An update of life in the past few weeks:
1. Last Tuesday and Wednesday, I went with Mrs. Kolch's fifth grade class to Balarat, the outdoor education site run by Denver Public Schools. It's about two hours north of Denver. The buses that transported us were decked out - four-wheel drive, immense snow tires, and luggage racks. I had a splendid time with the kids, learning about gold mining, pioneer life, trappers and traders, and of course the splendid natural environment in the Rocky Mountains. For example, did you know that Ponderosa pine trees' bark smells like vanilla and its needles have a faint orange flavor? Also, did you know that at the entrance of mines, each miner would have a little tag with his number on it, which he would take with him into the mine so that the demolition crew would know not to explode TNT when tags were absent? (We hammered our intials into tags as a little keepsake; I sent mine to my mom for her birthday).
In the evening, we roasted marshmallows and I read the kids two Native American stories, made sufficiently thrilling by the full moon. Then we had the famed 'Night Hike' that older kids never tire of telling the current fifth graders about. Basically, after dark, we all walk about five minutes down a wide trail. Then, one by one, in silence, the director taps each child on the shoulder and they have the chance to walk back down the path...alone. In the dark. I was so proud of our kids, they ALL did the hike, even the tiniest girl Claudia who cried to leave her mom when we boarded the bus. When she got to the group of waiting fifth graders, the round of hugs and high-fives lit her up like Northern Lights.
2. I have a place to live in DC! It is the aforementioned house on Monroe Street, within walking distance of the Institute. I will live with 6 women: Carol, Catherine, Karen, Abigail, Glynnis, and Martha, who have their own band, called the Snowflakes. Indeed, I aspire to great heights - perhaps even to be a backup whistler! I assume I'll have to choose my own stage name...
3. Last Saturday, I attended a day of vocational discernment at the local seminary, with three Religious Sisters of Mercy of Alma, Michigan. They are all seminary professors, and have degrees in such things as neonatal pulmonology, plant genetics, and sacred liturgy. They spoke about the fundamentals of religious life (including the symbolism of the habit), communion between persons, and liturgy. It was so fun, intellectually stimulating, and invigorating to interact with these women who have dedicated their lives to the service of Christ. My own vocation remains a mystery, but I am grateful to see the beauty of concescrated religious life.
4. That afternoon, I stayed behind with the Sisters to watch Pope Benedict speak to 25,000 seminarians and youth in Yonkers, New York. When he showed up in the Popemobile, the cheering must have lasted 10 minutes solid. And every sentence of Cardinal Egan's address was interrupted with more wild applause. Really, when else does an 81-year-old man, a German, a professor, different of language and generation, receive the adulation of thousands of American adults under 25? To me, it spoke of the possibility of real communion between persons, regardless of the barriers between them. And that communion is based in a common belief. The Pope humbly accepted the praise heaped upon him by saying, "I am so glad you love Jesus so much!" It was a wonderful encounter. The youth presented him with icons of saints who lived and served in Americas (only one was native-born, a clear indication of our immigrant Church!) and the Pope encouraged all to follow their examples to live courageous, holy lives. I loved to hear him speak, see his gentleness, his total freedom to speak truth in love.
5. Our garden is doing...okay. Due to heavy winds and a little over-eager watering on my part, the tiny seedlings are most decisively NOT where I planted them. So far bok choy (a kind of minitaure cabbage) is the winner, having spread far beyond the one row in which I planted it. Red beets are doing well, as are snow peas, but the carrots and turnip tops have yet to make an appearance. I'm not too disheartened, recognizing both my ametaeur state as a gardener and a new climate in which to plant.
6. One more little tidbit - all of us housemates got free tickets to watch the Phillies slam the Rockies this past Monday. It was a heck of a game, with an inside the park homer, a double play that killed the Rockies' rally, and some exciting steals. I watch baseball like my mom does, cheering for whoever does well, but I was gratified at my hometown Phils pulling it out strong. To be honest, the real highlight was when we all got filmed on the Jumbo Screen, thanks to Budd's amazing dance skills =)
Peace to you all! Happy Easter!
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
spring has sprung
This past Saturday, I finally figured out my calling in life: to be a farm wife.
I woke up at about the time night revellers were finally tucked in, and felt anticipation in my bones. Coffee! Shovel! Seeds! called to me, in that order. After a delicious 3-egg omelet with peppers, cheese made by Trappist monks, and rosemary, I headed outside to tackle the 50-foot square area of our parking lot that had been turned into dirt, or rather, a garden.
