Global Connections

I’m a scientist by temperament and by training. For many years, I worked as a biologist in a pharmaceutical company. Our research department had a sister department located in Japan. Because of this partnership, our lab had a series of visiting scientists from Japan. They were always young people, with a spouse and perhaps with a fledgling family, trying to fit into this foreign place. Since science is internationally interwoven, we had visiting scientists from other countries as well: Australia, Brazil, England, France, Spain, Switzerland, Sweden. They would stay here for perhaps two years, and then return to their own labs in their own countries.

Halloween is a traditional American holiday. It can easily appear silly to people from other cultures. They just don’t quite get it. So every Halloween, my housemate and I would invite the visiting scientists and their families to our home to carve pumpkins. We’d also invite a couple of Americans and their children, to create a balance of experience and bafflement. We’d all sit on the floor throughout the house, newspapers spread in front of us, fresh pumpkins at hand with more on the lawn outside, and tea candles ready next to the front door. We’d start to carve our first pumpkin.

You know, if you’ve ever carved a pumpkin, that it can be a gooey mess. If you’re from another culture, like Japan’s, where food and body are kept very clean and very separate from each other, pumpkin carving could appear completely puzzling, intimidating even. But all of our guests politely started, regardless of inner turmoil, watching nearby friends for clues. The experienced carvers would offer witty advice wherever necessary, and generous encouragement to cautious skeptics.

Imagine the surprise and dismay of opening your first pumpkin and looking down into all that pale orange mess, the strings, the seeds, the oddity of it, the slippery randomness of it. Imagine reaching your hand in and feeling the slime and the endlessness of those inner curves. But looking around, others are doing the same thing, talking and laughing, so you bravely move forward, scooping out the seeds, scraping out the strings, cleaning out your hollow. Okay, now what?  Draw a face??  A scary face???

The first set of jack o’ lanterns are simple and a bit awkward. Two eyes, a mouth, sometimes with teeth, maybe a nose. As each person finishes his pumpkin, he stands up, carries it to the front door, inserts a tea candle, sets the pumpkin in the garden outside, and lights the candle.

Night is falling, and slowly the garden fills with jack o’ lanterns. The candles softly glow, brightly, then even more brightly against the darkening backdrop. The Japanese eyes fill with delight.  The French man grins and scurries off to get his next pumpkin. The Australian scrutinizes the others’ handiwork and tackles his next globe with blooming creativity. The carved faces become haunted, or lecherous, or jeering. Carved flames leap from mouth corners; carved eyes glower. The jack o’ lanterns are no longer consigned to the lawn; now they’re lurking behind rocks, gaping up from under a bush, cackling down from a tree branch.

The transformation is complete, for pumpkins and humans alike. We gather with hot apple cider and wander around the garden, delighted. My Finnish friend puts her arm around my shoulder and says delightedly, “Now I understand Halloween. Now I get it.”

So here I am on the spiritual path.  I have arrived at the party and understand portions of what I’m encouraged to do.  I look around at people I trust and admire, and pay attention to the example they set.  I’m learning that the way to learn is to do.  I’m delving into my pumpkins, each and every one of them, creating the most magnificent jack o’ lanterns that I can.  And I trust that by the time I’m standing in the garden, sipping hot apple cider, watching the glowing faces around me, I will understand why God is expending so much energy to create us, waiting for us to search for Him, and then helping us to find Him.

Irrigation for Camano Summers

I've always thought that the Pacific Northwest had rain all year round. Maybe rain used to fall during the summer season; it doesn't seem to now. Global warming is inching its way up our coast, parching our little farm on Camano Island, a hop, skip, and a jump south of the Canadian border.

We started transplanting all of our flower and veggie seedlings in April, right after our last-frost date, starting with our cold-hardy varieties of onions, lettuces, and cresses. We plowed right along on our transplanting schedule, populating more and more beds with their tiny populace.

And then, the rains stopped early. With thousands of fragile seedlings taking their first breaths in their new beds, we spent hours each week hand-watering those beds. With the beds stretching long, the seedlings raising skinny arms to the sun, and hoses thick and heavy, we teamed waterers with hose managers to navigate the delicate edges of each planting bed.

