A Season Of Giving

And so it begins. In kitchens across the country, pies are being baked, ingredients for the family stuffing are being gathered, and cooks are making one last rush to the grocery store for that one item they need to "make the meal. Thanksgiving is upon us.

In other kitchens around the country, those housed in churches and community centers, the same agenda is being played out only on a much bigger scale. The "Season Of Giving" is here. Millions of free Thanksgiving meals will be served to those who would not otherwise have one. Baskets of food, all the fixings for a Thanksgiving meal, are being sent out to homes who cannot afford to make their own. In parking lots outside of grocery stores and Walmarts everywhere, turkeys are being donated in record numbers, loaded up and taken where they are needed. Pantries are filled to the top with canned and packaged, non-perishable items to give to those whose own pantries would otherwise remain bare. Harvest season is meant to be more than just for harvesting the bounty of the earth. It is about sharing that bounty with others.

This last Sunday I watched as dozens of men, women and children carried bag after bag of donated food items up the main aisle of our church sanctuary and placed them in front of the altar. There were easily 100 bags of food. Much of what was donated would go to towards the Thanksgiving dinner the church was serving on Thanksgiving Day, as well as to restock the stores needed to continue our weekly Shepard's Supper, held every week all year long. For this church, the "Season Of Giving" is every season.

I often find myself being of two minds at this time of the year. On the one hand, it is a beautiful sight to see people give so freely to those in need, to sacrifice time and money to help others have a nice holiday season. On the other hand, I ask myself where many of these good-intentioned folks are the rest of the year. The Season Of Giving is every season, all year long. While the holidays are a way to remind people that a good way to be thankful for what they are blessed to have in their own lives is by giving to others, I wonder if we might be able to come up with a way to keep that idea going all year long. Winter is almost here and promises to be a long and cold one. Hunger and need doesn't stop after Christmas.

Maybe we can find it in our hearts to donate one of the many gift cards we might get as Christmas presents this year to a church or service agency to purchase food, hats, mittens, and other much needed items during the year ahead. Maybe we can pick up a few extra cans of soup at the grocery story each week and drop it off at a soup kitchen. Maybe we can spend the long, cold months of winter knitting or crocheting blankets and sweaters to give to those in need. Maybe we can donate our kids outgrown-but-usable clothing to a clothing center. 

The Season of Giving is every season, all year long. The best part about giving is that in giving, we receive as well. We receive the knowledge that someone, somewhere is a little better off because of us. You can't buy that kind of gift at Amazon. May the peace and blessings of this Thanksgiving be yours as well.

And so it is. 

Mother Nature's Last Hurrah

I woke this morning to the first hard freeze of the season. Even though we have had a few snow showers already, it was too warm for it to stick around. This morning, however, the grass had that freezer-burn look, and the rooftops shone with white crystals that glittered in the sun. The temperature said 25 with a wind chill of 23. This comes on the heels of a nasty rain and windstorm that hit us the other day, stripping the more fragile trees bare of the few  beautiful leaves it had left. My favorite tree, the one with the golden leaves that I can see from the window when I sit on the love seat to read, was particularly hard hit. One minute it was glorious against the sky, the next it was bare and looking lonely. However, maybe it's all in how you look at it. 

I always like to think of the beauty of autumn as Mother Nature's last hurrah before everything goes gray and dark for the winter. It takes a certain amount of courage and belief in one's self to go out in a blaze of glory. Sure, spring can be spectacular in its own right, and summer is no slouch, either, but autumn pulls out all the stops. The reds are deeper. The oranges are bolder. The yellows are brighter, and the sun spotlights all of creation like a beauty queen on a pageant stage. If you have to let it all go, I say do it with gusto and glory!

I like to think that when it's time for us to move on to the next chapter in our lives, we can take a page from Mother Nature's playbook and go out in style. "Do not go quietly into that good night," as the poet said.  I don't know about you, but when it's time for me to move on, I plan to go out in living technicolor and surround sound! 

And so it is. 

To Soar With Eagles

If you've been a fan of this blog for the last few years, you know that I have been following the lives of two beautiful bald eagles living in Decorah, Iowa, as part of The Raptor Project. This educational group installs cameras in different locations around the country that allow us to experience these beautiful creators up close and personal. I have been following this particular pair since 2007, watching them bring 30+ new little lives into the world as they restore the population of bald eagles that for a time was in danger of extinction.  

