Seeds
The cattails I brought you
have burst long ago
& sent their fluff
seeding wherever
it was you threw them.
If only I may let go
so flagrantly
as the cattails,
as you;
as wind;
the past;
the seeds.
Duty and Service
My name is Dave Thut. I am an orthopaedic surgeon. I have been a member of five UU churches over the past 20 years. I am a healer, a pacifist—and a veteran. Read more →
When there is too much to do…
Some things go undone…
See y’all next week!
Hats & Maps
1. (in the thick)
Once an argument could cut
like a two-edged sword. But
that’s old hat. The headgear
now is helmets. And arguments
cut like shrapnel, every way.
2. (in the city)
I like it that my map
talks to me in a gentle
voice while I drive. Not
like we fallible persons
at all. When I lose
direction, she walks me
back. Recalculates
calm as I swear and
cringe into another
lane to turn around.
3. (in the boonies)
I send nurses now
to find my father
on the farm he so
doesn’t want to leave.
“The GPS,” I warn,
“won’t find it. And
the road signs have
all been shot.” That’s
just the beginning
of an explanation.
4. (in the hat trick)
I strap on my Kevlar,
wishing for a newer
model. I strap on my
sword, knowing it
can never cut enough
ways. When the map
stops speaking; when
every weapon fails;
then, sometimes, the
sharp edges rest,
and the old aches
allow a deep breath.
Kinds of Love
Happy Valentine’s Day. If, you know, that’s your thing. If you happen to be one of the people who not only is in a relationship, but is in the kind of relationship where you send each other flowers and mushy notes before your romantic evening out, then good on ya’. But if you happen to be one of the many, many people who doesn’t have a love interest, or broke up, or lost your long-term partner to death, or prefer to be single, or don’t feel that you can be out about your sexual orientation, or know that your partner will forget to buy you something special or have agreed with your partner that both of you couldn’t care less about Valentines, then where is holiday for you? Where does the love in your life, wherever you find it, get the honors?
The problem with Valentine’s Day is that it only addresses one particular kind of love – what the ancient Greeks called eros. Erotic love; passionate, pulse-racing, grabbing each other in dark corners love is a glorious thing, and there’s nothing wrong with celebrating it with some flowers and chocolate. But let’s not kid ourselves that eros is the only—or even the most important—kind of love. Of course, the Greeks acknowledged other kinds of love: the unconditional love of agape, the friendship of philia. But I think that there is room for celebrating quite a few other kinds of love as well. How about:
Canifelios: The love shared between people and their pets. Get real. How much time do you spend cuddling with a human partner compared with the physical affection you lavish on a cat or dog? The mutual love of a human and a pet includes loyalty and mutual care and wordless devotion. It includes the physical intimacy of stroking and snuggling. It gives you the rush of the hormone oxytocin that is also associated with the connection between mothers and infants and adults in the first flush of falling in love.
Compania: The love of long-time best friends, or couples who have stayed together across decades, or siblings or cousins who are there for each other every step of the way. Compania is founded in deep trust that the person will always be there for you, in inside jokes that you’ve shared for years, in the profound knowledge of one another’s quirks and failings as well as gifts and talents. Compania leads us to stick up for one another, to tell the truth in love and to choose a judicious white lie every now and then, to hold one another up when we think that maybe we can’t keep going.
Biophilia: Love for nature, for all living things. Biophilia leads us to find renewal in nature, to rest in the shade of giant redwoods or beside singing creeks. Biophilia is lived out in gardens where people become intimate with the soil of their particular location, at feeders where people celebrate and support the flashing beauty of birds, at summer camps where kids swim in lakes and get covered in dirt, on backpacking trips filled with the scent of pines and stars so bright that whole galaxies lean into this sphere of love.
Logoros: Love of learning, and of books. Logoros sucks up our time with articles on the internet on brain chemistry and economics, and keeps us up at night with books that we simply can put down. It leads us into new worlds, expands our hearts with compassion for people who don’t even exist, expands our minds with knowledge that we many never use, but which makes our understanding of the world that much richer and more complex. Logoros may seem abstract, but in reality it is an expression of our connection to this world in all of its details, the need to touch the particulars of our shared human life in the way you would explore a lover’s body with your fingertips.
Thelios: Love for the All, for the Connecting Principle, the Ground of Being, God. The love we return to the love that will not let us go. It could be love for a personal god who holds and comforts and carries us. It could be love for the wonder of the creative universe, an awe-struck connection to the sum of all the beauty that surrounds us. Big Love.
So if you want to celebrate Valentine’s Day with chocolate and flowers, by all means feel free. But feel just as free to celebrate the ways you love with a tug toy, a phone call, a walk in the woods, a new book, a prayer. There can’t be too many ways or too many days to honor love.