We had calculated another month before the rains stopped, and so found ourselves suddenly behind on our irrigation-building plan. We shifted gears and, in between hand-watering and transplanting, we built our irrigation systems.

Wobbler warriors.

They were twofold. We needed overhead watering for the tiny seedlings to supplement the main system of drip tapes. Once the seedlings grew large enough, we could abandon overhead watering for the more efficient drip watering. We used wobblers for overhead systems, four wobblers to cover each planting section. We set them up for manual management, since we wouldn't use them for long. 

Connecting drip tape.

Happy seedings. Happy plants.

Separately, we stretched drip tape along the extent of each bed, four tapes for the wider beds, three or even two tapes for the narrower beds. 

Wobblers and drip tape, both.

All of the drip systems are on timers, five timers in all. It's too easy to forget to turn off a sprinkler, or even to turn it on in the first place. With summer drought on our horizon, timers ensured that everyone would have enough water to thrive. Sun, water, good soil, healthy seedlings; a successful formula.

Each timer gets its own post. Prashama is a strong post-pounder.

Then our water pump gave out. We noticed lower and lower water pressure whenever we were hand watering. Drips were smaller and less frequent, all along every drip tape. Our showers dribbled; our washing machine stalled; our water bottles filled languidly.

Then it all stopped. We had no water.

Upon consultation with our cooperative-farm directors, we stretched four, long hoses from the neighboring pump house and hooked it into our water-supply line. Upon consultation with several well-professionals, we eventually replaced our 18-month-old water pump with a new pump. The well-wizzard also hauled an impressive pile of metal debris out of our well, clearing the space for the new pump.

The flower beds under the summer sun.

Thriving.

We continued borrowing our neighbors' water for a few more weeks for the gardens, while our well supplied our household water. We were finally able to switch to our well exclusively, and fingers crossed, we've made it through the drought summer. We still need to install a pressure tank to protect our water pump from all those dripping tapes come next summer, but that's another story for another day.

Planting Seedlings Early, Late, and Just in Time

There are times when two people cannot contribute enough hands to get the job done. We were extraordinarily blessed in the spring of 2021, when our friend, Dora, offered to come and help us get our planting beds up and running.

Dora at the prana table.

There were a few preliminary projects. We had to remove the bird netting, roll it up, tying each bundle securely, and stashing them away. Ditto for the landscape fabric, the twine, the fabric staples, the rocks, the branches.

Our hard work paid off.

As we unzipped each bed, it seemed clear that our over-wintering strategy had worked. The beds were pretty much weed-free. We scattered some soil supplements and tilthed the top layer of compost, mixing everything together easily and neatly.

We had two types of seedling trays. We had set our sights on using a paperpot transplanter that we had inherited from a friend. In theory, we could transplant 256 seedlings in less than a minute. I had used it successfully in another garden and was enthusiastic about our success in getting all of our transplants into their beds.

Unfortunately, the straw underlayment had not broken down completely. It caught in the furrower of the transplanter, and hiccuped our progress into frustration and despair. Luckily, Dora and Dambara were able to persevere, and they got all of the paperpot seedlings into the ground.

We also had 50-cell tray seedings. Each seedling went into the ground as we scooted our way down the beds. With three of us scooting, we were able to get all of these seedlings into the ground as well.

We up-potted many of the seedlings, to allow them to gain size and resiliency before going into the ground. Especially the sprawlers, the squashes and cucumbers, would benefit by being older when they went into the ground, when the days and nights were warmer.

The veggie beds, a month into transplanting.

The three of us got it all done. But we had adversaries: one pint-sized and a trillion pea-sized.

The robin who owned our veggie meadow delighted in pulling up our fragile seedlings. He didn't eat them; he merely pulled and dropped them, gasping, at the cusp of their former lodging. He did this over and over, and we determinedly followed after him, replanting the gasping youngsters.

It was the trillions that worked faster than we could. Pill bugs. Trillions of them. They had overwintered, snug as a bug in a rug, under our brilliant solution of landscape fabric, feasting our our brilliant solutions of straw, compost, and wood chips.

