Dear Conservative-Church-Across-The-Road,
Hello neighbor! Just your friendly, mainstream and moderate neighbor church here chiming in to suggest that you please stop putting strange and somewhat inappropriate things on your reader board.
Your latest entry: SLOW DOWN. AND LET JESUS LOVE YOU IN A WHOLE NEW WAY.
was just creepy.
Perhaps you could stick to strictly biblical messages (Although now that I think of it, I am remembering your five month long series on scripture references to things God hates that was also a bit too much.) Perhaps just the time of your worship service would be sufficient.
Signing off in neighborly Christian love,
Us
Thursday, May 31, 2012
Monday, May 14, 2012
Why didn't I think of that?
We just got back from a jaunt over to the best bakery/cafe in town, a trip which ended in complete disaster when the dog, who we had decided to take with us out of pity when she yelped and whined about being crated, ended up eating the most beautiful and huge-est loaf of sourdough bread which we purchased there.
But I digress. While standing in line to get our pastries and the loaf we did not yet know would be marked for destruction, I noticed a wonderfully strange and somewhat ridiculous business card on the community board there. It read as follows:
Spark of Light: A Loving Way to Become a Happier and Healthier Person
(Name)
Accredited Journey Practitioner
Certified Visionary and
Conscious Leadership Coach
Reading it made me wonder how one goes about getting accredited as a journey practitioner. I thought that's what seminary was for, but I am glad to know I could have bypassed that entire undertaking in favor of a simple accreditation process! A quick search of the 'net (Google: "Journey Practitioner Accreditation") left me giggling in a not-very-compassionate-or-Christ-like way. I found a network of professionals all of whom are available to help:
Release your pain!
Obtain inner peace!
Feel valued and confident!
Have abundance in everything!
Uncover the blocks and silent saboteurs that limit you to be all that you can be!
Well thank God. Here I was thinking that such benefits would be the result of a lifetime of diligent seeking, reflection and practice.
And what about my visionary certification? Having once before been accused on not being a visionary, this is a particularly sensitive topic for me.
All this made me have the simultaneously terrifying and comforting thought: this is why the church is dying. Because we are competing with folks who can bring you inner peace, pain release, confidence and limitation de-blockage in 6 easy sessions, while we're sitting around talking about whether a Palestinian carpenter and his unemployed fisherman pals 2,000 years ago really did or did not fundamentally change the world on top of which we in the liberal wing of the church must admit that which we believe to be true which is that we don't have all the answers to even the easy stuff.
There are days when I feel that working in the church is like playing in the band on the Titanic as it goes down. And maybe it is. And I recognize that to some people it's not much better than selling inner peace on a sliding scale. But there are more days when I'm glad I've got more than a visionary certification, but instead a tiny bit of faith left in a real visionary.
Seriously, though, God, if you exist and you're reading this, I could have done without the dog eating the bread.
Postscript: If you too are feeling not very compassionate, and instead are feeling cynical and snarky, take a look at this somewhat terrifying person who accredits journey-practitioners: http://www.thejourney.com/
But I digress. While standing in line to get our pastries and the loaf we did not yet know would be marked for destruction, I noticed a wonderfully strange and somewhat ridiculous business card on the community board there. It read as follows:
Spark of Light: A Loving Way to Become a Happier and Healthier Person
(Name)
Accredited Journey Practitioner
Certified Visionary and
Conscious Leadership Coach
Reading it made me wonder how one goes about getting accredited as a journey practitioner. I thought that's what seminary was for, but I am glad to know I could have bypassed that entire undertaking in favor of a simple accreditation process! A quick search of the 'net (Google: "Journey Practitioner Accreditation") left me giggling in a not-very-compassionate-or-Christ-like way. I found a network of professionals all of whom are available to help:
Release your pain!
Obtain inner peace!
Feel valued and confident!
Have abundance in everything!
Uncover the blocks and silent saboteurs that limit you to be all that you can be!
Well thank God. Here I was thinking that such benefits would be the result of a lifetime of diligent seeking, reflection and practice.
And what about my visionary certification? Having once before been accused on not being a visionary, this is a particularly sensitive topic for me.
All this made me have the simultaneously terrifying and comforting thought: this is why the church is dying. Because we are competing with folks who can bring you inner peace, pain release, confidence and limitation de-blockage in 6 easy sessions, while we're sitting around talking about whether a Palestinian carpenter and his unemployed fisherman pals 2,000 years ago really did or did not fundamentally change the world on top of which we in the liberal wing of the church must admit that which we believe to be true which is that we don't have all the answers to even the easy stuff.
