Worth Sharing

I LOVE A GOOD SCONE. There is a certain texture and composition that makes a scone good--to me. I've tried to find a recipe that would be true and foolproof so I could make my own, but it eludes me.

When we first moved to our current house we had a neighbor named Julie. She was in fact one of the reasons we chose the neighborhood we did as we were house hunting. Julie, in addition to be a superb baker, was a prolific artist, particularly in pottery and fiber arts. Her too-young death was one of those that leaves you wondering why--when the world so desperately needs human beings like her.

Julie's scones were the standard that I strived for. Probably if I had asked her for the recipe she would have shared it. She was a sharer--of baked things, of hearty conversation, of knowledge and skills and techniques, and of pottery pieces like our teapot and the urn that held my parents ashes in between death and burial. Even if I had had her recipe the scones would not have turned out like hers.There is this real thing I'll call essence for lack of a better word.

I want to make a scone at least so good that I would want to take a bite, close my eyes a second, chew slowly to savor and then swallow with gratitude. I also want them to be of a level of goodness that I would share them with others--they would be share-worthy.

I like to write. From time to time, I write words that I think are worthy of sharing: maybe an insight or something humorous, maybe a eulogy for a friend, maybe something that will encourage or inspire. Sometimes I do share these words--here on this blog, or maybe in a card, or spoken out loud, usually quietly.

Many times; most times, the words I write are never shared. Maybe one of these days someone will dig through the wooden box of journals I have and read a few words, but those wouldn't really be shared words would they?

If you're old like me you might remember a song by the Moody Blues that said:

Nights in white satin
Never reaching the end
Letters I've written
Never meaning to send
Beauty I've always missed
With these eyes before
Just what the truth is
I can't say any more

So why bake scones you wouldn't share? Why write words that may never be read by others?

There's a line in one of my favorite movies, Finding Forrester, "Why is it the words we write for ourselves are so much better than the words we write for others?"

Maybe: we can be a little more honest, worry less about grammar and spelling and syntax. Mainly though we don't worry that our words will offend or hurt; or be twisted or misconstrued. To quote another song from the 60s, this time the band called The Animals:

I'm just a soul whose intentions are good
Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood

That's all for now. My scones are in the oven and about done.

“We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection.”

— Anaïs Nin

IN PURSUIT

I’M NOT SAYING that the pursuit of peace is insignificant or unworthy, just slipping toward insincere, or so it seems; but vital and essential.

Cynicism has always been in the battered bag of things that I allow to trip me up. Accelerating age seems to deepen and thicken it, along with my anger over prescription medicine advertisements on TV.

Still, I remain hopeful that peace in our hearts, in our families, and in our relationships will grow and grow. I would like to be optimisic about world peace but that nagging cynicism won't let me go there; particularly when the Pursuit of Peace is stamped official by being screenprinted on a backdrop behind high-positioned folk. So it seems the mission is handed over to those in pursuit of other things like power, domination, supremacy, or whatever satisfies their base hunger and lusts. All that just seems contrary to peace pursuance.

There are some things that some people may be ill-suited for, or maybe they're being dishonest with themselves, or maybe they are dishonest and just nearly-to-completely self-serving--their narcissism has killed any seed of imagination. Maybe, for example, someone wants a medal for peace-making so badly that they will cook up a crock of drama, masquerading as the greatest maker of peace of all the peace-makers ever.

It would be sort of like putting me in charge of guarding a cooling batch of no-bake cookies. I may boast of being a cookie guardian, but when it comes to keeping my hand out of the cookie jar, I'm weak, insatiable and lacking any moral backbone whatsoever. And there's a darker corner in here that makes me apathetic about whether anyone else gets a cookie or not.

Every single day I wear a Peace Sign pendant. I know all the words to John Lennon's song "Give Peace A Chance". One of my favorite passages is from the book of First Peter, chapter 3:

“Whoever wants to embrace life and see the day fill up with good, Here’s what you do: Say nothing evil or hurtful; Snub evil and cultivate good; run after peace for all you’re worth.”

— 1 Peter 3:10-11. The Message.

My favorite of the Beatitudes is #7: Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God. --Matthew 5:9

Does all that make me a peace-maker? Not any more than wearing a badge that says, "ICE: International Cookie Enforcer" and telling people that I love cookies even more than Cookie Monster himself makes me a worthy guardian of the no-back cookies cookie jar.

Some may sense a tinge of hypocracy here: me acting like a peacenik while throwing little rocks at those who have the power to end conflicts but don't. Guilty your honor(s).

So how does one become a maker, sustainer, propagator and keeper of peace?

The wisdom seems to be in that verse: "Say nothing evil or hurtful; Snub evil and cultivate good; run after peace for all you're worth." After all; who doesn't want to "embrace life and see the day fill up with good"?

Here's a shot of Our Grands, last Christmastime, that season when we sing and remember the story about "Peace On Earth"! [Trying to pass my belief in the goodness, truth and beauty of PEACE on to the next generation.]

PEACE to you and yours.

PROPAGATE

MY MOTHER was a prolific propagator; of many things: encouragement, grace, advice, sincere interest, gossip (although she would call it by names such as concern and curiosity). But, let's start with her African Violets.

