Gezouten Boter

cheese market in front of the Gouda City HallThe first cookies I baked when I moved to The Netherlands came out of the oven flat, not just in shape, but in taste. Part of the problem, I discovered, was the flour, which is processed differently than in the States in a way that reduces the amount of gluten, and part of the problem was the butter. At home I took it for granted that our default butter is salted. Back in the eighties and nineties an American baker had to go out of her way to find what we call sweet butter, but in Holland the default butter is unsalted. Dutch salted butterIt took several tries before I realized that all my recipes assumed the dash of salt from the butter in addition to the teaspoon explicitly stirred into the cookie dough, and I learned to seek out gezouten boter in a larger store than the corner grocery. And what about the flour? For special-occasion desserts it was worth driving to The Hague (home of the country’s embassies and hence a city  that caters to foreigners), to the import shop I’d heard about through the American grapevine, where I spent way too many guilders for a pound of Gold Medal flour from home.

Pumpkins and turkeys were also absent from Dutch grocery stores, but Americans abroad are resourceful when it comes to our holidays. Each fall a few members of the American Women’s Club of The Hague drove across the border to a farm  in Belgium that grew pumpkins and returned with a carload to resell as a fundraiser for the club. I often wondered what my neighbors in the little village of Waddinxveen thought about the jack-o-lantern gleaming from my window on October 31st.

Waddinxveen, small as it was, boasted a poultry shop, and my first November there I timidly inquired about procuring a kalkoen. The poulier’s face lit up, and it became clear he’d recognized my American accent. “It’s for your harvest celebration, isn’t it? I’ve heard of this!” He didn’t carry turkeys, but could special order one for me in time for the holiday. As he scribbled my information on an order pad, he asked what I’d be serving with it. “Aardappelen en …” Hmm, my Dutch vocabulary did not yet include words like stuffing and cranberries. Over the next years, he came to recognize me. “Ah, mevrouw Thomas, here for your oogst kalkoen, eh?”

Mary and table set for Thanksgiving dinner

I began my married life in Holland, and those years were my first attempts at cooking a Thanksgiving dinner myself. At first, it was just my husband and me, but each year we found more American friends to celebrate our holiday with in a country where the fourth Thursday in November is an ordinary workday like any other. With our homesickness like salt in the dough, friends became family around a table, a turkey, and blessing: a little island of home in the Dutch sea.

 

 

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From the Wellstone Center in the Redwoods

Library House at Wellstone

I’m at a writing retreat, staying in a rustic cabin with no electricity or running water called the Library House. Perched on a deck among oak trees, it felt like home as soon as I walked into its book-lined walls. I set my suitcase down and perused the titles before I unpacked, saw how thoughtfully they had been chosen and approved too of how they had been organized: travel, biography, poetry, entire shelves for favorite authors like Hemingway, Toni Morrison, Joan Didion, and a whole section just for fun. I had arrived for a weeklong writer’s residency, but was tempted to spend the next seven days devouring as much of this eclectic, enticing library as I could.

Instead, I settled at the desk with my laptop and a fat binder containing the rough draft of my novel. When darkness folded my little cabin into the night, I lit candles and at some point, despite my thick wool socks, noticed that my feet on the stone tiles were cold. Out came the sheepskin rug from under the rocking chair to lie under the desk instead. I have learned to move it around to wherever my feet are.

desk in library house at Wellstone

Home is a place you’ve made your own, usually by moving in with all your worldly goods, but sometimes just by rearranging what you find in your temporary abode. I know a monk who has traveled the world and feels at home wherever he lays down his yoga mat. Even a room in a Motel 6 can become a sanctuary.

I came here to write in solitude, away from the delights and distractions of my daily life, and found a tribe of writers with a place for me, a communal life that leads to contemplation and a contemplative life that nourishes community. We all have questions here. What is the very best word to write down next? What will I do when I leave this place? I want an agent or editor to tell me definitively whether I should start my novel at chapter 15 instead of chapter 1, but instead I sink into the ground made fertile by this balance of contemplative and communal. This is my home ground, this is where I can dig deep to find the answer.