We lost 90% of our onions, shallots, and leeks, and most of our spinach and lettuces. There were trillions of them. They didn't care for cilantro or arugula, asparagus or carrots, so we had many successes, too.

Flourishing flower beds.

Researching strategies for combatting pill bugs: Eliminate all decaying straw, wood, and compost. Well. Then we'd be back to native soil, so those strategies won't help. Spraying: Not part of our farming strategy. The one that would work: Transplanting older seedlings so they can outgrow the munch rate of the pillbug hordes. I'm thinking it will also help if we eliminate the winter covering of landscape fabric. That's a happy thought, since keeping the fabric in place was a huge pain last winter.

Transplanting older seedlings also eliminates the paperpot transplanter. That's actually okay, too, since that allows us to use straw again this winter to help further build our soil.

So. We learned a lot. We accomplished a lot. We conquered a lot. And if it hadn't been for Dora, it wouldn't have happened. Dora saved our spring and our farming year. Thank you, thank you, Dora. You are a jewel.

A jewel of a friend.

Tranquility.

Sowing Seeds to Build Our Farm

We were lucky enough to order our seeds in November, 2020. We had moved through the fearful covid year, with hope dawning in the new year. It was easy to think expansively.

I've grown plenty of veggies in my tenure as gardener, so those seeds were easy. And fun. I've not grown flowers, not many anyway, and only landscape flowers; never cut flowers.

Our main source of inspiration came from Floret Farm. They are only about 45 minutes from our farm, so what worked for them would surely grow on our farm as well. We downloaded their recommendations for the best cut flowers: Focals, spikes, disks, fillers, and airs. We ordered almost all of our seeds from Johnny's and some from Osborne. They all arrived promptly, and I promptly entered overwhelm.

So many seeds! So many varieties! So many colors, heights, support needs, germination times, dates-to-maturity times. I couldn't wrap my mind around it all.

Luckily, I'm a whiz with excel spreadsheets. I painstakingly entered all the relevant information about germination times, transplant-before-last-frost times, heights, and quantities. I let excel do all of the date calculations for me, and then I transferred the varieties onto another spreadsheet organized by weekly, calendar dates.

Everything fell into place. On the biggest sowing week at the end of February, I would have to sow 15 varieties. Other weeks would demand sowing of 5 or 6 varieties. With 7 days in a week, we would have to sow 2 varieties per day during that big week. Most weeks would need only 1 or 2 sowing days. This plan was completely feasible.

Every variety was new to me.

It was feasible in theory, and low and behold, it was also feasible in reality. Joyfully feasible. With our new greenhouse sheltering the growing expanse of seedling trays, my heart grew and expanded. As the seeds germinated, and the tiny seedlings lifted their faces to the warm sun filtering through the greenhouse panels, my heart quite simply exploded.

We opened the greenhouse doors every morning, helping the air stay cool under the spring sun. We closed it every night, helping the air stay still and safe under the spring moon. We watered the trays, seedlings dancing and jostling under the gentle spray. We pinched off stray weed seedlings. We started succession sowings of the seasonal powerhouses, both veggie and flower.

The window vents open and close automatically, according to air temperature.

Our plan was working. Our greenhouse was working. The sun was working. The seedlings were working. Our farm was beginning.

Our self portrait.

A Greenhouse to Withstand the Winds

Creating a small-scale farm in the Pacific Northwest requires creating a greenhouse. The cold of winter lingers. The chill of spring lingers. Then the warmth of summer hits full force, with long days and temperate nights, and then all too soon, the cool of fall descends, and another farming season coasts to an end.

A greenhouse lets us start seeds early, early, early. We can get seedlings going and keep them happy in the daytime warmth of a greenhouse for several weeks. Once we pass our last-frost date, these happy seedlings can go into the ground and turn their faces to the warming sun and burst into serious chlorophyll production.

Original greenhouse site, by the blue tarp.

We had originally planned to build our greenhouse down by the veggie beds. We wanted it to be a pretty greenhouse, so nestled amongst the veggie beds, we would see it whenever we glanced out our windows. And it would be right there! Short trip from greenhouse to planting beds. Made so much sense.

