OK, I grew up eating tons of Kale because it grew so well in my grandmother's garden and my father's garden. It grew like crazy and we had to eat it.
Boiled to within an inch of it's existence and covered with oil and vinegar, it was barely consumable.
Now, Kale is the big thing.
We had kale tonight, boiled within an inch of it's life and barely etible.
Folks are eating raw kale in salads.
What's next, we start eating dirt and not worrying about the grit in our teeth.
As someone who has eaten kale since his youth, don't pretend it's the 'new thing'. Don't eat kale. Under no circumstance should you eat kale.
Really.
Monday, October 19, 2015
Personal politics
Yesterday, after church at Emmanuel in Killingworth, I talked with; Jon Bush and then his wife, Jody. Jon is the brother of President Bush I and uncle of President Bush II. He and Jody are the salt of the earth, wonderful, lovely, dear people.
Talking with them is the only thing that makes me doubt my idea to outlaw the Republican Party. There are dear and gentle people who are Republicans. Jon and Jody are, of course, supporting their nephew Jeb and think The Donald and the heart surgeon and Carlie are a distraction and 'so wrong'. When I talk with them I make sure I appear as a liberal Democrat instead of the full blown Socialist that I am. I don't want to take them a bridge too far.
Politics becomes confusing when it becomes personal. My friend, Bill, is a conservative Republican and a conservative Episcopalian. And I like him a lot. Like the Bushes, who are so dear and clear and together.
My father, for goodness sake, was a life-long Republican. And I was as a teen. I wrote on a wall with spray paint "AU H2O" when I was a Senior in high school. Gold-water is what that meant.
As time went on, I came to realize I belonged on the far left of the Democratic Party. But it is cool to know wonderful people who are on the other end of the spectrum. It keeps me from being an angry, vengeful socialist.
The Bushes and Bill give me hope that we can eventually figure this stuff out and govern the nation and move forward together.
That's what I pray is possible, at any rate.
Talking with them is the only thing that makes me doubt my idea to outlaw the Republican Party. There are dear and gentle people who are Republicans. Jon and Jody are, of course, supporting their nephew Jeb and think The Donald and the heart surgeon and Carlie are a distraction and 'so wrong'. When I talk with them I make sure I appear as a liberal Democrat instead of the full blown Socialist that I am. I don't want to take them a bridge too far.
Politics becomes confusing when it becomes personal. My friend, Bill, is a conservative Republican and a conservative Episcopalian. And I like him a lot. Like the Bushes, who are so dear and clear and together.
My father, for goodness sake, was a life-long Republican. And I was as a teen. I wrote on a wall with spray paint "AU H2O" when I was a Senior in high school. Gold-water is what that meant.
As time went on, I came to realize I belonged on the far left of the Democratic Party. But it is cool to know wonderful people who are on the other end of the spectrum. It keeps me from being an angry, vengeful socialist.
The Bushes and Bill give me hope that we can eventually figure this stuff out and govern the nation and move forward together.
That's what I pray is possible, at any rate.
Sunday, October 18, 2015
How time flies
I've been looking at a whole bunch of photos from my Installation as Rector of St. John's Church in Waterbury. Dozens of them. That would have been 1989--26 years ago. A lot of people in the pictures are dead, that I know, having officiated at many of their funerals.
And my hair is dark brown, though my beard is graying. I've had white hair since I don't know when, so it is odd to me to see me with brown hair. That and being with dead people is a tad awkward and not a little disturbing.
I have a son who is 40 and a daughter who is 37. Bern and I have been married since September 5, 1970. 1970, for goodness sake! 45 years, oh my God!!!
How time flies. I can barely recognize the me that was 'me' in our wedding album. Who is that guy with a brown Fu Man Chu Moustache and dark brown hair in a tux? The problem is, Bern looks a lot like that woman in the wedding gown. Time hasn't flown for her. Somewhere there is a photo growing older of her. Really.
Stunning, how time flies.
