not enough hours

I've been noticing lately how much I look at my watch. And it bugs me.

And I'm often running late or almost late because I just want to squeeze more more more into the time. And it's never enough.

I wish I could see each day as enough - see time as expansive. Not pack as much in. But I do, do, do. I'm a regular little red hen. I'm a human doing, not a human being.

But I want to rest more. Play more. Look at my watch less. Sigh less. *sigh*

"Slow down and enjoy life. It's not only the scenery you miss by going too fast - you also miss the sense of where you are going and why."  - Eddie Cantor

When do I feel that "time is enough" feeling? When I'm visiting with friends or family. Summer camping. Lying under the stars. Walking through the pumpkin patch. Tobogganing down hills of snow. Swimming or canoeing in the lake. Then time is enough.

living in a world of excess

I know that the whole world isn't full of excessive living, but my part sure is. I'm especially reminded of this when I travel to developing countries, or host guests from those countries.

Having a teenager from Afghanistan come to live with us has made me question some of my spending choices. The whole "is this a need or a want" question just seems laughable at times, because I live so far from my needs. I live in the world of wants - many of which I carefully take the time to justify.

We had friends from Benin come to our house for supper last week. And I went through my usual list of hosting worries: the house is too small, we don't have enough places to sit, the house is too messy, will the food be ok. This is my ritual when hosting people at our place. I worry. But when they come, I have no problem living in the moment and enjoying myself and I wonder why I ever worried. Silly.

But there's one other thing that I'm a bit self-conscious about when hosting these friends: we feed a rodent in our kitchen. Not just human hungry bellies, but a rodent's too. Mind you, this is a furry and lovable guinea pig pet who lives in a cage. But still. It's a rodent. Living in better conditions than many of the world's people. And that makes me more than a little uncomfortable. It makes me wonder what my responsibility is in this whole messy world we live in. Why am I stuffed while others starve?

My husband talks about living in Colombia and being inspired by the people there. No one he encountered asked, "What can we do?" They just jump in and DO something. And they have far fewer resources than I do. So why do I feel helpless sometimes, overwhelmed by the problems, wondering what I can do to help? Why can't I just jump in?

We have this prayer hanging in our kitchen. It's a good reminder of this imbalance in the world:

God, please help the poor get rich and the rich get poor so they know 
what it feels like. 

And then, God, let everyone switch back to medium 

and let everyone have the same amount of food and money. Amen. 

-- Ben Zimmerly Jantzi, 7 years old

something worth fighting for

Our family friend Carol who died on Wednesday was a fighter. She fought lung disease for many years. But she fought other things too - for peace and justice, for oppressed peoples in Central and South America, pushing at the edges of the church, expecting more, questioning. She was inspirational to me - I could listen to her stories for hours. She was a funny, artistic, outside-the-box, creative, political, musical, irreverent, crazy, and deeply spiritual 60-something woman. 


The Irish tell a story of a man who came to the gates of heaven and asked to be let in. 
St. Peter said, "Of course! Just show us your scars."
The man said, "I have no scars."
St. Peter said, "What a pity. Was there nothing worth fighting for?"


The other day, my daughter found this crumpled-up leaf with a dead monarch butterfly on it. I put it on the windowsill today, and thought of Carol and hoped that there is beauty in death - as hard as it may be for the living to see.

sad news by email

In the last 2 days, I have opened 2 emails which made me sit in front of my computer, alone, staring, crying. The first message was about a loved one who was struggling - near death. The second one last evening was about a loved one who had died. Both dear people to me. Both struggling with illnesses over the past number of years. Both live far from here.

Right away, I needed to call someone on the phone. And tears came easily then too.

I wonder: did they know how much I loved them? Appreciated them? I hope so, think so, but why couldn't I have one more chance?

And it also made me wonder about the medium and the message. About receiving sad news from my computer. Or finding out sad news on facebook about public figures who have died - trying to decipher messages like "RIP Jack" or "You were the best Steve" or "I'll never forget you Michael" - with the help of Google, I piece together the sad stories that make for public facebook mourning.

Ideally, I'd like my sad news to come face to face so that I can get a hug right away. If that's not possible, then the phone, just to cry and have someone listen to my tears. And then by email. There. That's my hierarchy of how I'd like to receive my sad news. Not a long or probably even worthwhile post, but it's all that's in me today. Some days are better than others.

Today I'm remembering.

finding the past in me

My background is Mennonite. And usually I'm proud of this, but occasionally it has made for interesting questions and conversations. Do you have electricity? Do you have arranged marriages? Are you allowed to go to movies? Do you drink wine? Are you allowed to do anything fun?

My maternal grandfather was of the Old Order Mennonite variety (horse and buggy and black clothing) until he was 6 years old. His family switched to "our" type of Mennonite because his parents wanted their kids to go to Sunday school, and my great-grandfather wanted to ride a bike to work.

So I feel like I have a secret inside of me sometimes - this connection to the past, but also to a people living in the present.

This photo was taken on a gravel road near our house. The boot is me; the car is mine; the buggy is in front. I don't usually drive with my foot up like this.

But it shows parts of me. The boots, which I love. The car, which I drive. The buggy in front, a connection to a part of my family in the past. I don't question that I'm where I should be (in the car, not in the buggy), but there are pieces of me that want to be in that buggy. Very small pieces, but they're there. The parts that romanticize a lifestyle: growing and eating local produce, living in ways that don't harm the earth like I do right now with my planes trains and automobiles, more simple things that bring pleasure, entertainment that doesn't depend on computer or TV, Monday laundry days, and a strong community of support. 