But our planting beds are bordered by mature trees. We realized that the greenhouse would be in the shade by 2:00 in the afternoon during the spring months, those all-important months when the fragile seedlings would need all the light and warmth the greenhouse could muster.

Improved greenhouse site; flat and sunny.

So we changed plans midstream. We relocated the greenhouse site up near our shop, where the ground was super level, and the trees were a considerable distance to the east and west. Our pretty greenhouse would greet friends and neighbors when they came to visit. We could still see it from our windows; we just had to peer a bit.

We have considerable winds on our island. Two or three times a year, storms can bring winds that howl across our property at 50-60 mph. We also get a little snow, so snow load could be a factor. We chose a model that was sturdy enough to withstand our winds and shaped to slough snow.

It was expensive, about $5,000. But I just happened to land an editing gig that would cover the cost. We took the plunge. We had to have a greenhouse if we wanted successful planting beds, and the universe gave us the means to procure the perfect one. We clapped our hands with glee.

We drove two hours to pick up our new greenhouse and they piled and stacked and wedged it into our 20-foot RV. It came in flat packages. It barely fit inside our RV. It had thousands of screws and hundreds of pieces, and they all had to go together just so.

The instruction booklet was sparse and vague. The instructional videos weren't very instructional. We're not builders, but we're pretty clever. We got it figured out, and we finally, finally got it built.

Gravel and crushed-stone pad

Help from our friends.

A ways to go.

The marketing information claimed that two people could build the greenhouse in two days. It took us all of January. ALL of January. We laid down gravel. We laid down crushed rock. We scrutinized, read, videoed, experimented, put together, took apart, climbed ladders, scooted on our knees. One of us came to tears several times. One of us stayed calm and cheerful. We persevered, and we finally, finally got it built.

Thousands of screws, with tension pulling in several directions.

Light at the end of the tunnel.

Our farm cooperative, gathering to ooohh and aaahh.

Busily growing seedlings.

Never, never have I ever, ever had such a wonderful venue for sowing seeds, peering at germination, watering seedlings, crooning, and grinning. The greenhouse made our farm possible. I am in joyful love with our pretty, enduring, nurturing greenhouse.

Ready to grow a farm.

Flower Beds

As we finished up the planting beds that we laid out in the pasture to the west of our house, I began counting on my fingers. These beds were huge, in my experience, but our list was huge-er. Where would we put the flowers?

An easy glance over our shoulders offered the obvious solution. Our shop was situated on the opposite side of a gully from our house. Between the shop and the gully was a gentle, south-facing slope that was obviously perfect for flower beds. They would get so much sun. We would see them from our windows. They were right next to the shop, which housed our tools. There were two water-hydrants already in place. It was obvious.

The obvious choice.

I was at a loss as to how to orient the flower beds. How wide? Which direction? How many? I brainstormed with friends and husband, staring at the slope from our deck, imagining. It wasn't obvious.

Then, one sunny winter day, I walked along the slope, along the edge of the shop, along the driveway. I got out some stakes, twine, and a hand sledge and started marking off a pathway along the shop, wide enough for frequent foot and cart traffic. I marked off the slant of the gorge, the stretch of driveway, the most direct route between house and shop. It all became obvious.

We could fit nine beds on that slope, 45 feet long, which echoed the length of our first set of beds, and 3 feet wide, for ease of flower harvesting. The paths could be narrow, since these flowers wouldn't sprawl. We'd trim back the maple tree that did sprawl across the center of our slope. It all took obvious shape.

We ordered more straw and dairy compost and mowed the pasture grasses and weeds that had crammed themselves onto that gentle slope. We dealt out the compacted straw pads, spread 5-6" inches of dairy compost, covered with fabric cloth, bird netting, and zigzagged twine, and stepped back to take a look.

A direct path between house and shop.

Laying down straw, topping with compost.

The diagonal layout dictated by the gorge left a large, empty triangle next to the driveway. We could put perennials there.

We spread cardboard, burlap bags, and wood chips, and left the flower beds to work on their winter steeping.