There are days when I feel that working in the church is like playing in the band on the Titanic as it goes down. And maybe it is. And I recognize that to some people it's not much better than selling inner peace on a sliding scale. But there are more days when I'm glad I've got more than a visionary certification, but instead a tiny bit of faith left in a real visionary.
Seriously, though, God, if you exist and you're reading this, I could have done without the dog eating the bread.
Postscript: If you too are feeling not very compassionate, and instead are feeling cynical and snarky, take a look at this somewhat terrifying person who accredits journey-practitioners: http://www.thejourney.com/
There is a Reason Professionals Exist or COFFEETIME!
My very wise and wonderful friend DRJ reminded me the other day that there is a reason professionals exist: they are, in many cases, very skilled at particular tasks.* This was in response to my recent proclamation that I have recently started roasting my own coffee. I don't know why I undertook this particular DIY obsession. It is not as though there is a dearth of quality coffee roasteries here in Oregon. In fact, the NW--home of Starbucks, as you know--is known a global coffee mecca. But in my typical fashion of believing I can and should make every possible thing imaginable from scratch, I had become absolutely fixated on home coffee roasting after I found out a friend's husband, in addition to making his own soap and bacon, also roasted coffee.
This particular undertaking, however, has marked a major milestone for me,which is why I am writing about it: it is the first DIY project that I have personally undertaken that costs LESS than NOT doing it myself. Awesome, right?
The more cynical among you (including you, DRJ) might be tempted to ask whether my home roasted coffee taste as good as many of the "professional" varieties available at the store. No, no it doesn't. I'm still developing my technique, as they say. But it is cheap. And someday it will be solidly mediocre and I can live with that.
In case you are curious, all you need to roast your own coffee is:
-Green Coffee Beans
-A stovetop, whirlipop popcorn popper
-Heat
The process basically involves heating up the pan, pouring in the beans, whirring them around for a while, listening for popping sounds and removing them before they burn to a crisp. Also, don't forget to add a pinch of feeling superior to others who must rely on "professionals" for such things.
*I do not dispute this: She is, in fact, a professional who is very very skilled and has made me seriously consider never taking a photograph ever again.
This particular undertaking, however, has marked a major milestone for me,which is why I am writing about it: it is the first DIY project that I have personally undertaken that costs LESS than NOT doing it myself. Awesome, right?
The more cynical among you (including you, DRJ) might be tempted to ask whether my home roasted coffee taste as good as many of the "professional" varieties available at the store. No, no it doesn't. I'm still developing my technique, as they say. But it is cheap. And someday it will be solidly mediocre and I can live with that.
In case you are curious, all you need to roast your own coffee is:
-Green Coffee Beans
-A stovetop, whirlipop popcorn popper
-Heat
 |
| Whirl-i-pop! |
The process basically involves heating up the pan, pouring in the beans, whirring them around for a while, listening for popping sounds and removing them before they burn to a crisp. Also, don't forget to add a pinch of feeling superior to others who must rely on "professionals" for such things.
 |
| Here are some of our roasted beauties! |
*I do not dispute this: She is, in fact, a professional who is very very skilled and has made me seriously consider never taking a photograph ever again.
On why sometimes it's easier to be idealistic when you live in the city and shop at Whole Foods
When I lived in the city and shopped at Whole Foods,* is was easy to get that first-world, do-gooder warm and fuzzy feeling inside while doing something truly elitist such as purchasing a $5 grapefruit. Though fully aware that it is a fantasy, it is possible to fool yourself into believing that this grapefruit was lovingly cultivated by someone in another part of the world who makes a living wage through the cooperative, farmer-owned, sustainable grapefruit orchard which their community was able to purchase through micro-credit. Though you KNOW this is likely not the case, you can fool yourself long enough to dash in and out of the store without thinking too much about it. And you can boldly wander around declaring that there ARE moral absolutes such as:
"I believe in the sanctity of all life." OR
"Killing other creatures is categorically wrong."
