Sustainable Cooking and Living

"You are fortunate that your chef has stayed with you," I commented to Innkeeper Dave as we finished coffee after breakfast. Jason, the chef, had come to this Vermont inn from Napa, having already cooked for royalty in the Colorado mountain resorts, according to Dave.

"He's doing what he loves to do," was Dave's simple response.

What he went on to describe was a network of relationships the chef has developed with local farmers, ranchers, distributors and customers. He has come to know the preferences of repeat guests -- no salt for this one; extra spicy for that one -- and visualizes the faces of those for whom he prepares each plate. Different from cooking for a series of tickets the machine spits out in the large restaurants, this is personalized cooking based on the people involved. He knows exactly where his food has come from and by whose efforts, and onto whose place-setting it will be handed, and assumes respectfully the sacred part he plays as creative culinary intermediary.

He could be in a "mega-restaurant," but life and satisfaction for him are apparently in the personalization made possible in this more intimate setting.

It reminds me of a comment I recently heard made by Sam Wells, Dean of the Chapel at Duke University. After introducing us to the story of a couple facing significant challenges, he concluded that "what they need is the church. And I pray they find one small enough to meet their needs."

Not one large enough, but one small enough.

Like the kitchen of a small inn in Vermont, where the chef knows the farmers, the food they produce, and the stories of those who will eat it. I'm thinking that Chef Jason could teach a few things to churches, businesses, civic leaders...
...and, of course, me.

"...softly and tenderly falling down."

It snowed last night -- a dusting, is all, that whitened the road but little else. Still, in a season when the ground should be covered with it -- in our own Iowa, to say nothing of here in Vermont -- any glimpse of it in this globally warmed era is welcome. I recognize that mine is a plaintive voice in a rather small choir. Not everyone loves snow and the chill that accompanies it. But I have yet to know anything as calming, quieting and strangely beckoning as a blanket of new-fallen snow; anything as magical as standing beneath the falling flakes with palms and tongue out-stretched, catching, tasting, just for the joy of it.

Besides, it is a part of creation. If I wanted desert I would visit Arizona; rainforest, Brazil. Geography is supposed to be diverse. I have no interest in the mall-ification of the world, where one part looks pretty much like another, like Gap stores and Chili's restaurants no matter the local style or cuisine. I've come to Vermont for snow. OK, I've come to Vermont for the romance of it, the mountains of it, the evergreens of it, and the nostalgia of it -- but also the snow.

And during the night it acquiesced.

And as if to compound blessing, it decided to have fun with the entire day, with flakes thickening and the sky whitening throughout the hours. And now nearing sunset, that longed-for blanket is laid.

And here, like nowhere else quite like it...
...it's Vermont

...And the darkness has not overcome it.

It is quiet, though both the glow and the detritus of the season are still in evidence. Bits of wrapping paper still litter the living room floor; fragments of late-night bulletins remain scattered on the sanctuary pews. Housekeeping at both home and church will require a little extra attention. Boxes are mostly gone from beneath the tree, and candles, for the most part, are now similarly stowed at the church. Visitors to our house have returned to their own environs, and my guess is that Sunday's worship crowd will look much more familiar than did the attendees on Sunday past. It was Christmas Eve, after all, and both morning and night presented friends I hadn't yet met.

But suddenly, like the candles on Christmas Eve that were quickly lighted and just as quickly extinguished, it is over. "Sleep in heavenly peace." Left, now, to ponder the affirmation that "the light shines on in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it."

• the light of extended family crowded onto sofas near the warmth of the fire;
• the light of a worshipping family crowded into pews, holding candles high with one hand and brushing away a tear with the other, singing of "Jesus, Lord, at thy birth";
• the light of stories told and memories warmed;
• the light of lives held tightly in each other's care;
• the light of plans and possibilities beckoning us forward;
• and yes, the light of grace made plain, personal, compelling, and enlivening.
  
  

It is, indeed, quieter today and our common spaces are messier. Yes, there are fresh bills to pay and things to put away. And while it remains to be seen exactly how much, at least some of Christmas this year won't soon be boxed or tossed or sucked up into the Oreck. Hopefully, in fact, never. I have a hunch that every time I pull on one these new shirts, the gift will be worn more visibly on my face. Everytime I read one of the pages I unwrapped, the words will be accompanied by carols. And at least for some time to come, when I stand in the midst of a worshipping community, their faces will glow, as if with candles -- shining on in the darkness, in a way that the darkness -- or the more usual routine -- simply cannot overcome.

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Evanescent Plans and the Blessed Curse of Holiday Travel

And suddenly there is time on my hands. The airplanes that were supposed to deliver my parents and my daughter into my welcoming hands this morning did not deliver. Weather problems in one distant part of the country meant pilots and equipment out of place in another (grounding my parents). Weight restrictions and excess luggage meant bumped passengers for safe flying (grounding my daughter). It is, I've been reminded, the busiest travel day of the year, and while I might quibble with that designation it is, I recognize, hectic. In our annual holiday "fruit basket turnover," everyone seems to be trying to be somewhere else. Add on to that the reality that we are talking about a system built on mechanical equipment (that breaks), human beings (who get sick, need time off, or behave, sometimes, irresponsibly), and weather (enough said!). It's a bit amazing that anyone ever gets anywhere.

So, with no one to pick up at the airport and entertain for the afternoon, how shall I use my suddenly available time? Lamenting the loss of time together will no doubt consume some of it. Commiserating long distance with those delayed will certainly take its bite. But what then?