A New Asceticism

Remember the character Silas in The Da Vinci Code? He wore a sort of spiked garter called a cilice under his clothes, and in between murdering members of the Priory of Sion, he privately flogged himself. You can think of him as a caricature of the old asceticism, based on the Platonic notion that the body is the tomb of the soul, an obstacle to be overcome on the spiritual path. Through fasting, celibacy, and the kind of harm Silas inflicted on himself, the ascetic hoped to free his or her soul from the cage of the body.

After a bout of anorexia when I was a teenager, I have mostly resisted fasting as an adult; it’s as if two years of crazy dieting was enough to last me a lifetime. Nor have I been given to celibacy or self-flagellation (at least not the physical kind!). So I was happy to see Cyprian Consiglio’s suggestions for a new asceticism in his recent book Spirit, Soul, Body: Toward an Integral Christian Spirituality.

The main topic of the book is what he refers to as a new anthropology, the premise that “each human being is not just body and soul, but spirit, soul, and body, three interpenetrating realms of our being human“ (p. 72). I often hear the phrase “body, mind, spirit,” but Father Cyprian deliberately uses the word soul instead of mind to encompass not just the rational mind, but “all the strata of the soul, the psyche – the subconscious, higher states of consciousness, the collective unconscious, and psychic powers” (pp. 73-74). And what is the difference between soul and spirit? Father Cyprian explains that “the soul has the potential to open to something more, which is the pneuma, the spirit, the point where the human spirit opens on to the Spirit of God, the universal Spirit” (p.74).

Because the human body is interpenetrated with soul and spirit, the new asceticism suggested in this book cares for the body instead of punishing it. Father Cyprian recommends, for example, a healthy diet and daily exercise, especially practices like tai chi and yoga that help us recognize and strengthen the mind-body connection. (Assuming, as I do, that the antioxidants in dark chocolate and red wine are good for you, I’m well on my way as a modern ascetic!)

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Lest our spiritual practice become solipsistic, however, this new asceticism also asks us to think about the environment and social justice. Spirit, Soul, Body was published before Laudato Si’, the papal encyclical “on care for our common home,” but they share these themes. While a biologist can easily make a case for protecting the environment – we are part of the interconnected web of life on this planet, and what’s bad for the biosphere is bad for us too – Father Cyprian and Pope Francis argue in addition that the earth is sacred, and like the human body interpenetrated by soul, it is to be reverenced. The pope considers “soil, water, mountains: everything …, as it were, a caress from God” and goes on to quote the bishops of Brazil: “nature as a whole not only manifests God but is also a locus of [divine] presence. The Spirit of life dwells in every living creature and calls us to enter into relationship …” (¶ 84 and 88). Caring for the environment and working for human rights are sacred work.

So, as a practical matter, what does a new asceticism look like? Father Cyprian mentions a friend who uses the acronym SONG to help answer this question: “through our yoga, we reestablish right relationship with Self, Others, Nature, and God” (p. 112). As I consider my own life, I think I’m pretty good at self-care, but I need to focus a little more on the ONG in this spectrum. What if I gave away as much to charity as I spend on clothes? Shopped more at the farmer’s market and brought home less plastic packaging from Trader Joe’s? I could start composting, help out at the next beach cleanup, abstain from meat at least once a week (just like Lent!). And even though the new Mazda Miata I’ve noticed in the parking lot at work is gorgeous and enticing, maybe, just maybe, my next car will be hybrid or electric.

All around me is inspiration: the acquaintance who teaches nonviolent communication in prisons, friends who are vegans and vegetarians, my sister and brother-in-law who cycle almost everywhere they go. Please leave a reply if you’d like to share a practice that helps you stay in right relationship with self, others, nature, and God.

