My kind of exercise plan

Decide that non-stick pans are rotting my brain.

Discover that Costco’s stainless steel cookware set is a great value, and good quality.

Procrastinate for a few months––an essential part of any new effort.

Take the plunge and buy the pans.

Notice their heft––at least twice as heavy as my older pans.

Prepare delicious food.

Hand wash the heavy pans, so they don’t get discolored in the dishwasher.

After about a month, notice that their weight seems normal.

Celebrate the subtle, gradual accumulation of new muscle.

Mother’s Day Snow

It snowed here in Girdwood yesterday. On Mother’s Day.

Mother Earth is not amused by climate change.

Whistlebird in spring

I do not know your name
but you sound like a coach’s whistle
at a soccer practice
somewhere across the valley.

Irritation at your constant calling
finds balance here:
among blackened snow piles,
your song promises green.

Living with a Good Samaritan

A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, and fell into the hands of robbers, who stripped him, beat him, and went away, leaving him half dead.

Now by chance a priest was going down that road; and when he saw him, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side.

But a Samaritan while travelling came near him; and when he saw him, he was moved with pity. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put him on his own animal, brought him to an inn, and took care of him. The next day he took out two denarii, gave them to the innkeeper, and said, “Take care of him; and when I come back, I will repay you whatever more you spend.”

–Luke 10:30-35

We were on our way to the airport. Our flight was scheduled to leave in a few hours––the one that would take us to the East Coast for my interview with the Ministerial Fellowship Committee.

I’m always uptight before we fly, and I was even more so that night, with my interview looming.

We were driving south on Spenard Road after a delicious pre-flight dinner at Ray’s Place. I was driving, and at about 9 p.m. it was dark out.

Mid-conversation Liesl said, “Hey––that guy’s getting beat up––right by the bus stop.”

I have to admit that my first thought was not wanting to miss our flight.

“Pull over,” Liesl said as we got closer to the incident. By the time I pulled to the curb––still in my lane––the assailant had left, leaving only the victim.

Liesl had called 911, and was describing the incident to the dispatcher.  She rolled down her window.  ”Are you OK?” she asked.  He mumbled something.  ”Do you want to talk to the police? I’ve got them on the phone.”  He said, “Oh, no, it’s OK, I know that guy, he always picks on me.”

I have to admit that I was feeling distracted by the fact that I was blocking traffic. I could feel the pressure of headlights on my bumper, and expected honking at any moment.

“What’s your name?” Liesl asked, passing along the dispatcher’s request.  Believe it or not, his last name was Love.

When we could see that he wasn’t seriously hurt, and with assurances that the police were coming, we drove off.

“I don’t care if he was drunk,” Liesl said.  ”That’s no excuse to beat someone up.  I can’t believe that whole bus full of people saw that happen, and no one did anything.”

I didn’t tell her that, had I been alone, I probably wouldn’t have noticed. And if I had noticed, I’m not sure that I would have stopped.

That’s how it is for some of us.  By temperament and training, we’re more likely to “pass by on the other side.”

Some people are content to stay that way, but I’m not.  I’m really glad that I live with a justice-seeking, courageous Good Samaritan who’s teaching me to notice, and to act.

Image by Tim Green, used under a Creative Commons Attribution License.

Two stories about tradition

There’s an often-told tale that goes something like this:

A newly-married young woman prepares a pot-roast dinner. Her husband watches as she cuts one end off the roast before putting it in the oven.  He asks, “Why did you cut one end off the roast?”

“My mother always did that,” she said.

Later, he asks his mother-in-law, “Why have you always cut one end off your pot roasts?”

“My other always did,” she said.

Finally, he asks his wife’s grandmother, “Why did you always cut one end off your pot roasts?”

“Because I had a really small roasting pan,” she said.

I thought about that story yesterday morning, after I took a batch of muffins out of the oven.

The first thing I did after taking off my oven mitts was to grab a fork, and gently tip each of the muffins sideways––as I remember watching my mother do.

Sounds like the same story, right?

Except that recently I read the rationale behind the practice. Tipping the muffin in its cup allows steam to escape, so that the bottom of the muffin doesn’t get soggy.

Here’s the thing about the stories we tell: they’re never just the facts. There’s always something behind the story, something we’re trying to say indirectly. Slant, as Emily Dickinson might say.

When we’re restless, eager for change, frustrated by rigid, incomprehensible rules, we tell stories about silly, meaningless traditions.

When we long for connections to a deeper, older knowledge, when we want to remember how to make, fix and create, we tell stories that value what we learned at our mother’s elbow.