And all that is well and great while you continue to float in the detached idealism of urban consumers whose only exposure to food production is a semi-annual reading of "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" by Barbara Kingsolver. That is until you move to the suburbs and start your own garden and wander outside one morning to find your artichoke plant decimated by snails and your first instinct is to crush them all in their little slimy shells. And the question then becomes, what is a theologically educated suburban farmer to do if the choices are slip into a world of moral relativism or lose the artichoke completely?
Oh, did I mention we started a garden?
We always had a huge garden growing up and my mom is an absolute expert. Ironically (and unfortunately for her), I used to DESPISE any tasks related to gardening.** In fact, in adolescence she and I developed a deal: I would do ANYTHING around the house in exchange for a free pass out of gardening. Hours of dusting was always a good trade in my mind for getting out of even minutes weeding in the yard. (Mom, if you are reading this, I am profoundly sorry and now see the error of my ways. Also, I love you.)
Anyway, I think that six years in the city cured me of my garden aversion. There's just something about the only "land" you own being a 70 square feet of concrete labeled "Space P" that makes you feel a certain sense of solidarity with your ancestors that went west on the Oregon trail to find a place where it was still possible to live off the land.***
For the most part, farming has been a great adventure.**** We have started artichokes, asparagus, beets, broccoli, cabbage, carrots, celery, cucumbers, eggplants, fennel, kale, lettuces, peppers, potatoes, pumpkins, scallions, snow peas, spinach, summer squash, tomatillos, tomatoes, zucchini, and every herb we could think of including sage, parsley, rosemary, cilantro, oregano, lavender, chamomile, and , of all things, hyssop, which I have no idea what to do with, but it just seemed so BIBLICAL I had to get it when I saw it at the store.)
But it has meant making those tough moral choices that as a Cantabrigian***** I never had to make such as whether I should kill things immediately upon waking up in the morning. (Psst: Salt works well for snail murder.)
*We didn't shop there solely because we were snobby Cantabrigians....it was also the closest store to our home.
** I'm starting to notice a strange pattern where I hate things and then accept them and then they become my favorite. Hmm.....Maybe I should think of all the things I hate now and then pre-emptively just get into them.
***Although not THAT much solidarity. It's not like I really want to live in a wagon or anything and, like, work super hard scratching out a living. Also, did you all play Oregon Trail as a kid? That seems to be the only thing people in the East know about Oregon...that sometimes you lose cattle when they drink poison water. There's a lot more to know, by the way. For instance that Oregon is the only state to have a two-sided state flag and an official state nut: the hazelnut also known as a filbert. Oregon has more ghost towns than any other state and it is illegal to pump one's own gas here.
**** Mom, before you worry that I have changed to much, let me say that the lion's share of the work has been done by Mr. L and that I have mostly enjoyed surveying "our" homestead after getting home from work each day and not getting my hands too dirty, although I did rototill the yard the other day. I like to call this "easing into it".
*****As if living in Cambridge doesn't make you snobbish enough, you also have the option of using the moniker "Cantabrigian" to describe yourself as a resident of Cambridge.
"I believe in the sanctity of all life." OR
"Killing other creatures is categorically wrong."
And all that is well and great while you continue to float in the detached idealism of urban consumers whose only exposure to food production is a semi-annual reading of "Animal, Vegetable, Miracle" by Barbara Kingsolver. That is until you move to the suburbs and start your own garden and wander outside one morning to find your artichoke plant decimated by snails and your first instinct is to crush them all in their little slimy shells. And the question then becomes, what is a theologically educated suburban farmer to do if the choices are slip into a world of moral relativism or lose the artichoke completely?
Oh, did I mention we started a garden?
We always had a huge garden growing up and my mom is an absolute expert. Ironically (and unfortunately for her), I used to DESPISE any tasks related to gardening.** In fact, in adolescence she and I developed a deal: I would do ANYTHING around the house in exchange for a free pass out of gardening. Hours of dusting was always a good trade in my mind for getting out of even minutes weeding in the yard. (Mom, if you are reading this, I am profoundly sorry and now see the error of my ways. Also, I love you.)
Anyway, I think that six years in the city cured me of my garden aversion. There's just something about the only "land" you own being a 70 square feet of concrete labeled "Space P" that makes you feel a certain sense of solidarity with your ancestors that went west on the Oregon trail to find a place where it was still possible to live off the land.***
For the most part, farming has been a great adventure.**** We have started artichokes, asparagus, beets, broccoli, cabbage, carrots, celery, cucumbers, eggplants, fennel, kale, lettuces, peppers, potatoes, pumpkins, scallions, snow peas, spinach, summer squash, tomatillos, tomatoes, zucchini, and every herb we could think of including sage, parsley, rosemary, cilantro, oregano, lavender, chamomile, and , of all things, hyssop, which I have no idea what to do with, but it just seemed so BIBLICAL I had to get it when I saw it at the store.)
