Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

There is a rhythm to loving a person with dementia. One has to learn to be present again and again in the same moment, to relive it as if it is always new. One has to stop arguing—to stop finding fault with the details of the story, and to listen deeply to its rhythm, its shape. In the midst of trying to figure out how to make a long-term difference for the residents and volunteers running the gerokomeio in Ikaria—in the midst of the anguish of feeling as if there was too little we could do—we learned also to be present.  We learned to listen even when we didn’t understand the words, to pay attention to the shape a resident’s eyebrow made, to the way she leaned in or leaned back, the tone of her voice. When I was with the residents and students, I did my best to translate, though my Greek is far from fluent—but I couldn’t be everywhere at once. After awhile, though, the students began to recognize which story they were hearing, which narrative they were entering, by the wa...

Note to reader:  I am starting a new series. My aim is to reflect on my recent trip to Ikaria, Greece to teach a study abroad course called Aging in Greece. I taught the course with my spouse, T. Seventeen students with a range of majors and backgrounds came with us, as did our daughter and her godmother/my dear friend J. This was my fourth time teaching the course, which includes an intensive service-learning project at a gerokomeio (old people's home) in Ikaria, Greece--and T's first time. The trip was intense, and it was difficult while I was there to reflect deeply on what was happening while I was there. This feels like the right time to look backwards--and forward--and to share a bit of what I experienced there, from my perspective. While my primary goal is to write about this trip, in particular, I can already tell this series will be, also, a reflection on my decade-long connection to the gerokomeio, as well as my life-long connection to island where my father an...

When I was little, I was fascinated by clouds. I liked to lie down in the grass and stare up at the sky. Sometimes I closed my eyes and imagined I was lying down on a cloud. The cloud formed around my body, cradling me, and I would forget that I was actually on a hard surface. At other times I imagined eating the white substance—mashed potatoes or cotton candy, depending on what I was craving.  At some point in the second grade, I learned what clouds actually were. I was so fascinated by the fact that the science did not match up to my imagination that I got a book from the library with photos of the different types of clouds and (a simplified version) of the scientific reasons they looked the way they did. I learned all of their names, learned to identify them while lying on the grass. But I missed my old imaginary cloud-world. I wanted it back. Knowing what I knew about clouds, I was suspicious about the Ascension story as a child. If Jesus ascended into a cloud and ...

Ascension Dream The bones of all my dead gather at the top of the mountain in Manganiti, among the graves. It doesn’t matter who they are, where they lived, where they were actually buried: in this dream, they link hands to dance like the Souliotes choosing death over enslavement. Except, of course, they are already dead. And not only that: they’re hard to tell apart, unsturdy without muscles and flesh. They dance past Katina’s kafenio, past my Theo Foti’s place, past the old schoolhouse with its rusty playground, down toward the old beach where nobody goes anymore. I link hands with whoever is on the end, but when we get to the sea, I let go, afraid they’ll lift me with them as they rise into the distance. Instead, they stop dancing and climb one by one to the top of the big rock that juts out of the cliff. As they leap into the sea, their bones come apart, then float one by one into the deep. “Why isn’t this sad?” I ask my three living...

The various versions of the Ascension put its occurrence in different specific locations, but the icon includes olive trees in the background, apparently favoring the version that occurs on the Mount of Olives. The Mount of  Olives was then, and is now, a place of burial that draws pilgrims of many faiths.  Churches, temples, and mosques have been built at certain key places on the mountain, including three churches dedicated to the Ascension—Russian Orthodox, Greek Orthodox, and Lutheran—as well as the dome of the Ascension, now a part of a mosque. Olives are a staple in most Greek households, no matter where they ended up in the diaspora. They are one of the few truly delicious foods that can be eaten during Lent, even during Holy Week. Any Greek grocery in any country in the world will feature a wide selection of fat olives, all salty and distinct in taste. And the olive trees in Greece—I’ve never seen anything so beautiful. A week away from leaving for Greece,...

In the Orthodox icon of the Ascension, Jesus is sitting comfortably above a large crowd, looking directly at us, the viewers. His right hand is extended in a traditional blessing. In his left, he is holding a scroll. Saints who were prolific writers are often depicted holding scrolls. But in the Bible, the only story we have in which Jesus gets close to writing is a strange story of a time when he kneeled in the sand and wrote something with a stick. We don’t know what, exactly, he wrote, but right after that, he saved a woman from being stoned to death, saying the famous words, “Whoever has never sinned should cast the first stone.”   Other than that, Jesus was a little too busy trying to change the world to record what he was doing. That had to happen later, much later, and the accounts vary considerably, even among those who were there with him.  So what in the world does the scroll in Jesus’ left hand mean? I am sure scholars have good ideas of what the an...

The mandorla is an image of two concentric circles that overlap, creating an almond-shaped middle ground of bright light. Its light envelops Jesus and The Theotokos (Mother of God) in certain especially important icons—including the icon of both the Resurrection and the Ascension, which will be celebrated this coming Thursday in the Orthodox tradition. The mandorla shows that Jesus is a bridge between heaven and earth, between what was and what will be, between an old way of understanding God through ritual and tradition and a new way of knowing God through experience and action. The mandorla shows us that no one sphere can reveal the whole mystery. No one circle can encompass the whole story. The Resurrection journey, if we keep at it, keep walking the Road to Emmaus for a full 40 days, keep grappling with the strange appearances of Christ between Easter and Ascension, reveals both how little and how much we know. It reveals how deeply the disciples longed for Jesus-in-the-fl...

