submitting to fermentation

3-26-16; Easter Saturday
I measure out flour and water and add it with the bubbly, fermenting liquid called ‘starter’ that I keep stored in a jar in my kitchen counter. I could say I made this yeast-mixture myself, but I didn’t; I added flour and water together and then time took over. I add things, I mix things, but life is created outside of my power.
I mix my dough. I wait. You cannot rush waiting, you cannot rush a dough’s rising. It is one of those times where I must submit to a simple, ancient force with more say-so than I have. The yeast will determine when this ball of dough is ready. I look at my cold, firm dough ball, wondering – waiting – hoping for it expand into its full potential. I let it be. I sit; I wait. I submit.

love letter for a friend

(for 2-27-16)
We sit around this corner table in your favorite Memphis brewery, the four of us, you and your love and me and mine. A few hours ago we were down by the riverside, balancing on a log, balancing each other on a log. Down by the riverside, arm in arm in arm in arm, watching the sun set on the mighty Mississippi. I just want you to know how full my heart was in that moment. Full to bursting. Even when we are a 7.5 hour drive apart, I know I am as much a part of your life as you are mine, even when we don’t talk but every month or two or three. But I love you and you love me, and we are each reflected, in some strange way, in the love we’ve found with these other people, and we all share each other’s stories.

We sit around this corner table with a rickety Jenga tower in front of us, we beat Jenga! we declare, but I know that you and I will keep on going higher and longer, higher than Jenga towers, longer than weekend visits that last 24 hours. We play silly games and laugh so hard we cry and drink rich dark beer that’s the best I ever tasted, almost at least, and I maybe wish I could stay safe in this presence forever. But part of the beauty of what we have is that it can be picked up whenever we need it, and maybe it is best this way, to have highlight moments but share souls from afar, I don’t know…

We sit around this corner table and share the hours and laugh so hard we cry and talk about nothing in particular but I am with you and that is what matters, and this is just my way of saying I love you –

Flowers on the Altar

Yesterday I went to the wake for my stepgrandmother. The house was crowded with family and friends celebrating my stepgrandmother “Deenie’s” 82 years of life and mourning her absence in our lives. In a book I’ve been reading (about depth psychology and pastoral counseling), an article stated that most of the parishioners the pastor encounters leave flowers on the church altar not on the death anniversary of their loved one, but on the loved one’s birthday. It is a celebration of life, not mourning your own loss. Thus, here is my own Flowers on the Altar.

My stepbrother delivered the eulogy and did a fantastic job. Deenie was an elegant and hardworking lady – comfortable hobnobbing with the oil executives as well as plucking chickens and starting campfires. She married the man who would be her best friend at the age of 17, a relationship started by a dollar bet on her being able to get a date with him within a week. They were married for over 50 years. She could make something out of seemingly nothing, and did so many times through countless moves following her husband’s work while raising their three children. She believed in all the members of her family, which made them believe in themselves.

The most striking theme to me about her life was the sense of welcome and acceptance that she exuded to everyone in her life. Whether your relation officially included a “step,” an “in-law,” or just a “boyfriend of __,” you were considered an important member of the family in her house. As the crowd shared memories of Deenie, my dad expressed to the crowd what I had been thinking. She enveloped him, my brother, and me into the family when we showed up as a husband of remarriage with an 8 and 6 year old to the family gatherings at Deenie and Papa John’s house in the Black Forest woods, and we are forever grateful. Despite having no history with these people, my 8-year-old self never felt like I was missing out on some family inside joke when I was at her house. I was simply present, and that made me family. I was startled when, at the wake, people I barely knew or actually didn’t know (having to trust my faulty memory that I don’t really know them) greeted me by name and asked about Boulder. “How do they know I live in Boulder??” I queried my stepmom. She smiled. “Deenie just talked about her grandchildren a lot!”

Aging Well is a book that’s impacted my thoughts on growing old a lot, or even just growing up. Whether you fully intend to grow old or if the thought of growing old scares you, it’s a good read. It’s about the stages of life (based off of Erickson’s stages of development, slightly expanded) that we pass through in the aging process, with a focus on adulthood. We all, in our own ways, work our way through stages of Identity, Intimacy, Career, Generativity (whether through raising your own children or somehow contributing to the next generation), Keeper of the Meaning (whether one is involved in passing on culture and values to your society), and Integrity (how one is able to face death). The book also emphasized how being in significant relationships, or “letting someone in” (to our inside selves) as the author puts it, has an important impact on one’s overall health. Deenie devoted herself to her husband and raising her family, later expanding to grandchildren and even 5 great-grandchildren. When Papa John died, her love expanded and she let others in to her heart, particularly her current adventuring partner with whom she went gallivanting all over the hemisphere. To me, Deenie is a prime example of someone who has aged well.

My stepaunt reminded us that Deenie had so much left that she wanted to do and adventures that she wanted to go on. She was not ready to go yet, but maybe because of that, she faced her last days with courage and undying optimism. Her health went so fast, and we all felt a little bewildered at what had just happened. However, in a way, it means that there is more left of her life for us to carry forward on her behalf.

My stepbrother said that Deenie’s spirit continues to live on, partially through all of us. I am pondering that in my own heart. To me, her most important characteristic was that she was welcoming and embracing. My personality is nothing like hers – she was gregarious and talkative, I’m reserved, sometimes even shy. She was a hard-core conservative, I’m… not. She dressed with pizzazz and chunky jewelry, I just try to make sure my colors match okay. But we can share values. When I die, I want to have lived the kind of life where people look back and say, “I am grateful that we knew her. She loved much, she worked hard, and we always knew that with her, our presence was welcome and we were special to her.” It’s because of models like Deenie that I can have an idea of what a life like this would look like. Thanks, Grandma Deenie, for being that lady, for welcoming us, for nurturing a family that was the kind I had longed to be a part of. I will do my best to carry you forward.

Aging-Well image