But it has meant making those tough moral choices that as a Cantabrigian***** I never had to make such as whether I should kill things immediately upon waking up in the morning. (Psst: Salt works well for snail murder.)
 |
| Snow Peas going gangbusters.... |
 |
| Root Veggies: scallions, potatoes, horseradish! |
 |
| Artichoke=Alive! Take that moral relativism! |
 |
| The homestead. |
 |
| It can't all be about productivity, right? Beauty is important too. |
 |
| Compost....yum! |
*We didn't shop there solely because we were snobby Cantabrigians....it was also the closest store to our home.
** I'm starting to notice a strange pattern where I hate things and then accept them and then they become my favorite. Hmm.....Maybe I should think of all the things I hate now and then pre-emptively just get into them.
***Although not THAT much solidarity. It's not like I really want to live in a wagon or anything and, like, work super hard scratching out a living. Also, did you all play Oregon Trail as a kid? That seems to be the only thing people in the East know about Oregon...that sometimes you lose cattle when they drink poison water. There's a lot more to know, by the way. For instance that Oregon is the only state to have a two-sided state flag and an official state nut: the hazelnut also known as a filbert. Oregon has more ghost towns than any other state and it is illegal to pump one's own gas here.
**** Mom, before you worry that I have changed to much, let me say that the lion's share of the work has been done by Mr. L and that I have mostly enjoyed surveying "our" homestead after getting home from work each day and not getting my hands too dirty, although I did rototill the yard the other day. I like to call this "easing into it".
*****As if living in Cambridge doesn't make you snobbish enough, you also have the option of using the moniker "Cantabrigian" to describe yourself as a resident of Cambridge.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Today
Sometimes I don't really have any witty commentary with which to embellish the episodes of my life, but I still feel compelled to share them with someone:
Today a man who was clearly very high on drugs knocked on the door of the church and asked if he could sit on our lawn for the day while he was nursing back to health an injured Nutria which he was carrying in around in a suitcase. Now if you have never lived in a part of the world that has Nutria, then you can count yourself lucky. They resemble some sort of cross between a beaver and a giant rat, and if that sounds cute to you at all, believe me it isn't. They tend to live in swampy areas and are considered by nearly everyone to be somewhat disgusting. Everyone except this guy, that is:
Anyway, long story short, I said "yes" of course, because I believed it was what Jesus would do--and if you think I didn't actually think to myself, "Would Jesus let Nutria-man use his lawn?", you are dreaming---and then spent LITERALLY the rest of the day gripped with fear that in addition to being strangely interested in hurt nutria, he was also an axe murderer who was surely going to butcher me as I sat alone in my office writing job descriptions for our new janitor position. When I went outside at the end of the day to find the nutria dead, I said, "I'm sorry about your pet dying." To which he responded, "He's getting better actually. We're almost done here."
And then I thought, thank God no one else lives in my mind and my life and is here to assess my capabilities or vocational direction. And then I posted the entire thing right here on this blog.
Today a man who was clearly very high on drugs knocked on the door of the church and asked if he could sit on our lawn for the day while he was nursing back to health an injured Nutria which he was carrying in around in a suitcase. Now if you have never lived in a part of the world that has Nutria, then you can count yourself lucky. They resemble some sort of cross between a beaver and a giant rat, and if that sounds cute to you at all, believe me it isn't. They tend to live in swampy areas and are considered by nearly everyone to be somewhat disgusting. Everyone except this guy, that is:
| Thanks to thefirearmsforum.com for this gem.....no thanks to you guys for being really, really creepy gun-toting alarmists. |
Anyway, long story short, I said "yes" of course, because I believed it was what Jesus would do--and if you think I didn't actually think to myself, "Would Jesus let Nutria-man use his lawn?", you are dreaming---and then spent LITERALLY the rest of the day gripped with fear that in addition to being strangely interested in hurt nutria, he was also an axe murderer who was surely going to butcher me as I sat alone in my office writing job descriptions for our new janitor position. When I went outside at the end of the day to find the nutria dead, I said, "I'm sorry about your pet dying." To which he responded, "He's getting better actually. We're almost done here."