For the entirety of my years "at home" these things were everywhere that a bit of filtered light streamed into our house. She was an african violet evangelist. Any time a guest in our home would comment on her beautiful violets she would encourage, yea, implore them to take one home. Each one was handed over with a bit of advice: "Don't overwater, don't get the leaves wet, don't thank me for it that's bad luck, talk to it (the plant) each time you water it."

In the early years of our marriage, My Amazing-Missus and I took home and killed a succession of these picky, persnickety, delicate little pieces of fauna. Undaunted, she would give us another. When mom would come to visit we could count on her sticking her finger in the pot of each of our plants and her nose in our business--out of genuine love and concern and a bit of fretting. "It might be happier with a little more light." Was she talking about our plant or our marriage?

I read an interesting opinion piece about propagation. In this case it was not about plants and beauty, but half-truths, lies, misinformation and how fertile the ground is to receive these poison seeds of propaganda. Social media was getting a lot of the blame for the choking spread, but what about the increasing appetite for it? How do we seperate the wheat from the chaff so to speak?

Maybe, like an African Violet, bringing some of this stuff into the proper light will help me be better informed and and healthier.

You know what's wonderful? There are still so many voices of truth and goodness. They are not always the loudest in the room but they are there and they are consistent. Take our two daughters-in-law. They are propagators. Many of the plants we have in our home today came from them, including those that sit on my desk or hang in the window in a cool macrame hanger My Amazing-Missus made for me. Not only do they cultivate seeds and cuttings, but they give joy and care to everyone who enters their orbit including our GrandKids and their old in-laws; along with plant care tips.

It makes me grateful for the propagators of love and peace and joy throughout our world and culture. Where would we be without them these days.

I'm writing this in my journal right how: Propagate goodness, truth and beauty today.

---

The words of Jesus from The Gospel of Mark 4:3-9 The Message

“Listen. What do you make of this? A farmer planted seed. As he scattered the seed, some of it fell on the road and birds ate it. Some fell in the gravel; it sprouted quickly but didn’t put down roots, so when the sun came up it withered just as quickly. Some fell in the weeds; as it came up, it was strangled among the weeds and nothing came of it. Some fell on good earth and came up with a flourish, producing a harvest exceeding his wildest dreams.

“Are you listening to this? Really listening?”

---

PEW PEW PEW

IN THE CHURCH tradition I grew up in we didn't have reserved seats per se. There were no lettered rows and numbered seats like you would find at a concert or ballgame. But make no mistake: seats in a church have been claimed, if only by a binding understanding that says: this is the pew where I sit, always have, always will.

There may not be a rational explanation for someones seat choice like Sheldon's place on the couch in the apartment he shared with Leonard. Sheldon placed this location "in a state of eternal dibs". When Leonard questions him, he says: "Cathedra mea, regulae meae. That's Latin for 'my chair, my rules'".

As Sheldon explains to Penny, "In the winter that seat is close enough to the radiator to remain warm, and yet not so close as to cause perspiration. In the summer it’s directly in the path of a cross breeze created by open windows there, and there. It faces the television at an angle that is neither direct, thus discouraging conversation, nor so far wide to create a parallax distortion, I could go on, but I think I’ve made my point."

In one episode he even establishes his seat by putting it in mathematical terms: "In an ever-changing world, it is a single point of consistency. If my life were expressed as a function on a four-dimensional Cartesian coordinate system, that spot, at the moment I first sat on it, would be (0,0,0,0)."

While not that extreme, I do have a mostly unspoken claim on a few seats, I would say they are mine; but I share (if necessary).

There are two places to sit in my little study at home. One is an extremely comfortable gray leather swivel rocker and ottoman. This is where I watch movies, sports, reruns of Big Bang Theory, Seinfeld, and Frasier. I also sit there to listen to my lovely HiFi system. I read in that chair and take wonderful afternoon naps. The other chair is a black leather office chair. It was going to be cast out from the office I used at work, so I took it home when I retired. It's in rough shape but after years of sitting there it fits my backside like hand and glove (not O.J.'s though). It's here at my desk that I read the news, watch YouTube videos, and write: things like this blog post which I'm typing right now. Here's a photo.

Back to church. I too, have a certain spot on a certain pew there. Here's a photo of where I sit.

This spot is special to me for several reasons: Those beautiful stained glass windows are on the south side of the building. This time of year the tilt of the earth at the time of our morning service sends warm sunlight in. The windows around the sanctuary are a timeline of the life of Christ. Obviously this window represents the infant--the early days of The Light, the Word become Flesh.

At our church our hope is still there: in that message, and like the light that breaks through that colored glass, that message is the one that will change the world. I don't pretend to speak for our church, the congregation or the people who compose it. But, in the sermons and songs I hear, in the numbers of people who humbly give and serve, Christ is still alive and my hope is there. I fear that some have given up on the Good News to bring peace, to change the world. So, they've chosen instead to align with a religion of political power. I'm glad I have a place in a church with light and enlightenment, where an open mind is not something to condemn but to celebrate.