Getting older is much better than the alternative.
But it is disconcerting how time flies.
At least, I've been having a lot of fun....
And my hair is dark brown, though my beard is graying. I've had white hair since I don't know when, so it is odd to me to see me with brown hair. That and being with dead people is a tad awkward and not a little disturbing.
I have a son who is 40 and a daughter who is 37. Bern and I have been married since September 5, 1970. 1970, for goodness sake! 45 years, oh my God!!!
How time flies. I can barely recognize the me that was 'me' in our wedding album. Who is that guy with a brown Fu Man Chu Moustache and dark brown hair in a tux? The problem is, Bern looks a lot like that woman in the wedding gown. Time hasn't flown for her. Somewhere there is a photo growing older of her. Really.
Stunning, how time flies.
Getting older is much better than the alternative.
But it is disconcerting how time flies.
At least, I've been having a lot of fun....
Saturday, October 17, 2015
a bridge too far...
My dentist, Dean, made me a five tooth bridge for my upper left back teeth.
It's the biggest bridge Dean's ever made. It's lasted a long time though I don't know how long (linear time and all...) On Wednesday I chipped it. I don't know how or with what. My tongue noticed a really rough part of the bridge. So, I have to call Dean and go see what he can do about it. I think he can just drill it down and smooth it out. It's artificial, after all, and none of the 5 teeth in the bridge are visible, no matter how wide I smile....
I just regret having to tell Dean I messed up his masterpiece. Every time I go in for a cleaning and Dean comes in at the end, he points out his handiwork to the dental hygienist. I know he's pointed it out to the same one several times. Hope he's not upset about the chip.
The other thing I have in my body are two titanium rods in my left arm. I shattered both the bones below the elbow in a auto accident. It was raining on I-91 but the George Street exit ramp was frozen and I slid down it into the guard rail. The air bag broke my ulna in four places and my radius in 5 places. The surgeon put in the longest rod he ever had in a lower arm. I never had a cast since it was broken so badly I had surgery the next day.
And last year, I started having pain in my lower left arm. I didn't think my body was rejecting the rods, it's been too long, after all. But I went to see Alex about it. As he looked at the x-ray, he remembered this was a one of a kind operation and I thought he had a look of disappointment about his master work. But the pain went away and he was glad.
I just don't want to see Dean's disappointment when he looks in my mouth. Of course, I won't since I keep my eyes closed in the dentist chair.
And, if I pondered such things, I'd ponder why two parts of me (that really aren't 'parts of me') are some kind of one of a kind additions to me.
But I'm not only not going to ponder that, I'm going to forget I wrote it.
It's the biggest bridge Dean's ever made. It's lasted a long time though I don't know how long (linear time and all...) On Wednesday I chipped it. I don't know how or with what. My tongue noticed a really rough part of the bridge. So, I have to call Dean and go see what he can do about it. I think he can just drill it down and smooth it out. It's artificial, after all, and none of the 5 teeth in the bridge are visible, no matter how wide I smile....
I just regret having to tell Dean I messed up his masterpiece. Every time I go in for a cleaning and Dean comes in at the end, he points out his handiwork to the dental hygienist. I know he's pointed it out to the same one several times. Hope he's not upset about the chip.
The other thing I have in my body are two titanium rods in my left arm. I shattered both the bones below the elbow in a auto accident. It was raining on I-91 but the George Street exit ramp was frozen and I slid down it into the guard rail. The air bag broke my ulna in four places and my radius in 5 places. The surgeon put in the longest rod he ever had in a lower arm. I never had a cast since it was broken so badly I had surgery the next day.
And last year, I started having pain in my lower left arm. I didn't think my body was rejecting the rods, it's been too long, after all. But I went to see Alex about it. As he looked at the x-ray, he remembered this was a one of a kind operation and I thought he had a look of disappointment about his master work. But the pain went away and he was glad.
