Eden in the role of fairy at the arboretum in 2006. Picture by MadGiddy.

There is a demonstration garden at the college of agriculture and veterinarian arts, which lies between our flat and the children’s school. I walk through it sometimes, on my way back, to escape the roar of the traffic on the morning-busy streets around our new home. The garden is moving towards its finest season, unfurling leaves and blooms.

There might be fairies here, I think, and thin spaces such as the Celt’s revere. A friend of mine, a full-blown adult, believes in fairies. She is not the type to wear caftans either, or to name her children ‘Willow.’ She’s actually an incredibly intelligent and well reasoned academic. She works with the poor all over the world, and struggles to find paths of escape for those caught in the throes of human trafficking. She is wise, my friend, and knows you cannot love reason too much and still nurture hope. And so, fairies. Why not? Why can’t the earth and her energy—the creative force of fern and flower, earth and air—why can’t these things sometimes appear to those with sighted eyes? Stranger things have happened.

At the very least, there is creative power in this place, so eagerly tended by students, their futures unfurling before their very eyes—all the possibilities of their own growth spilling out with earth and seed from their mulch-rubbed fingertips. All this cultivating. All this growth. It is the first thing we know of our parental divines: God Created. God creates. In this bright urban garden, with people barely out of their teens, that holy work continues.

I walk through the curving paths, trying out a new graveled walk or step-stone passage each time I visit. Today the garden leads me to Mallard couples, sleeping in loose pairs on the grass with their heads tucked under their wings. They look for all the world like croquet balls abandoned when the players were called away to tea. There is a pond here too, with a marsh tucked into one curve, and a lily pad farm in the other. As I walk along the curve of the pond, past low borders of bent-willow fencing and calla lilies as yellow as lemon tarts, I am greeted by a cherry tree which stretches wide where the pond path meets the trail to the gate. I pause there under her branches, the beautiful cherry, always our first hope of Spring. The air seems to hum with energy. Thin Spots. Fairydom. In a heartbeat she christens me, the cherry tree and her humming court. And then, with a slight reluctance, I move on, towards the traffic and city bustle, the chores and the normal—life beyond the narrow gate.

Just before I reach the street, there is a transitional space of sorts—the brick-paved expanse of the college drive which stretches wide between the garden and the roadway. There, I am greeted by the school’s fountain: five charcoal granite slabs slick in the sunlight. I hesitate a moment, feeling obvious and strange. Then I walk up the slick lower steps to the spring bubbling forth at the top, dip in my hand, touch my forehead, breastbone, the boney crest of each shoulder.

A baptism then, into the life of fairy and mallard, lily and tree.

For most posts about my sacred life click here, or become present to your own sacred life with Sacred Life Sunday. Thank you for being here!

Oh, it’s Friday again, thank-the-good-lord. Now, what to make for dinner? Here’s my advice:

Put a pot of water on to boil, toss in some nice sea salt, and cook up some penne pasta. Now while you’re waiting for that to be en dente grab a handful of cherry toms and give ‘em a little rinse. Now cut them into thirds or so and put them on that tiny cooking sheet that came with your toaster oven. Add a handful or two of pine nuts, drizzle on some olive oil, more sea salt (of course) and slip it into said toaster oven. Now, don’t walk away from it or I guarantee you’ll burn the pine nuts. When things look nice and toasty in there, take them out and set them aside until your pasta is done.

Got the pasta drained? Great. Scrape every last little bit of that yummy pesto out of the jar and toss it in with the noodles. Add all the toms and pine nuts and toss the whole thing together. Now grate some Romano on top. Ummmmm…..you remembered the crusty bread and the red wine, right? Good then. Time to eat!

Advice Girl’s Friday Shopping List:

cherry toms
penne pasta
pesto sauce
pine nuts
romano cheese
vino
crusty bread

Have you noticed that your children leave you at every age and stage? When they stop nursing. When they can crawl into the next room while you are folding laundry. That first bright, merciful day of Kindergarten. The night they’d rather read Harry Potter by themselves than have you read it out loud because they can read it faster. When they hit the age where they can make thier own toast and eat breakfast on their own. …. I thought the leaving thing only knocked the wind out of you when reached the infamous “empty nest” stage. But really, it happens all along the way. I didn’t realize there would be so many passages that leave you breathless, trying to mourn and celebrate in one burning moment.

…….

Leaving Souren has been a little bit like a death. I hate to be so melodramatic, given that there are so many things going on in the world that are ever-so-much harder and more devastating. Leaving your semi-adopted teenager in the States in order to go gallivanting around Europe with your two adorable blood children and a handsome husband—this barely makes a mark on the ‘hardships’ meter. Still, it’s hard, to take a child into your heart and then to say goodbye.