Fabric, netting, and burlap in place for the winter.

Wood-chip paths and tilthed beds in the spring.

The triangle bed completes the layout.

With 14 veggie beds steeping to the west of the house and 10 flower beds steeping on the shop's slope, we were ready for spring.

Sheltering in Place

Last fall, we brought home some bulbs to plant in anticipation for spring blooms. There were some hurdles between then and now, including renovating the house so we could move in, then further renovation to bring out its beauty, then stormy weather, then missing power cords, then traveling to Jerusalem, so the bulbs never made it into the ground.

They were finally planted in some empty celery boxes, which work perfectly, since the boxes are waxed and can stand up to extended moisture. All of the daffodils fit into three boxes, and the tulips went into a fourth box, with the remaining tulips finding a cozy, dank, dark home at the base of our still-potted apple trees.

The boxes of blooms sit in sunny spots, protected from strong winds, waiting it out until next fall, when surely, surely, we'll have the wherewithal to get them into the ground. They are sheltering in place.

Happy crowd

Sheltering in place

Our household has been sheltering in place quite cheerfully. We have each other for company and occasionally spend distanced time with the other farmers. From time to time we make forays into town to pick up supplies. We've been learning how to cook foraged food, discovering great recipes as well as the sporadic not-so-great recipe, who enjoys doing which errands or tasks or projects or chores. Some things get done right away. Other things don't need doing, as it turns out.

We've watched favorite movies, jig-sawed a puzzle, painted, weed-whacked, trimmed, sprouted, and attend almost-daily ooh-aahh tours, to admire each others' progress on the things we're discovering that we love to do. Mixed in there is planning a flower farm, writing a book, renovating a neighbor's house, harvesting farm produce, creating a temple, clearing an acre or so of blackberry bramble, uncovering a chicken coop, which is now our bike shed, and a chicken yard, which is now our firewood storage, and a huge hole in the ground, which would make a fabulous duck pond.

We are dreaming and doing and enjoying and being. And we are not alone.

There has been an impressive array of shelter-in-place projects that have flowed across our screens, entertaining and inspiring our fellow humans around the globe.

Juilliard students and alumni put together a stirring rendition of Bolero.

John Krisinkski, AKA Jack Ryan, reports on Some Good News every week.

Hallelujah brings a congregation closer, at a distance.

You can find makeup advise, from England.

Time travel.

Ski adventures on the floor.

An operatic family.

Animals at home in thick, urban jungles.

And balloon dogs.

Hundreds and hundreds more all speak to the fact that we are an amazing species, that we can get through anything, and that the planet will heal itself, whenever we're able to let it.

And because today is today, may the fourth be with you.

Finishing Touches

Years ago, Dambara and I spent 4 weeks in India, on a pilgrimage led by Asha Nayaswami, David Praver, and Durga and Vidura Smallen. About 35 pilgrims traveled around northern India, visiting places mentioned in the Autobiography of a Yogi, central to our spiritual path. We stayed in very nice hotels because it helped all of us recharge at the end of each day to come back to comfortable rooms, fabulous food, and hot showers.

Many of the hotels were luxurious; some were modest. All of them had one common aspect: neglected edges.

One hotel in particular stands out in my memory. We stayed in Badrinath, at the very northern tip of India, a stone's throw from Tibet, for two nights. It was a bone-rattling journey to and from, in jeeps that clattered along a breath-depriving, narrow, dirt road that was vaguely scratched out along the treacherous steepness of the Himalayan mountain sides. We arrived, drained from hours of terror, and checked into our rooms.

The hotel was very high end, with en suite rooms, tall windows, expansive dining room, and beautiful, marble slabs lining all of the walls, everywhere. But the hotel felt neglected to me, unfinished, untidy. It took me a while to realize that it was because all of the edges were unfinished.

Along the hallways, banquet rooms, dining hall, the beautiful marble flowed down the walls to meet the beautiful marble of the expansive floors. The jagged edges of the walls met the jagged edges of the floors, and those jagged junctions were dusted with bits of rubble, grit, and dust. It felt as though the hotel was still under construction, but it had been in operation for two years. It was finished.