I just don't want to see Dean's disappointment when he looks in my mouth. Of course, I won't since I keep my eyes closed in the dentist chair.
And, if I pondered such things, I'd ponder why two parts of me (that really aren't 'parts of me') are some kind of one of a kind additions to me.
But I'm not only not going to ponder that, I'm going to forget I wrote it.
Friday, October 16, 2015
The Washington Retreat Center
The workshop this week was at the Washington Retreat Center which is smack dab in the middle of the campus of Catholic University and is run by the Franciscan Sisters of the Atonement. God knows how many different Franciscan orders there are in the Roman Catholic Church--well, surely 'God knows', but not many humans can figure it out. They were all worthy of cheek pinching and one of them, an Irish nun with a pronounced limp, was an absolute sweetheart.
In my work with the Mastery Foundation I've met more nuns than you can imagine or I can remember. Nuns, in my book, are top of the line. If I had to go somewhere dangerous, I'd take a couple of nuns--those bad people they couldn't charm they'd beat up. Nuns are tough. I remember talking to a nun in Ireland who told me how she stood in front of her girl's school in Nigeria and stared down some rebels who came to kidnap the girls as if she was telling me what she had for breakfast after mass.
You can sit on the front porch of the Washington Retreat Center and watch people in robes and habits walk down the street along with college students dressed like, well, college students. It is a beautiful location only half a block from the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception where Pope Francis said mass and next door to the Saint John Paul II shrine that looks for all the world like a pro basketball arena from the outside.
Several of us had dinner on Sunday and then again on Wednesday at a restaurant called "Bus Boys and Poets". It is dedicated to Langston Hughes, the Black Poet, who was a bus boy in DC at a hotel, before he was a poet. One night the poet Vachel Lindsy had dinner in the restaurant and Langston Hughes left some of his poems at Vachel's plate and was, thereby, 'discovered'.
If you're ever in DC find Bus Boys and Poets--there's more than one--and order the shrimp and grits.
I've had shrimp and grits in New Orleans, which should be the 'best', right? But it was nowhere near as good as this shrimp and grits. The grits had been fried into grit patties, crisp on the outside. The shrimp with chopped up asparagus and scallions and tomatoes and corn, was covered with a spicy, creamy Cajun sauce to die for.
The second time I had a half-plate, since it was 'happy hour' of shrimp and grits patties with small shrimp and the same vegetables and sauce. I would lick that sauce off a plate! And since I had a 'small plate', I had room for (I do not lie) white chocolate banana bread pudding with a caramel sauce and coconut ice cream. The six of us passed it around and all went into a sort of fugue it was so good.
And we walked there from the Washington Retreat Center. How great is that?
In my work with the Mastery Foundation I've met more nuns than you can imagine or I can remember. Nuns, in my book, are top of the line. If I had to go somewhere dangerous, I'd take a couple of nuns--those bad people they couldn't charm they'd beat up. Nuns are tough. I remember talking to a nun in Ireland who told me how she stood in front of her girl's school in Nigeria and stared down some rebels who came to kidnap the girls as if she was telling me what she had for breakfast after mass.
You can sit on the front porch of the Washington Retreat Center and watch people in robes and habits walk down the street along with college students dressed like, well, college students. It is a beautiful location only half a block from the Shrine of the Immaculate Conception where Pope Francis said mass and next door to the Saint John Paul II shrine that looks for all the world like a pro basketball arena from the outside.
Several of us had dinner on Sunday and then again on Wednesday at a restaurant called "Bus Boys and Poets". It is dedicated to Langston Hughes, the Black Poet, who was a bus boy in DC at a hotel, before he was a poet. One night the poet Vachel Lindsy had dinner in the restaurant and Langston Hughes left some of his poems at Vachel's plate and was, thereby, 'discovered'.
If you're ever in DC find Bus Boys and Poets--there's more than one--and order the shrimp and grits.
