Springtime (sort of)!

Hello, and Happy Spring! Well, in theory it is spring. We are still getting our fair share of rain here in the Portland area, but I do think that there is hope. Trees are beginning to bloom and we have a few roses already opening up on our rose bushes. I am hoping that we’ll start seeing more of the sun in the very near future, but my idealism is tempered a bit by natives who tell me spring may not make its official entrance until we’re well into June. Anyway, I hope that you’ve all adjusted to daylight savings (it did a number on me this year) and are feeling revitalized as the weather warms up a bit.

At Crown Point in the Gorge. Beautiful view!

I had a special visitor recently when Papa Wolff made his West Coast debut with a visit to Oregon for the weekend. I was so grateful that he overcame his serious travel anxiety to visit me, and we had a delightful time together. He arrived last Thursday evening, and I picked him up at the airport and guided us to Edgefield, where we had a delicious dinner and stayed for the night. The hotel was quaint and adorable. I’d love to go back sometime. We also had a yummy breakfast there the next day before heading off for a drive through the Columbia River Gorge. We were blessed with the best weather we’ve had in several weeks—a gorgeous sunny day! We had a decent view from Crown Point and a lot of fun stopping off at the waterfalls along the way to Multnomah Falls, our final destination. The 600+ foot drop makes the Falls the second-tallest in the United States, and it’s really a very stately scene. We took plenty of pictures of water (see Picasa site) and our faces and several photos of water and our faces together.

Multnomah Falls

Dad’s visit just so happened to coincide with the first Friday of Lent. Desperately seeking a Midwest-style fish fry (as opposed to the ones out here which employ salmon, mahi mahi, haddock, etc. instead of perch and walleye), I stumbled upon a true treasure and possibly the only establishment this side of the Mississippi where lake fish are served. So, we headed to the Corbett Fish House and Dad treated us to a delicious, delicious meal. It was such a good time. Lizzie, Jose, and Lindsay’s sister (also visiting) joined the eight of us, plus Dad, and we ate and drank our way to happiness, Wisconsin-style. I am so appreciative of both Dad and Jose for picking up that monstrous tab, and I was ecstatic about the fact that I got my Friday fish fry.

On Saturday morning, Dad and I headed out early to go to the coast. Cannon Beach is about two hours from Gresham, and the drive is beautiful because you have to go through a pass. Suddenly, once you get through the western Portland metro area, there’s snow on the ground and on the tree branches hanging over the winding road. The scenery alone makes the drive worthwhile, but Cannon Beach is never disappointing as a destination. It was pretty windy, foggy, and chilly, but even still we had an amazing time. We happened to arrive at low tide, so we got to walk all the way out to Haystack Rock (normally more inaccessible) and play around in the tidal pools. We discovered anemones, starfish, snails, mussels, and other critters. It was amazing! Dad’s first visit to the Pacific Coast left him pretty mesmerized, I think. Another beautiful drive followed as we made our way to the cheese factory at Tilamook (we had to bring cheese curds home for my housemates, of course!) and then back to Gresham. We took it easy that night and saw a movie because we were pretty satisfied from our seaside lunch (I had some delicious, delicious honey mustard salmon and he had yummy prawns) and tired from a long but wonderful day.

Cannon Beach! That's Haystack Rock in the background.

The weekend flew by so quickly. On Sunday, it was already time for Dad to head home. But first, we made a stop at OMSI (the Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) and checked out the exhibits on genetics and “Lost Egypt” before heading to Alberta Street to have our last lunch together—at the Grilled Cheese Grill! I’ve been wanting to take Dad there since my first visit because a) the grilled cheese is PHENOMENAL and b) I have a very vivid memory of roasting chips and eating PB&J on a gutted-out school bus that happened to be on our hunting land in Adams Co. back in the day. The same memory came back to Dad while we ate, and we had a great final lunch before heading to the airport. It was hard to say goodbye, as it always is, but I’m so, so thankful that I got to spend so much quality time with him and that he made the trip despite the fact that traveling is not something he enjoys. So, thank you, Dad, and I love you lots and lots!

Dad and his sandwich on the Grilled Cheese bus.