So why, you might ask, do I spend time staring at a computer screen at two very large birds as they go about their business? Because I have always found that studying our animal relations in their natural habitats teaches us how to be better humans. Because as we watch them go through all of the same challenges that we do, although often in different forms, we come to understand our connectedness with our world and everyone in it. They all go out there every day and work to build and maintain their homes, raise, feed and protect their families, and ward off the predators that would threaten their way of life. I have watched them survive snow storms, having the tree that holds their nest blown down in a gale, watched them rebuild their home and their lives, survive the death of one mate and the beginning  of a new life with another, laughed at the antics of the fuzzy bits of feathers that baby eagles start out as only to be amazed at how fast they grow, and how soon they leave the nest after only a few months. Year after year they come back to the same nest, make the needed repairs, lay their eggs, and bring forth new life. They are the most devoted parents I've ever seen, never leaving the eggs or the chicks unattended. Dad will even bring Mom food when the little ones are newborn and she needs to spend the majority of her time with them, although Dad gladly takes his turn sitting and woe to anyone or anything that comes even remotely close - his prowess with a wing slap is legendary and deadly! 

No matter what is going on in my life at any given time, good or bad, just knowing that I can tune in and watch the dedication, courage and perseverance of these creatures gives me hope. They do what they were put here to do, never complaining, never wanting more, never comparing themselves to other eagles, and the best examples of parenting I've ever seen. Yep, watching them gives me hope. That hope was almost shattered at the end of last season when the original Dad eagle disappeared, and was presumed dead, most likely having been ganged up on by other eagles (they are very territorial - a lot like some humans I know). Eagle parents do not leave their chicks and mates unless they are injured or dead as it is simply not in their nature (a lesson in monogamy and parental responsibility?). All of the thousands of us who follow these eagles rejoiced this year when we saw that Mom had allowed a new male to come into the nest and help her make repairs for the new little ones to come. Thankfully the story will continue. Yep, they give me hope.

We go on, folks, we go on. Through all the storms of our lives, we go on. That's what we were put here to do, and those who would come after us are counting on that. 

By the way, I'm not the only one in this household who follows the eagles. Here are some shots of my fur babies enjoying the views:

Charlotte is learning all about nest building here.

Laura is wondering if they are somehow related since they share the same coloring.

And so it is! 

Staying Connected

I was standing in my tiny kitchen the other day peeling and slicing carrots for some yummy veggie stew. My favorite CD of autumn-type instrumental music, Woodland Stroll, was playing and I had my virtual fireplace going, adding the sounds of crackling flames to the music (it's all about the ambiance, folks). The rain was coming down outside, but it was warm and cozy inside. Following a Zen teacher's instructions to stay mindful of everything you do, I was totally focused on peeling the carrots. The hand peeler I was using had been with me for years. I used to have a real old-fashioned model, the kind my mother used, but lost it in the last move. This one is good, but doesn't feel the same in my hand. I am on the lookout for another one just like I had before, perhaps finding it in a second hand store or Salvation Army store. What was most important was that it still made that sound that I loved, that scrape, scrape, scrape sound. To me, it was just another form of music.

People have asked me why I continue to hand peel and chop my veggies most of the time. Yes, I do have a food processor with a slicing/dicing/everything blade, and choppers that will do the job with almost no effort on my part, but I still prefer to do it by hand. For one thing, as I handle these gifts from the earth with my hands, I am staying connected to Nature, to the ground they were planted in, the rain and sun that fed them, and the joy of the harvest. This is especially true now that I am no longer able to garden as I used to, down there on the ground with my hands in the soil, feeling the "heartbeat of God" as the poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay said in her poem, "Renaissance." Now I am relegated to table-top gardens, but being able to handle the fruits of the harvest in my hands helps to bring me back to where it all started. 

There is another reason I prefer to keep preparing the food by hand, and it has to do with a different kind of connection, this one to my mother, her mother, and all my female ancestors. I cannot remember a day growing up when I was not in the kitchen with my mother watching her peel, slice, dice, chop and perform her magic that would become our meals. Watching her is how I learned to cook, and every time I pick up a peeler and a knife, I am channeling her into my kitchen, feeling her standing over my shoulder reminding me to "watch your fingers!" 

When we cut ourselves off from Mother Earth, and all the people and gifts she has passed on to us, we're just a rootless shadow of who and what our culture tells us we should be. The sense of comfort and grounding that we seek comes when we remember to stay connected to where we came from, and what we want to pass on. In my case, I have two beautiful and talented daughters, and both of them know how to wield a peeler and a knife. Their grandmother would be proud.

And so it is. 

Winging Our Way Home

I was standing near my bedroom window very early one morning last week turning up the comforter on my bed when I heard a sound off in the distance. I stood perfectly still and listened. Yes, there it was again, a sound I had been anticipating ever since the had weather turned cold. It was the sound of a flock of geese. I opened the window wide, not even noticing how cold it had gotten ... enough for a light frost over night ... and looked to the sky. There, flying in perfect "V" formation, a flock of what looked like 50 or so geese, honking their way from the farmlands to the north of town towards the south. I loved that sound, even though in some way it is a sad sound, one that marks the end of light-filled days and the coming of long, dark ones. It was what I learned from one of my professors some years ago that gave me a different perspective on the sounds of the geese as they made their way south.

