I would say that I love to cook, but that's not really true. I just love to eat. And since cooking leads to eating, I, therefore, cook. On occasion.
Today was my day off and I spent the whole afternoon (well, not counting the movie I watched with my friend Ruth) cooking. I made Julia Child's Boeuf Bourguignon (yes, the mouth-watering beef stew concoction in the movie Julie & Julia). This was perhaps the most elaborate meal I've ever made. How was it? I'll tell you.
It was an other-worldly experience. I'm not kidding. The sauce is made from burgundy, tomato paste, beef stock, garlic, bay leaves and thyme. De-licious. Borderline sinful. I had no idea roast beef with carrots, onions and mushrooms could taste so divine. It can. It did. Julia says that this dish reheated is even better the next day. We shall see...
Feb 17, 2010
Travel Light
"The journey is arduous, and you must travel light if you would reach the goal," wrote Carol Flinders in her book about female mystics from the medieval era. That statement has plagued my mind several times a day for the last two weeks. Travel light. Travel light. Travel light. It's like a mantra or a melody that's stuck in my head. It rears its ugly head whenever I glimpse the ungodly mountain of dirty laundry in our closet, the moldy food in the fridge, the xmas lights still on the stairway banisters. Basically anything I try to procrastinate or anything that requires delayed gratification provokes the "travel light" statement. Life would be much "lighter" if I would learn to stop procrastinating and at times learned to delay gratification. But it doesn't stop there. I wish it did.
There's a greater yearning within me for stillness that resides somewhere underneath all the commotion, distractions, compulsions, affirmations and rejections that fill up a day or week. But alas, I chock my schedule so full that I rarely stop to listen to my own voice -- the voice that is really me, not me as I imagine myself to be, or the me that tries to control how others perceive me, but the me that actually is. What is it that I'm really craving when all my compulsive distractions erode or are ignored? I depise that restless wanting that wants some unnamed something. Especially when there are millions of substitutes screaming to fill the slot. Touch me, taste me, drink me, buy me.
The spiritual discipline that I've grown to love and hate the most is that of solitude. I'm not talking about privacy or personal retreat for the sheer sake of privacy and personal retreat (although being an introvert I love those things too). I'm referring to the spiritual solitude that requires me to face me, to allow the dark and destructive side to starve and die and to allow God's grace to breathe life into me once again. I love the outcome, but I hate crossing that threshold. every. single. time.
This morning I was reading The Way of the Heart by one of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen. Many of his works deal with inner silence and solitude but this book in particular builds upon the fourth and fifth century monks and their spiritual quest for wholeness in the desert. Nouwen makes a profound observation about solitude and its ironic conclusion. True spiritual solitude results in a deeper compassion that one learns to inhabit and embody rather than just talk about. The result is that solitude drives us to connect more deeply with people rather than to withdraw and hide from those around us. Spiritual solitude has a way of breeding a true compassion that sets us free to be fully available to people, to journey with others through life without judgment or condemnation. And finally, solitude creates a space in and around us that hopefully invites others to come and find their own healing and wholeness. Solitude is a great leveler (is that a word?). Maybe humbling is a better word. Solitude with God humbles me and reminds me that we are all in some way or another longing for the same things in life, and we all have some level of inner darkness or pain that must be faced if we are ever to be whole and free.
I have found this to be true in my own life, even though I have to relearn the lesson over and over again. All my restless wantings remind me lately that I need to unload some internal baggage and learn once again to sit still. Travel light. Because, truly, the journey is arduous, and in all my yearnings, I yearn to reach the goal. Thankfully God will give me a second chance for the hundredth time.
There's a greater yearning within me for stillness that resides somewhere underneath all the commotion, distractions, compulsions, affirmations and rejections that fill up a day or week. But alas, I chock my schedule so full that I rarely stop to listen to my own voice -- the voice that is really me, not me as I imagine myself to be, or the me that tries to control how others perceive me, but the me that actually is. What is it that I'm really craving when all my compulsive distractions erode or are ignored? I depise that restless wanting that wants some unnamed something. Especially when there are millions of substitutes screaming to fill the slot. Touch me, taste me, drink me, buy me.