The Tuesday after Dad’s departure, Erin and I went to the Alvin Ailey production featuring the famous piece, “Revelations.” We inherited these tickets out of luck and generosity (as we’re so often overwhelmed with here) because Karen and her husband Dave were unable to go to the show after purchasing tickets far ahead of time. So, while they were busy in Guatemala on a service trip, Erin and I basked in the beauty of the incredible production from Karen and Dave’s incredible seats at the Schnitz. It was such a wonderful show—hard to describe here, really—and because I haven’t seen all that much dance in my life, I had a wonderful experience. Once again, we found ourselves unable to properly thank or “pay back” the people who take such good care of us here.

Life continues as usual otherwise. Work has been alternating between crazy-busy and pretty calm. I coordinated an energy assistance outreach event that allowed us to give utility help to about 20 families using the County’s money! Woo! We’ve had dental vans, medical vans, legal clinics, and other such things to coordinate and facilitate, so EPH has been a happening place. Yet, I had a few slow afternoons this past week, which aren’t always a bad thing. I get a little antsy when I don’t have anything to do, but because Sandra is back and there is plenty of work on her desk, I am usually given a task pretty quickly. I spent a lot of time this past week translating case notes and looking over files in preparation for an audit that is coming up.

Anemones and a starfish in the tidal pools at the beach.

Also, I had the opportunity awhile ago to speak in front of a city council regarding a community block grant that we’re hoping to get. We have received this grant multiple times and, in fact, it funds specifically all of the work I do in the drop-in center. I had about two minutes of air time, but the words just sort of came to me. I found myself nearly choking up as I talked about my clients and their commitment to our agency. Many of the “viejitos” who frequent our center came along to the meeting just to be a presence, and I referenced their commitment (they couldn’t even understand what was being said!) when speaking to the committee. I was a bit surprised myself at how passionate and emotional my words were, especially because I hadn’t rehearsed anything ahead of time, but it made me realize that even when my job is boring, or frustrating, or extremely stressful, this community has really weasled its way into my heart and I find it very fulfilling at the same time. I’m inspired by our clients and by my coworkers, and although this isn’t a position I would want to have for many years, I think that it continues to be a good placement for me this year.

Alrighty, time for a Skype date with Cati!! I hope that you’ve all been well, that you’re having a good Lent (if that is something you’re doing), that you are happy and healthy and finding fulfillment in your own lives. I love hearing from all of you, and I keep you all in my thoughts and prayers. I’ve also been very moved by the current events in Japan and in Libya lately, and my hearts go out to everyone affected by the earthquake and tsunami and by emerging civil war. Sometimes, there is so much heartbreak in the world—and in my backyard—that it’s hard to stay optimistic about things. This, for me, is where faith come in… and where all of you come in. Thank you for being a light in my life! Know that I am sending love from afar. And Happy Spring!

Amanda 

PS Happy belated St. Patrick's Day! I hope you celebrated as we did-- with Irish Car Bombs, corned beef and cabbage (despite a crock pot catastrophe, it turned out alright!), and some good Irish tunes. 

Dig in: an Ash Wednesday reflection

Ash Wednesdays are like birthdays of a certain sort. I can visualize my life as a hazy string of foreheads with dusty crosses. This is part of what I love about being Catholic; these seasons, these built-in opportunities to pause, are catalysts for reflection and self-improvement that, year after year, hold a mirror up to the person I’ve become. Although, my Ash Wednesday began a bit earlier this year. On Sunday, I participated in a traditional Dakota sweat lodge ceremony with the Red Wind community near Mt. Hood. We’d been talking about going to the sweat lodge ceremony for months, but it worked out nicely that we finally got there just before the start of Lent.


“Return to the Lord with your whole heart.” Those are the words we hear from the prophet every year on this day. Return. It’s my favorite mantra during the Lenten season, but sometimes it’s hard to make a return—and maybe even hard to determine to what I am returning because things look different. T.S. Eliot wrote, in “Little Gidding”, “We shall not cease from exploration/ And the end of all our exploring/ Will be to arrive where we started/ And know the place for the first time.” We’ve been around the block a few times when it comes to this; but we are never the same, so Lent meets us where we are, at the place we have arrived after our 365-day journey, and we’re invited to do Lent once again— but always differently. “Once again, yet deeper,” as I read once somewhere. This means going back to the essence of who we are, even if the Truths are clothed in new and varying contexts. Ashes, we’re told today. We were dust and we will make our return to dust, no doubt about it. That’s at least one thing that remains the same always.