The truth is, I still am blessedly surrounded by people I love, and meaningful work to pursue. It's not like I am bereft. The planes will presumably fly tomorrow making the reunion merely delayed. Although that, too, could change. Travel and circumstances and weather and well-being do not happen like clockwork -- and even clocks run slow, and sometimes down. So, I'll give thanks for the family who actually wants to get together -- for the heart's desire that seeks each other -- and ask God's blessing on all those similarly, indeed more greatly stranded, disappointed, and inconvenienced.

And, thusly and effectively reminded of the vulnerabilities and vicissitudes of life and our plans for it, I will reengage this day in the gratitude that I am able to do so -- that however much time I may ultimately have, I do have this time now to use faithfully, responsibly, kindly, attentively.

And, in the midst of it all, remember afresh that we are not in control...
...and pray that the planes are on time tomorrow.

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Discerning the Music and One's Place Within It

The CD player malfunctioned. It happened Sunday evening during a Christmas program while a visiting liturgical dance group was performing. Propped up on the organ bench, the operators had labored with some difficulty to get it to play in the first place, and then scurried to find a microphone they could lay nearby when the volume proved inadequate. But then halfway into the routine, the music simply stopped.

I wasn't familiar with the song, but had noticed that I was in the minority. Most of the congregation had started singing along. So when the technology failed, several supportive onlookers tried to undergird the dancers from the pews. But it limped. Then, out of the corner of my eye I noticed movement from the guest musical director who had been leaning against the wall beside me. Precariously he threaded his way between the music stands and the microphone cords, the extra chairs and the guitars leaning nearby and took his place at the keyboard where his hands stopped short, hovering above the keys.

And he listened. He listened to the handful of people still singing the song. He listened to the fading memory of the melody through the speakers. And after patient attending, his hands adjusted over the keyboard, landed, and began to play...

...exactly on key. Exactly on melody. Seamlessly. Beautifully.

I never knew quite when, but eventually I realized that the CD player had revived, and the keyboardist gradually withdrew to the background of the music -- while remaining involved, just in case. So deft had been the musician's finesse that the line between his involvement and the recording was almost indiscernible.

It was, I'm sure, musical excellence and expertise. I commend his training and his craft. But I am just as sure that the artfulness of the moment emerged from his patience between the fall and the rise. He waited. He listened. He paid attention. And only then -- only after discerning the moment, the music, and his place within it -- did his fingers begin to play.

As one too often impetuous, too often quick to fill the silences and the gaps with words or motions any one of which will do, I learned something Sunday night about pausing, listening, and discerning the key.

Responsibility and the Puppy's Classroom on Communication

Barrington, our Welsh Corgi puppy (still puppy to us, though now 8 years old) is not shy about asking. Unencumbered by the protocols of timing or hospitality, if he has a wish, he communicates it. When craving the blessing of affectionate touch, he whirls over on his back, white tummy fully exposed, to convey the unmistakable plea, "rub me." When it is meal time -- even when it isn't though hunger encourages the deception -- his herding genetics have a way of nuzzling and circling us toward the kitchen. Bathroom breaks are similarly reminded. And it isn't at all uncommon, in the midst of a conversation with friends or a stolen moment with a book, to find his gnarled tennis ball silently but assertively nudged into my lap. Barrington takes his needs into his own hands and pursues them with, well, dogged determination.

It reminds me of a community organizing training program I traveled cross-country to attend in recent years. Arriving at the conference center I found no signs with information posted, no instructions displayed on tables, no hosts to welcome or direct. What I mistook for carelessness I soon learned was the first aspect of the teaching: "if you want to know something, ask; if you want someone else to know something, tell them."

Whether it is timidity or some convoluted sense of "politeness," I have a difficult time learning that lesson -- with assuming responsibility for my own needs, thoughts, hopes and wants, instead of assuming that those around me will magically or mysteriously or mystically know. Perhaps it would help if I understood that clarity is not an affront, but a gift, and responsibility is not an arrogance or a demand, but a contribution.

The world and those inhabitants of it closest to me are not obligated to meet my needs or grant my wishes, but they have a right to know what they are. Across the room I see that Barrington has flipped over again and is looking my way. "Good boy," I call to him as I set aside this computer and rise from my chair, "thanks for the continuing education."

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Christmas letters from the heart

Isn't it ironic that the metaphorical setting of Advent is the wilderness -- that place where there is very little to "do" physically; it is, rather, the place to "be." It is the place for spirit work -- for listening and watching and, of course, waiting. It is in the wilderness places of life where the words of the prophet Isaiah become poignant: that "those who wait upon the Lord shall renew their strength..." (40:31).

But if we are not very good at waiting, we are even more challenged when it comes to spirit work. I think of all this as we both receive and struggle to write Christmas letters. What do we say? How is that we characterize and reflect upon a year in a life? Most of our efforts suggest a conclusion that "life is doing" -- measuring our months by the pace we keep, the trips we take, the activities on which we expend ourselves. It is almost to suggest that if it has been a busy year it has been a good year. In our letters we recount to loved ones the report of our outer lives. And to some extent we are interested.

But wouldn't it be more interesting if, instead, we could somehow share in our Christmas communiques some representation of what has occurred in our inner lives this year?

Ralph Waldo Emerson supposedly greeted old friends with the question, "What has become clear to you since last we met?"

Now that would be a Christmas letter: reflecting on and sharing with family and friends what we have learned this year, what insights we have gained, what big or little thing has become clear to us since last we met or corresponded -- our internal living as well as our external -- and inviting them to do the same.

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