Which parts of the past do I bring to my present? What pieces of my history and my ancestry inform who I am today?

A few weeks ago, I saw a conservative Mennonite couple at the Starbucks at the Toronto International airport. They looked very out of place. I wanted to tell them: I know you. I'm one of you.

But I'm not at all. I recognized them, but they didn't even see me. I didn't know who they were, but I knew the people they belonged to. 

They have sacrificed much in terms of their lifestyle and choices. Me? Have I sacrificed anything? It's doubtful. They are visible because of the way they get around and the clothing they wear. I just fit right in. Nothing distinguishes me as having a shared ancestry. I am invisible, one of the masses - peopleless, potentially, in their view.

I wanted to claim my Mennonite-ness in that instant - to reach out to them to make them feel at ease (they looked a bit uncomfortable) and also to belong. To claim them as part of my larger family. But I didn't say anything. I just got my chai latte and lemon-cranberry scone and sat alone. Because that's part of the larger culture that I've learned - individualism.

just 5 minutes

For all of you who are self-disciplined and have no problems getting to the mundane chores of the day, this won't be helpful. I applaud you, and wish I was more like you.

But if you have ever had trouble doing household tasks because there are always just so many more appealing things to do, I'll pass on a little trick I sometimes use.

I trick my mind into doing many tasks by saying, "Just 5 minutes. Just 5 minutes."

And it works! Because 5 minutes doesn't sound so bad for a lot of things.

Yesterday this was my list of "just 5 minutes" projects:

1. cleaning toilets

2. dumping out a huge Rubbermaid container of cards, letters, momentos, bills, clipped out magazine articles, travel brochures (some from 20 years ago), ticket stubs, etc... and actually SORTING THE WHOLE THING! This was a task I was putting off for about 20 years, so it was high time. I dumped out the entire container onto the bed, then sorted for "5 minutes" (3 hours). Fun times in memory lane.

[some of the treasures that I found are pictured here: a water bottle wrapper from Pondicherry, India (1995), ticket stub from the first "big show" I went to (The Lion King, 2001), bookmark from India (1995), a Chiclets package from Morocco (1992), a ticket stub from a Toronto Maple Leafs game (1994), a letter sent to me in the hospital in Indonesia (1995), airline tickets to Calcutta (1995), ticket stub from an amazing concert in Havana, Cuba (2002), a business card from a remote restaurant in the mountains near Fez, Morocco (1992), a ticket stub from the Great Hall of the People, China (1998)]

3. dusting

4. the dishes

5. vacuuming

6. playing Playmobil (isn't this bad? That I can't get down on the floor with my kid without thinking "ok - just 5 minutes"? The 5 minutes turned into 25 before I even knew it. Lesson learned. Just let go of that feeling like I have to get things done and play. Because this too shall pass too soon.)

So there you go. Your inspirational household task tip of the day.

song for autumn

Song for Autumn by Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
    don't you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
    the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
    freshets of wind?

And don't you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
    warm caves, begin to think
of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep inside their bodies?


And don't you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
    the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow?




The pond
    vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out
    its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
    the piled firewood shifts a little,
longing to be on its way.

why I'm part of a church

I've been thinking about this a lot lately, and I've been trying to formulate it into a blog post in my head. And I can't quite figure out how to do it in one neat, tiny post. So this may just be part one of this topic. So beware.

There are so many reasons NOT to go to church. Like too busy, boring, hypocritical, conservative, heads stuck in the sand, irrelevant, tiring, same old same old been there done that, and sleeping in on Sundays. And then there's the whole "I can find God in nature" one. I'm sure there are tons more. All of these have been excuses at some point in my life.

Church can be a struggle for me. Like when I was younger and was told by someone at church that doubting was not good. "Real Christians don't doubt," he said. But doubting has been a path to faith for me. As I've grown up, I've learned that there's room in the church for all: doubters and believers alike. And as an adult, I've chosen to be part of a church. In particular, the Mennonite church.

Here are some reasons I go to/am part of church, in no particular order:

* It cracks me open. Sometimes in big ways, sometimes in tiny ways. But the cracks let in a little bit of light. Like this quote:

There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in. - Leonard Cohen

* I get a weekly dose of hope. And a vision of how the world could be.

* Sometimes a song or a sentence will bring a tear to my eye. For no good reason. Probably light getting through a crack.

* I want to be part of a caring community that nurtures faith and looks for glimpses of God in the everyday. I want that for my kids too.

* I want my kids to think outside of themselves. To know there is a larger world out there. Sometimes a prayer will bring a world event into our awareness in a different way.

* Potlucks.

* Peace, justice, and service to others are spoken of, encouraged, and modeled. I'm challenged to engage in my world. To change my world. To make a difference.

* I get a brain re-boot each week if I let myself. If I'm open to being changed by a word or a song, it's amazing what can happen. After I fight with my husband (yes, we fight) I need to hear something of grace, forgiveness, and moving on.

* The silence can be profoundly loud. I am less selfish in the silence, and I hear whispers of God's voice. Sometimes. If I'm quiet enough. I wish there were more moments of silence at church. Being silent together with others is a profound experience for me. When I let it be.

* It helps me dive deep into the mysteries of life.

in a light-filled chapel in Elgin, Illinois