Tag: Culture

NAMING THE CHANGES

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments
My fondness for mountain laurel goes back to my days of living in the ashram in the Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania. There, the undergrowth of the forest was filled with these blossoms in season.

Over the years, my own spiritual practices have undergone many changes. Even in a tradition like the one I’ve embraced, seemingly free from the annual routines of a liturgical calendar or outward emblems, there appear cyclical changes mirroring those of the seasons. Cycles, too, like those of progressing from childhood and parenthood into retirement or release. In Salem Quarterly Meeting in Ohio, the session each Fifth Month meant rhubarb in the applesauce. See it as sacrificial and special.

There are times of struggle, doubt, and distrust. Times of whirlwind passion and excitement. Times of discovery. Times of drought or deep winter, relying on what’s brought out of storage. Times of renewal and recharge.

This has manifested as periods where I’ve been able to dedicate significant time to meditation, solitude, travel in ministry, prayer, Bible study, research into history and theology, organizational service, teaching, correspondence, or writing, as well as to regular disciplines such as fasting or physical spiritual exercise (the hatha yoga sessions or even wilderness hiking). Emphatically, however, one would predominate while others would likely be absent or greatly diminished. In addition, they would be strongly impacted by the events of my daily life itself – whether I was single, married, divorced, or “in relationship,” my hours and nature of employment, my friendships and faith community, my driving patterns through the week.

The result of all of this would be a crazy-quilt tapestry or a ricochet trajectory if it weren’t for a spiraling within it. That is, over the years, various periods and interests begin to overlap one another, creating a kind of harmony or accumulated depth. My asparagus bed in New Hampshire has roots in my experience of asparagus along irrigation canal banks in Far West desert three decades earlier. A dog sitting through Quaker meeting here is a reminder of dogs sitting through predawn meditation sessions in the Pocono Mountains, or of the cats aligned on the scaffolding outside the windows, as if they, too, were deep in concentrated worship. I read a particular Psalm and see the passage taking twists I hadn’t perceived earlier.

In my own life, my childhood was filled with natural science, hiking, and camping, each with its mystical visions and moments. Adolescence led into politics, classical music, opera, and writing complicated by unrequited sexual yearning. Without romantic companionship, a Lone Ranger journey. Rejection of existing creed while ensconced in church office was followed by flight into atheism and hippie excess landing, inexplicably, in a yoga ashram with its Hatha exercises and sustained meditation. From there, into Quaker practice, though of the ABC – or “anything but Christ” variety. The ashram lessons were applied here, in circles of deepening prayer life. By steps, I moved toward Christocentric and Plain speech, and an especially faith fervent language. Among the Wilburite Friends as well as Mennonites, especially, I came to wrestle within Scripture while similtaneously undergoing repeated Dark Night journeys and questioning. Turning to therapy, I wondered if anyone could come along with me through all of this. By now I was no longer meditating to get high, or transcend, but rather to center down to the Seed. Here, with all of its committee work, I was engaged in a religion that combines mystical experience with social witness and activism. In a nutshell, then.

Each swirl also stirs up something from before. What failed in earlier marriage or relationships reappears. What has been left unfinished is not left entirely behind. What has been shredded remains to be woven. I heard this opera in its entirety a hundred times. Have I ever heard this note before?

I moved from the Midwest to the East Coast and back before heading on to the Pacific Northwest in what seemed an epiphany but instead shattered amid volcanic eruption and devastation. I left the wilderness for another kind of wilderness, back across the Midwest to the East Coast. The pendulum, as they say. Here, I now see life as both linear and circular – that is, spiraling. The spirit requires flesh, or is it that flesh requires spirit? Seasons include times that are full or overflowing, and times that are barren or dry. I now welcome the questioning that is not hostile is both essential and healthy.

My first spring in the orchard, I expected all of the trees to blossom simultaneously. They don’t. The apricots and cherry petals give way to plums, pears, and peaches. The apple blooms arrive last, when others are already gone.

Experiencing a new place through a full year or repeated years provides a much different understanding than a tourist gets – even one who spends several months there. Relocating requires a year-and-a-half to gain familiarity with the new surroundings – to get beyond the obvious, to establish friendships, to be oriented with the elements one finds essential or special. A favorite restaurant, a woodland pathway or place to swim, a boutique or gallery.

There are seasons for a person of faith, from winter to spring elation and then into fullness, dryness, struggle, or disillusionment. To harvest, perchance. Marriage? Family? Children? Extended into joy, compassion, humility, appreciation – one begins observing and naming.

The turning point in my own journey came when I accepted a new name.

