palestinians and the Afghanis and the Iraqis and the Russians . . . . I am not strong enough even to feel my own pain, sometimes. How then can I dare try to feel the pain of others?

~~~

The rain is still falling. I am sitting in our little upstairs, in the Hobbit Room, next to the window. My computer is on my lap and Nutmeg is curled up on my shins. Basil just leaped up the stairs and skidded into the bathroom, nosed around for a moment, and then flew back downstairs. I can see oak leaves out the bathroom window. Greg and I have been harvesting onions, garlic, kale, potatoes, carrots, beets, cucumbers, raspberries, and currants from our garden, and our tomatoes are just starting to blush red. Ears of corn are swelling on the stalks in the alley. We just bought a lovely wooden screen door for the back entrance, as well as an umbrella for our picnic table, and I kicked some ass by tearing apart and reconstructing a couple of screens to fit into our unscreened bedroom windows. On Sunday Greg made an amazing dinner—a frittata-like dish of layered potatoes, zucchini, onions, garlic and kale from our garden, along with mushrooms, peppers, eggs, and cheese. The ingredients melded together into an impossibly delicious symphony of flavors and textures.

These are small bits of goodness. Cuddly kitties. Food plucked fresh from our backyard. Spaces in our lovely little cottage to write and read, work and sleep. My wonderful husband, who is enthusiastic about cooking and gardening and home projects. Perhaps I simply need to begin by appreciating these small things. Perhaps these small goodnesses are where feeling starts.

Pain is not the only feeling, after all.

The ache that could slice me raw might let me feel joy as well as pain. To feel pain only—does anyone want that? But while one may be able to choose whether or not to feel, one does not have power over what one feels. Perhaps I do not have the right to proclaim that it’s worth the pain to feel the other the side, the joy, the delight, the goodness. After all, what do I, a woman with a home and a job and a simple but good life in Missoula, Montana, USA, know about pain?

I know enough to know that, somehow, my small pains have made my life richer. I know enough to know that even if I think I want to avoid its sharp rawness, it is better for me to feel it. Better to recognize that I’m bleeding so that I can do what I need to do to stanch the flow. And then, well, hey, I have a scar and a story and maybe a little more strength for the next time.

As I sit here writing this, I find myself trying to wrap it all up neatly. (You know, a nice little post with a bit of an arc of story and some nice wrapped package at the end.) But this stuff isn’t nice and neat, it isn’t black and white, and there are no easy answers, if there are answers at all. Perhaps I just need to be okay with that. I don’t know what to do about all the horror stories in the newspaper. I don’t know what to do about my instinctual emotional recoil when I read them. I don’t know what the right answer is. I know I don’t know much about other people’s pain. I want to be more aware, if I can. I want to be more open, and right now, I think the best way for me to do that is to be more open to the ups and downs of my own life. If I can re-learn how to feel my own experiences, perhaps, just perhaps, I’ll be able to understand more deeply the experiences of others.

So here I am. I am writing, and it feels good. I have a Nutmeg-kitty curled up on my legs, and that feels good, too. My Basil-dude is sitting on his favorite perch, looking out the window, and it feels good knowing that I am his favorite human being in the world. The love of animals is not a small thing. The air is cool and wet, and the grey sky subtly draws out the green richness of leaves and grass and garden. It is August 10, 2010, I am 30 years old (for another few weeks, at least), and I have the mysterious, exquisite gift of being able to start again. Right now.

Repeat the Sounding Joy!

Tuesday night. Again. Tuesday nights, Greg teaches down in Hamilton and I have the house to myself. On Tuesday nights I do things like talk to Linds for two hours, hands-free set in use, while walking around the house, cleaning up, organizing. I eat crackers and cheese for supper, or maybe a grilled cheese sandwich, or a quesadilla (yes, I know there's a theme here!). I blog. I enjoy this space; it is good for me. But I am always glad to see him when I get home from work on Wednesday afternoon.

Basil is sitting on my lap, purring. How do cats know? They wait until you're doing something that requires mobility, or until you are just about ready to stand up and go into the other room--and bam, they leap in their elegant fluid way onto your lap, walk in a circle or three, and start purring. It's the purring that does it. I can't resist it, especially when it's Basil. He is not always affectionate, so when he is, I feel compelled to stay sitting, to be slightly inconvenienced in order to enjoy his cuddly company. He is still esconced in his "cone of shame," and will be for another couple of weeks, unfortunately. I do hope we can take it off before we leave for Iowa . . . and Morocco . . . and Egypt. Fingers crossed.

It is cold outside. -3 degrees, to be exact. It is also very clear, and if I look outside I can see Orion hanging above the eastern mountains. Inside I am cozy. The Christmas tree lights shine gently in the corner; another string outlines the window behind me. It is what they call "the Christmas season," yet I am not quite feeling it yet. It is Advent, one of my very favorite seasons of the church year, and yet my life feels too hurried to enjoy it, to slow down and recognize that it is here.

In church on Sunday we lit two blue candles, one for hope, one for peace. Blue banners hung from the ceiling, and Pastor Jean wore a blue stole over her robe. All this to help us remember what season we are in. I want to feel it, to let it sink in.

At work yesterday, I listened to Christmas music, to try to get myself into the mood. As I write that, I wonder--what does that mean? What is this "mood" of Christmas that I'm seeking? What I mean by that is that I am wanting to feel that my life is slowing down enough for me to see it clearly. I want to take time to walk outside and see Orion glimmering in the black December sky. I want to see the beauty around me, the depths of the world around me, to sense the magic, the mystery of this season. That's it, right there: I want the magic of it. The magic of people loving one another. The magic of snow falling on the trees and houses and past the streetlights. The magic of walking with the man I love through the snow, past houses with cozy yellow light spilling from their windows. The magic of feeling that there is love in the world, that all the world is loved, that there is a loving God who wraps this world--with all its hurts and happinesses--in her arms.

That is the magic that I'm seeking.

As I listened to all my favorite Christmas songs playing--O Holy Night, music from the Nutcracker, the Hallelujah chorus--I felt just a little bit of that magic swelling around me. I looked out my window at the mountains, their tops dusted with snow, gleaming brightly in the sunshine. I listened to the words of "Joy to the World," another favorite. And four words played themselves over and over in my mind: "Repeat the sounding joy!"

Repeat the sounding joy. Hearing it reminds me of that line from Garden State: "Good luck exploring the infinite abyss!" Reminds me that THIS is what we're meant to do: explore the infinite (and beautiful, and terrifying, and dazzling) abyss . . . and remember that we also need to repeat, and repeat, and repeat again the sounding joy.