I had a Religion professor who had a passion for birds as a hobby. There was very little he did not know about birds, especially those that were native to the Eastern and North Eastern parts of the U.S. The reason geese are constantly honking away as they fly, he informed us, was because they were encouraging each other to keep going. If the leader got tired, he would fall back and another would take his place. If one became hurt or sick and had to land, one or two others would accompany the injured one to the ground and stay with them until they were able to take up the journey again. Somehow they knew exactly where the rest of the flock would be waiting for them, resting for the night until the following morning when they would begin again.

Once again Nature gives us a lesson wrapped up in beauty, this time the song of a flock of geese making their way across the sky. Imagine how much easier life would be if we had an entire community always there rooting for us, encouraging us to keep going in the directions of our dreams, and knowing that, if we stumble and fall, someone will always be there to stay with us until we can get back up on our feet and continue to fly. How amazing life would be then!

I am sorry to see the geese go, sorry that the days will get shorter and darker, but in my heart I hold on to that beautiful sound until the time comes when the light returns, and so do the geese as they wing their way back home. May we all keep a song in our hearts.

And so it is.

Soup's On!

These days when I am enjoying the wonderful array of freshly harvested veggies at the grocery store or farmers' market, in the back of my mind I know that I am in search of the ingredients for the meal that will mark the official start of the fall season for me ... soup! Now that summer has finally given up and left (not without a last stand and a fight), the cool days and wonderful colors in the produce section call to me that the time is perfect to put up a pot of that timeless classic and let the aromas bubble out on the back burner as I sit at my desk to work. Who am I kidding? The smell of onions, carrots, celery, potatoes, tomatoes, and who-knows-what-else that I choose to put in to the pot carries me off to a time and place years ago ... my mother's kitchen.

My mother was a firm believer that there was nothing that could not be made better with a pot of soup. Raised in an Italian-American household, there were as many ways to make soup as there were people to eat it. No vegetable that she had ever seen or tasted could not be turned into a tummy-soothing, mouth-watering delight. From the usual to the unusual (how about swiss chard soup in broth with garlic?) soup was the perfect vehicle.

Thinking about my mother's soups got me to thinking also about how every generation everywhere since who-know-when has been making soup. First our hunter-gatherer ancestors, followed by our ancestors who first worked the land, found the making of soups and porridge a healthy meal that not only warmed your belly but allowed them to stretch their store of food over the winter. It almost seems as if Mother Nature invented soup first, then shared the recipe with humans in order to teach them to make the best use of the gifts she grew for us. It must be something in a mother's DNA - the "teach  your kid to make soup" gene!

So today on this chilly, rainy autumn day, I am putting up my very first pot of soup for the season. I have chosen to make a lentil vegetable soup that only gets better the longer it simmers. Good thing I wrote this blog before I started the soup or else my mind would have wandered down memory lane again instead of tending to business! Happy soup season everyone!

And so it is.

The Sounds of Home

There are certain sounds that, when we hear them, immediately bring to mind a childhood memory. One of those sounds for me is the sound of knitting needles clicking against each other as the hands of an experienced knitter fly over the yarn. Those hands belonged to my mother and it was a sure sign of the arrival of fall when her leather knitting needle holder would come out and the sounds of "click, click, click," started flowing forth from the living room of the small apartment we first lived in when I was very young, not yet school age. My mother, father, sister and I shared a one bedroom downstairs apartment in a 4 family home owned by my mother's cousin. My sister and I shared a bed in the only bedroom. My parents camped out in the living room on what was then the height of functional furniture, the Castro Convertible sofa bed. 

When I think about that sound, I can picture my mother sitting on the end of the grey sofa. next to a table and lamp, the yarn unraveling from within her leather bag and the needles clicking back and forth in a gentle, almost rhythmic melody only she could hear. I knew that if my mother was knitting, then the time for sweaters was upon us for that was her favorite thing to make - warm, soft, cuddly sweaters and hats with pom-poms that tied under our chin. No winter wind was going to sneak in and freeze our little ears, not while her hands could still work those needles. There she would sit in her flowered, shirtwaist house dress (no trousers back then, ladies), a cup of coffee at her elbow, and the radio playing her favorite daytime soap operas (did you know that The Guiding Light started on the radio?). 

Now it is oh, so many years later, and there is the beginning of a nip in the air, and my hands itch to pull out my quilted craft bag, and the big wicker container that holds all of my yarn, and see what speaks to me. I an nowhere near the knitter my mother was. I prefer to crochet, something she was also an expert at (no pillow case or handkerchief was complete without that gentle, lacy edge she whipped on). But every once in a while I will pull out a sturdy pair of knitting needles and some nice, warm yarn, and begin a new hat for myself or a grandchild, one that will keep the cold air from nipping our ears. Mostly, it is just for the chance to sit quietly in a room and listen to the gentle "click, click, click," of my needles, and feel my mother's presence in each and every stitch.

And so it is.