As Best I Can I Write Your Praises Down

Written December 29, 2015 at New Camaldoli Hermitage

New Camaldoli view

It would be foolish to think that my humble Papermate pencil and I could offer up praise sufficient for the gifts of this morning. The waning gibbous moon was sailing into the west when I left my room, while in the east Venus glowed in the rose-rimmed azure sky that had already yielded her stars to the approaching dawn. In the chapel white-robed monks chanted ancient psalms by candlelight and sang of the old prophecy: “For us a child is born.” In the sanctuary bread was broken; together we ate, men and women, monastics vowed to this place and guests visiting from the world, together we drank from the common cup.

“Open your hearts to God’s tenderness,” the presider encouraged us in his thick Italian accent, he who dreamt during the night that an angel told him, “Keep it simple, Angelo. The more you speak, the less people hear.”

Let the garden outside my window speak, the bluejays and the little brown rabbit who come to breakfast here, the early narcissus blooming in the corner. The book of nature falls open to this spot on a mountain by the sea. Here in the day’s first rays of light is the praise sufficient to the gifts of this morning.

Title from a poem by 16th-century Italian poet Vittoria Colonna.

The Gift of Tears

bird of paradise plant

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On a stormy night, rain drums on the giant bird of paradise outside my bedroom window, but it stands steady in the gale, for evolution designed ribs in its broad leaves: wind will split them rather than topple the plant. Before I knew this, the rips and fraying in the leaves seemed to mar the beauty of the garden, but now I understand them as its salvation.

So too do I understand the gift of tears. The sorrowing speak of heartbreak because that is how much loss hurts and how shocking the face of evil is to the good person, but red eyes and a salt-streaked face mean that the heart opened instead of breaking.

So take off your armor and lay down your sword, let the grief blow through you, for whether you be tender or hard of heart, the gift of tears will save you.

The Golden Thread

I give you the end of a golden string,

Only wind it into a ball,

It will lead you in at Heaven’s gate

Built in Jerusalem’s wall.

— William Blake

Since childhood I have been a list maker. Mom encouraged me to write a list of gifts I hoped Santa might bring, and the nascent librarian made my own little card catalog from index cards of the books I owned. Eventually this obsessive/compulsive behavior channeled itself into a checklist of homework and chores. At 53, even after years of therapy and daily meditation, the to-do list is still my compulsion of choice.

The Wunderlist app, which lets me create as many lists as I want that automatically sync among iPhone, iPad, and computer, is the app I click on more often than Facebook or Flixter. It is a marvelous master list of lists – the grocery list, the gardening chores, the all-purpose inbox that includes everything from “send Halloween cards to my nieces” to “write a will,” and even a honey-do list that I can send to my honey’s Wunderlist. Yet as miraculous as it is, Wunderlist is no match for the manic and multi-pronged list constantly streaming through my brain like ticker tape.

Yes, I love my lists. Any sort of worldly success I may have achieved in this life I attribute to them, but lately I’ve been saying a prayer before I go to sleep that has got me thinking about my deathbed: “May God grant me a peaceful night and a perfect end.”

God alone knows what a perfect end might be, but I am certain that when mine nears, whether it is prolonged or lasts an instant, I want to reach for a ball of golden thread spun from poems and prayers, not a spool of errands and chores. In the moment of crossing to the far shore, I want to see the lady in blue with a crown of stars, smell the scent of redwood and cedar in my backyard on a hot summer day, feel my beloved’s hand stroking my hair.

“Life and death are one thread,” Lao Tzu said, “the same line viewed from different sides.” Is he suggesting that the kind of death we wish for can teach us how to live? For me, gratitude seems like a good place to start. My final list of the day is not an inventory of tasks, but a catalog of what I’m grateful for, from the mundane to the profound. As I am about to open the door into the great mystery, I hope this is the golden thread my mind will reach for, that I can follow to the far shore.

