Walk on the earth not on water.

The miracle is not to walk on water, but on the earth. Thich Nhat Hanh

The ground was a soggy, wet, mucky mess at the campground this weekend. Our work camp family was gathered for our annual reunion and we had a ramp to build for Nancy. Her diabetes is worsening and she is having difficulty getting up the steps to her house so a ramp was requested. Deweese, her brother, had most of the wood we needed so only one trip to the building supply in Bryson City was required. The weather co-operated, sort of, and gave us two long periods of dry time that the men used to discuss the plan, measure, talk, re-measure, cut, discuss some more, cut angles, re-cut angles, and assemble the ramp. The women washed the slimy boards that had been laying in the ground, home to snails and moldy leaves, dried them and laid them out for the men to use. Nancy’s planter, like my planter, was over run with weeds so we talked with her about what kind of flowers she wanted there. We planted mums, sedum, ornamental cabbage and some kind of trailing sedum in her wheelbarrow as a happy for her soul. And all weekend long, we walked on soggy ground.
Mary Lynn, Ida, Janise, Donna and I hiked to Mingo Falls. Actually, Ida and Janise hiked. Mary Lynn, Donna and I walked to Mingo Falls. We couldn’t stop looking at everything we passed by. Here was a bank covered in yellow and orange jewelweed, the mountain remedy for poison ivy. Over there was a small fallen log covered with a bright yellow flower looking fungus of some kind. Underfoot were mud puddles and big rock gravel. Beside the road a mountain stream swollen with rain water passed us by noisily. A berry bush of some kind covered in dried up berries and occasional bright pink flowers popped up in the path. And over there to our right were the bright red berry clusters of Jack in the Pulpit. Trillium leaves peaked out from under the berry bush and somewhere, there was poison ivy because I bear its mark on my arm this morning. A blue mountain heeler puppy came to join us on our walk bouncing here there and yon as well as on Mary Lynn’s white pants.
At the end of the walk, a seemingly endless flight of steps led up the mountain to the falls. Donna chose to lie by the stream and rest while Mary Lynn and I climbed up the steps. Mary Lynn wondered how far up the steps went. My practice is to pretend the climb ends where I can see the last step. And if the last step keeps being farther along, I can still see the end of the steps, just not yet. We sat on a bench along the way and looked around at the damp, sweet, soggy earth that surrounded us. The falls at the end of the climb were breathtakingly beautiful. Full, white water split into streams and trickles, falling four or five stories to the ground over rocks and fallen trees. The water flowed underneath our feet and began its ride down the cove to Cherokee and the Oconaluftee. Mary Lynn and I climbed down off the path and sank our feet into the clear water, not for long because mountain streams are so cold your toes turn blue quickly. We trailed our hands through the sand and felt the rocks smoothed by years of shaping running water. Once again Cherokee earth worked its magic on me and my soul rested in the sounds, smells and the feel of this particular place.
In Barbara Taylor Brown’s book An Altar in the World, there is a chapter named “The Practice of Walking on the Earth... Groundedness”. She tells of the many different religious traditions that require walking and of some of the holy places where pilgrims come to walk. The truth of the matter is that all of earth is holy ground if we but had eyes to see and feet that could feel what lies underneath us. Our walk to Mingo Falls was a holy pilgrimage and the walk I will take this morning down to the stable to muck out the stalls will be holy. The soggy campground was sacred ground because God was in our midst and underfoot. I will walk the labyrinth of my life today mindful of the ground underneath my feet, waiting and looking for God along the way. And if all I do is muck stalls and pick up apples, seeing the wonder of the earth under my feet, it will be my prayer for the day, one of thanksgiving and praise. Who needs to walk on water when you can walk on the earth.

Follow the yellow brick road...