After the scene on the beach that I wrote about yesterday, Jesus asks Peter over and over if he loves him.  He actually sounds a bit needy, like an overly-insecure teenager talking to their first crush. After the first time Peter says yes, Jesus tells him, “Feed my lambs.” After the second time, Jesus says, “Shepherd my sheep.” After the third, Peter gets a little annoyed. “You must know I love you,” he says. Then Jesus creepily tells him he’s going to die a brutal death at the hands of people who will have total control of his life—or, at least, that’s the way John interprets this part for us. Peter, one of Jesus’ first disciples. Peter, who once stepped out of a boat to walk across the water to Jesus. Peter, who protested when Jesus tried to wash his feet at the Last Supper. Peter, who offered to fight the soldiers in Gethsemane. Peter, who denied Jesus three times while he was being tortured. Peter, who jumped out of the boat and swam...

Yesterday was the day of Ascension in the Western tradition—the 40 th day after Easter, the official end of the Easter season. The Ascension comes a week later in the Eastern Orthodox tradition. Either way, it is a day without a lot of fanfare—without the bright red of Pentacost or the passing of light on Easter. It is the day Jesus stopped appearing on Earth among the people who had known him when he was alive, and ascended into heaven, once and for all. I had intended to make it to this day, and here I am. But, I have decided to write for one more week, until the day of Ascension in the Orthodox tradition—because I am not quite done exploring the theme of resurrection. In one of Jesus’ appearances, he shows up on shore while his disciples are fishing for their supper. The scene is reminiscent of the calling of the first disciples. But instead of asking the sons of Zebedee to put down their nets and follow him, he instead tells them to cast their nets on the right side of th...

An article I read in the New York Times a couple weeks ago prompted me to find an old poem about the neighborhood I loved most in Cincinnati--the Queen City, where I first came out in my early 20s, where I first learned to love myself. I reworked parts of that old poem and added a few more stanzas; it's still a work-in-progress, but ready, at least, to be shared here.  Over the Rhine Cincinnati was the only city in the nation whose charter expressly barred ordinances related to gay rights; critics called it “the most anti-gay city in America.” Today Cincinnati has its first openly gay city councilman, and leaders market the city as friendly to lesbians, gays, bisexuals and transgender people…C hanging demographics have indeed led to a shift in attitudes. Cincinnati’s Over-the-Rhine neighborhood, a historic district known for its Italianate architecture, was once blighted and dangerous. Now it is home to boutiques, restaurants and many gay residents … --New York Times, A...

Admittedly, I'm cheating and posting a very old poem. But, it seems somehow fitting in a series about resurrection. It is about a much younger me who came to the prairie to heal, and to figure out, through a deep encounter with the prairie's flat emptiness, with prayer-as-emptiness, who I was. I did that through long walks in the wetlands, and also by being present to the process of other artists--whether they be an old man who tinkered with an old printing press, or hanging out with a bunch of sculptors at the Herman Iron Pour--a spectacular event that no longer exists. Mostly, during those early years, I did not write. I only listened. This is the poem that came out of that deep listening. The next chapter, of course, is that I stayed--and stayed--and stayed. And, I'm glad I did.  The Herman Iron Pour as Ars Poetica 1. All weekend long in Herman , Minnesota , artists camp on the prairie and dream of iron— sun-orange, lava-orange— then wak...

My great-aunt's son had been born with a disability she always blamed on herself. He died young. She never quite recovered. She was the old woman who made the prosforo, communion bread. There’s one in every village (and every church in the states). The recipe itself is simple--yeast, flour, water--but the process is long, laborious. Two pieces of dough are shaped into small, round loaves, then pressed on top of each other: the two natures of God. They are left to rise, once, twice, then marked by a huge stamp that is with symbols that mean “Jesus Christ Conquers.” A small part of the bread is consecrated to become the body of Christ during the liturgy; the rest becomes the antidoron (literally, “Instead of the gift”), cut up into small squares and given out to every parishioner at the end of the service. But on the island barely anyone goes to church, so parts of the antidoron are always left. They can’t be thrown away—they’ve been especially blessed—so they must be ...

Today started out a little like this poem, “Primary Wonder,” by Denise Levertov: Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; cap and bells. I have never failed at making waffles before. That is, not until today. My daughter wanted to make me waffles for Mother’s Day. My spouse was working a 12 hour shift, so my daughter’s plan was to bring me breakfast in bed, a Mother’s Day tradition. But, we both slept in, which honestly, was OK, because I desperately needed to sleep. Plan B. We went to church, where I taught Sunday School, putting together a lesson plan on the fly because I’d forgotten it was my week, struggling with a child who was more interested in putting glue on my arm than talking about Jesus. My daughter sat through a very long service of confirmation. We we...

Vinegar is truly magical. It can make milk into buttermilk for any recipe. It’s the best possible, and simplest, salad dressing—especially the good kind. It’s an ingredient in almost every recipe in Greek cookbooks, the magic bitter-and-sweet, perfect-accent touch. Vinegar also, of course, preserves fresh vegetables and olives, keeping them safe to eat long after they’re picked from the plant. It is the most important ingredient in the dyeing of Easter eggs as well. It was also what the people who ridiculed Jesus during his crucifixion gave him when he said he was thirsty—sponge dipped in vinegar, meant as some kind of cruel joke. In larger quantities, it can burn the tongue. I discovered the best vinegar I’d ever had in the U.S. in a random store in a random mall in an otherwise fairly uninteresting midsized city two hours from here. The man working the store lured me in by asking if I knew anything about olive oil. Turns out, I do. And the olive oil was good, too—but I h...