The spiritual discipline that I've grown to love and hate the most is that of solitude. I'm not talking about privacy or personal retreat for the sheer sake of privacy and personal retreat (although being an introvert I love those things too). I'm referring to the spiritual solitude that requires me to face me, to allow the dark and destructive side to starve and die and to allow God's grace to breathe life into me once again. I love the outcome, but I hate crossing that threshold. every. single. time.
This morning I was reading The Way of the Heart by one of my favorite authors, Henri Nouwen. Many of his works deal with inner silence and solitude but this book in particular builds upon the fourth and fifth century monks and their spiritual quest for wholeness in the desert. Nouwen makes a profound observation about solitude and its ironic conclusion. True spiritual solitude results in a deeper compassion that one learns to inhabit and embody rather than just talk about. The result is that solitude drives us to connect more deeply with people rather than to withdraw and hide from those around us. Spiritual solitude has a way of breeding a true compassion that sets us free to be fully available to people, to journey with others through life without judgment or condemnation. And finally, solitude creates a space in and around us that hopefully invites others to come and find their own healing and wholeness. Solitude is a great leveler (is that a word?). Maybe humbling is a better word. Solitude with God humbles me and reminds me that we are all in some way or another longing for the same things in life, and we all have some level of inner darkness or pain that must be faced if we are ever to be whole and free.
I have found this to be true in my own life, even though I have to relearn the lesson over and over again. All my restless wantings remind me lately that I need to unload some internal baggage and learn once again to sit still. Travel light. Because, truly, the journey is arduous, and in all my yearnings, I yearn to reach the goal. Thankfully God will give me a second chance for the hundredth time.
Jan 16, 2010
Jan 14, 2010
Spa for the Oppressed
Several years ago I was sitting in my living room with several close friends. We went around the room answering the question, "If you had limitless financial resources, what would you do with it?"
"I would set up a nice spa in a third world country for oppressed women," I said, even though I know virtually nothing about the spa business. I was sort of kidding. But only sort of. I was picturing the DRC, Rwanda, Sudan, Afghanistan. Women emerging from the Janjaweed or Taliban's harsh rule and entering spiritual revival to the tune of massage and exfoliation in cozy white robes. Then after personal renewal (and if time allowed), I wanted to teach illiterate women to read and write. Okay. Confession: teaching illiterate women in third world countries was actually my dream, but if I have limitless finances, why not throw a spa into the picture as well?
Almost one week ago I sat in a remote village in northern India. Before I knew it I was living out my dream. Sort of. I was volunteering on a team of five women my age. We partnered with some local contacts in India who requested that we come and serve women in villages located on the outskirts of Lucknow, which is located in Uttar Pradesh (India's most populated state). In six days we visited nine villages, and our last village was the most remote. In fact, we were told that in this last village many of the people there had not been around white people before.
We set up two facing cots under a large tree next to two mud huts. On one side our team sat and offered free manicures and hand massages to the Indian women seated opposite us. One by one the women trickled over to our little makeshift salon. We washed their dirt-stained hands, filed their shredded fingernails, and used lotion to massage hands that felt like leather. From young to old their hands were strong and rough from long hours of work. As I made eye contact, language barriers prevented me from asking endless questions about their world, and in them I saw a great deal of mutual curiosity. One lady talked up a storm to me while I painted her fingernails. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Hindi," I'd say smiling. Didn't matter. She kept on telling her rather animated story anyway.
Women in the villages perceived our team as high and themselves as low. They looked at us and saw: American. White. Wealthy. Educated. They saw themselves as: Indian. Poor. Uneducated. Low caste. As a result (and especially in this last village) many of them could not understand why we wanted to serve them. Why did we want to even touch them? Wash and massage their hands? Paint their fingernails? Both hands?! (In India the left hand is considered unholy. Taboo).
Now. I know that these women understand fingernail polish and pampering because we almost ran out of polish remover. Nail polish is a universal language among most women and often needs no translation. And these women are the type that despite their poverty they still get decked out in bangles, earrings, saris, etc. just to work in the fields, make bricks, or prepare cow manure to burn for fuel.
I began to wash the hands of the Indian woman who refused to sit on the cot facing me. She sat on the ground instead. She believed that she should always be lower when around one of higher social standing. Call me American, but I wanted us to be equal. I was tempted to sit on the ground next to her but was advised beforehand not to do so as village outrage would not be worth the gesture. As I hunched forward to file her nails, I stared at her face and wondered what she was thinking. I don't think she ever stopped smiling once during the whole manicure. I prayed that she would know something of God through me.