MARIAH WATKINS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

One of my wife’s childhood heroes, George Washington Carver, is proof that some of the best mothers never have children of their own. After his own mother’s death as a consequence of being stolen from one slave-owning family and carried off to a plantation, before being bought back – how vile, the entire institution – young George was cared for, first, by the sickly wife of the slaveowner, and third, by an art teacher who directed him on to her own father, a college professor of botany. But most important was Mariah Watkins and her husband, Andrew.

We know very little about this black couple, except for her influence on the boy who emerged from spending a night in their barn. In another circumstance, George might have been shot. Instead, she called out for him to wash up and come inside for breakfast. What’s your name, she asked. Carver’s boy George, came the reply. No, she corrected, from now on you’re George Carver. (The Washington came later.) He lived with them while attending the Lincoln School for Negro Children. She gently instilled a deep religious awareness in him, presenting him with her beautiful, large family Bible, which he used daily for the remainder of his life, and also nurtured a sense of responsibility for the advancement of his own people. Essentially what we know about her comes in the correspondence they continued over the years. (Among the few other bits we know is that she was a midwife who cared for about 500 babies, including the painter Thomas Hart Benton.)

You can also trace the two connections between George and another great agricultural reformer, Norman Borlaug, whose Green Revolution is credited with saving the lives of a billion people.

Indirectly, then, by feeding a single child that first morning, Mariah put into motion events that would feed a billion humans – a miracle overshadowing the multitude Jesus’ disciples fed with those few loaves and fishes on the banks of Galilee.

ROSES AND THORNS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

In any relationship, it is difficult enough to know one’s own actions and thoughts completely or accurately, much less the other’s. Misunderstandings are inevitable – “You promised,” “I never said that,” “Why didn’t you phone?” “I did what?”

The gaps become especially obvious during a breakup. Like a mirror that smashes to the floor, the image comes apart. Spider webs span gaps. The reflection distorts. Here, silences – the interstices of what is unseen or left unsaid – become as important as what is harshly trumped or cruelly enacted. Sometimes, it appears that figures previously hidden by the mirror itself now become visible; even motions that had been observed but dismissed return with ominous significance. Excuses no longer suffice.

Moreover, if one partner has been cheating, the mask itself now drops away. Some misunderstandings, it turns out, were intentional. “I know I said that, but I never meant it.” Stones, then, are finally thrown directly at the looking glass, and through it. A hammer is held in the fist.

“Do you love me?” becomes a meaningless question. Petals fall from long-stem roses given as an expression of passion. In the fractured mirror, even blossoms shatter.

And then there’s the personal complication. As Diane Wakoski of the Motorcycle Betrayal has observed: “I suppose part of my adult fascination with American adolescence is that I didn’t live one, except in very scattered ways. I was, all my life, trying to escape my … background. … Thus my lifelong snobbery about highbrow things.”

But there’s no escape, now, is there.

HOT DOG BUNS VERSUS FRANKFURTER ROLLS

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 44 Comments

Once upon a time, or so it seems now, a girlfriend sent me out with orders to come back with hot dog buns, which is what I did.

But when I handed her the grocery bag, she cried out, “Oh, no! What are these?”

“They’re hot dog buns,” I replied ever so naively.

“No they’re not!” she insisted.

“But they’re what I’ve always had hot dogs on,” and they were.

She would not believe me, so off we went, together, to the supermarket.

“These,” she said, “are hot dog buns.”

Asked to pick out a hot dog bun, which would you choose -- the ones sliced on the top, at left, or on the side, at right?
Asked to pick out a hot dog bun, which would you choose — the ones sliced on the top, at left, or on the side, at right?

They looked like a flattened loaf of bread cut in fat slices. The side of each “bun,” in fact, was without crust – naked, to my taste.

Pointing to another shelf, I looked at the kind I’d always known – the kind, that in fact, came labeled Hot Dog Buns. Hers, in contrast, were labeled Frankfurter Rolls.

Hmm, we both said without satisfaction.

She had, in truth, grown up in New England and lived nowhere else. And her idea of how to serve a hot dog was unique to the region. Not in something she considered a torpedo roll.

Ah, but the plot thickens. As I bought packages of each this time around, there was no Frankfurter label -- and the Hot Dog tag instead went on what my wife confirms are often called Frankfurter buns or rolls around here. As a further complication, we now have the term Coney Island, which confounds my elder daughter while bringing to my mind something completely different, a miniature hot dog where I grew up, often served covered with "chili." But that's a whole other story.
Ah, but the plot thickens. As I bought packages of each this time around, there was no Frankfurter label — and the Hot Dog tag instead went on what my wife confirms are often called Frankfurter buns or rolls around here. As a further complication, we now have the term Coney Island, which confounds my elder daughter while bringing to my mind something completely different, a miniature hot dog where I grew up, often served covered with “chili.” But that’s a whole other story.

This can, in turn, point to a lot of other regional distinctions. Whether you call a device a watercooler, a water fountain, or a bubbler, as we do here. Or whether you order a soda, a pop, or a cola. Feel free to expand the list. It can go on a long time.