Spring blooms, check!

Years earlier, traveling with a friend through Greece, again and again we had to pick our way past rubble scraped up against the side of enormous buildings; banks, office buildings, apartment buildings. Again, it felt like a construction zone, and yet on closer examination, it was obvious that the rubble had lain there for months, perhaps years. The ornate buildings were opulent, gorgeous feats of architecture, with high-end businesses and residences, but the attention to detail ended before it considered the unfinished edges. There they persisted, neglected and ignored.

Baseboards, check!

Edges are an important part of finishing touches. The renovation at Haven West doesn't feel complete until the edges are complete. The beauty and magnetism of the rooms blossom into being with the finishing touches that occur to one or the other of us.

Toast and bread counter, check!

And as the work spaces become more useful, we come across things in drawers or out of boxes that would make that spot prettier or easier to use. It's a work in progress, a creative process.

Outlet plates, check!

 We continue to surprise each other with creativity and thoughtfulness. Form and function cooperate to transform every corner of the house into spaces that we enjoy using, spending time in, sharing friendship and laughter.

It is a wonderful world.

Spice shelves, check!

Asha's Flowers

After the Palo Alto pilgrims left Jerusalem to journey home, Dambara and I were exploring the city around our hotel one morning. We wound our way through one of the street markets, mostly fruits and vegetables and one flower stand. Of course we stopped.

We decided we didn't need any flowers, but wouldn't it be wonderful to bring some flowers back to Asha. We scanned through the numerous varieties, and only one had blue blossoms. Not exactly nayaswami blue, but a nice, violet blue. So we bought one bunch.

They were light to carry, as they swung along in their plastic sheath, safe from bumps and bruises. During the long walk home, we discussed how to deliver them. Should we bring them downstairs to dinner? We could add a bit of water to their bag and hang them on her doorknob. We didn't know her room number. We could get it from the front desk. They might not be allowed to give out guest room numbers. We could call her. She might be in seclusion, recharging between pilgrimages.

So we brought them down to dinner, as the least invasive strategy.

The cafeteria was closed.

There were too few guests in the hotel to warrant opening up the cafeteria buffet, so we ate in the small cafe off the main lobby. Delicious soup. Yummy salad. No Asha.

So the flowers stayed in our hotel room that night.

And the next.

And the next.

When we brought the flowers home, they were tight little buds, perfect for longevity in an elegantly simple vase. Maybe by keeping them longer than expected, it would give them time to blossom into vibrant color. By the time they started to open, their leaves were starting to shrivel slightly along the edges. Plus, they drank a LOT of water, so much so, they spent one afternoon water-free, drooping pathetically around their short, stubby coffee cup, the only vase we had available, completely devoid of elegance.

So they stayed in our room, recovering. Which they did!

They were some kind of poppy-ish flower, with papery petals, long stems, and a burst of leaves just below each blossom, splayed hands announcing "Ta-da". They were a cross between Dr. Seuss and Charlie Brown's Christmas tree. I loved them.

Soon it was too close to the time of our departure for Tiberius, which would create a dilemma for Asha. Should she throw them away or try to carry them through a day of bus travel? I decided I would carry them for Asha. So they stayed in our room, waiting.

I put them back into their plastic sheath, added a half cup of water, and hung them from the back of the bus seat in front of me, Asha's seat, as it happened, and there they swayed along, peering out at the passing country side or dozing in the sun dribbling through the window as the bus waited in successive parking lots while the pilgrims wandered holy sites, listening to Asha whisper in their ears about the spiritual significance of each spectacular church or field or sea.

Finally we and the flowers, shriveled from their sunbathing, arrived at our hotel in Tiberius. As we were waiting for our luggage to trickle out from the depths of the bus's undercarriage, Asha strolled over to smile at us and peer down onto the forlorn flowers peaking, one-eyed, out of their plastic sheath.

"Oh. Huh," she said, politely.

Dambara and I grinned at each other. "These are actually your flowers. We bought them for you last week."

She burst out laughing, appropriately.

"They used to be in better shape, but they were always a bit bedraggled," I explained.