Profligate Generosity

No one who knows me will be surprised that some of my favorite Gospel stories revolve around food and drink, for example, Jesus changing water to wine at the wedding in Cana. Another is the miracle of the loaves and fishes. In this story, Jesus crosses the Sea of Galilee and climbs up a mountain to spend some time alone with his closest disciples, but he has become a popular preacher and healer by now, so thousands of people follow him. But does Jesus get annoyed or set a boundary to protect his private time? No. Instead he asks, “Where can we buy enough food for them to eat?”

In fact, even if they had the money, “two hundred days wages worth of food would not be enough for each of them to have a little,” and besides, they’re in the middle of nowhere! The disciple Andrew finds a boy with five barley loaves and two fish, “but what good are these for so many?” Undeterred, Jesus has the people recline in the grass, blesses the loaves, and starts distributing the bit of food to the crowd. In this impromptu picnic the crowd ends up eating their fill, and afterwards the disciples collect twelve baskets of leftovers!

I grew up appreciating this miracle as an example of divine abundance and generosity, but several years ago I heard a fresh interpretation in a homily. Father Mike thought it likely that the wives and mothers who’d come along on this trip across the sea and up the mountain had brought provisions, but here in a remote place surrounded by hungry people with barely enough to feed themselves, they were afraid to bring out their food. Father Mike suggested that nothing supernatural happened, only that Jesus’s example of sharing inspired the crowd to do the same.

I was a little disappointed at first with this take on the story. Sure, it was plausible, but couldn’t we just let a miracle be a miracle?

I heard this gospel most recently last month, and this time it made me think of my uncle Donald. When I was 24, my dad and I hiked the John Muir Trail, two hundred miles from Tuolomne Meadows to Mt. Whitney. To keep our packs bearable, we arranged with my uncle to meet us at a halfway spot where the trail came within a few miles of a road; there he would resupply us with freeze-dried food for the rest of our trip.

In the solipsism of youth, I didn’t recognize what a generous act this was on Donald’s part, to spend several hours driving to a remote point in the Sierras to deliver supplies and camp one night, then drive several hours home again. My father did, though. Early on the appointed morning he got up early and hiked out to the trailhead to meet Donald and carry our food back to camp.

Later my dad recounted his surprise at how bulky Donald’s pack was. Here was an experienced backpacker out for just one night, yet he looked to be carrying sixty to seventy pounds of stuff. All became clear, however, when they arrived at our campsite on the south fork of the San Joaquin River, and Donald pulled out three personalized mugs along with a mini keg of beer. My uncle the teetotaler had brought us BEER! For ten days we had drunk nothing but freeze-dried coffee, instant cocoa, and water purified with iodine tablets. Now we sat on the riverbank, dangled our feet in the cool water, and drank beer.

mug

But that was not all. Next a mysterious smoky parcel emerged from Donald’s pack: a quart of mocha almond fudge ice cream packed in dry ice! I cannot describe the bliss. Ten days of freeze-dried food, and now ice cream! For dinner we ate steak and a green salad, for breakfast bacon and eggs and cowboy coffee. Feeling like fattened bears that morning, Dad and I bid my uncle farewell and continued down the trail with our laden packs. Nine days later we would climb Mt. Whitney and complete our quixotic adventure.

In 2001 Donald was killed in a car accident. The night before the funeral family and friends gathered for dinner with the minister who would perform the service, and because he hadn’t known my uncle, he asked us to share stories about him. Of course, I knew immediately the one I would tell. I was not alone, though. One after another, relatives and people I didn’t even know related similar incidents, not just nice things Donald had done for them, but acts of crazy, over-the-top kindness. It turned out that profligate generosity was the theme of his life.

My disappointment with Father Mike’s interpretation of the loaves and fishes miracle has long since faded, and I’ve come to appreciate what a wonder it is for humans to overcome our greed and fear of not having enough. Uncle Donald inspired me by making it seem like an everyday occurrence.

Uncle Donald
Uncle Donald
1936 – 2001