The Light of God in our lives

 

                Last week was Mark’s brother David’s wedding anniversary. He created a very sweet post about how much he loved his wife and how he saw the light of God when he looked at her. After reading his post, I took a piece of toast with blackberry jam into Mark, who was trapped for hours in an online training for work. “Do you see the light of God when you look at me?’ I asked. He looked a bit startled. “When you are bringing me toast, you are my goddess,” he replied. We laughed. I made a quick sketch of the toast scene.

        

        The next day, Mark brought out a full wheelbarrow of perfectly processed organic compost for the berry plants. The big blue barrow sat in the back garden, glowing with holiness. I drew it. And then, we were off. Where do we see the light of God in our daily lives? Well, one night it was a tray of roasted cauliflower; the next, Indian Woman beans slowly cooking in our avocado green crockpot. We saw the light of God in the collard leaves as big as my head one afternoon. And then, one morning I was in the shed, bringing out my bike when Mr. Beezhold, the rabbit, darted in. His mouth was full of dried grass clippings and he was clearly looking for a quiet place to enjoy his snack. (He loves the shed, even after being locked in numerous times.) I laughed at him. He settled into a corner.

                This morning, I woke up hard.  Still tired, a little pollen-y, with a bit of a headache from not drinking enough water the day before, I checked my email—nothing—and then the news. The combination of the results of the debate the night before, along with several major Supreme Court decisions did not help my mood. Tired, grumpy, fretting, I climbed into the Ark. Mark and I had planned to hike up Mary’s Peak this morning, using the Conner’s Camp trail.  We drove west, along the winding roads, climbing the flank of our home mountain and parked. I stomped down the trail, still thinking about the news. What if the convention threw out Biden? It is, after all, in Chicago this year for the first time since 1968. And we know what happened then. With the ruling on homelessness, would the city manager feel empowered to clear the camps even more frequently? What if a fire started in the tree farm?  The trail climbed. I fretted. Mark tried to change my mood by pointing out the Phantom Orchid right before we crossed the logging road. Failed. He talked about the new greens. Failed. I climbed past the Dragon’s Maw—a rotting log filled with Riverteeth, barely pausing. I leaned into the climb, listening to my footsteps and breathing, both pounding.

      

          And then we hit the gallery forest section of the trail where mature Doug Firs surround us, with ferns and small white flowers and Salal and Oregon Grape and Vine Maple as the understory. They reach high into the sky and there is space between the trunks to catch glimpses of the Willamette Valley—and, today, the Cascade mountains. My steps and breathing fell into alignment and my mind grew quiet.  Slowly, I stopped fretting. We paused to study a downed tree, spongy and damp, covered in small rows of mushrooms the same color as the bark. Across the path, another section of the log held the same mushrooms. At the top, three tiny Doug fir seedlings, not more than three months old, sent their roots into the old body of this tree.  As we moved upward, as always, the wildflowers changed in their familiar ways and we said hello to our old friends. The rock gardens were spectacular—deep purple penstemon next to flaming red Indian Paintbrush, Blue Gillia and white phlox, deep golden Oregon Sunshine all lined to the rocks. When we turned West, we saw the Pacific ocean in the distance. East and all of the big peaks from the Cascades rose in majesty. And, for this long-lapsed catholic turned Transcendentalist, was, truly, the Light of God in my life.

Dumpster Diving

 

                I am a confirmed Dumpster Diver. Always have been. My desire to buy used clothes, wear things out, and haul things from the trash drove my mother—who grew up on the edge of the Great Depression—crazy. She loved the new, stylish, bright white and red, crisp and sharp. I’ve always been drawn to the fuzzy. I’ve hauled brooms and mops, laundry baskets, crock pots and afghans, books and papers, dishes and props for my classroom from trash piles. I even found a door years ago for a friend’s house.  Even now, when we do not need anything, I peer into the dumpsters as we walk by. Because you never know.

                At school, I survey the trash cans. I claim it is because I want to know what is being thrown out so that we can talk about systems to reduce waste. Are students throwing out compostable food? Recyclable paper? Dutch Bros. plastic cups? What dominates these days?  Spoiler alert: plastic cups and wrappers.  Setting up a food composting station will probably not profoundly reduce our trash piles. However, kids also throw out cans with deposits on them (we collect cans for Green Club snacks). They leave behind whole pieces of fruit the rabbit or chickens will gladly eat.  I haul it all out.  After a long winter of trash picking, I had a dream that I was pulling white binders out of the trash, exclaiming that they were still good and could be used again. I hate binders; if we made no more, ever, there would be enough for civilization to continue for a hundred years.

                Today,  Mark and I were out for a walk on campus, warming up on a cool morning. We strolled past dumpsters outside of one of the campus dorms. I peered in. Mostly plastic trash. The next, however, was different. A beautiful laundry basket peeked out. Drawn over, I looked in. Men’s clothing. Nice pants, white shirt, grey hoodie…all new, all clean. Two pairs of popular shoes. Workout t shirts that were pristine. What the heck! Men’s clothes, especially in good condition, are notoriously hard to come by and always in demand in the shelter system. I grabbed a clean trash bag and hauled it all out. Feeling a bit like Santa Claus, I carried the bag home. It will be at Vina Moses in the next few days.

    

            Now, I am wondering—is the university our source for good, used men’s clothes? Are there winter coats in there? How much else is being dumped, for whatever reason, that we don’t know about? How do we divert it from the landfill, into other hands? And what type of society have we created that people, heading off for the summer, toss everything they no longer want, out rather than try and find new homes for it all?

 

 

Teaching-- Working in Circles

 

Last week, one of my seniors popped in to use the microwave and give me her graduation announcement. She was excited about Friday night, which was graduation. “This is a one time deal for us, “she observed. “But you’ll still be here next year. It’s your life.” I agreed—and pointed that, if she fulfilled her plans to become a teacher, it would be her life as well.

                As a person who loves structure and ritual and cycles, teaching is comfortable. The patterns of the year are predictable. September is intense, with new classes and letters of rec; November is chopped up by days off; January and February can be a slog and we are always praying for snow; from Spring Break to Memorial Day is the best work of the year; June is just…done after graduation. I recognize specific times like “The grade I have is not the Grade I want” week, which just passed. We are moving into the week of resignation and relief that we are almost done. There’s also the comfort of moving through the neighborhood, running errands, and bumping into so many old students, now productive members of society.

                But every year is different. The combination of students, classes, and schedule shifts in unpredictable manners and adjustments must be made. This was a quiet year. No big fusses or drama. Lots of work on convincing students that it’s just easier to give in and Read the Book, rather than trying to pretend that you did.  Right now, a lot of acknowledgement of growth and maturity since September. Yes, we are much better. Yes, I see that you are locked in right now. And still, yes, I do know that you just texted your friend to set up a pass date in the hall.  That kind of year.

                The year is winding down. Yearbooks are distributed, Junior take over is tomorrow, the ninth graders are presenting their projects on Tuesday evening.  I have no more thesis based papers to grade; if you missed the memo on thesis, you’ll have to pick it up next year. Summer is coming on. The light is long and clear and clean, with a hint of ocean moisture. Soon, I will shift to summer rituals, which are also both predictable and constantly changing. Life.