Musings of an INTP Writing Spider... oh wow... didn't see that coming!
Friday, November 4, 2016
Particularly in this time and place, in South Carolina, USA on the eve on an historic election, it is hard to preach peace. There is so much anger. Those of us who grew up liberal in the very conservative south thought we knew about the anger, racism, and misogyny. We, or at least I, thought it had at least gone underground. To basements of frat houses full of PBR and mixed nuts, shacks in the woods full of ammunition and potted meat, all night pool halls with smoke and mirrors. Even there, it seemed that most people knew it wasn't right. Women can lead, be your boss. A black man can be president. Children are to be loved.
And somehow, it's all out again. People say horrifying things like, "I'm just saying what everyone is thinking," and I say, "NO! That's not ok."
And then, "the other side" says terrible things too. Ignorant, redneck, pathetic. Deplorable. And I wonder, how did it get that way? How do we judge, who are we to condemn each other. What can we say to each other.
Just a little while ago, I basked in shared stories with people who came to different conclusions from different places with different fears. We spoke of fears and we spoke of hopes. We heard each others stories and we reflected on how they were like our stories. We listened to each others dreams and saw the differences but weren't afraid.
And that's what I hope for November 9 and on and on. Throughout the nation and throughout the world. Tell me your story. I'll tell you mine. Let us be still.
This story is from Nepal, as shared by Tuula Valkonen in her book Deep Talk:
There was a monastery at the edge of the desert, where the people and animals gather around the water and trees. As a teacher and his students were beginning their evening meditation, the cat that lived in the monastery began to make a lot of noise. The teacher declared that the cat should be tied up for the duration of the meditation. Years later, the teacher died, but the cat was still always tied to the post every evening. When the cat finally died, they got a new cat which was also tied to the post every evening. Centuries later the teacher's follower's followers wrote theses about the religious significance of tying the cat to the post during meditation.
I wonder what traditions we have in our community. I wonder what are necessary. I wonder what are not necessary.
Tradition, familiarity, comforting actions are all important to us as humans and as members of a community.
Mothers teach their children how to hold their mouths when they make biscuits so that they will have the fluffy yummy kind and not the hockey puck kind. Fathers teach their children to wear the stinky jersey and sit in the right seat when watching their favorite team play so that the team will win. Parents teach their children how to pray in the right way, not a frivolous or superstitious way (like the neighbors).
New Year's Day, I ate Hoppin' John, pork, and collards because it is the tradition. I learned that other people MUST eat black eyed peas, but they don't make them into hoppin' john. I learned some people think it's bad luck to do laundry on New Year's Day, a fine tradition in my mind.
Unless we freak out if our tradition is not followed or unless that stinky shirt is REALLY stinky, we can have our traditions and superstitions and quirks without harming ourselves or others.
Tradition can be very important. They are part of our story. Who we are. Moses and the Hebrew people didn't spend 40 years in the desert because God was using Google Maps. They needed time to learn what it meant to be free people of God. They needed time to learn their traditions.
The break down of tradition can be chaotic. Colonialism destroyed the traditions of the indigenous people, often putting a broken, illogical tradition in their places. When the Colonizers left, they left a void that was often filled with a patch-work of half-remembered traditions and new ideas that didn't always fit. And so we have the Taliban and Isis, and authoritarianism instead of community.
When someone dies, mostly you don't have to come up with a way of celebrating life and grieving loss. We have traditions. We have traditions for weddings, baptisms, bar mitzvahs, quinceaneras, and graduations. We have traditional food and festivals. We don't always follow them, but they are there to fall back on.
Tradition helps us know how to act.
And then their are The Traditions.
The ones that exclude. The ones that belittle. The ones that are dangerous.
The priest is always a man. It's a tradition.
Only white people are members of this club. It's a tradition.
But we always make freshman drink until they puke. It's a tradition.
We find reasons for our traditions, we write theses. It's always been like that.
Our family traditionally drinks its collective self into a coma and dies just after procreating. It's tied to our ancestry as great warriors and farmers. It's always been like that. It's a tradition.
Our voters traditionally choose the dimmest bulbs on the porch to make laws --- it keeps them busy so they won't ruin the family business. It's always been like that. It's a tradition.