She has been my friend for nearly thirty years and is old enough to be my mother. I was gathered in and gathered up by her outstretched arms of love as a young mother. She has known me at my best and my worst and neither seems to matter much in her unfailing faith in me. I sat at her table yesterday, as I have sat at her tables for years, eating lunch with two women I did not know who have also been gathered up by her. As I sat and let the conversation and good food settle my soul, soothe the frizzy nerve endings, I once again said to myself, I want to be more like Celeste. Here are some of the lessons I have learned from her.
Follow the yellow brick road... Celeste has the gift for following the yellow brick road wherever it leads. She heard about the death of a famous musician in our community, researched his contributions to the world of music, went to his memorial service at a local club, heard another young band playing, came to our son’s wedding and met one of the band members who was our son’s best friend, and is now the oldest, most enthusiastic fan of Tubab Crew, a band that specializes in West African music. You can see her at the concerts in the front row, dancing to the music. With her, one thing or person always leads to another experience or a new friend. The yellow brick road is full of possibilities for her.
Wipe out the six degrees of separation... Celeste connects people like the connect the dots pictures. No telling how many people, how many different kinds of people, consider Celeste their particular friend. She is equally at home with mountain grannies and grand dames, people of faith and those with not much faith, preachers and farmers and musicians and models, local yokels and citizens of the world beyond, all are kin to her and she is kin to them. We sit at her table, eating food prepared with loving care, drawn in by the strong ties that bind us to her and through her, to each other... family reunion with kin we have just met.
Walk on the sunny side of life... Celeste has had her share of life struggles and in the living of them manages to find celebration possibilities. Driving her husband to dialysis as his kidneys fail is transformed by making friends with another couple at the center, driving to dialysis together in a convertible with the top down, laughter and joy in the midst of pain and loss. As a teacher in her early life, being a learner is important to her. She finds ways to learn new skills... storytelling, creative clothes making, computer programs... and is surrounded by the gifts of her hands and gifts from others. As her body shrinks in size, her capacity for enjoying life expands and it is a pure pleasure to be a part of her joyful expansion.
Like the Artful Dodger Apostle Paul, Celeste has learned how to be more than content with all of life’s circumstances. Love matters more than being right. Staying in touch is more important than being proper. Adventure is always around the corner. Never pass up a chance to party. God is always closer to you than you think. Thanks, Celeste. I’ll be proud to help Mary serve champagne at your last party. I’ll call you when I get back from my niece’s wedding and we’ll have a tea party. Love you...

Books of Life...

Leisa and I sat at the table thumbing through old cookbooks. The Shaker cookbook had the recipe for the corn pudding we were eating for our Labor Day picnic. The recipe begins the ingredient list with two cups of green grated corn. I used the frozen creamed corn mama and I put up this summer. The corn pudding was wonderful. I bought the cookbook when we lived in Kentucky and visited the restored Shaker settlement there. It is a living history book
The other cookbook, an old Rumford cookbook held together with rubber bands, belonged to Michael’s mother and is the same one my mama has, also held together with rubber bands. Ann’s cookbook is stuffed with the gold standard recipes from her life as wife and mother. Banana nutbread, sour cream pound cake, Bible verses,14 day pickles, stuffed turban squash, orange Jello salad (with Cool Whip, mandarin oranges and nuts), Billy Graham columns, spiced tea, chocolate chip cookies, newspaper articles... all the special foods she loved to prepare for family and friends as well as trail markers for what she valued in life. Leisa’s mom left her a cookbook stuffed full, like Ann’s and mama’s, with special recipes and little articles. When we open these books, we hold them reverently, turn the pages carefully and remember all the good times we shared these foods so lovingly prepared for us.
When I was young, before you got married, you got your cookbook and your recipe file. Friends and family gave you their favorite recipes for your new life as wife. My first cookbook was the Betty Crocker cookbook, everyday cooking with a flair. I thought cantaloupe halves filled with ice cream ranked right up there with the finest French cuisine. My recipe box was filled and filed and in order. The Betty Crocker cookbook is stained and cracked now, a little like me, showing signs of its importance in my life.
I know this is the age of the internet recipe. I used one myself last week... Chicken Burrito Filling. And I don’t begrudge the quick and easy access to just the right recipe. Good food prepared with care will never go out of style as an expression of love. And food as an exploration into different ways of experiencing the manna gift is now, as it has been, an occasion for laughter and celebration. The popularity of the movie “Julia and Julie” affirms our soul connection to food, the possibilities that come with food preparation.
The importance of the book, the guide, whether it is a cookbook or a sacred text, is marked by how much of our life is invested in its pages. Underlined passages, other writings, fingermarks, bent down corners... all are mute testimony to the life lived with the help of this book. They become living trail markers, like the trees marked on the Applachian Trail, that show where you have been and how you got there, what mattered to you, what was savory in your life and perhaps shows those left behind how to find their way.
The Psalmist says, “Thy Word is a lamp to my feet and a light to my path...” I wonder what stories the books I leave behind will tell. I hope they reflect the good and gracious gifts I have been given, the faith I have claimed. And when my children open these battered old books of their grandparents and parents, I pray laughter and good food are present, a party time, thanksgiving for all that has been and all that is yet to be.

