Pink, brown, yellow, orange and blue, I love you.

In honor of Valentine’s Day, here are some pictures of red things, and a list of people/ places/ things that I love.

I love:

Listening to Irish seisiuns here on Monday nights.

Red shoes so red that even my brown-clad Franciscan friar-friends comment on their shiny red brilliance (above).

Ellen and Andres (above).

Strawberries at the Eastern Market in SE D.C. (above).

Eating Eric’s bread and drinking tea on Anna and Eric’s couch.

Mugs with a travel theme.

The poetry of Wendell Berry & Billy Collins (amongst other notables).

Reading feminist liberation theology, especially this lovely lady.

Hugs that are not wimpy.

When the sun comes out for three days in a row.

Listening to Christmas mixed CDs from three of my best friends.

That there is a whole day devoted to telling those you love that you love them. And you get to do it with chocolate and pretty paper.

Peace is with you immediately.

It’s a beautiful day, although it is February, and February and I–well, we don’t have the simplest of relationships. We most often quarrel. And February, the shortest month–and so you might think, the weakest–usually wins, quite effectively.

But this year, we are getting along just fine. February brings me snow and sleet and rain just about once a week, but then it brings me these sunny days most unexpectedly, and so, I can’t help but be glad.

For light, my friends, would not be half as significant without the dark. And joy would mean nothing without despair.

And this is what I am learning, slowly. And we’re almost nearing the end of winter. But until April turns her lovely head toward us, I am doing just fine. I hope you are as well.

There is something glorious, I am finding, in this time of quiet, this time when the earth dies to us. The natural world refuses to be conquered by humanity, and runs Her course. I love to notice how the trees bend with each snowfall. They are thin and bare, yet they are strong. For every one that snaps, hundreds of others are able to remain standing. They will bear beautiful things shortly. But they understand the process: birth, growth & thriving, aging, and death. And they keep it going, year after year. There is nothing unusual or sad about this. This is life. And it is beautiful. And exists and continues without our permission.

And so, February is fine. And expected. And necessary.

And spring will come. But regardless, all is (and will be) well.

“If you want peace, peace is with you immediately.”

-Thich Nhat Hanh

MK

“The ring around the moon last night
Was caused by the refraction of moon-light
From the crystals of silver, crunchy ice
I thought I’d call
To say I think you’re nice.

“Some things are better sung than said
I’d like to walk around in your beautiful head
To dangle solar-systems above your wicker bed
All I am is a woman.”

-”Woman,” Alessi’s Ark

Revolution Bread

This post is inspired by two dear friends and siblings: Alicia and David. Alicia inspired the bread and David, the writing (I know, I have been lagging lately).  :)

So this is the recipe for Alicia’s Revolution Bread. She did not give it that title, but I am entitling it thus because when I bake this bread and eat it warm with honey, I can’t help but think of her. And because Alicia, with her curly head and warm smile, has always spelled revolution to me. The intentional practices in my life that have taken me years to come to, she changed in her own without a second thought.

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you (Phil 4:8-9).

This passage reminds me of my free-spirited and compassionate friend who has lived all over the world, sowing seeds of justice where ever she lands. And now for her bread recipe.

Revolution Bread Recipe:

4 cups whole wheat flour

4 cups bread flour

2 & 2/3 cup water

2 packets dry active yeast

½ cup vegetable oil

½ cup honey, molasses, maple syrup or 3 tbsp sugar

½ cup nonfat dried milk

2 ½ tsp salt

Put water in bowl, add yeast, dissolve. Add syrup and whole wheat flour. Beat well, 200 strokes. Sit for 45 minutes. Add oil, salt and dried milk. Add bread flour (2 cups at a time). Knead on floured surface for 7 minutes. Place in large oiled bowl and turn to coat. Cover with clean towel. Let rise in a warm place until doubled. (1-2 hours). Punch down dough, divide in 2 equal pieces. Place in 2 greased 9 x 5 x 3- inch loaf pans. Cover and let rise for 45 minutes. Preheat oven to 350°F. Bake 35 minutes. Tent lightly with foil after 20 minutes.

(Best when eaten warm with honey & coffee on a snowy February morning.)

Enjoy.

how exactly good it is.

It is 10:34 in the morning on a Wednesday. I woke up at 7 and went for a run through the slippery, slushy back streets of Brighton. Most of the snow has turned to brown ice, which isn’t conducive to smooth travels (especially when you’re a klutz). We are supposed to acquire another good 12 inches tonight. I have yet to be dismayed. Living near a pond and a baby forest makes the iciness more bearable. Every now and again I spot a small squirrel scuttling across the snow and it makes me laugh. Nature hasn’t completely gone to rest for the winter. Here is a poem by my man Wendell Berry and a recipe that I am coveting…

Chandler Pond

The Cold

How exactly good it is
to know myself
in the solitude of winter,

my body containing its own
warmth, divided from all
by the cold; and to go

separate and sure
among the trees cleanly
divided, thinking of you

perfect too in your solitude,
your life withdrawn into
your own keeping

–to be clear, poised
in perfect self-suspension
toward you, as though frozen.

And having known fully the
goodness of that, it will be
good also to melt.

tribute to an old friend.

“Take these stars from my crown
Let the years fall down
Lay me out in firelight
Let my skin feel the night.”

-Jewel

white fluff and over-zealous heaters.

Our heater is spastic. Occasionally it will not give off any heat at all, and icicles will form on the inside of my window. I have been writing cryptic messages to myself in the ice. And then, all of a spontaneous sudden, it will blast hot air through the vent directly above my head, and I will wake up sweating, imagining myself in the tropics.