The guy who was pouring our sweat lodge (i.e., leading us in this ritual so foreign to me) is called Nupa. Some of the first words he said to us as we sat, somewhat terrified, awaiting the entrance of a pile of sizzling rocks, were these: “It’s a good day to die!” Just like that. Exclamatory. And I begged to differ. But he meant that this day is a fine day for putting aside the parts of ourselves that we’ve outgrown, that are no longer helpful or healthy, that hold us back from the inner peace and the sense of harmony that we desire with our Creator, our brothers and sisters, our ancestors ,and our own deepest longings. We crawled like babies into the sweat lodge, a make-shift tent constructed from sixteen willow branches and some thick blankets and only tall enough to ensure that our heads didn’t scrape the inside of the roof as we sat, cross-legged, on the earth. We were returning, humbling ourselves, recognizing where we came from and where we’d ultimately end up—in the belly of the Creator, the womb of Mother Earth. Dirt. Ashes.

We needed to crawl on our hands and our knees into this dark lodge because sometimes it’s too hard to hear your own thoughts on the “outside,” especially while maintaining some lofty ideas about who we are, a project that can suck the life out of us if we’re not careful. We crawl to Mass every Sunday for the same reason. And this is also why we need to be reminded every year that God is constantly whispering, “Come back to me”—because we can’t maintain serenity in the storm without periodically returning to a center, preferably a substantial one. I love to talk about Yeats’ famous poem, “The Second Coming” because it is so often true that in life, “things fall apart” and the “centre cannot hold.” But that all depends on what you consider your center. I suppose God is the exception to that, and if we come back to Square One with God every so often, it helps stabilize us even as the world twirls like the spiral accessory on our teapot’s spout.

We, as physical beings, need something tangible to remind us to pause and take a breath, just one breath. We need [something akin to] a tent full of sweaty bodies and hot rocks and stifling steam and terrifying darkness to pull us out of our quotidian rhythm. We need a cross on our foreheads in the midst of a normal busy week. We need purple banners at our otherwise second-nature Sunday Mass. We need all of these things, and Crucifixes and Labyrinths and the Sign of the Cross, because our physicality is so inseparably connected to who we are as spiritual beings, and God knows that. This is why Jesus became “The Way” for us. As a Jesuit priest at St. Ignatius reminded me recently, Christ is the “word God speaks to us, the hand God outstretches to us” in a language we can comprehend, when we have wandered a bit farther away from that center and need a way back. Jesus, the ultimate example of God-made-physical (AKA a Sacrament!) is a bridge for us. So we get it. Because otherwise we might never return.

As I sat in this tiny tent, sweat cascading down my face like the water at Multnomah Falls, I had two simultaneous thoughts of equal clarity, the first being “I’m going to die,” and the second being a tranquil certainty that the Divine sat with me in those moments of suffering and terror. I tend to see the world as a blend of the earthly and the Divine, separated by the thinnest of veils. Kind of like the smoothies Lindsay makes—all mixed together, but you can still kind of distinguish the flavors if you try. Mr. Renner, my revered English teacher from high school, once spoke of death as a thin, vaporous curtain that we pass through. We’re always that close to Backstage. We’re always that close to God, but it’s sometimes easy to overlook our daily divinity.

There are days when I feel like I’m seeing the world in Technicolor, feeling every sensation with an almost painful acuteness, but there are also days when the sky is gray and that’s it. When I’m just plain tired or hungry or annoyed, and there’s seemingly nothing holy about it. Fasting today is uncomfortable for me. Being in the dark, claustrophobic tent and struggling so hard to take on breath of that hot air was nearly unbearable. I could just stop there, but I think that these are the out-of-the-ordinary spaces I need to create sometimes to give God a little room to work.