Collective Joy!
It is Carnival time in New Orleans!
From now until Ash Wednesday, there will be beaucoup parades, parties, and costumes…While February 12th will be “just another Tuesday” in much of the country, here it will be Mardi Gras – the final day of communal revelry before the ascetic season of Lent begins. It wasn’t until I moved to New Orleans that I actually understood the season of Lent. While it may be perfectly obvious for some, it took the context of Carnival, culminating in Mardi Gras, for me to truly appreciate the gift of Lent. A season of contemplation and prayer after a season of glorious communal excess now makes perfect sense.
But first – the glorious communal revelry, the collective joy…
While Lent encourages us to turn inward for reflection, sometimes taking our humanity to task, Carnival gives us the resources to accept and even celebrate our humanity- mine, yours, that stranger’s. Carnival reminds us, in the wisdom of ecotheologian Thomas Berry, that “the universe is composed of subjects to be communed with, not of objects to be exploited.”
In Dancing in the Streets: A History of Collective Joy, Barbara Ehrenreich proclaims:
“While hierarchy is about exclusion, festivity generates inclusiveness. The music
invites everyone to the dance; shared food briefly undermines the privilege of
class. As for masks: They may serve symbolic, ritual functions, but to the extent
that they conceal identity, they also dissolve the difference between stranger and
neighbor, making the neighbor temporarily strange and the stranger no more
foreign than anyone else. No source of human difference or identity is immune to
the carnival challenge… At the height of the festivity, we step out of our assigned
roles and statuses—of gender, ethnicity, tribe, and rank—and into a brief utopia
defined by egalitarianism, creativity, and mutual love.”
Collective joy tells us that we are enough – that we are all enough, that we belong to the wonder of creation. As Rev. Sam Trumbore once prayed:
Ash Wednesday will arrive soon enough…
Now, we feast on the abundance of life
The delight of hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting and touching
In a celebration that unites
the diversity of all races, classes and faiths
at the common table of fellowship…
May it be so.
Happy Mardi Gras, beloveds!
Beyonce at Half-Time
OK, I will admit that, in spite of living in the San Francisco Bay Area, I was pretty uninvested in the Super Bowl. Just really not a sports fan. I did, however, find it entertaining to track my friends’ Facebook comments throughout the trouncing, the power outage, the rally and the 49ers eventual defeat. But what interested me the most were the comments on Beyoncé’s half-time show. Some people thought it was one of the most incredible performances they had ever seen. Some people hated it. Some people thought that she was the embodiment of feminine power. Some people thought she was an emblem of sexual exploitation. Some people were offended by the booty shaking and some posted articles which declared that seeing Beyoncé as sexualized was in the prurient mind of the beholder.
Here’s what I know: when I picked up my 14-year-old daughter from a Super Bowl party that evening, it was Beyoncé’s performance, not the game, that had her aglow. She dragged me to the computer so that I could see the performance for myself on YouTube. Here’s what I saw. There the singer was onstage at the biggest homage to testosterone in the nation. She was up there with her all-female band and women dancers and the gal with flames shooting out of her guitar, having, as far as anyone could tell, the time of her life. Yes, she was powerful, receiving the homage of all those roaring fans, all those hands reaching out to her. And yes, she couldn’t have been more obviously, writhingly sexual. Which was, at moments, a bit jaw-dropping as something to watch with my teenage daughter. But the more I think about it, the more I wonder what exactly there is to object to about her hip-swinging, hair-flinging sexiness.
As I have engaged in discussion around the issues surrounding abortion, I’ve heard from a number of people who disapprovingly regard abortion as a way for a woman to shirk responsibility for her sexual choices, to have sex without having to live with the consequences. I have heard from people who are quick to remind those who will listen that sex is for procreation, and that having sex without being willing to take on procreation is a misuse of sexuality, a sexual sin. If that’s your opinion, then Beyoncé’s rampantly sexy performance would be repugnant.
But my religious tradition doesn’t say that. My religious tradition says that sexuality, in its variety of expression— bodies, in their variety of expression—are good and holy. Yes, sexuality can be abused, and sexual expression that causes physical or emotional damage to another person is wrong. But what is sinful is not the sexuality, but rather the abuse. And as far as I can tell, Beyoncé was hurting no one, being hurt by no one, having a grand old time being beautiful and talented and scantily clad in front of all those people.