She couldn't stop laughing. "Here are some scrawny flowers for you," she mimicked. "We bought them especially for you."

I should note that Dambara and I were laughing just as much as Asha.

"We were going to leave them on your doorknob, but we didn't know your room number."

"I was in hiding," she admitted.

"We figured as much," I admitted.

"Well, this certainly is a case of it's the thought that counts." She was still laughing,

"Absolutely!" We agreed.

Threading our way through the throng in the hotel lobby, clutched card keys in hand, I ended up sharing the tiny elevator with two, polite Indian men from the pilgrimage. They politely stared at my bag of bedraggled flowers. "They've had a long day of traveling," I smiled. "The bus was a bit hard on them." They nodded politely and smiled politely. "They're Asha's flowers, but I ended up keeping them." They nodded politely. Empathizing. Wise decision, I could hear them politely musing.

I brought the flowers into our hotel room, found them another, non-elegant coffee cup, cut off six inches of their stems, and tucked them into fresh water. They perked right up.

I think they're lovely.

Asha's flowers

Scared, Sacred Teenager

Imagine a teenager, unexpectedly pregnant, yet because of that pregnancy, poised to fulfill a destiny for which she has been trained her entire life. It's easy to imagine her overwhelmed with tumultuous feelings, including anxiety, disbelief, hope, humility, confusion.

The story of Mary goes back even further though, to her mother, Anne. When Anne was pregnant with Mary, she had a vision that her daughter would be the mother of the messiah. When Mary was very young, three or four years old perhaps, Anne brought her to the Essene temple, to be raised specifically in preparation for that future role. The family was part of the Essene community, that portion of the Jewish people who lived in close accordance to the teachings of the Bible, revolving around the prophecy that the messiah was coming; coming soon.

I imagine that many young girls were raised with the possibility that one of them might be the mother of the messiah, so Mary was probably not alone in her training amid fellow students. The idea of becoming the mother of God would have been a familiar theme to her and everyone around her. And yet other young girls and families held the same expectation of possibility. It would have been easy to think, one of us, someday. . .

And then Mary found herself pregnant, a virgin pregnancy, and the focus of the entire community would have turned toward her.

Can you imagine the shyness, confusion, disbelief that would have swept through her, consumed her?

Thus we come to the visit with Elizabeth. Elizabeth was Mary's cousin, so they would have known each other already. Elizabeth was elderly, and she and her husband, Zacharias, were barren. They, too, had visitations telling them of the birth of a son, a long-forgotten hope, a son who would become John the Baptist.

Mary visits Elizabeth

Elizabeth had lived a long life, immersed in the teachings of the Essene community, with plenty of experience, insight, and wisdom gathered over decades. And now, who should come to her, but a frightened, confused, teenaged cousin, who was pregnant with the messiah.

It was here on this hillside, the location of the present-day Church of the Visitation, at Ein Karem, where Mary and Elizabeth met, both pregnant, both miraculously pregnant; one wise, one innocent; trusted cousins with shared beliefs and understandings; both on the precipice of changing the world, through the sons they carried.

Can you imagine the joy and relief, the awe, they both must have felt? Elizabeth would have wrapped Mary in her arms and said, "You can do this! We can do this! This is real, and it's going to be glorious." And Mary might have said, "I'm so scared. I don't know what to do! I'm not worthy." And Elizabeth might have said, "You will be amazing. You have the support of all who love you. For this moment were you born." Elizabeth would have helped ground Mary, helped her find her footing, stabilizing her for the role into which she was stepping.

And so we spent time at the Church of the Visitation, lifted up by the awe of that ancient meeting on this plot of soil, a site venerated for 2000 years, a small chapel welcoming the daily stream of pilgrims, souls come to touch this spark of divinity, this meeting of two women as they wondered at their entwined destiny, clasping each others' hands, looking into each others' eyes, humbled by the wonder of it all.

Mural at the back of the Church of the Visitation

The entrance to the Church of the Visitation

Traveling

The journey to Israel was much easier than expected. The flights went by uneventfully, and we watched some good movies, which always makes an otherwise tedious stretch of inactivity go by more happily.