But alas, I am not in the tropics. I am in Brighton, Massachusetts, where the low yesterday was -1°, and my roommate thought she had the first degree of frostbite after going for a morning walk in her jeans and heavy winter coat.

I am in Massachusetts, and surrounded by stacks of library books so ominous that I am thanking God that we don’t have earthquakes here.

It is the end of January, a time of the year that usually gives me grief, but for some reason, this time it isn’t quite so bad as last year. I have been running through the slippery streets, still covered with heaping piles of ice and slushy snow, and popping Vitamin D, and I still haven’t succumbed to mitten-wearing.

Gosh, I hate those things. They are so silly. So then I will be walking down the street, no mittens in sight, and I will answer my phone, and attempt to have a conversation by switching the hand my phone is in every two minutes, since I will very quickly lose feeling in that hand. I don’t recommend this.

What I do recommend, however, is drinking hot chocolate with just the slightest hint of whipped cream vodka. This is a luxury item that I would perhaps never purchase for myself, by my dear friend Lis dropped some in my cocoa when we watched the Packers/Bears game on Sunday, and it was delightful.

Anywho. Off I go, to convince myself to get out from under these covers and to read Mark’s gospel. Happy Tuesday.

But how do you wait for heaven?

“But how do you wait for heaven?
And who has that much time?
And how do you keep your feet on the ground
When you know that you were born,
You were born to fly.

-Sara Evans, “Born to Fly”

Crystal Cove, CA

It’s good to be back in this place, although it is a little hard to imagine that one week ago, I was the person in that picture, running along the Pacific Coast on a particularly delightful 75 degree Friday. My mom and I ventured to Crystal Cove for lunch at the Beachcomber Café, one of our favorite little places. The weather was beautiful, the ocean was warm, and I enjoyed my last bacon cheeseburger before declaring complete vegetarianism (I have decided that I am the all-or-nothing sort.) What more could anyone ask for?

Fittingly, then, I experienced what most would consider summertime weather before flying back to the arctic tundra that is currently Boston, Massachusetts. (And our teetering, mucky snow piles will only be more weighed down after tomorrow’s, Sunday’s and Tuesday’s impending snowfalls). Never mind, though: it is good to be back.

Being home in Orange County is always a strange reality. I find myself struggling to understand the sharp discrepancies between the Jesuit Catholicism that has become so dear and familiar to me in the past few years and the more “conservative” brand that is so akin to the place where I grew up.

I have been struggling with my own self-righteousness lately. I am seeking not to label the things that I disagree with as being too “conservative,” or “close-minded,” or “ignorant.” I am praying for humility (a prayer of old), but I am afraid that I have a long way to go before I am able to approach the people and beliefs that I don’t understand or agree with with compassion, tolerance and respect. It is ironic, isn’t it? That the thing I wish for the most is peace, and yet my mind and heart are still so closed?

I sometimes wonder what Dorothy Day would say, or MLK, or Gandhi… about how to affect change and peace when there are so many who defy these things? How to talk to those who disagree with us in a way that does not tear them down, but strives to help them to understand? That it is our greatest mission and responsibility to love one another, despite our brokennesses, despite our uglinesses?

But these are all questions that many people has asked, for a very long time. So I don’t plan to answer them tonight. Tonight I am simply grateful to be here once more, despite the snow, slush and frigid temperatures (and the biscotti that I am pretty sure I just ruined in my attempts to make it “healthy”). I’ll get back to the questions after some sleep. Tomorrow is another chance to do better.

home sweet home.

backyard

Whensoever I return here, to the land of lilting ocean-inspired folk melodies, palm trees adorned with twinkling Christmas lights, and persistent seagulls that make their rounds like clockwork through the blue (slightly smoggy) sky, it occurs to me that I grew up in a place that wouldn’t make much sense to those who have never been here.

In Fountain Valley, California, 65 degrees in January is considered cold. When it rains, flashing red ALERTs pop up on the weather channel; people carry umbrellas that resemble small, mobile homes–shielding themselves from the slightest pitter-patter of moisture.

The more I visit home, the more out of place I must appear, running barefoot on wet pavement and through muddy puddles in the middle of the park. That girl is off her rocker, is, I am sure, a common whispered sentiment as I pass: muddy, wet, sweating. For the first few days I am here, I barely carry a cardigan. And then I remember my roots, and appropriately gather my defenses as I approach the frigid 60 degree temperatures.

The more I visit home, the more I realize how much I have grown to appreciate and love the eastern United States. But I simultaneously find myself embracing the generous expanse of skyline that is only to be found in the west. And the warmer nights, and foggy mornings. The way it feels to zip down the 405 late in the evening, when all of the commuters have long gone to sleep, and the music from the stereo drowns out the passings cars.

I often talk about driving when I talk about California. Especially when I talk about Los Angeles. Many bemoan the LA traffic. And like all eco-friendly 20-somethings, I too wish for a solution to such pollution and unnecessary energy usage. At the same time, I find that there is nothing else like speeding (under 80, of course) down the highway with something wonderful on the radio. At night or during the day. Down PCH, down Santa Monica Boulevard, down the San Diego freeway into the hills of LA county. California is a land of many small populated desert islands. For now, we drive to find one another in all our spread-out, distant places.

I do love it here. And one day, when I have tired of my claustrophobic city-living, and the east coast springtime, and the red deciduous trees that I am so fond of, I will most certainly return here. To the land that Ginger and Fred danced in, the land that boasts 840 miles of coastline, the strange desert/ocean/mountainous land  where once I had my first kiss in a small white Jeep Cherokee, and learned how to swim in the ocean, and hiked Yosemite Falls.

Till then, j’taime, lovely California. Au revoir.

windswept jellybeans

Huntington Beach, CA