I've had shrimp and grits in New Orleans, which should be the 'best', right? But it was nowhere near as good as this shrimp and grits. The grits had been fried into grit patties, crisp on the outside. The shrimp with chopped up asparagus and scallions and tomatoes and corn, was covered with a spicy, creamy Cajun sauce to die for.
The second time I had a half-plate, since it was 'happy hour' of shrimp and grits patties with small shrimp and the same vegetables and sauce. I would lick that sauce off a plate! And since I had a 'small plate', I had room for (I do not lie) white chocolate banana bread pudding with a caramel sauce and coconut ice cream. The six of us passed it around and all went into a sort of fugue it was so good.
And we walked there from the Washington Retreat Center. How great is that?
Thursday, October 15, 2015
The 'workshop'
I wish I could tell you how many Making a Difference Workshops I've been involved in since I took it in whenever I took it....I may have mentioned that I am lost, lost, lost in linear time. My memory of things is relatively good. But knowing 'when' the memory belongs is lost to me.
I used to tell people I took the workshop in 1978. Now I know that's not true. I took it when I left parish ministry for a spell and I didn't do that until 1985. Eight years off seems rather serious to me.
87 vs 78, well, another flaw in me is I invert numbers. I may have tried to call you but kept dialing 4-7 when it was 7-4. Given all that, it's a wonder that I still pass for 'very smart'--magna cum laude/Phi Beta Kappa as an undergraduate, second in my class in Seminary--just saying....last time I took a IQ test it was 150. But I have no idea what year things happened and I invert numbers on a regular basis.
So, I've been with MAD and the Mastery Foundation for nigh on 27 years, best I can remember. And 'the workshop' has been a radically important part of my life all that time.
The workshop in DC this week was beautiful, moving, transforming...but then, they all have been for me.
I started writing this to tell you about the workshop, but I know that is vain and beyond doing.
One of the distinctions we make in MAD (the workshop is a series of distinctions and Centering Prayer) is the distinction between the domain of 'presence' and the domain of 'representation' and how those domains--experience and what we say about experience--are, ultimately 'distinct'. But we don't live as if they are. We live in the collapse of the two domains.
Another way of putting that is this: Something Happens and We Talk About It.
And the story we tell about what happens ISN'T what happened. But we live as if it is.
Here's an illustration of how we think "what happened" is "what we say about it".
Back in the Middle Ages, a new Pope was elected. One of the Cardinals told him his first act should be to throw the Jews out of Rome.
"Why should I do that?" the Pope asks.
"It's what a new Pope does," replied the Cardinal. "They drift back eventually, but you need to show them this is a Christian city."
"I can't do that," said the Pope. "I need to quiz one of the leaders to see if it's necessary."
So, envoys were sent to the Jewish community. None of the Rabbi's wanted to talk to the Pope and most of the leaders of the community were busy packing, knowing what was coming. But a tailor named Jacob volunteered to meet with the Pope and the envoys took him to the Vatican.
Jacob and the Pope did not share a common language but the Pope told the Cardinals, "never mind, I can test him by sign language."
So, the Pope held up one finger and Jacob responded by holding up two fingers.
Then the Pope made an expansive arm motion as if to embrace the room. Jacob pointed to the floor.
The Pope held up an apple he took from his desk and Jacob reached into his robes and held up a piece of matzo.
The Pope turned to the Cardinals. "He's an orthodox Christian. The Jews can stay."
When pressed by the Cardinals, the Pope said this about 'what happened'.
"I held up one finger to say, 'there is but one God.' But Jacob raised two fingers to say 'but there is also the Son and Holy Spirit'. I waved my arms to say, 'God is transcendent' and Jacob responded by pointing to the floor to say 'God is imminant, present here'. Then I asked, 'is the world round as the heretics say?' and Jacob responded, 'no, the world is flat as the church teaches'.
The Cardinals were amazed.
Jacob went back to the Jews and told them to quit packing, they'd be staying in Rome.