Our church traditionally is lead by clergy and lay people who consider themselves to be as close to flawless and possible and therefore feel comfortable casting the first, second, and third stones. They are confident in their knowledge and goodness. It's always been like that. It's a tradition.
I wonder which of our traditions have value.
I wonder which are cats tied to posts at the edge of a desert?
My New Year's Eve tradition is... well nothing. Sometimes I go to a party, sometimes I hang out with my sister (which is always a party), and sometimes I read and go to bed early because there is nothing on television except New Years Rockin' Eve and I don't know any of the musicians. It works for me.
New Year's Day is my day. I make pork loin, hoppin' john, and collards for my family and for my sister's family --- for whoever is awake and eating. My brother and his husband are in Denmark, which is part of their tradition. Not necessarily Denmark, but travel.
In my family, we usually divide cooking duties at feast times. On Thanksgiving, one of my favorite days, my brother does something exciting with turkey and dressings and a couple of other things. My sister makes an incredible bourbon sweet potato casserole (no marshmallows) and brings a ham. I make cardiac mashed potatoes (whipped potatoes, Greek yogurt, white cheddar, butter, cream cheese, garlic...), probably green bean casserole, and maybe a pumpkin cheesecake. Although certain foods are required, the traditional part is that we all pitch in.
Christmas Eve, my brother makes a wonderful wild rice and ham soup. In the past two years, we've enjoyed it after our church Christmas Eve service where my husband and grandsons sing. That's working out for me. It's relaxed and happy. The soup is delicious.
Christmas Day, my sister makes "Do-ahead breakfast" from a recipe our mother got from a friend in the days when breakfast casseroles were new. It is bread, sausage, cheese, eggs --- soaked together over night and baked in the morning. It's the best. Although, like the soup, we could have it another time, we don't usually. Tradition.
And here we are for New Year's Eve. Pork for health (nothing ironic there). Collards for money. Hoppin' John for luck. Corn bread to sop it up. Pineapple upside-down cake because I said so.
We have had this meal since we were children, although in the past it was, frankly, not the best meal of the year. Mom hated collards, but we ate a tablespoon in the hopes of getting money in the coming year. The whole house stunk from over-cooked collards, which were slimy and limp. We usually commented, I wonder how bad it'd be if we didn't have that much? Not taking a chance though. Dad made the Hoppin' John, which in his case was Uncle Ben's perverted rice and a can of black-eyed peas with salt and pepper. The pork was usually pork roast.
The thing about tradition, as with all of life, is to figure out what is essential to you, what is non-negotiable, and then to play with the rest.
I make two (at least) pork loins that are marinated in something wonderful. I cook it until the second it won't kill us, and take it out. It usually works.
My Hoppin' John starts with the trinity of celery, bell peppers, and onion cooked in bacon grease. I use the bacon in the hoppin' john and the collards. And breakfast. I use jasmine rice and (yes) canned black-eyed peas. I could soak the damn peas, but who cares? I use black pepper and a little salt, and also cayenne, cumin, and turmeric (because I put that in everything these days.) Sometimes I use red, yellow, and orange peppers because they are pretty. I'm thinking of chopping some tomatoes because they are there.
My collards are not cooked enough for many people, but just enough for most in my family. I add bacon but I toss the leaves in olive oil and throw the whole mess in a pot. I season with nutmeg and whatever else smells good (hmmm, what about turmeric?). It has to cook longer than spinach, but not so long that it looks like the cat threw up a lizard.
This year I'm making Jiffy Corn bread and a pineapple upside down cake. Well, I say I am. If my stove doesn't break and if I don't get too involved in my book and if I don't start too early on the mimosas. Because traditions are important.
