Blessings From Whom?

Grand Rapids, sometimes, can seem to be a different country, but for reasons that seem to be anything but antithetical to what is “American.” Freedom of speech, right? That’s somewhat American, no? I don’t know. It’s a little difficult to decide whether or not it is still important when saying “Merry Christmas” is considered to be politically incorrect. But I’d rather not go too far up that stream right now . . . or anytime in the near future.

In any case, it’s a little different here in G.R. I bought some eggs at Horrocks, a market that I had never been to, or heard of for that matter, until this weekend. The eggs are from a dairy farm here in West Michigan (Grassfield); the chickens are free-range clucks that go munching on organic grass. The cartons are recycled, as in the first step of the tri-re-cycle: reuse. (It is marked “please return cartons.”)Good and green and hippy. I love it. Here’s the other-country bit, the box also reads “You [LORD Jesus] care for the land and water; You enrich it abundantly.” Psalm 65:9. !!

I have yet to see that in Santa Cruz. That’s brave. Having spent the last three and a half years attending Calvin and learning Reformed theology, I understand the reason for this verse: creation, fall, redemption. The land is good; it was made that way. That is the creation part. The redemption bit is the choice to care for the earth and its critters as, well, “God intended.” (Or follow the mandate—to have “dominion” is to take responsibility for, not exploit.) It’s a mission statement of sorts. Again, I could go into further depth, but I’m not going to.

            The next stop on my shopping excursion was G.B. Russo & Son, a bit of a snooty palooty store (high quality imports . . .), but not, as it is a family-owned, itty-bitty, the-one-and-only type store. I was there to take a gander at their olive oil selection (and wouldn’t be opposed to going back). When entering the purchase in my register, I noted some text at the top of the receipt: “Jesus is Lord!”

            Hm. Admittedly, that was a little too much for me. (Okay, so a lot of things are “a little too much” for me.) But, again, what boldness! Had it said, “Allah reigns,” I wouldn’t have been offended. This wasn’t offensive—just unexpected. I kind of prefer Grassfield’s approach to making a statement of belief. It’s more on par with saying, “God bless you” or “May Allah’s bless you” or whatever. I wouldn’t do either. But that’s me. These sayings are sending a person off with goodwill, a goodwill specific to a particular belief. And that is more genuine, I think, than an Muslim saying, “good luck.” Allah is more powerful than luck; therefore, the person is expressing the deepest blessing she can muster—it is the giving of the best comprehensible, rather than withholding the blessing of Allah from he who subscribes to a different set of beliefs. It’s something worth pondering. And I’ll step out with some words from Ms. Karr:

EASTER AT AL QAEDA BODEGA

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in the white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,

where the body count dwarfs

the one in my Times—announces

You’re killing my people.

But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist

ought to have coffee—one cream

and two sugars. Blessings

upon you, he says, and means it.

Kneading and Editing

Hands. Hands, hands, hands. People are meant to use their hands; why else would we have them? To pound on a keyboard? I suppose that is a valid use. However, that is not how this subject came to mind; it all started with bread making.

             Baking is one of my best buddies. Bread making is a little more involved, but oh so worth the while. Pugliese bread does not require kneading, which is the first bread I taught myself to make. I didn’t choose the recipe because of the “no-knead” factor; I chose it because I like the stuff. But when I was in Spain, my Spanish mamá taught me how to make bread in a different, more efficient way, which brought kneading back into the game. Now, having made pizza with my family for years, kneading is not a foreign concept, and I happen to enjoy it, so I’ve rolled with this new (now quite familiar) manner of bread making. I could go on and on about bread, but I’ll spare you.

            Kneading is one of those “ya-do-it-with-your-hands” type things. Duh, right? Well, apparently, bread machines take that out of the equation—I didn’t know that until today. (And that’s more than okay; for people with arthritic hands, it’s a joy.) I couldn’t stand that. But there are many ways in which we can (and do) use our hands; and I hope we continue to.

            There are many professions that require it: massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropractic, painting, construction, etc. But also, writing. Shoot, Annie, you say, you’re feeling particularly intelligent today, aren’t you? Nah. Thanks, though.

            By writing, I don’t simply mean picking up a pen and scribbling across the paper, or chicken scratching a pencil to a nub, or doing a tap routine on the keyboard. Nope. The process—that is what I’m talking about.

There are folks who have this immensely spacious plot of land upstairs, on which they plant corn, run tractors, graze cattle, build barns . . . These people develop an essay in their minds, tweak the argument and art, and send it, when ready out the end of their ballpoint pen. Damn. (That’s not me.)

Then there are the Write-Rewriters. Meaning? Twenty tries later, we’re starting to take out the editing pen, and kicking ourselves for still having things so out of control. Expand. Remove or compress. Clarify. And then, we’re busy hating our past self for those marks, wishing the additions would simply pop into our minds. Meaning, what we want to write doesn’t order nicely or at all in our heads, write first, think second. And there are the super crazy Write-Rewriters that wring their hands raw over one sentence. (That’s me.)

That is tactile writing. I just can’t let it go. It’s environmentally unfriendly. I print out a tree with all of the drafting and restarting. But it’s working the writing over and over and over again the way one works dough over and over and over again. Then, you let it rise. But once you put it in the oven, dang, you had better hope you’ve done it right, ‘cause that’s that. Send it off to the editor . . . again, you’d better hope it’s perfecto (and that the editor isn’t gluten-intolerant). 

Say Goodbye to Why

Nearly everyday I come up with new why questions; if not, I repeat old why questions. Mixing paints, it’s like mixing paints, too many paints—instead of a new color or an answer, there’s just a mucky culmination of nothing useful. They’re mostly pointless.