But is that what I want my daughter to see? Is that the role model I want my African-American teenager to look toward? Wouldn’t I rather than she aspire to be like Michelle Obama when she grows up? Sure I would. The First Lady is brilliant and classy and refined. She is Athena, the goddess of reason. But my daughter isn’t. My daughter is a dancer, a performer, a little bit wild. She is athletic, embodied, more Artemis than Athena. When she sees Beyoncé she sees a massively talented Black woman surrounded by fans, surrounded by fire, putting her whole self out there in a glorious, ecstatic show. That’s what my daughter wants for herself—not the rigors of Harvard Law School, but the joy and the passion that she experiences when dancing. She’s a person who dwells more in her body than her head, and while school tells her all day every day that her way of being is a failing, Beyoncé put it all on magnificent display.
One day, far sooner than I will like, my daughter will make the connection between the pleasure and power of her body in dancing and the pleasure and power of her body as a sexual being. And it will be my job to make sure that she understands about protecting herself and others, about making decisions that are right for her and not just what someone else wants, about keeping her head when making choices for her body. But it will not be my job to squelch her fire or her passion or her pleasure in her big, strong, beautiful body. And if that’s what she takes away from Beyoncé at half-time, it’s OK by me.
Recipe for Grief
I didn’t have grieving on my agenda this morning. Does this happen to you? Isn’t it often a surprise, when you turn the corner and run into grief, like an old friend you had almost forgotten you knew, didn’t expect to see here of all places?
I was just thinking that making a blueberry cake would work better than blueberry pancakes to feed people who wake up and walk through in stages, over many hours, on a Saturday. Almost randomly, I picked up the closest cookbook I could find, to see if my hunches about measurements were more or less correct—I’m not a big recipe person.
That cookbook turned out to be one of those made by a church. In this case my childhood church. In this case, they made it after I was away at college and could not have cared less.I had never used this cookbook; I had no emotion invested in it; it was just the closest one that I grabbed. (I brought several cookbooks to my house when my father died last year and the old family house was shut down. No more pretense that these cookbooks would ever be used, as they hadn’t really, since my mother died in 2002.)
But it wasn’t my mother’s name or some special family recipe in the book that had my forehead suddenly mashed on the butcher block counter, overcome with loss. It was that parade of mothers—if there were men who contributed to this cookbook, I didn’t get that far—who I knew and loved and trusted throughout my growing up years. It was those familiar names, some for women I knew well, many just the last names of kids I went to Sunday School with. So many of them are dead now. Almost all the names I recognized belong to dead women.
When I think of the legacy of “The Greatest Generation,” I tend to think of the men, going stolidly into war against the Nazis, working long hours without complaint, mowing the lawn, participating in voluntary organizations. This cookbook walked me squarely into the legacy of that same generation of women. Women like my mother, the generation who parented ungrateful kids like me through “The Generation Gap” and the feminist movement and all kinds of other liberation movements. Women, so often bewildered, watching everything they assumed they would hand to their daughters and sons change before their eyes and under their feet.
My mother studied to be a teacher, but she, and the other women lucky enough to go to college, also took Home Economics classes. They learned to balance not only nutrition but color on the plate. They assumed without question that their inevitable husbands and eventual children would be the center of their lives. My mother taught me how to iron a shirt, sew, cook, can and preserve, set a beautiful table, host a party, chat with anyone. She taught me early on that motherhood would be the greatest endeavor I might possibly undertake. She taught me about Susan B. Anthony’s time in jail, too, and memorized Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I A Woman” speech with me. But all with an apron on.
This morning, head down on the soft wood of the kitchen counter, I felt the absence of that place she and the other women of her generation held. I felt the grief of the loss of those souls for whom making things right for the family was always the highest goal.
I was not sobbing with regret. I don’t wish a single thing were different. My mother and I ended her time on earth together with pure sweetness—me caring for her as tenderly as she had for me in my earliest days. My life choices have been mine, and even if made clumsily sometimes, they have been true. No, this was a stream of grief, running down from melted snow high in the mountains, pure and simple. People die, whether you know them and love them or not. No matter how lovely. Generations relinquish their truths to the new ones that rise. But, every now and then, seeing a long forgotten name over “Grandma Ruth’s lemon bars,” you remember.
A God We Can Believe In
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At home on a bookshelf we have a massive folio-style slipcover book titled Cabinet of Natural Curiosities by Albertus Seba, a pharmacist in eighteenth-century Amsterdam. In 1731, after decades of collecting strange and exotic plants, snakes, frogs, crocodiles, shellfish, corals, insects and butterflies, as well as a few fantastic beasts, such as a hydra and a dragon, Seba published an illustrated catalog of these curiosities. It’s an amazing display of biodiversity—enough to make anyone curious about why things change and how the same species can vary so much from one specimen to another.
People Ask About God (Excerpt)
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People go astray in their search for God because they do not take the right starting-point. We should never begin by asking, “Is there a God?”—as though God could be something outside of ordinary experience; or, to put it in the old-fashioned way, something outside of Nature. Read more →