I know, of course, that there is the telephone and internet, and even old fashioned snail mail. But if you’ve ever known, or met, or even grazed shoulders with a teenage boy, you should realize that communication is not, generally speaking, their strong suite.

I knew, when we left, that most communication with Souren would be over. And I’m trying to not put my happiness under his text messaging thumbs. You simply cannot let a teenager take the wheel of your happiness. That’s even more daft than letting them drive your car on prom night.

But at night, when those nasty little buggers come to get me, I am mournful, and I re-think the wisdom of being so nonchalant about grafting a child who is not my own, so firmly onto my family tree. In those dark moments, I write maudlin poetry on the pages of my notebook. (The emotions of my days and nights are so different, sometimes I am left wondering, which is more me?) Though the pain in these overwrought words are real, I have to ask myself, would I hesitate to love this way again…to love this way still? When we are paying attention to the true and the questions, these are the things that come up. These are the ponderings that make up the reality of whom we are and who we are to be. So of course, the answer must always be, ‘amen.’

——

loss is a wolf at the throat,
there, at the front of the neck
where all you cannot swallow
lies exposed and unprotected

the ache and the tear of it,
the way you bleed unchecked

this is what it is
to take another’s child,
graft him deep into your veins.

i cannot recommend it,
this unchecked rushing of the blood
when the graft does not take,
when the bloodline is severed.

even birthing blood ceases with the hours,
after the placenta tears.

but what of that wound
of which nature has no counterpart?
does this blood then run without clot,
without ebbing,
leaving in its wake
more than the womb as hollow?

a little something from my bulletin board to help keep me where the light is…

I suppose it goes without saying that moving to another culture is sometimes hard. There are a lot of exciting new things, to be sure. But there are sadnesses too, and mine tend to gang up on me around midnight. (Nasty little buggers.)

There’s been a kind of low-grade depression riding around on my breastbone these past few weeks. It seems to be always waiting for me—there, on the other side of the threshold, like the Wolf waiting until my Grandmother is weak enough to devour. I’ve been holding the sadness at bay fairly well, but when my hormone stew starts boiling, or if something goes awry – say, your semi-truck sized shipping container full of all your earthly goods arrives with a hole in the roof and two weeks of rainfall in the bottom –well, let’s just say things get a little shaky.

One of the things that is bothering me the most is that even here, in a country where I know virtually no-one and have no outside obligations, I am still fighting like mad to put pen to page. First I lost a week to migraines, then the children were out of school for Easter vacation, then there was a week spent getting ready to move, and another actually moving, then half a week waiting for the children to switch schools (again). Today I marched them into the local school, and when the teacher said this was just a meeting and not their first day, I had to insist that the schoolmistress had told me otherwise until the girls were given desks and workbooks, and I was able to escape to my desk for two quick hours before school was out again.

I feel so frustrated by the limitedness of my ‘success’ as a writer. At least as a pastor, at least at the church, there were concrete things to do, things that seemed to matter, something to show for my time. This accomplishing of things is much unlike writing, where a thousand days of pen-to-page may yield only a $50 paycheck and a stack of rejection letters. Still, I know in the core that there is no going back. I must write, compulsively and widely, even if the right combination of reader, market, and printing press never yields a dollar.

“This is the year for publishing, I think.” I wrote that in my journal a week or two ago. If a real live publishing house picks me up, so be it. But if not, there will still be books of mine on the market, even if the market is just the print-on-demand of self-publishing and a link to LuLu. Right after I made that decision, my soulsister told me she had launched this, and the self-publishing world transformed. Through Jen’s lens, sisters doing it for themselves was a not a second-class compromise, but a tool for artistic empowerment.

We may never make money, the soulsisters of the world and I, but we will put pen to page goddammit–we will testify.

100 Graces: Mealtime Blessings
Marcia & Jack Kelly

My daughter Cate has always been a pray-er. When she was a toddler she saw “Jesus giving the butterflies food.” She’s never turned back.

We have a family ritual at dinner time of lighting the candles and saying a prayer. This year, for Christmas, Cate got 100 Graces: Mealtime Blessings in her stocking. Now, with the allure of so many choice in such a tiny book, even her sister who is less sold on the whole idea wrangles for a chance to say the dinner time prayer.

100 Graces: Mealtime Blessingsis a simple book:one page, one prayer. It’s ecclectic, multifaith and offers a little something for everyone. Cate’s current favorite:

“Just to be is a blessing. Just to live is holy.” -Abraham Joshu Heschel

and my current preference:

“O God, bless this food we are about to recieve. Give bread to those who hunger; and hunger for justice to us who have bread.” -a prayer from Nicaragua

Today’s Flavor: An easy ‘Amen.’

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