Beloveds, let us have a common vocabulary. In the midst of the conversation on race prompted by the verdict of the Zimmerman trial, allow me to point us toward the 4 I’s of Oppression, spelled out clearly here by YouthBuild USA:    – https://youthbuild.org/sites/youthbuild.org/files/Four%20Is.pdf Ideological, Institutional, Interpersonal, and Internalize Oppression.  Recognize that racism operates on many levels in this country.  If you do not know this, please take the time to learn about it before joining loudly in the conversation.  This matters.

Let us hear truth when it is spoken to power. Let us keep the dialogue grounded in the realities of oppression. And if you are white, keep showing up in solidarity with all who call for Justice for Trayvon. It is beyond time for more than a handful of white people to stand on the side of love in this country.

Dear ones, let us live into the possibility of Beloved Community with courage and grace.

“Up! up! my Friend, and quit your books; / Or surely you’ll grow double,” said the early-Nineteenth Century British poet William Wordsworth: “Books! ’tis a dull and endless strife.” He continues,

Enough of Science and of Art;
Close up those barren leaves;
Come forth, and bring with you a heart
That watches and receives.

Ah, yes. Romanticism. They headed for the woods for their woo-woo.

And Romanticism hit US shores in Transcendentalism. Ralph Waldo Emerson asked, “why should we grope among the dry bones of the past, or put the living generation into masquerade out of its faded wardrobe?” Experience. It was all about experience. Emerson began his great Transcendentalist manifesto, Nature, this way:

“Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchers of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs?”

Whatever else this tradition accomplished, it convinced New England Unitarians that books were fine and necessary on Sunday morning, but mystical experience, the woo-woo of worship, would happen elsewhere. On that hike through the mountains perhaps. Or on the seashore. Only accidentally within the walls of a church.

Emerson’s children hold onto this tradition, remaining mistrustful of the technologies of woo-woo: rhythmic music; glossolalia; shouting and such. Yet, if we take up those leaves called the Norton Anthology of American Literature, we find that there have been a few literary and intellectual movements since Transcendentalism. Perhaps it’s time to move on and, as sage old Emerson said, “demand our own works and laws and worship.”

All day Thursday I wore my Standing on the Side of Love t-shirt, through meetings with academia, organizers, congregants, and staff. A day of solidarity, a day of grief and a day of joy. Solidarity with the Texas State Senator Wendy Davis, who stood on the side of love (without eating, drinking, using the bathroom, speaking off-topic or leaning against any furniture) for all families for eleven hours. Solidarity with communities of color and anti-racist allies grieving the gutting of the Voting Rights Act of 1965. Solidarity with beloveds all across the nation celebrating the end of the mis-named Defense of Marriage Act and the first step in the passage of a national immigration reform bill.

It is a lot to hold, beloveds. And this doesn’t even begin to take in the illness of the beloved elder Nelson Mandela or the floods and the fires around the world. Or my dear friends who are moving away from New Orleans this week or the beloveds going through a second round of chemo.

This morning, I sat and watched a summer thunderstorm crash through my neighborhood and gave thanks for this precious moment of unscheduled time, a chance to be fully present to the storms within and without. May you, too, have time to bear witness to your own storms with gentleness and compassion. May you feel companioned by a host of thousands standing in solidarity with you on your life journey.

Standing in the doorway between the ticket table and the concert last night, the music from the incredible jazz trio on the chancel washing over me, I was overwhelmed with gratitude. This is my life!

Somewhere between scheduling the termite treatments and the ceiling repairs from a leaky roof, between taxes and budgets, between making groceries and making amends – there is this gift – pure, sustaining creative joy.

On this Mother’s Day weekend, as we celebrate the creative power of women, I lift up some of the amazing, creative female artists I have had the joy of encountering as part of my work this year: Asali DeVan Ecclesiastes, Cindy Scott, Helen Gillet, Gina Forsyth, emma’s revolution…their creations remind me that life is a journey of choices – and that I can choose joy, I can choose to work for peace, for a world welcoming to all babies, all beings.

Beloveds, as you make your choices today, may you remember your sources of sustaining joy and celebrate your own power to create a life well lived.

I sometimes (daily?) get overwhelmed by the minutiae of life. I often feel amazed at what others seem to accomplish while I feel like I’m drowning in dishes, dirty clothes, to-do lists, e-mail, and piles of papers. I’ve even been known to turn down a vacation because getting organized for all that just sounds like too much work.

This is particularly relevant for me this year as I take a year or more off from parish ministry to focus on caring for our baby. When I imagine going back to work as a full-time parish minister someday, somewhere, and continuing to care for our child, family, and household, I quickly find myself turning to either hysterical laughter, droll sarcasm, or the all-too-present devil, comparison. The conversation in my head or between me and a confidant usually goes something like: “So-and-So manages to do this, that, and those 3 other things.” “How does So-and-So do all that?” “I have absolutely no idea, but it makes me tired even trying to imagine it.” And also: “You mean people who have one child and know what it’s like go on…to have…another one?!”

Now I’m well aware there are a half dozen articles, blog posts, books, columns and probably cartoon strips as well circulating about how women juggle their professions and parenting, and I’m not particularly interested in stepping into that muddy swamp at the moment (who has the time?). I’m more interested in my own mind. I’m curious to understand how my own mind works to keep me from doing things because I seriously think “that’s just not possible.” Is there a way to embrace the minutiae and just be okay with it, so as to get to experience the living that is working, parenting, and playing?

I am someone who has dealt with the demands of parenting an infant by “dialing in,” eliminating any extra responsibilities or commitments as much as I am able, and focusing on finding a sleep-eat-nap routine that worked for our kid. I am fully aware that we as a family are blessed and privileged to have been able to do this—we have lots of extended family support, amazing local friends, and we had some savings to enable me to not work this year. We’ve also chosen to live in a small apartment to keep our housing costs down.  My taking a break from working enables us to not have to wrestle with daycare costs and not working has been a blessing for me…and a time of discernment.

For the six years I served as a parish minister in Central Oregon, serving that congregation was my primary focus. As I told them in my departing sermon, “Let It Be A Dance: Some Lessons Learned in Six Years of Service”, that congregation was “my baby,” the commitment and responsibility to which I gave my all for those years. It’s hard for me to imagine serving a congregation as fully while also caring for a family. And yet, more balance in our lives and leadership is something we all need and crave.

I’ve been thinking lately about how the minutiae of any task can keep us from enjoying the beauty of the work, whether it’s ministry, parenting, personal relationships, gardening, even tending to our homes. It is too easy to let the inevitable “dirty work” of any job or task distract us from its overall value. We say “he can’t see the forest for the trees” when we mean “he’s lost in the weeds, he can’t see the big picture.” I don’t want to live my life avoiding tasks or work altogether in some effort to avoid weeds. When it’s literally a garden we’re talking about, I know that weeds come along with the beauty of the harvest; there’s a balance that I accept and even embrace. As I weed, I know I’m creating space for the beets and lettuces to grow and flourish.

photo by Jenna Starr

I’m honestly not sure how to orient my mind in such a way as to get less frustrated or disheartened by all the minutiae. Dishes, laundry, e-mail, meetings, tasks, housecleaning, babies crying, bills, disgruntled congregants, disagreements that need to be sorted out, to-do lists, and did I mention dishes?: these are all realities of living. Living less won’t mean fewer tasks, it won’t mean that there are suddenly more spacious days on the beach soaking in the sun and reading novels. To get to the beach takes work. To have a happy, healthy, thriving child takes work. To serve a congregation and watch it flourish takes a lot  of work, meetings, conversations, and a lot of e-mail. To grow vegetables requires weeding. To be in the forest, to see the trees, requires setting aside the time, packing a bag, figuring out the directions, dealing with D.C. drivers, paying the bills, and so on. This is life, all of it: the minutiae and the magnificence, the crying and the curious smiles, the incredulous grin on our little girl’s face and the worn-out face covered with dried pureed yams that desperately needs a clean washcloth and a bath.

Today, on our way home from a quick lunchtime outing, our Little Bean feel asleep against her Mama C and slept through getting on the Metro, the noisy jarring sounds of the subway, walking home, street noise and the banging of our building’s front door. I said to Cathy in amazement: “Well. This is one of those occurrences I’ve seen in the movies, and on Other Parents, and thought, ‘wow.’ How do they do that?” Our kid fell asleep on 11th Street NW, near Pennsylvania Avenue, and made it all the way home on a warm sunny busy Friday afternoon in the city without waking up. That’s magnificent. And it’s the sweetest bit of minutiae in our day so far. It’s both, and it’s beautiful.