Fast forward, then, to lunchtime at a national conference being held in Rhode Island. I sat down and joined a random group that included a handful of teens. One was from North Carolina. I pointed to the hot dog on his neighbor’s plate. He looked bewildered. “What’s it wrapped in?” he asked.

“Would you call it a hot dog bun?” I prompted.

“No way!”

“Oh yes it is,” said the girl from Connecticut. “It’s what we always use.”

You know where the conversation went from there. Yes it is, no it isn’t.

At least the college cafeteria knew to stock both Hot Dog Buns and Frankfurter Rolls.  As we all discovered.

Hmm. Maybe next time we have a crowd over and we’re grilling hot dogs, I’ll get packages of both – and then see which kind goes first.

WATERTOWN AND THE BOSTON MARATHON BOMBING

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

When I awoke this morning, my wife greeted me with the words, “You missed it last night; all hell broke loose.” I thought she was talking about her board meeting or maybe a big fire, but instead she told me that all of Watertown, Massachusetts, and several surrounding towns were locked down. And then she related the news of the Boston Marathon suspects, the subsequent shootings in Cambridge, the carjacking, the mad police chase down Mount Auburn Street, and all of the activity taking place around the Arsenal Mall.

The developments are still unfolding – and likely will continue to do so for days – and I won’t attempt to relate what’s being reported. What is difficult is trying to imagine the challenges of coping with the shutdown of a very active community. One I’ve been coming to know with some affection.

This year, my Thursdays have wound up in Watertown, where the Revels Singers rehearse for two hours each week in St. John United Methodist Church on Mount Auburn Street. The choir, ranging up to 80 voices, many of them very fine, is led by George Emlen in works from the Renaissance to the present spanning many nationalities and languages. Last night, for instance, we tackled Welsh and French-Canadian as well as English, and the musical experience was exhilarating. No, I’d never even dreamed of being part of such an ensemble.

Rather than getting stuck in rush-hour traffic, I try to arrive early enough to have dinner at one of the inexpensive but excellent restaurants a block or two down the street. (Don’t let looks deceive you: follow your nose instead.) Watertown is an older suburb of Boston, one with substantial houses typically on small lots, and has become a haven of many ethnic cultures. The church where we practice, for instance, also houses a Korean Methodist congregation. Buses pass by frequently, and pedestrians fill the sidewalks. In one block I pass the Greek kabob and gyro emporium I’ve come to habituate, an acclaimed Chinese storefront with tables and takeout (yes, some of it goes back with me to New Hampshire), a Japanese fusion eatery, an Iranian bakery, an Hispanic-focused grocery, several hair and nails salons, a cigar store or two. (I’d planned to make a list someday.)

Yesterday I even arrived in time to tour the Armenian Library and Museum of America,  which incidentally had free admission this week as an offering of a quiet public place for the community to heal from the tragedy on Monday. (The irony of the free admission now comes, of course, in the closing of the town itself.) As the center of Armenian culture in the New World, Watertown has much to say about genocide and suffering over the centuries.

I was still reflecting on that experience as I ate, until noticing the repeated images on the large-screen TV on the restaurant wall as it showed footage of the two suspects shortly before Monday’s bombings. A man at one table got up, pointed to something on the screen, and commented on a detail, which prompted discussion from other tables. People were paying attention.

From there it was on to rehearsal. A magnolia and the daffodils in front of the church were in full bloom. Spring was in the air. Even afterward, as we returned to the street, we wanted to linger.

Who could have anticipated the state of siege that would erupt a few hours later?

Down to Copley Square and the finish line

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

There’s something wonderfully small-town about Boston, despite all of its world-class amenities. For those of us who love professional sports, classical music, museums of all stripes, theater and ballet, lectures and the like, there’s far more to do than time will ever permit.

But the scale, especially with all of its smaller cities and towns clustered in close at hand, can be wonderfully human. Or think of Fenway, one of Major League Baseball’s smallest parks, and its oldest.

Nowhere have I seen this balance more acutely than in the Boston Marathon.

The first inkling I had was one April Monday when I was driving along 128, the semicircular freeway around the city. With all of its high-tech business headquarters, it’s often called Silicon Valley East. Approaching one overpass, I noticed the side of the highway was thick with (illegally) parked cars, almost as if there’d been an accident. But then I saw the overpass itself was crowded with people. Only when I turned on the radio for the every-10-minute traffic report did I discover this was where the race route crossed on the way toward Copley Square. The station, by the way, was almost exclusively marathon coverage.

Nor was it alone.

The city’s television stations also provided continuous coverage, from 9 a.m. or so at the start in Hopkinton through the awards at 5 p.m. on Copley Square in the Back Bay. Live cameras broadcast from trucks in front of the lead runners and wheelchair contestants, as well as reporters and cameras all along the 26-mile route. The technical planning and execution of such coverage must be incredible.