This is a verse that is often used at weddings --- so often that it may seem trite. Yeah, yeah, yeah, love is patient, love is kind. When I read it, I don't necessarily think of weddings, although it's good to have that kind of love if you're married and everything. For me, it is easy to have that kind of love with my husband. For one thing, if one of us isn't patient or kind, we have the next best thing, forgiveness. It's also easy for me to have this kind of love with my children. They are mine, after all. I might get pissed off, but I will always love them. If I forget, I think of them as little babies, and of the absolute over-pouring of love I felt when I held them. It's a little messier, now that they talk and all, but I still love them totally, without condition. As I have traveled on my journey toward God, I've figured something out. One thing. God loves us no matter what, and all that God asks (and this isn't a condition, it's just a Good Thing) is that we love each other as God loves us. Without condition. Without stopping. Through anger and frustration and (my worst problem) annoyance and pig-headedness. Some people have trouble loving strangers. They don't see pictures of small boys washed ashore in far-off lands and think, damn, that kid could be mine. They don't see soldiers and babies and sad-faced women and think, that is mine. I do. I don't know why, but my heart is full of love and empathy and sympathy for people I don't know. Some people need to know someone to love them. If they know about the person's troubles or dreams or favorite ice cream, they can find a connection and love them. I can too, I guess. But I have a harder time loving someone who I have to talk to and (heaven forbid) listen to on a regular basis. I have a harder time loving bigots and fear-mongers who I hear, right now. I have a harder time loving a neighbor who calls the pound because my cat walks in her yard. I have a harder time loving someone who likes a different kind of ice cream or religion or baseball team than I do. I have a harder time with someone who can't freaking use a turn signal, for Pete's sake. But God didn't say, love others who aren't annoying. Love others who love chocolate and cheese (not together) as much as you do. Love your own kind. God said Love everyone. Love your annoying neighbor. Love your bigoted boss. Love your friend who doesn't love cats. For me, I pray for something more than tolerance. I pray to think of these people as if they were my friends or my family, people who I like and for whom I cut some slack. It doesn't always work. It's a journey, right? For others, I wonder if they can pretend that the dead children, the sad women, the angry soldiers are their friends; people who like strawberry ice cream and dogs and baseball. Maybe if we pretend that the rest of the people in the world are ours, we will love them. And maybe that will give us peace.
Mark & I walked into my office one day and noticed a writing spider in the bushes. When we left several hours later, she was still there, and it appeared that she hadn't moved. Mark said, "It must be boring to be a spider, sitting and waiting all day." I said, "Well, it is a spider." He gave me the look, and said: "Writing spiders have very short memories, so they write their story in their web, then go back and read it everyday, and everyday they are surprised." "It must suck to be a writing spider," I said. "Not really," he said. "At least, they don't know if it does." Wow, I didn't see that coming.
Flowers are Red ------Harry Chapin "Dear Parent: Your son marches to the beat of a different drummer, comma.. But don't worry, We'll have him joining the parade by the end of the term"
The little boy went first day of school He got some crayons and started to draw He put colors all over the paper For colors were what he saw
And the teacher said.. "What you doin' young man?" "I'm paintin' flowers" he said. "It's not the time for art young man And anyway flowers are green and red There's a time for everything young man And a way it should be done You've got to show concern for everyone else For you're not the only one And she said...
Flowers are red young man Green leaves are green There's no need to see flowers any other way Than they way they always have been seen
But the little boy said... There are so many colors in the rainbow So many colors in the morning sun So many colors in the flower and I see every one
Well the teacher said.. You're sassy There's ways that things should be And you'll paint flowers the way they are So repeat after me.....
And she said...Flowers are red young man And Green leaves are green There's no need to see flowers any other way Than they way they always have been seen
But the little boy said... There are so many colors in the rainbow So many colors in the morning sun So many colors in the flower and I see every one
The teacher put him in a corner She said.. It's for your own good.. And you won't come out 'til you get it right And are responding like you should
Well finally he got lonely Frightened thoughts filled his head And he went up to the teacher This is what he said..
and he said Flowers are red, green leaves are green There's no need to see flowers any other way Than the way they always have been seen
Time went by like it always does And they moved to another town And the little boy went to another school And this is what he found
The teacher there was smilin' She said...Painting should be fun And there are so many colors in a flower So let's use every one
But that little boy painted flowers In neat rows of green and red And when the teacher asked him why This is what he said..
and he said Flowers are red, green leaves are green There's no need to see flowers any other way Than the way they always have been seen.
But there still must be a way to have our children say . . . There are so many colors in the rainbow So many colors in the morning sun So many colors in the flower and I see every one