Everyone wanted to know what happened and Jacob told them this:
"The Pope said he'd poke me in my eye and I told him, I'd poke him in both eyes. He said the Jews needed to get out of Rome and I told him we're staying right here. Then we showed each other our lunches....."
"Something Happened", but as you can see, "What We Say About It" isn't at all "What Happened".
I can't 'tell you' about the workshop. I'd love to talk with you about it and enroll you to take it. There's another in April in West Park, New York, at Holy Cross Monastery. Something always Happens at them. It's called 'transformation'.
Want to be 'transformed'? Risky and courageous business. Would love to enroll you in that.
I used to tell people I took the workshop in 1978. Now I know that's not true. I took it when I left parish ministry for a spell and I didn't do that until 1985. Eight years off seems rather serious to me.
87 vs 78, well, another flaw in me is I invert numbers. I may have tried to call you but kept dialing 4-7 when it was 7-4. Given all that, it's a wonder that I still pass for 'very smart'--magna cum laude/Phi Beta Kappa as an undergraduate, second in my class in Seminary--just saying....last time I took a IQ test it was 150. But I have no idea what year things happened and I invert numbers on a regular basis.
So, I've been with MAD and the Mastery Foundation for nigh on 27 years, best I can remember. And 'the workshop' has been a radically important part of my life all that time.
The workshop in DC this week was beautiful, moving, transforming...but then, they all have been for me.
I started writing this to tell you about the workshop, but I know that is vain and beyond doing.
One of the distinctions we make in MAD (the workshop is a series of distinctions and Centering Prayer) is the distinction between the domain of 'presence' and the domain of 'representation' and how those domains--experience and what we say about experience--are, ultimately 'distinct'. But we don't live as if they are. We live in the collapse of the two domains.
Another way of putting that is this: Something Happens and We Talk About It.
And the story we tell about what happens ISN'T what happened. But we live as if it is.
Here's an illustration of how we think "what happened" is "what we say about it".
Back in the Middle Ages, a new Pope was elected. One of the Cardinals told him his first act should be to throw the Jews out of Rome.
"Why should I do that?" the Pope asks.
"It's what a new Pope does," replied the Cardinal. "They drift back eventually, but you need to show them this is a Christian city."
"I can't do that," said the Pope. "I need to quiz one of the leaders to see if it's necessary."
So, envoys were sent to the Jewish community. None of the Rabbi's wanted to talk to the Pope and most of the leaders of the community were busy packing, knowing what was coming. But a tailor named Jacob volunteered to meet with the Pope and the envoys took him to the Vatican.
Jacob and the Pope did not share a common language but the Pope told the Cardinals, "never mind, I can test him by sign language."
So, the Pope held up one finger and Jacob responded by holding up two fingers.
Then the Pope made an expansive arm motion as if to embrace the room. Jacob pointed to the floor.
The Pope held up an apple he took from his desk and Jacob reached into his robes and held up a piece of matzo.
The Pope turned to the Cardinals. "He's an orthodox Christian. The Jews can stay."
When pressed by the Cardinals, the Pope said this about 'what happened'.
"I held up one finger to say, 'there is but one God.' But Jacob raised two fingers to say 'but there is also the Son and Holy Spirit'. I waved my arms to say, 'God is transcendent' and Jacob responded by pointing to the floor to say 'God is imminant, present here'. Then I asked, 'is the world round as the heretics say?' and Jacob responded, 'no, the world is flat as the church teaches'.
The Cardinals were amazed.
Jacob went back to the Jews and told them to quit packing, they'd be staying in Rome.
Everyone wanted to know what happened and Jacob told them this:
"The Pope said he'd poke me in my eye and I told him, I'd poke him in both eyes. He said the Jews needed to get out of Rome and I told him we're staying right here. Then we showed each other our lunches....."
"Something Happened", but as you can see, "What We Say About It" isn't at all "What Happened".
I can't 'tell you' about the workshop. I'd love to talk with you about it and enroll you to take it. There's another in April in West Park, New York, at Holy Cross Monastery. Something always Happens at them. It's called 'transformation'.