If she has trouble seeing me sit on her level and identify with her, what will she do when she discovers a God who is willing to sit on her level, identify with her, and touch her every inner wound? This is who God has been to me, and this is who he leads me to be for others -- even if that means sitting in a remote village and painting the fingernails of a woman who feels unworthy to be touched by someone like me. Little did she know, as I served her, I felt God coming out of me. I recalled a conversation years ago, a dream about a spa for oppressed women, and then I smiled as I painted a second coat of red on her fingernails. Ok. Maybe I didn't envision cots under a tree or flies in my chai or a bush next to the sugar cane field for a restroom. But somehow -- oddly, strangely -- this was better. This was real.
"I would set up a nice spa in a third world country for oppressed women," I said, even though I know virtually nothing about the spa business. I was sort of kidding. But only sort of. I was picturing the DRC, Rwanda, Sudan, Afghanistan. Women emerging from the Janjaweed or Taliban's harsh rule and entering spiritual revival to the tune of massage and exfoliation in cozy white robes. Then after personal renewal (and if time allowed), I wanted to teach illiterate women to read and write. Okay. Confession: teaching illiterate women in third world countries was actually my dream, but if I have limitless finances, why not throw a spa into the picture as well?
Almost one week ago I sat in a remote village in northern India. Before I knew it I was living out my dream. Sort of. I was volunteering on a team of five women my age. We partnered with some local contacts in India who requested that we come and serve women in villages located on the outskirts of Lucknow, which is located in Uttar Pradesh (India's most populated state). In six days we visited nine villages, and our last village was the most remote. In fact, we were told that in this last village many of the people there had not been around white people before.
We set up two facing cots under a large tree next to two mud huts. On one side our team sat and offered free manicures and hand massages to the Indian women seated opposite us. One by one the women trickled over to our little makeshift salon. We washed their dirt-stained hands, filed their shredded fingernails, and used lotion to massage hands that felt like leather. From young to old their hands were strong and rough from long hours of work. As I made eye contact, language barriers prevented me from asking endless questions about their world, and in them I saw a great deal of mutual curiosity. One lady talked up a storm to me while I painted her fingernails. "I'm sorry, I don't speak Hindi," I'd say smiling. Didn't matter. She kept on telling her rather animated story anyway.
Women in the villages perceived our team as high and themselves as low. They looked at us and saw: American. White. Wealthy. Educated. They saw themselves as: Indian. Poor. Uneducated. Low caste. As a result (and especially in this last village) many of them could not understand why we wanted to serve them. Why did we want to even touch them? Wash and massage their hands? Paint their fingernails? Both hands?! (In India the left hand is considered unholy. Taboo).
Now. I know that these women understand fingernail polish and pampering because we almost ran out of polish remover. Nail polish is a universal language among most women and often needs no translation. And these women are the type that despite their poverty they still get decked out in bangles, earrings, saris, etc. just to work in the fields, make bricks, or prepare cow manure to burn for fuel.
I began to wash the hands of the Indian woman who refused to sit on the cot facing me. She sat on the ground instead. She believed that she should always be lower when around one of higher social standing. Call me American, but I wanted us to be equal. I was tempted to sit on the ground next to her but was advised beforehand not to do so as village outrage would not be worth the gesture. As I hunched forward to file her nails, I stared at her face and wondered what she was thinking. I don't think she ever stopped smiling once during the whole manicure. I prayed that she would know something of God through me.
If she has trouble seeing me sit on her level and identify with her, what will she do when she discovers a God who is willing to sit on her level, identify with her, and touch her every inner wound? This is who God has been to me, and this is who he leads me to be for others -- even if that means sitting in a remote village and painting the fingernails of a woman who feels unworthy to be touched by someone like me. Little did she know, as I served her, I felt God coming out of me. I recalled a conversation years ago, a dream about a spa for oppressed women, and then I smiled as I painted a second coat of red on her fingernails. Ok. Maybe I didn't envision cots under a tree or flies in my chai or a bush next to the sugar cane field for a restroom. But somehow -- oddly, strangely -- this was better. This was real.
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