As Americans, we so often travel only within our own national borders, whether to visit far-flung family, experience the wonders of the national parks, or simply wandering through this vast and varied landscape. I love road trips, and Dambara and I take them often.

Traveling outside the US is a different experience entirely, and it always allows us to glimpse others' realities, which is vitally important in our ever-increasingly polarized world. I am hopeless when it comes to recognizing cultural characterizations. I would never be able to tell you a person's origin, simply by observing their body type, manner of dress, facial qualities, or gestures. And yet midway in our journey yesterday, an opportunity presented itself that I found enchanting.

We had a layover at Heathrow airport of about 4 hours, which gave us plenty of time to sit down and have a meal together. We found a deli-type restaurant with delicious sandwiches and miso soup, and since the seating area at the front of the shop was loud and busy, I explored a second, more sequestered room with a couple dozen tables and settled into a quiet table with our luggage while Dambara waited for our soup.

We were in the restaurant for perhaps 45 minutes, which was enough time for most of the tables around us to fill with patrons, then empty, then fill again, a pleasant, leisurely ebb and flow of fellow travelers. Perhaps because of the secluded nature of this dining room, perhaps because this was Heathrow, perhaps because of the airlines assigned to the nearby gates, for whatever reason, almost everyone who flowed into the room and ebbed away again, were Arabian.

I can't narrow it down any more than that, and can only offer that small piece of information about cultural identity because all of the women wore long black dresses, dresses that gently swept the floor as they moved about, their hair covered by black cloths that flowed around their necks and tucked into their clothing.

The size of the room allowed perhaps 80 or 90 people to be gathered together at any one time, and I was probably the only woman present whose hair was uncovered and wore pants. I dress modestly by nature, but if I had allowed myself, I could have felt quite garish and immodest in that crowd.

But here's the thing. I was struck by the gentleness of the people around me; gentleness, respectful, gracious, softness. The women moved smoothly into the room, settled themselves and their children softly and graciously, murmured together, smiling and serene. The children skipped and pranced away their pent-up energy, but even that was quiet and respectful.

They were wonderfully in sync with each other. As the time came for each family to leave, one person would stand, gather her belongings, and the rest of the family would quietly rise, gather, and gracefully ebb out of the room. Men were there, too, a few here and there, but the women were so enchanting, I can't tell you anything about the men.

Experiences such as this are not available at any of the national parks or urban settings. One can only experience another culture by traveling to where that culture remains intact, ebbing and flowing with rhythms sculpted over centuries. How lucky we are to be able to witness other realities, to feel an inner flow that differs from our own daily lives, and which most likely differs from the image wedged into our imaginations about people who are different from us, and how they must act and live their lives.

We are lucky to have such diversity in our world, our wonderful world, and we are lucky to glimpse even a wisp of that diversity, tucked inside a secluded dining room, surrounded by the busy-ness of a vast, international airport.

Friend Tracks

Dambara delivered another batch of moving boxes a couple of days ago, and we've been going through them, finding new homes for our old stuff in our new home.

Stuff

It's been a long process, when you realize that these boxes were packed mid-April, and here we are, almost mid-December. But, we had to buy a house and rebuild it between April and December, so there are defensible reasons for the long, unpacking process.

More stuff

Pretties

It's nice to uncover things that we've done without for six months, like slippers and warm sweaters, bathroom pretties and teapots, but the thread that winds through it all, is friendship.

We're uncovering the tracks of our friends.

Because Dambara and I didn't pack these boxes. We left Oregon in a rush, and so we had a moving party. About a dozen friends descended one sunny Wednesday and packed our kitchen, office, library, closets, and moved boxes and shelving down to the garage, hoisted the TV down from the ceiling, coiled cables, and wrapped artwork.

Now, as we unpack each box, our friends essences are there, in the careful wrapping, the informative labeling, the secure taping, their kindness and support, their love and missing-you-already, drifts up out of each box, unfurls with each sheet of packing paper, glimmers as each cup goes into its new cupboard.

De-stuffed boxes

De-stuffed paper

I miss you all, and can't wait to see you again!

Love, Love, Love!