Mary Grace was born February 6, 2008 in the Netherlands. Her American parents, Adam and Amber, invited a spiritually diverse circle to nurture Gracie as Godparents, including myself. The family are involved in a community in Amsterdam called the Netherlands Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. This past winter the NUUF decided as a church community to give Gracie a welcoming gift in the form of a donation to her favorite children's charity. Gracie's family chose Hands to Hearts International, a worthy cause for whom I volunteered in HHI's founding years. As a massage therapist herself, Amber is particularly inspired by the powerful effect of therapeutic touch for these babies who do not have such a loving circle of providers. And I think Gracie enjoys the massage techniques highlighted on the recently-created HHI DVD!
On June 1, NUUF announced the recipient of this special donation on behalf of Mary Grace. It so happens that on the same day, the church fellowship had special visitors from Portland: Mark and Carol from the First Unitarian Church in Portland. Mark and Carol are dear friends of mine and knew about my involvement with HHI. But perhaps they didn't know how HHI was being mentioned that day in the Netherlands: that it was my Godchild being honored with such a gift. What an incredible coincidence! We are so privileged and blessed to have such loving connections around the world: on that June day they were visiting Amsterdam, Gracie's family was vacationing in Greece with Godmother Elizabeth; Godmother Teresa was living in Japan; other Godparents were sending love from America; and the Netherlands Unitarian Universalist Fellowship was honoring Mary Grace with the gift of love for children in India!
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Food
The following is an excerpt of an interview of Winona LaDuke in YES! Magazine. LaDuke is one of my biggest sheroes and I am very excited to move back to Minnesota and be nearer to her wisdom/action. I like what she says here about work, food, and celebration.
"Sarah van Gelder: Can you tell me about how wild rice is harvested?
Winona LaDuke: We go up on the lake and we put our asemaa, our tobacco, on it. My son is my ricing partner, and we canoe through our rice beds. I used to push him, but he got too big, so now he pushes me out there, and I knock rice into the canoe with two sticks.
The rice grows on our lakes and rivers—some is fat and some skinny, some short, some tall. Some grows in muddy waters, some looks like a bottle brush, and some looks all punked out. That’s called biodiversity. It means not all the rice ripens at once. Some gets knocked off by wind. Some gets a blight, some doesn’t get a blight. The Irish potato famine should have taught us that agricultural monoculture is dangerous—but so is a social monoculture (or you could say, mall-culture).
The anthropologists used to come out and watch us manoominike—harvest the rice. After we rice in the morning, we bring our rice in and let it dry. We parch it over a fire, and we dance on it to get the hulls off, and then winnow it in a basket. We pretty much do the same thing today using wood fires as we’ve always done—we’re an intermediate technology people.
Ojibwe is a language of 8,000 verbs. The word for “work” is a strange construct for us. It doesn’t mean we aren’t a hard-working people, but in our language, the word is anokii, which means that whether you are fishing or weaving a basket, what you are doing is living—which is not the same thing as being paid a wage to do something.
After the harvest, we have a big feast, and we dance and tell stories. The anthropologists watched us, and they didn’t like that. They said we would never become civilized because we enjoyed our harvest too much. We did too much dancing, too much singing.
When you no longer enjoy your relationship to your food, to your plant relatives, to the harvest, to the dancing and singing—when you end up with a harvest that has no relationships or joy, I think that must be the mark of civilization and industrialized agriculture."
"Sarah van Gelder: Can you tell me about how wild rice is harvested?
Winona LaDuke: We go up on the lake and we put our asemaa, our tobacco, on it. My son is my ricing partner, and we canoe through our rice beds. I used to push him, but he got too big, so now he pushes me out there, and I knock rice into the canoe with two sticks.
The rice grows on our lakes and rivers—some is fat and some skinny, some short, some tall. Some grows in muddy waters, some looks like a bottle brush, and some looks all punked out. That’s called biodiversity. It means not all the rice ripens at once. Some gets knocked off by wind. Some gets a blight, some doesn’t get a blight. The Irish potato famine should have taught us that agricultural monoculture is dangerous—but so is a social monoculture (or you could say, mall-culture).
The anthropologists used to come out and watch us manoominike—harvest the rice. After we rice in the morning, we bring our rice in and let it dry. We parch it over a fire, and we dance on it to get the hulls off, and then winnow it in a basket. We pretty much do the same thing today using wood fires as we’ve always done—we’re an intermediate technology people.
Ojibwe is a language of 8,000 verbs. The word for “work” is a strange construct for us. It doesn’t mean we aren’t a hard-working people, but in our language, the word is anokii, which means that whether you are fishing or weaving a basket, what you are doing is living—which is not the same thing as being paid a wage to do something.
After the harvest, we have a big feast, and we dance and tell stories. The anthropologists watched us, and they didn’t like that. They said we would never become civilized because we enjoyed our harvest too much. We did too much dancing, too much singing.
When you no longer enjoy your relationship to your food, to your plant relatives, to the harvest, to the dancing and singing—when you end up with a harvest that has no relationships or joy, I think that must be the mark of civilization and industrialized agriculture."
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
A Rural Life
I grew up on the plains of the "bread basket of the world", "the heartland", near the center of the North American continent. 
The region was considered "frontier", to be settled and farmed by Euro- Americans, in the early 1800's. Nebraska became a state in 1867. Virtually no unbroken land remains, although the open skies of Nebraska are breathtakingly beautiful.
Hokkaido, perhaps more similar to Alaska, could still be called "frontier". Many farming settlers arrived in the early 1900's, and more continue to move here in search of open space. Hokkaido became a full-fledged prefecture in 1947. Vast amounts of the island are untouched.