A why question is an expression of emotion, often discontent, put forth as a question. Instead of I don’t want to go we say why are we going? or why do I have to go? They are typically questions without answers, especially as we get older. They can be questions of curiosity: why is the sky blue? But more often, with age, they aren’t. Why can’t I figure this out? Why do I feel this way? Why do they ask when they don’t care to listen? Why, why, why.

There are at least five other question words that can be applied to these questions: who, what, when, where, why, how. Whom can I ask for help? What can I do to feel better/differently? How can I address these emotions? What is a healthy response to this behavior I find to be hurtful? When is it appropriate to say something about it?

That is my challenge for the week, by day: to pause and reconstruct why questions.

Layover in Minneapolis

31 December 2012

Excellent. The sky is blue here in Minneapolis. Different than what I’ve been seeing over the last two weeks at home. Snowy. It’s probably chilly too. By time I get to G.R.—fo sho. Then two full days to entertain myself and . . . interim starts. Not crazy over the empty days, simply because my movement is so stinking limited.

When the ground is covered in snow and the temperatures drop severely, it is still captivating, the neighborhoods, the naked trees; it takes lifting one’s eyes from the ground, focusing on something other than the often grey skies to note.

Is it that easy? No, of course not. The cold curls chins into chests, shoulders into shields; it broadens backs and the gaze gravitates groundward.

Calvin: Act 4 Scene 1

Well—I dun it. One semester down, one to go. Whether or not I actually passed my class is a separate issue. (I’ll go out on an egotistical and cliché limb here and think I did—well, if a D is passing . . . silly Information Technology classes.) I had some good classes this semester. So I really hated the paper for Visual Rhetoric, but surprise, surprise, I didn’t do well on it. Anyway, I prefer the lectures to the analytical confusion. Apply it? What? Okay, so that’s a lie. I do like the analytical stuff. Sometimes.

Visual rhetoric was an fantabulous class. It helps liking the Professor—she’s one cool cat, to say the least—however, I wouldn’t change having chose it if I could. I even enjoyed the final—is that sick or what?

And Creative Non-Fiction—that’s a class I’d take again. Also an excellent professor. (With a sweet puppy; or full grown dog named Maisy who barks along to the U of M fight song “Hail to the Victors.” And barks aggressively at the mention of the Buckeyes. Only in Michigan.) It’s such a lovely thing to be able to write without the constraints of convention: fragment, long sentence, use active voice, just not right . . . To be able to write without those comments and be told that they are an absolutely fine thing, yes, that is so nice. I was called “the Queen of Fragments.” I accidently snorted. It was a compliment, though.

Developmental Psychology, also superb. So much to learn! (Some sex statistics to shock your stockings , too; if you want ‘em, I’ve got ‘em.) And yet another wonderful professor.

We’re lucky here at Calvin. I’ve been über lucky on top of it all. Professors who wear hats they don’t have to, who listen, who teach with passion for the subject and the students, who go to tea/coffee or lunch, who are gifts. Yep. Spoiled. 

The Trouble with Thinking

Recently I have been dabbling about the denominational doctrines; it’s a dangerous place for this probing puppy. However, that’s what I get for writing a social critique on certain aspects of Christianity: notes from a professor that require explanation and an explanation that opens some windows through which I can peer, windows that provoke musings and questions, questions that invite more conversations . . . you get where this is going. I’m in trouble.

Professor Rienstra has been my go-to-gal for this situation. (Duh. She’s the English professor who teaches the class for which I wrote the critique.) Calvin being staunchly CRC (the professors are all members of a church of said denomination—by obligation—which they are to attend), it seems this might be a poor place to get a wider view—not true. It gets quite tiresome hearing those accusations, actually.

Perhaps as my musings evolve into thoughts (rather than a list of questions) or reflections, they’ll wind up here. Maybe not. 

Only rolling abundance

 “When Daddy comes in, he carries you to bed. Is there anything you feel like you could eat, Pokey? Anything at all?

“All you can imagine putting in your mouth is a cold plum, one with really tight skin on the outside but gum-shocking sweetness inside. And he and Mother discuss where he might find some this late in the season. Mother says hell I don’t know. Further north, I’d guess.

“The next morning, you wake up in your bed and sit up. Mother says, Pete, I think she’s up. He hollers in, You ready for breakfast, Pokey. Then he comes in grinning, still in his work clothes from the night before. He’s holding a farm bushel. The plums he empties onto the bed river toward you through folds in the quilt. If you stacked them up, they’d fill the deepest bin at the Piggly Wiggly.

“Damned if I didn’t get the urge to drive to Arkansas last night, he says

“Your mother stands behind him saying he’s pure USDA crazy.

“Fort Smith, Arkansas. Found a roadside stand out there with a feller selling plums. And I says, Buddy, I got a little girl sick back in Texas. She’s got a hanker for plums and ain’t nothing else gonna do.

“Through the window you see the Lawrences’ new rosebush, its base of burlap sticking out of the fresh red dirt. Its white buds are tight-clenched knots. But it’s when you sink your teeth into the plum that you make a promise. The skin is still warm from riding in the sun in Daddy’s truck, and the nectar runs down your chin.

“And you snap out of it. Or are snapped out of it. Never again will you lay a hand against yourself, not so long as there are plums to eat and somebody—anybody—who gives enough of a damn to haul them to you. So long as you bear the least nibblet of love for any other creature in this dark world, though in love portions are never stingy. There are no smidgens or pinches, only rolling abundance. That’s how you acquire the resolution for survival that the coming years are about to demand. You don’t earn it. It’s given.

Cherry Mary Karr