There is something about solitary manual labor early in the morning that I find invigorating, that reminds me of the joy of having limbs to move, and that infuses purpose into my day as bracing as the caffeine soaking into my bloodstream.
I shoveled four bucketfuls of thick dark compost into the garden, then methodically churned the soil with a spade again and again, plucking out debris, sticks, and rocks that had collected over the winter. As I dug, I was reminded of the veritable magic of organic growth. To think that something as ordinary as dirt can embrace a speck of matter called a seed, and nurture it well enough that all the world's people can be sustained by its fruit is astounding.
Really, all seeds are as magic as Jack's beans. When you drop seeds on the soil, especially really tiny ones like turnip tops or really ugly ones like red beets, even the next second you have to squint because they blend in with the other tiny ugly blobs around them. And to think that an entire plant exists within that seed, waiting to unfold. A brief aside: does not this plant embryology shed light on how we should treat very very young humans, i.e. embryos? The debate about when personhood begins is so heated, but I thought while gardening that if someone waltzed up to me and crushed a few seeds between their fingertips, and proceeded to explain calmly that they had not harmed a plant, merely a seed, I would think them cruel and also illogical. How can I expect to grow beautiful onions if all my seeds are destroyed? And really, if I lose my seeds in the ruckamarole of the garden, and expect blobs of dirt to sprout just as well as onion seeds, my larder will rue the day come winter. In other words, the inner being of seeds really is different than that of other similiar-looking things.
I worked in the garden for about five hours, time interspersed by snippets of Pope Benedict's On Conscience and an icy-pop. By dusk, eight rows lay serene and gently rounded in the garden: snow peas, red beets, onions, turnip tops, bok choy, and carrots. There is still room left for tomatoes and peppers later in the season.
Back to the vocation awareness: I say mostly tongue in cheek that 'farm wife' is my preferred destiny, but I do love the mornings, the labor, the gift of self for the sake of growth, both of plants and people, and the steady rythym of a life tied to the soil is much more appealing than that of an arbitrary city dweller's schedule. For now, I am content to have a chunk of dirt to play in, and I await expectantly the first little shoots that poke through into the Denver sky. More to come as produce develops....
I woke up at about the time night revellers were finally tucked in, and felt anticipation in my bones. Coffee! Shovel! Seeds! called to me, in that order. After a delicious 3-egg omelet with peppers, cheese made by Trappist monks, and rosemary, I headed outside to tackle the 50-foot square area of our parking lot that had been turned into dirt, or rather, a garden.
There is something about solitary manual labor early in the morning that I find invigorating, that reminds me of the joy of having limbs to move, and that infuses purpose into my day as bracing as the caffeine soaking into my bloodstream.
I shoveled four bucketfuls of thick dark compost into the garden, then methodically churned the soil with a spade again and again, plucking out debris, sticks, and rocks that had collected over the winter. As I dug, I was reminded of the veritable magic of organic growth. To think that something as ordinary as dirt can embrace a speck of matter called a seed, and nurture it well enough that all the world's people can be sustained by its fruit is astounding.
Really, all seeds are as magic as Jack's beans. When you drop seeds on the soil, especially really tiny ones like turnip tops or really ugly ones like red beets, even the next second you have to squint because they blend in with the other tiny ugly blobs around them. And to think that an entire plant exists within that seed, waiting to unfold. A brief aside: does not this plant embryology shed light on how we should treat very very young humans, i.e. embryos? The debate about when personhood begins is so heated, but I thought while gardening that if someone waltzed up to me and crushed a few seeds between their fingertips, and proceeded to explain calmly that they had not harmed a plant, merely a seed, I would think them cruel and also illogical. How can I expect to grow beautiful onions if all my seeds are destroyed? And really, if I lose my seeds in the ruckamarole of the garden, and expect blobs of dirt to sprout just as well as onion seeds, my larder will rue the day come winter. In other words, the inner being of seeds really is different than that of other similiar-looking things.
I worked in the garden for about five hours, time interspersed by snippets of Pope Benedict's On Conscience and an icy-pop. By dusk, eight rows lay serene and gently rounded in the garden: snow peas, red beets, onions, turnip tops, bok choy, and carrots. There is still room left for tomatoes and peppers later in the season.
Back to the vocation awareness: I say mostly tongue in cheek that 'farm wife' is my preferred destiny, but I do love the mornings, the labor, the gift of self for the sake of growth, both of plants and people, and the steady rythym of a life tied to the soil is much more appealing than that of an arbitrary city dweller's schedule. For now, I am content to have a chunk of dirt to play in, and I await expectantly the first little shoots that poke through into the Denver sky. More to come as produce develops....
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