While the event has more than 20,000 registered participants and 500,000 spectators each year, you’re still likely to know someone or more who have run in it. In fact, if they’ve qualified, you can follow their progress and times online. That’s another incredible aspect, to my eyes. And then there are all of those who jump in afterward, no need to register — you just get to say you’ve run the marathon.

To share in that joy and community spirit combined with the determined efforts of each of the runners is inspiring, even before we add the outdoors release from New England’s long winter. This is what the evil scheming behind yesterday’s bombing targeted. If the perpetrators thought they were somehow reenacting the Shot Heard ‘Round the World that the Patriots’ Day event commemorates, they have it backwards. We celebrate the resolve and victory of the people over tyranny and fear.

While officials are remaining tight-lipped about what’s happened, we’re getting our news from those we know, even when we live more than an hour away from the action. We’re relieved to hear our daughter’s safe and that a friend crossed the finish line hours earlier, but we’re also troubled by the words coming second-hand from the emergency rooms. We’ll learn more in conversations in the weeks ahead. In the small-town character of Boston, these things hit home, one way or another.

With determination, then, here’s looking ahead to the 118th annual marathon running April 21, 2014, God willing.

Social status versus social value

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 2 Comments

You see the lists from time to time: America’s richest individuals or families.

You also see how proud people are about finding loopholes to cut their own taxes or lobbying for another advantage over the rest of the public.

Seems we’ve had it wrong. We should be according that respect to America’s top taxpayers. Yes, let them compete for the status of being the most generous Americans, the ones who step forward for their country. We could even break this out by occupation, for extra Top Ten lists. I’d even be in favor of having a monument in Washington inscribed with their names.

Let the rest of them be considered shirkers.

SEASONS OF THE SPIRIT

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 1 Comment

To perceive a spiritual journey as Seasons of the Spirit acknowledges how much of it is out of our own hands, like the weather. We yield to the Spirit and are guided by it, to the extent we are faithful. “Which Spirit is thee speaking of?” I hear echoing, a memory of elder Mary Hawkins of rural Ohio before she counseled me of other spirits, such as anger and jealousy and so on. For the record, then, this is what I now call the Spirit of Christ – specifically, the Light and Life addressed in the opening chapter of the Gospel of John. You may define your encounters as you may. My interest here is with an experienced connection with the Divine and a heightened awareness of its manifestations among us.

While everyone talks about the weather, few openly discuss religion. Too often, those who do raise the subject seem unwilling to listen, at least openly, and their arguments are cast along the lines of dogma or creed. Again, my focus is not on what we have been taught about faith, but what we can say about its workings in our own lives. When we can get past the formulaic responses, a discussion of religious experience allows us to search some of the deepest desires and fears of human existence. It can also unleash extraordinary social reform, as we might see looking through history, or be constrained to do the precise opposite.

 *   *   *

To speak of Spirit in this manner requires us to search for the ways it becomes embodied in our lives and our world. That is, how it takes flesh. What is abstract reveals itself in concrete decisions and actions, as well as thoughts and emotions.

POSITIVE AND NEGATIVE POTLATCH

~ Jnana Hodson ~ Leave a comment

Among the coastal tribes of the Pacific Northwest was a custom known as the potlatch. Essentially, it was a way for the wealthiest members to enhance their status by redistributing the wealth downward. Starting with blankets and maybe a festive meal.

But then things got out of control. The way things do at a party when you forget about tomorrow, again.

Still, you first need to know everyone in the village and the fact it’s your home. Yes, the way families and neighbors just might function together.

Even so, remember. Maybe it was all Coyote’s fault, after all.

A LIVELY CAST

~ Jnana Hodson ~ 3 Comments

One of our favorite TV comedies has been Little Mosque on the Prairie, a Canadian series about a small, struggling Muslim community the fictional prairie town of Mercy, Saskatchewan. I’ll let those of you in other faith traditions weigh in on the parallels, but I suspect you’ll find each of the show’s characters already existing in your own congregation.

You’ll also see many of the same dividing lines and tensions. Traditionalists versus modernists, for instance, or those bred to the faith versus converts. There are even the basic questions of identity and self-identity or motivation and discipline.

As I look at my own Quaker circles, I sometimes see a line between those drawn to the hour of worship itself and those drawn to the peace-and-justice witness, such as gender and racial equality, global non-violence and fair trade, prison reform, environmental concerns, and the like. Sometimes the difference shows up most sharply in the announcements that come at the end of our period of silence – those who want to leave quietly, savoring the calm, and those who instead urge us to attend all kinds of lectures, discussions, demonstrations, fundraisers, and other gatherings in the coming weeks.

Sometimes the lines even cross.