And then I thought, thank God no one else lives in my mind and my life and is here to assess my capabilities or vocational direction. And then I posted the entire thing right here on this blog.
Who does Binge Blogging hurt? Everyone.
Why is it, people often ask me, that you can post on your blog 6 times in a single day during the busiest week of your professional year--about things as trivial as peep dioramas no less--and then post nothing for an entire month after that? Why do your posts always come in such a flurry rather than a slow and steady revelation of the genius of "What's up, Jesus"? Don't you think that you'd have a more dedicated and regular readership if you posted, say, every day or every other day? What about even shooting for once a week?
In short, yes. I can recognize that I have a problem. And I can admit it.
I am Love-it-or-leav-it and I am a binge blogger.
If you can have patience with me for just a moment, I can explain. Blogging, at least in statistical studies with exactly one subject who is me, requires three things to happen all at the same time:
1) One must have a reasonable block of time free during which
2) There are not other things which seem more immanently important than spewing one's snarky epiphanies into cyberspace in addition to the fact that
3) at that very moment, when the block of time presents itself and there happens a lull in the stream of pressing tasks to tend to, at that VERY moment, one must have something to say that is halfway interesting.
So I need to majorly turn over a new leaf in terms of writing in a less erratic, spur-of-the-moment, waiting-for-Haley's comet type way.
For now, though, I think Prison Break is on...........
In short, yes. I can recognize that I have a problem. And I can admit it.
I am Love-it-or-leav-it and I am a binge blogger.
If you can have patience with me for just a moment, I can explain. Blogging, at least in statistical studies with exactly one subject who is me, requires three things to happen all at the same time:
1) One must have a reasonable block of time free during which
2) There are not other things which seem more immanently important than spewing one's snarky epiphanies into cyberspace in addition to the fact that
3) at that very moment, when the block of time presents itself and there happens a lull in the stream of pressing tasks to tend to, at that VERY moment, one must have something to say that is halfway interesting.
This might not seem like a complex
formula, but sometimes it feels like waiting for just the right moment to jump into a session of Double Dutch.*
Many days I wake up with hilarious and
profound ideas for the blog. But the day ends before I can find
enough time to really sit down and type it out.
Other days I find myself with large
blocks of time, but feel I must prioritize other tasks (work,
cleaning, connecting with Mr. L, battling garden snails, feeding the
dog, etc.)
And sometimes I have big blocks of time
and nothing to do, but cannot to save my LIFE muster the motivation
or inspiration to tend to the task of writing and so end up slothing
on the couch and watching the millionth episode of some mediocre
drama streaming on Netflix, not because I really care about it, but
because it's easier to keep watching it than get up off my butt and
put in a DVD.
But this episodic,
Dick-Cheney-buckshot-em-in-the-face style blogging is going to have
to stop. Because in addition to being annoying for those dedicated
few who have not given up on me and still choose to click here each
day to find nothing new (“Still with that peep shit?”), fairly
soon there will be bigger fish to fry.**
A few weeks ago, I found out that I had
been accepted to a writing workshop this summer that will be taught
by some pretty smart and awesome people. I am fairly sure that my
acceptance was a complete mistake, but don't want to prove this
theory by showing up and sucking it big time. This morning I received
an email reminding me that I will actually have to submit some
writing before the course, a piece on which others will be expected
to “offer feedback.”
Obviously, they forgot to send me the
form on which I indicated whether or not I was the type of person who
was open to “feedback,” which anyone who knows me can tell you I
am not.
After reading this email, I decided
that the best plan of action was to FLIP OUT.
My thinking went something a bit like
this: feedback?!?? FEEDBACK!???! They want to give me FEEDBACK!??!??!
What is this? My own personal hell? (I'm not sure whether or not I
was suffering from some delusion about this workshop being about
writing in the abstract and not my own writing specifically, but I
honestly did find the development about the feedback most shocking
and anxiety inducing.)
So I need to majorly turn over a new leaf in terms of writing in a less erratic, spur-of-the-moment, waiting-for-Haley's comet type way.
For now, though, I think Prison Break is on...........
* Remember double dutch from, like, middle school? Also, have you ever seen the really intense jump ropers. I mean INTENSE. I hope you have.
** This is a hilarious and strange
phrase, of whose origin I would love to know more.
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