Crockpot Salsa Chicken

4 boneless skinless chicken breasts 1 can corn 1 can black beans 32 ounces salsa
flour tortillas Sour cream guacamole lettuce
tomatoes Cheese salsa

Put first four ingredients, corn and beans drained, in crock pot. Cook on low 6-8 hours.30-60 minutes before serving, remove and shred chicken. Return to crock pot. Serve with condiments in tortillas.
Recipe #16687 at Recipezaar Home Page.

Green Corn Pudding

2 cups grated green corn 3 eggs 1/4c. Sugar dash nutmeg ½ tsp. Salt 1/8 tsp. Pepper 2 cups rich milk
½ c. buttered bread crumbs 2tbsp butter

Grate uncooked kernels from fresh corn. Put in buttered baking dish. Beat eggs well; add sugar, nutmeg, salt, pepper and milk, and blend. Sprinkle top with buttered bread crumbs and dot with butter. Place in a dish of boiling water and bake in a slow (250 degrees) oven for one hour. Serves six. Amelia’s Shaker Recipes from The Shaker Cookbook

To quote Julia... Bon appetit!!!!

I want an old time funeral...

Reading the obituaries is a daily custom for me and it is more than a casual scanning of the information. Aging tends to focus your attention in ways you might not expect and the review of death notices helps me tend to my life more intentionally. The older I get, the more names I know in this section of the paper.
Obituary customs are not universal. Friends who recently moved here from Louisville, Kentucky have been struck with the differences in language and funeral customs here in the mountains. Louisville obituaries tended to be more prosaic and less descriptive without many religious phrases like “entered into eternal rest” or “departed this life to eternal life with the Father”. Some will dwell on the person’s faith and how it was lived out citing church membership or list the different ways they served in their church. But I’ve noticed a trend recently among obituaries that has interested me.
More and more I see “Celebrations of Life” or a memorial service at a later date mentioned instead of a funeral following the death. I can’t help but wonder what you do with your feelings of mourning, loss, sadness, and grief if you are limited to a celebration or memorial at a later date. When death has visited my life, when I lose someone’s presence here on earth with me, I want structure to help me move through the maze of feelings that comes when someone I love dies.
Old time funerals may seem barbaric to us in our enlightened age but I am coming to appreciate some of the gifts that came with those customs. During my growing up time, viewing the body was an important part of the ritual. Open caskets rested in the sanctuary until the funeral service began allowing the community to pass before the body making the usual inane comments... My, doesn’t she look good? That hair style is really becoming. The important part of this ritual was the affirmation that the body is only a shell, a house for the soul while on earth. When the soul departs through death, we can see clearly the absence of the person we have known and loved. Fear of death can be tempered if one has eyes to see and ears to hear.
The community gathered around the family after death. Food in abundance was provided along with serving and dishwashing. During the funeral, someone would stay at the home in case thieves came along. These thieves read the obituaries marking the time of the funeral as prime time to rob. When you returned from the grave side, a meal would be on the table waiting for you, hot and ready to eat, concrete affirmation that your loved one and you matter, are loved and valued by your neighbors, church family and larger community. Martha expressions of love and caring when the ache of loss cannot be smoothed over help ease the hurt for a little while.
Drive by and drop in visits were the norm in our small town. “I was just driving by and saw Mr. Tom’s pickup sitting in the driveway. Thought I’d stop by and see how you’re doing. Do you need any help with the cows (or house or car)?” Grief did not end when the casket was covered up. The web of caring held you up in the days after as the work of grief began in earnest. Ladies would consult at church...Have you seen Shirley? How is she doing? Who is going to visit her this week? Should we send someone to help with the farm chores?... and the pastoral care network as administered by the Women’s Missionary Union or just the women in general saw that grief was not forgotten.
When I die, all of you left behind better give me a good funeral not a celebration. I want you to weep and laugh, tears flow, faith be affirmed, read the Twenty Third Psalm in the King James Version because I love the poetic images, sing my favorite hymns, pray for my soul and the lives of those I love, grieve in messy, sloppy authentic ways that acknowledge the love you have for me. View my body if you want to and say your final goodbyes to the shell of who I was. No need to be refined or formal and don’t try too hard to be positive. Let all your feelings of grief and loss come to the surface. Use the rituals of death to help you move through the valley of the shadow so that you might be lifted up to higher ground. If Michael is still alive, drop by and sit on the porch with him a spell. Call my children and play with my grandchildren. Tell my stories and call my name. Jesus said “Blessed are those who mourn” and we are. We are.