I need to empty myself, be it through deprivation of lunch today or an outpouring of sweat and tears and fears in the lodge ceremony. When I isolate these physical parts of me, my need to focus on something else, something deeper, something beyond the earthly, becomes pretty evident. We, as spirits embodied, are Sacraments. God touching earth. The Divine in a form that we can understand. We’re not Jesus, and we’re not Holy Communion, but we are and have the potential to be God incarnate to others, even in our imperfect states. The extent to which we are able to notice the Spirit flowing through us depends on a lot of things: our stopping to listen to and look for God, our willingness to take a step back from the busyness and noise of our lives and simplify a bit, our receptivity to God’s call, which—as Elijah learned—doesn’t always come in a thunderous, look-at-me, sort of way but often in the form of a still, small voice, so subtle that we may miss it if we’re always waiting for something major (1 Kings 19).

Maybe this is why we start with Ash Wednesday and why it catches me every year, throws me off balance a little bit—just enough that I take note. We need to begin once again, as children crawling in the dirt (and yet never all alone) into the dark places where, if we want to and even sometimes if we don’t, we can meet God. We need to empty ourselves by fasting on days like today and by purging our lives of clutter, material or otherwise, so that we can breathe. We need to create a space, even if that just means I remove dessert from my life for 40 days because that will remind me of the season. And when we strip off these layers, we find ourselves pretty spiritually naked before God. We open the door and invite in all sorts of craziness. We ask to be probed and prodded, and that vulnerability takes courage and trust. We pour out everything we have (you should have felt the heap of emotions that our sweat lodge group dispelled!) and we sit, empty vessels waiting to be filled not only by the food and drink and stimulation of this world but by the peace and forgiveness and compassion of the next. This isn’t necessarily comfortable—I truly thought my life was coming to an end in that lodge—but sometimes it isn’t supposed to be. If it were easy to walk the path of Enlightenment or follow that sacred bridge, we wouldn’t need to refocus like this.

Lent, like the sweat lodge ceremony, seems to be about sitting in the hard places for a bit and just seeing what happens. Filling up on that unending supply of love and mercy and letting that be our nourishment and our motivation. And finally, crawling out of there, nearly breathless, and carrying that feeling around with us. Not everyone has this opportunity, I’ve realized. The sometimes glamorized process of simplifying our lives, of sitting in discomfort and difficulty, isn’t something about which many people (most people) in our world have any choice. My sole meal today will be a simple plate of rice and beans which is, for others, a daily reality. And if I need to do this every once in awhile to feel myself move closer to God, then how close must the poor, the hungry, and the oppressed already be to our Creator! [This, of course, is the fundamental tenet of Liberation Theology—the concept that these are the folks who are closest to the heart of God, and that God’s favor rests on them in a special way. Thus we, desiring to be like the God, will live our lives with a Preferential Option for the Poor as well.]

During the sweat lodge ceremony, I experienced some pretty intense moments of clarity when I was able to put aside my fear. I felt held, I felt challenged, I felt a loving—always loving— gaze resting on me. I emerged soaking wet, absolutely exhausted, and pretty hungry but with focus and an authentic understanding of why people do this. The space was an effective mechanism for prayer, in spite of but also because of the physical obstacles that it entailed. All along, Nupa encouraged us from the darkness—in a voice barely audible amidst the chanting and drumming—to remember why we had come. To dig in, and to re-commit. To place our trust in the hands of something bigger than ourselves because without a grander focus, we couldn’t continue to endure such a physically unpleasant experience. Do this, he told us, and breathe, take one breath.

Lent is all about remembering who and whose we are. All about re-committing our lives to God and to the service of God’s children. We’re like salmon (OK, this is the Northwest imagery making its appearance) who wander faraway and then endure a grueling, and ultimately deadly, journey upstream to the place they started because they know exactly where they want to end up. That’s the goal: explore, explore, explore, return, return, return. Different. Ashes. We recognize that we don’t have forever on this earth, that things aren’t easy and we aren’t perfect, that there’s a lot of work to do. So we dig in, and the digging starts here, on a Wednesday (the worst of days, don’t you think?), as we trod through our daily mud, amidst all this noise, perhaps on an empty stomach. And we’re supposed to find God here! We’re supposed to make our way back, even if the journey is unpleasant and painful. Even if it rains 15 days in a row. Even in the dark.

Today is a good day to die. A good day to remember. To return, with our whole hearts—or at least take one step in that direction. So we begin Lent once again, yet deeper, aware of the labor that lies ahead and also the peace that we might find if we create the space for it. We start our journey upstream. We take one hot, hungry breath. We dig in.