In applying for programs with which to move abroad, I hoped for a rural placement. After living in the dense city center of Portland for nearly eight years, I missed seeing the horizon. I wanted clean air, fresh water, local produce, places to hike, and outdoor adventure. I got all of what I wished for, and it has been a remarkable experience.
In Autumn my shelves were stocked with a bounty of fresh vegetables, both familiar and foreign. We hiked and explored.
In Winter the snow filled the ditches three meters deep. Crystalline ice sanctified the forest.
Spring began with violent crashes of melting snow falling from my roof. Then the fields were planted, painstakingly by hand. Rice fields mirrored the volcanic mountains.
And, oh, Summer! The forests are exploding with green foliage, and sounding a cacophonous symphony of unseen creatures. Thunder crashes and sheets of rain threaten to push me from my bicycle. Flowers abound. Every weekend is filled with visiting friends, camping adventures, and promise.
The region was considered "frontier", to be settled and farmed by Euro- Americans, in the early 1800's. Nebraska became a state in 1867. Virtually no unbroken land remains, although the open skies of Nebraska are breathtakingly beautiful.Hokkaido, perhaps more similar to Alaska, could still be called "frontier". Many farming settlers arrived in the early 1900's, and more continue to move here in search of open space. Hokkaido became a full-fledged prefecture in 1947. Vast amounts of the island are untouched.
In applying for programs with which to move abroad, I hoped for a rural placement. After living in the dense city center of Portland for nearly eight years, I missed seeing the horizon. I wanted clean air, fresh water, local produce, places to hike, and outdoor adventure. I got all of what I wished for, and it has been a remarkable experience.
In Autumn my shelves were stocked with a bounty of fresh vegetables, both familiar and foreign. We hiked and explored.
In Winter the snow filled the ditches three meters deep. Crystalline ice sanctified the forest.
Spring began with violent crashes of melting snow falling from my roof. Then the fields were planted, painstakingly by hand. Rice fields mirrored the volcanic mountains.
And, oh, Summer! The forests are exploding with green foliage, and sounding a cacophonous symphony of unseen creatures. Thunder crashes and sheets of rain threaten to push me from my bicycle. Flowers abound. Every weekend is filled with visiting friends, camping adventures, and promise.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
The Story of Sai`s Horse
"Ningen banji saiou ga uma" is a Japanese proverb, literally translated as "All human affairs are like Saiou's horse". It means, "One can never know what will prove to be lucky or unlucky". The meaning came from a Chinese folk tale about an old man called Sai. Here is the story:
Once upon a time, an old man, Sai, lived near the Chinese Northern Fort. One day his horse ran away. His neighbors commiserated with him over his misfortune, but Sai said "How do you know this is not really good luck?". A few days later the horse returned, bringing another horse with it. However when his neighbors congratulated him on his good luck, the old man said "How do you know this is really good luck?" Sure enough, some while later Sai's son fell while riding the horse, and broke his leg. However this turned out to be good fortune when all the young men of the village were ordered to join the Emperor's army. Sai's son didn't have to go since he had a broken leg.
This year in Japan I have experienced great fortune and incredible bad luck. I am placed in a lovely town, centrally located on an astoundingly beautiful island, with clean air and fresh produce. Unfortunately, my town is far enough from the ocean that I have only been to visit those life-giving waters ONCE in the year. I was lucky to inherit a car from my predecessor, only to see it totaled one month after purchase. My pre-existing medical situation was a big worry, but allowed me to travel to the lovely city of Sapporo regularly for doctor's checkups and shopping. I received enough income from my work to afford the luxury of a vacation in delicious Thailand, enjoyed our time there immensely, and at the end of the trip became seriously injured in a scooter accident. My job challenges me to visit dozens of schools all over the region, which allows me the pleasure to drive through incredible mountainous forests and meet hundreds of beautiful children. After one year in Japan, I have been blessed to arrive with my patient and resourceful partner, with whom I can depart calling my fiancee. We will build our lives strengthened and, at times amused, by the memories of this remarkable year abroad.
Once upon a time, an old man, Sai, lived near the Chinese Northern Fort. One day his horse ran away. His neighbors commiserated with him over his misfortune, but Sai said "How do you know this is not really good luck?". A few days later the horse returned, bringing another horse with it. However when his neighbors congratulated him on his good luck, the old man said "How do you know this is really good luck?" Sure enough, some while later Sai's son fell while riding the horse, and broke his leg. However this turned out to be good fortune when all the young men of the village were ordered to join the Emperor's army. Sai's son didn't have to go since he had a broken leg.
This year in Japan I have experienced great fortune and incredible bad luck. I am placed in a lovely town, centrally located on an astoundingly beautiful island, with clean air and fresh produce. Unfortunately, my town is far enough from the ocean that I have only been to visit those life-giving waters ONCE in the year. I was lucky to inherit a car from my predecessor, only to see it totaled one month after purchase. My pre-existing medical situation was a big worry, but allowed me to travel to the lovely city of Sapporo regularly for doctor's checkups and shopping. I received enough income from my work to afford the luxury of a vacation in delicious Thailand, enjoyed our time there immensely, and at the end of the trip became seriously injured in a scooter accident. My job challenges me to visit dozens of schools all over the region, which allows me the pleasure to drive through incredible mountainous forests and meet hundreds of beautiful children. After one year in Japan, I have been blessed to arrive with my patient and resourceful partner, with whom I can depart calling my fiancee. We will build our lives strengthened and, at times amused, by the memories of this remarkable year abroad.
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