Want to be 'transformed'? Risky and courageous business. Would love to enroll you in that.
home again
I got back from Washington, DC and a Making a Difference Workshop just before 1 a.m. today. I flew out of DC on the same plane with my friend and fellow leader, Maggie, and her daughter, Jessie, who was a participant in the workshop. I had just over an hour to make a connection to Hartford in Newark and we took off 29 minutes late. I thought I'd miss my connection and have to stay in the airport or call Maggie who lives 40 minutes away and ask her to come get me. I have a class to teach in Waterbury at UConn at 12:30 tomorrow and was thinking I'd probably miss that too.
When we landed on time in Newark, I was confused. How did the pilot do that, catch the Jet stream? Fly through another dimension? I saw Maggie and Jessie just off the plane, waiting for my bag that I checked outside the door of the plane and got back outside the door of the plane and expressed my confusion.
Maggie, who flies on lots of short flights told me that in order to cover their 'on time' stats, airlines always tell you it will take longer than it does. Amazing. Padding time to make yourself look good.
My ticket said it was 58 minutes from Newark to Hartford--after I rode a bus two terminals to make the connection--and when we were about to take off, the pilot said we'd never get above 7000 feet and be in Hartford in 25 minutes. So, that's what they do, huh?
Seems dishonest to me, but, hey, maybe that's just me.
Getting off the little bus to the parking lot and my car, I bumped against something on the door of the bus and opened a two inch gash on my right arm. So, I drove from Hartford to Cheshire using up about half a box of tissues to stop the bleeding.
When I came in the front door, the dog in our bedroom started going crazy and Bern had to wake up. When I went in the bedroom he nearly knocked me down and put on quite a 'welcome home!' show for 10 minutes or so.
By the time I'd dressed my wound and set up my C-path machine, it was 1:30 a.m. and I was so revved up by the workshop and the travel that I read about 40 pages of The Hobbit before I could sleep.
But it was so good to be home. I'm such a home-body that leaving even for something that means as much to me as the Making a Difference Workshop is a pain. And the workshop means the world to me. There is almost nothing else, that didn't involve my daughter or son or granddaughters, that I would give up 3 nights and 4 days of 'being home' for.
That's how much the workshop means to me....
When we landed on time in Newark, I was confused. How did the pilot do that, catch the Jet stream? Fly through another dimension? I saw Maggie and Jessie just off the plane, waiting for my bag that I checked outside the door of the plane and got back outside the door of the plane and expressed my confusion.
Maggie, who flies on lots of short flights told me that in order to cover their 'on time' stats, airlines always tell you it will take longer than it does. Amazing. Padding time to make yourself look good.
My ticket said it was 58 minutes from Newark to Hartford--after I rode a bus two terminals to make the connection--and when we were about to take off, the pilot said we'd never get above 7000 feet and be in Hartford in 25 minutes. So, that's what they do, huh?
Seems dishonest to me, but, hey, maybe that's just me.
Getting off the little bus to the parking lot and my car, I bumped against something on the door of the bus and opened a two inch gash on my right arm. So, I drove from Hartford to Cheshire using up about half a box of tissues to stop the bleeding.
When I came in the front door, the dog in our bedroom started going crazy and Bern had to wake up. When I went in the bedroom he nearly knocked me down and put on quite a 'welcome home!' show for 10 minutes or so.
By the time I'd dressed my wound and set up my C-path machine, it was 1:30 a.m. and I was so revved up by the workshop and the travel that I read about 40 pages of The Hobbit before I could sleep.
But it was so good to be home. I'm such a home-body that leaving even for something that means as much to me as the Making a Difference Workshop is a pain. And the workshop means the world to me. There is almost nothing else, that didn't involve my daughter or son or granddaughters, that I would give up 3 nights and 4 days of 'being home' for.
That's how much the workshop means to me....
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