. . . the echoes of joy sounding in the starlight and the brilliant cold air, in the snowflakes, in the purring of kitties and the comfort of down slippers. In the glow of the Christmas lights, in bear hugs, in letters from friends on the other side of the world. In the voices of friends and the songs of angels--

repeat the sounding joy.

A bit of inspiration

"Be not the slave of your own past.

Plunge into the sublime seas,

dive deep and swim far, so you shall

come back with self-respect, with

new power, with an advanced experience

that shall explain and overlook the old."

--Ralph Waldo Emerson

a bit of unexpected order

In the midst of disjointedness and randomness and utter chaos, occasionally a bit of unexpected order creeps in. When it does, one should probably listen to it, right? All those big questions are out there--What do I do with my life? Where do I go? What's the next step? etc., with no answers forthcoming. One of things I am sure about, however, is that right now I need to be working on my thesis, and I have seven weeks (well, six now) to work at Adventure Life only 25 hours a week, with my mornings fully dedicated to writing and researching. This year, Lent begins earlier than it has in over a century, and lasts 40 days (or six and a half weeks). Times like these, I think the cosmos is telling me something. My academic discipline is going hand in hand with my spiritual discipline, and there's some mental and emotional discipline happening, too. I'm curious to see where this Lenten journey takes me, where I'll be by Easter . . .

One result of earlier discipline (from about two years ago, actually) is the recent publication of one of my essays in Perspectives: A Journal of Reformed Thought. Exciting!

Besides the discipline, though, I've been having fun skiing in the all the great snow we're getting this winter, hanging out with Beth and Britta, having time to cook and bake again--finally!--and simply enjoying the season. Of course, we need some pictures.

Once again Christa and I drove over to Bozeman for a weekend of good contra dancing fun! Three cheers for dancing three days' straight on a VERY slippery floor! Ah, Wintergreen. It is a wonderful tradition. Check out the link and you'll see a familiar face.



Oh, and of course I don't have any pictures of the actual dance, but I do have pics of the gorgeous place we stayed!



And then, of course, there's been tons of snow this winter, and thus tons of fantastic skiing. I have gone with co-workers, like my friends Moe:



and Julia:



This past weekend I went up the Rattlesnake with Beth and Britta, and it was stunningly beautiful:



And we skied the WHOLE TIME . . . except when the expanse of perfect packing snow tempted us too strongly, and we succumbed thus:



creating a voluptuous snow goddess to reflect all our own goddess-like qualities. Ahem.

Below, our poles (and skis, for that matter, but they're rather buried), waiting for us to return from our creative work:



Then we skied away, quite merrily, until Beth called out in a resonant whisper, "MOOSE!" We turned, and there she was, not 20 feet away, munching on the shrubbery.



Just in case I needed a reminder of why I live in Montana.

it's the good ol' summertime

Hmm, it's about that time. About time for another post from this Montana mountain girl!

And I feel very Montana mountain girly today because my friend Jenny and I hiked up to Carlton Ridge (just below Lolo Peak) yesterday, camped overnight near lovely Carlton Lake, and woke up to early morning sunshine and blood-sucking mosquitoes. Ah, Montana! Gotta love it. My legs are not at ALL happy with me, as they have not been subjected to such torture since my days on the Inca Trail, but they will get over it. I love having sore muscles, actually; it feels so utterly lovely to stretch them, and it's also lovely to know that they've gotten a good workout. Ahh.

I'm not feeling overly wordy today, so I think I'll just post some pictures from the past month and a half of my life:

My annual June 13th pilgrimage to the top of Mt. Sentinel:





























My friend Beth and I at the famous Missoula "M"































Andrea and some of her friends attended a wedding in Bozeman, so I drove the short 3 hours to spend a day in Yellowstone with her and her friends. Some silly sister pictures, which are, scarily enough, also NORMAL sister pics:































































































Useful Yellowstone signage:





































































































































































Beehive Geyser, which erupted RIGHT IN FRONT OF US while we were waiting for Old Faithful. We got wet! It was great! Yay, geysers!!











































































































And, in Iowa in July, I got to hang out with Rita before she and David moved to Ithaca































I went to my family reunion on Castle Rock Lake in Wisconsin, and had a blast with my oldest nephew, Dillan. It's great when you find another kindred spirit . . .





























Sunset on Castle Rock Lake





























And, just this last week, my parents and Andrea came through on their to WA! Andrea's moving out to Lynden to start teaching this fall. But of course, we had to do fun Missoula stuff in preparation:


Getting our hair wet in Rattlesnake Creek:































Me sitting happily in the creek, and Andrea all wet and drippy:































Looking sexy at the Old Post (where they CARDED me for the first time in a year--what, because I was with my parents or something??):































And, of course, FLOATING the Clark Fork!! Woohoo!!































The mountains of the Missoula Valley from my hike this past weekend. See all the smoke from the forest fires??































Beautiful (and icy!!) Carlton Lake: