Time Began in a Garden

So I've been reading this book, Serve God Save the Planet, given to me by a very good friend of mine who is my environmental role model. Its premise is that environmental stewardship is a Christian mandate--if we love God, we love God's creation, and we love God's children living in that creation; and we show our love through transforming our over-consuming, waste-producing lifestyle into one focused on simplicity, creation care, and valuing the spiritual over the material. It's great, you should read it--check it out at your local library, the author is Dr. Matthew Sleeth.

Anyway, I read a passage* in it the other day that jumpstarted my dormant (no pun intended) project to adopt a community garden plot and grow a vegetable garden. My friend KC and I had enthusiastically hatched this plan in January; I had even emailed Felder Rushing, the host of Mississippi Public Broadcasting's The Gestalte Gardener radio show, to ask for advice for a novice gardener--check out the link in the title above; he featured my questions on his show! (I should note that I had a very small garden in our side yard for a few years in junior high, which I grotesquely de-slugged using a salt shaker; but that's about the extent of my gardening expertise, though my love for garden veggies and flowers is abundant).

I had lamented to Mr. Rushing that I knew next to nothing about what to plant, or when to plant it, in this climate; I also confessed that I was itching to start gardening NOW, since we've had several high 60s-mid70s days last month & this month. He replied with a long list of delicious veggies suitable for South Mississippi (though he unfortunately had to ix-nay my rhubarb dreams) and a garden prep checklist to keep me occupied until Good Friday, the traditional "last freeze" date for Gulf Coast planting. (1. Good Friday's calendar date varies widely each year, as does the date of the last frost [thanks, Dad, for that one], so I'm not quite sure how this rule of thumb works; and 2., how amazing is it to be able to plant in March??? Instead of mid-May like up North!!)

So a few Sundays ago, I bought a sack of gardening lime, borrowed a shovel, and went to stake my claim on a plot at the local park. Turns out on Sundays no one is gardening, but lots of people are playing basketball, smoking weed, and cruising lime-green hydraulic-jacked Skittles cars with chromey wheel rims past the park/local drug dealer hangout. Ahhh, I love my community.

I spent about an hour turning over the soil and adding lime to it to change the pH (technically I should've measured the pH first but I didn't have any litmus tape on me, so I just sort of....guesstimated. My high school biology teacher is rolling over in his pocket-protected lab coat).
Digging into the flat gray soil, turning it to expose its dark, rich, iron-streaked underbelly; singing a few snatches of Bernstein's "Sing God a Simple Song" against the backbeat of bass-thumping rap music; feeling the breeze lick across my warm muscles, a reminder of the exquisite grace of a cool wind during marathon training last year...I sweat and bled, bright ruby drops consecrating the soil I will till for the next several months. Pragmatic, concrete hard work mingling with the minor miracles of seed germination and growth to produce a divine synergy, bestowing a blessing on the hands that labor for it, the bodies that are nourished by it, and the community it beautifies...Creation balanced in perfect miniature.

Mine is the top plot:


I can't wait for this Sunday, when I'll mix in some organic compost and get a chance to spend a little time makin' magic with the angels of Eden. After all, time began in a garden. :)

*"It was a perfect day, a day that defies the rules of grammar--it was 'more perfect' than all the days before it. We were putting some parts of the garden to rest, while in another section we harvested carrots and potatoes. Late in the day we sat together to weed the strawberry patch. A feeling of joy and peace overcame me. I felt close to God. I experienced 'the peace that passes all understanding.' ...We were doing what our Maker created us to do." SGSTP, p. 134

Sunday Morning Coming Down

Monster trucks jacked up so high they need an extension ladder to enter cruise the downtown; signs saying "Catfish Fry Christ the King Tonight, 6pm" (ha) have sprouted up all over the neighborhood; military men and high school girls lay out on the beach on the first seasonable Sunday of the year, getting an early start on their tans.

Ahh, I love Mississippi.

Lent(ils)

Given my penchant for spiritual musings, there will of course be more posts about Lent appearing in the very near future--it's such a rich, reflective kind of season, lots to dig into there (just like the lentil stew below!). But for now, I'll tide you over with a timely link where you can subscribe to a daily Lenten devotional, for those of you who are so inclined--just click on the word "Lent(ils)" above.
I really like the idea of a daily devotional--the regular time set aside to be with God, the sense of spiritual discipline, and the opportunity for spiritual rumination all appeal to me--but I'm lazy, so I'm really excited about how easy this idea is. The scripture for the day* as well as a reflection written by clergy and lay people of the UCC (United Church of Christ), my home denomination, are delivered straight to your inbox, so there's no need to spend hours surfing the internet or trying to create your own program. And this is a great way to "offer something up"--your time and prayerful reflection--instead of "giving something up" for Lent.
The first one, sent out yesterday, was written by a mentor of mine, the pastor of the church I attended in college. Hope you enjoy!

*When my Bible's not handy (okay even when it is), I use Oremus Bible Browser (http://bible.oremus.org/) to look up scripture lickety-split. You can choose the version of the Bible you want to browse, and select anything from a few verses to a chapter to a whole book. So handy!

And now for a Lent(il) treat--sorry, couldn't resist! I love lentils with a somewhat irrational passion, and this recipe is perfect for Lent: it's an easy no-meat meal, hearty enough to fill you up with or without a nice hunk of whole grain bread on the side. Even keeps you warm during cold winter weather!

Hearty Lentil Stew

-1 cup lentils (any color, I like green)
-4 large carrots sliced
-1 to 2 large onions
-2 to 3 bunch parsley or dried parsley
-large can tomatoes or 8 to 10 fresh ones chopped (these are optional; the stew works just fine without them. You can also try substituting a big bunch of collard greens or a couple big handfuls of spinach if you want more iron & calcium)
-extra virgin olive oil (gives it a little fat to help you feel satisfied--no need to use it if you're trying to stay non-fat)
-balsamic vinegar or freshly-squeezed lemon juice (optional)

(These are really just guidelines, feel free to play around with the proportions and add things along the way--stews never suffer from being cooked longer, so if you decide, halfway through the cooking time, that your stew needs celery or an extra handful of carrots, just add 'em in and simmer 'til the veggies are cooked.)

Heat just enough oil to cover bottom of stew pot or use a non-stick one. Add carrots, and onions. Cook until onions are translucent. Add lentils and tomatoes. Simmer until lentils are tender. Add water as needed. Keep in mind that this is a stew, it should be very thick!
Add parsley about 30 minutes in (total cooking time is about 45 minutes, but you can let it simmer all day if you want).
Serve warm the first time around, with the afore-mentioned hearty bread on the side if you like. Makes great leftovers and keeps for EVER. I like to eat a bowl at room temperature with some balsamic vinegar or lemon juice splashed on top to contrast the richness of the lentils. I'm getting hungry just thinking about it....

Serves: 4 Preparation time: 1 hour

Mardi Gras

Mardi Gras came to town, we partook.
Need I say more?

Photos of the phestivities:

Scouting out the next float, plotting the best location for bead-catching

Mardi Gras 101: Note the traditional three-colored shirt: Purple for royalty, Gold for power, Green for faith. And that tri-colored lei in the upper right-hand corner is a good example of a "throw," or anything that gets launched off a float to the parade-goers, often at high velocity. Going after the good throws (big necklaces with charms on them, t-shirts, cups, stuffed animals) takes cunning, speed, and fine motor skills. Height doesn't hurt, either--but some of the most vicious throw-catchers are small, innocent-looking children who use their size and agility to outfox older, more sedentary parade watchers.

"Throw me something, Mister!"

Captain Jack Sparrow, I presume!

Shriners in mini go-karts always seem to show up at these things....

That's "krewe" with a K. The float-riders have been drinking and carousing since around 8 in the morning--so, oh, about 5 and a half hours at this point? And yet Mardi Gras turns out to be a surprisingly family-oriented event...

Local airmen driving big scary military vehicles all decked out in pretty little Mardi Gras beads.

Tanks on Highway 90--I never thought it would come to this!

I kiss a stranger in the hopes of getting a fake silk flower--and it worked. (Must be those mad skillz I honed kissing sweaty marathoners in Boston.)

Check out the ponytail on that member of the Walking Brigade (aka excuse for old men to smooch hot young things).

We make out like bandits!

On Tuesday, I learned several important things.

I have really good first-time Mardi Gras luck--and the amazing throws to prove it.

There really is no time too early to start drinking on Mardi Gras day.

I am a part of this community, and no matter how strong the pull of a glitzy, glamourous Mardi Gras celebration (and Kevin Kostner as parade marshal for Endymion!) is, I couldn't see myself celebrating anywhere but here, with my people.

Other parts of the country questioned the reinstatement of seemingly pointless drunken debauchery for Mardi Gras 2006, just 5 or 6 months after Katrina, when folks were still living in shelters, tents, or in trailers (well, not that that has changed much...); they couldn't see justifying the tens of thousands of dollars spent on celebrations, tv coverage, parade security and clean-up, floats and costumes and throws. They didn't understand why someone who had been exiled to Washington or Missouri or Pennsylvania would spend a chunk of their insurance money to come back home "just" for Mardi Gras.

Well, now, I get it.

Mardi Gras isn't about getting drunk or exposing yourself or streaking through the streets (although that all happens in good measure during the weeks leading up to Fat Tuesday). Mardi Gras is about family, it's about who you are and where you come from. It's about celebrating your heritage and your community, and giving yourself up with total abandon to the upheaval of status and propriety and rules that happens on Carnival. It's about one last free-for-all before digging into the self-reflection and self-denial of the Lenten season. It's about getting down with your people, eating and drinking and playing and laughing and savoring the time you have together.

And maybe, just maybe, it's a little bit about beer. Just a little. :)

MLK Day 2008

"Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Every year on the day that celebrates the birth of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., I read his "Letter from a Birmingham Jail," both as a reminder of the struggle for justice by those who came before us which we must carry on today, and because it is so powerfully written. Whatever else you might say about Dr. King, one thing is sure: he penned with words of fire and proclaimed with the voice of a prophet a message of undeniable Truth--the kingdom of God will be long in coming for those of us who cannot reach beyond the divides we have created between ourselves and our neighbors. We talked in ESL class that week about Dr. King's work, and it was frustrating (though not surprising) to see how well my hispanic/latino students could relate to living under the oppressive cloud of blatant racial discrimination and abuse. A fresh reminder of how much work we have to do, how much work I have yet to do, in order to accomplish that kingdom.

This year on MLK Jr. Day, I started a new tradition: I went to our city's MLK Jr. Day parade. MLK Jr. Day here is a big deal--the festivities aren't quite as grandiose as Mardi Gras, and the crowd is mostly African-American as opposed to everybody gettin' down together (if that's not irony, I don't know what is)--but judging by the fact that you have to get there 2 hours early if you want a decent vantage point, it's pretty important in the community. I did feel somewhat ambivalent about the whole celebration because it seemed to be much more about hanging out, watching pretty young thangs shake it in spandex (see below), and getting into the occasional street skirmish than about honoring Dr. King's memory, although the city's prominent NAACP and faith-based groups did pay him homage with floats, artistic & civic represenations, and broadcasted versions of his speeches. (More on the parade below.)

As much as MLK Jr. Day is a fitting and necessary celebration for our country (evidenced by the monochrome character of the parade-goers--King's message wasn't just for his own community, y'all!), and as much as it functions as a sorely needed catalyst for remembering and honoring the entirety of the Civil Rights movement, it can sometimes feel like a personality cult--King had his faults (as do we all), and he would be the first to admit, I believe, that the movement wasn't about glorifying him, but rather about creating widespread and lasting change, seeking restoration, and advancing the cause of justice.

So I was gratified as well as fascinated to learn more about the city's role in the Civil Rights movement--not a story that often emerges from the shadow of its more well-known sisters (the lunch counter sit-ins, the Montgomery bus boycott, etc.), but one which exemplifies creative, grassroots civil disobedience.

I'm talking about the integration of Gulf Coast beaches through the ingenious concept of "wade-in"s, or the simple act by blacks and non-black allies of laying down a towel, putting up a sun umbrella, and going for a swim on sections of public beach considered strictly "white only." The picture above (borrowed from a website about the book Beaches, Blood, & Ballots: A Black Doctor's Civil Rights Struggle by the estimable Dr. Gilbert R. Mason, founder of the Biloxi, MS chapter of the NAACP: http://www.upress.state.ms.us/books/55) shows law enforcement authorities forcibly escorting wade-in integrationists off of the beach, where, as members of the public, they had every right to be. Except, of course, that at the time, "public" didn't include black people.

I haven't read Dr. Mason's book yet, but it's high on my list of books to check out from the local library (after I finish Mississippi Mud, the true story about the Dixie Mafia's most notorious murder, a hit organized by a close relative of the man we rent office space from...I really had no idea what I was getting into down here!). I could hardly believe I'd never heard about this vital piece of history before--and we all know the old maxim about being doomed to repeat ourselves if we can't learn from our past. Thoughts & comments on Dr. King/Civil Rights Movement welcomed!!

As for our own MLK Jr. Day participation, check out the nifty, social justice-themed float HandsOn Gulf Coast put together:

Yes those are giant blue hands with MLK Jr. quotations painted on them. And yes we were the only all-white parade float. Or even mostly-white parade float. Just like later we were the only white/latino people eating soul food at the AME church in the background (whose fellowship hall walls are covered in gigantic murals of black Jesus and black Moses. I dig it).

This guy is HAPPY to be in the marching band. I mean, who wouldn't be--it's band!!

Check out the fringe, and the pantyhose! There was no shortage of psychedelic, skin-hugging, besequined outfits in this year's parade.

Drumline, anyone? This band kept jumping in and playing their own pieces over the sounds of other bands performing. And that's why it's called a Battle of the Bands!

Happy belated MLK Jr. Day, y'all--now go think about race relations and how you can break down some of those prejudices to which we all cling so very tightly.

Confessions of a Church-Hopper

As I've mentioned before (see the post entitled "Wait for the Rain" in the April archives), there are no UCC churches in the state of Mississippi. So I have become a bit of a spiritual wanderer seeking sustenance and fellowship where I may, whether that's in the high-liturgy Episcopal church I attend on Sundays, or with the black Missionary Baptist congregations where I go for Wednesday night prayer services, or in the occasional Methodist or otherwise Protestant locale. This adds to my spiritual smorgasboarding a year and a half ago in New Orleans, where there were enough UCC churches that I could pick a new location each Sunday without visiting the same congregation twice; my denominational schizophrenia in southern France, where I was both a member of the local Catholic cathedral choir and a regular attendee at a Madagascar-influenced Reformed Protestant Church; and my exploration of Hindu temples & guru wisdom in India.

All this exposure to the myriad ways in which we worship God has given me a rather potluck taste for liturgical practices--for example, I have a fondness for the familiarity and symbolic weight of centuries-old ritual in the pre-Reformation church, but I also crave the dynamism and creativity of the ever-changing participatory prayers in Protestant churches. I find taking communion each Sunday at the Episcopal church to be very fulfilling and I take strange delight in using kneelers--somehow I feel more devout & focused if I'm kneeling when I pray--but boy could they use some more melodious hymns. We never take communion at Wednesday night prayer services, but the verbal theatrics and pure passion of the evening message will set your soul on fire. I'm not even ALLOWED to take communion in Catholic services (let's not go there...it's a sore spot) and I can't understand the finer points of the homily at Spanish-language mass, but the sudden three-dimensionality of one of the mariachi players singing harmony during a folk hymn is pure bliss. (Plus I love seeing little old Mexican ladies in habits responding to every statement with "Gracias a Dios"--as in, "Isn't it a beautiful day out, Sister?" "Yes, thanks be to God." "The choir was in tune most of the service!" "Yes, thanks be to God." "Are you teaching catechism next week, Sister?" "No, thanks be to God!")

The contrasts amongst this great variety of worship styles and credos have helped me to refine what it is, exactly, that I believe; conversely, the commonalities which tie them together have served to affirm the validity of my core beliefs. It's certainly an enriching process, one which stirs up the proverbial religious pot and makes me put on my theological thinking cap.

P.S. Check out my earlier post for today's flavor on the church-hopping front: Latin(o) Mass!

Monday Night Misa

Monday nights my co-worker Elly attends Spanish-language mass at the Catholic church across the way from our office, and the first Monday after I got back she invited me to go. I'm rather game for new adventures, especially the religious kind, and I knew it would be a good opportunity to meet community members as well as work on my Spanish skills. So I put on yet another spiritual hat (to add to the UCC, Episcopal, Missionary Baptist and others I wear down here on the Coast) and headed off to la Misa.


The first challenge was trying to participate in the call-and-response service in a foreign language. I've been to enough Catholic masses in French to have memorized all the correct formulae and when to say what--"Pour des siecles et des siecles, Amen." "Que l'Esprit Saint soit avec vous..." "et avec votre esprit." Bada-bing. (The only trouble I've ever had is with the Lord's prayer, because I am so used to the words and the rhythm of the English version I grew up reciting every Sunday. But then, I get thrown off just by being in a different English-speaking congregation where they pause in different places or emphasize different words--although I have interchanging "trespasses" and "debts," as appropriate, down to an art.)

Now, I don't even know the Catholic service in English, so my participation in la Misa is entirely dependent on how fast I can a.) figure out what the priest (Father Paddy, who speaks Castilian Spanish with an Irish accent, I kid you not) is saying, b.) translate that to the corresponding section of a French mass, c.) remember the correct response in French, d.) translate the French response into Spanish, hoping I get somewhere close to what I'm actually supposed to be saying while still managing to fire off a reasonably sincere prayer. This is why I'm continually behind the rest of the congregation (thank God for the older lady who is also always behind because she can't hear anything); sometimes I have to resort to simply lip-synching and hope it looks like I know what's going on. And NEVER can I find in the missal what I'm actually supposed to be saying in time to join the congregation--it's torture!!

Other than that, however, la Misa is fantastic. The contrast between French and English masses (dare I say white/European masses in general??) and Latino mass, or even African-American mass (I once attended a fabulous second-line service at a black Catholic church in New Orleans), is like night and day. The first is solemn, slow, and can even be a bit dreary at times, although I do love the classical music & Gregorian chants that typically accompanied mass at La Cathedrale Saint-Sauveur. The second is more up-tempo and full of life--the homily is just as devout and the prayers are just as prayerful, but somehow listening to a group of mariachis (un-costumed; let's not get carried away) on guitars accompanying el coro as they harmonize Mexican folk songs while little kids zip up and down the aisles to be blessed, arms beatifically crossed and trying not to giggle--it just fills me with a little extra joy. Then there's all the cheek-kissing during the Passing of the Peace...okay, that happens in France, too, but somehow it's a little warmer here, a little less removed.

I never fail to walk out of la Misa with a smile on my face, my heart uplifted and my toes tapping for some ranchero music. It reminds me of the time a group of Unitarian-Universalist high school youth came down from northern Minnesota to attend prayer service at the local Missionary Baptist church--UUs can be pretty open to different forms of worship, but apparently these kids' home congregation wasn't too lively, because they all came out of service clapping their hands and singing gospel music, shouting "That was awesome, we're converting!!" much to the chagrin of their self-professed humanist youth group leader.

El Senor obra de maneras misteriosas...