If you go to see the new movie version of Stephen Sondheim and James Lapine's "Into the Woods," which opened on Christmas Day, you're likely to leave with the little ditty "Into the Woods" stuck in your mind. There are more sophisticated melodies in the score, ones that carry dreams and sorrows and the deeper lessons of the show's interwoven fairy tales. But they're complicated and require thoughtfulness and practice to learn and sing.
"Into the Woods" is an irritating little nursery tune, in 6/8 time and made of just a few pitches. The lyrics, however, change every time it appears in the score, so when you find yourself singing it, what comes out is nonsense: "Into the woods, da-dah, da-dah ... into the woods, da-dah." Listen to it here. The theme is sung by Red Riding Hood at 4:06, Jack and his mother at 10:19, the Baker at 13:00, the ensemble at 13:55.
It's definitely ear worm material, but as the title song, it accompanies the main characters as they bravely set off in search of a better life. As in conventional fairy tales, they encounter obstacles, use their wits and courage, and are rewarded with a happy ending. But the movie's not over at this point. There's another thirty or forty minutes to go, and in the "ever after" part that follows the happy ending, things fall apart and end up maybe even worse than before. Because, well, giants.
It's not the way we want stories to go. We like a beginning, a middle, an ending with a clear resolution. "No One Is Alone," the sum-it-up song at the climax of "Into the Woods," is about learning to judge between contradictions, because that's what it means to be human.
At Christmas we had Luke's birth narrative for Jesus, the story about the wonder of the shepherds and the courage of the mother and father laying their newborn in a manger. But when the twelve days of Christmas are over and we arrive at Epiphany, the happily ever after turns into a mess. The magi find Jesus and present their gifts, but Mary and Joseph must pack up the gold, frankincense and myrrh, bundle up the baby, and leave for Egypt in a hurry. The wise men take a wide berth around Jerusalem and go home another way, for their own safety. And back in Bethlehem mothers weep for the innocent children slain by King Herod. No giants in the story, but some harrowing nights and probably a swamp as well.
We like to tell the manger story in a pretty way, in 6/8 time with heavenly, peaceful sleep. But that's only the beginning of the story of a God revealed as fully human. In the middle comes a muddle, contradictions, even tragedy. And that's good news for us. We are not alone.
Tuesday, January 06, 2015
Tuesday, December 23, 2014
Christmas, part two: What matters
December 23 today. It's a good number. In that part of my brain where numbers (pitches, too) have personalities and preferences, 2 and 3 get on well together. They're good friends, even-odd neighbors whoadd neatly up to five, a handful, half-ten.
December 23rd is the almost-deadline day, when stores are busy with people who know what they want and people who don't. I waited in line at Walgreen's, at Bed Bath and Beyond, and at the grocery store. Patiently, because really, that was all I had to do. I've got things to do tomorrow, but not too many. None of them involve going to a store. None of them will make me crazy.
I don't keep track of near as many things as I once did in preparation for Christmas. My children are grown and I no longer keep a running tally of the number of packages per child in my head. It no longer has to come out even. (Hope I'm not wrong about this.) Maybe some Christmas in the future I'll bake twelve or fourteen kinds of cookies again, have a party, or make new quilted table runners or new ornaments. This year it's enough to have a tree and a creche and to be cooking food to bring to other people's houses.
Even theologically I'm looking for a simpler Christmas. No wrapping my amazement around paradoxes of faith this year: God made man; wooden mangers and wooden crosses; angels singing for lowly shepherds; wise men bringing myrrh for graveclothes. There is exercise for the mind and soul in these things, and they're good practice for life. Things will be turned inside out and all around from time to time. It's good to have some experience with tracing those paths in the story of Jesus and recognizing the power of God in the surprises. Because, well, life.
But just like baking and shopping and wrapping, it doesn't have to be that complicated. In the Christmas story there's a baby, born in the middle of the night in a lowly place, held in his mother's arms, nourished at her breast. Her breath caresses his brow, her touch lets him know it's good to be here, on this earth, where love matters more than sin and sorrow.
December 23rd is the almost-deadline day, when stores are busy with people who know what they want and people who don't. I waited in line at Walgreen's, at Bed Bath and Beyond, and at the grocery store. Patiently, because really, that was all I had to do. I've got things to do tomorrow, but not too many. None of them involve going to a store. None of them will make me crazy.
I don't keep track of near as many things as I once did in preparation for Christmas. My children are grown and I no longer keep a running tally of the number of packages per child in my head. It no longer has to come out even. (Hope I'm not wrong about this.) Maybe some Christmas in the future I'll bake twelve or fourteen kinds of cookies again, have a party, or make new quilted table runners or new ornaments. This year it's enough to have a tree and a creche and to be cooking food to bring to other people's houses.
Even theologically I'm looking for a simpler Christmas. No wrapping my amazement around paradoxes of faith this year: God made man; wooden mangers and wooden crosses; angels singing for lowly shepherds; wise men bringing myrrh for graveclothes. There is exercise for the mind and soul in these things, and they're good practice for life. Things will be turned inside out and all around from time to time. It's good to have some experience with tracing those paths in the story of Jesus and recognizing the power of God in the surprises. Because, well, life.
But just like baking and shopping and wrapping, it doesn't have to be that complicated. In the Christmas story there's a baby, born in the middle of the night in a lowly place, held in his mother's arms, nourished at her breast. Her breath caresses his brow, her touch lets him know it's good to be here, on this earth, where love matters more than sin and sorrow.
Monday, December 22, 2014
Christmas, Part One:
Disclaimer: "Part One" in the title of this blog post in no way guarantees that there will be a part two, much less a part three or four.
December 22 and the sun is up, on the day after the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
It did not come up in a big, glorious sunrise. There's light, but it's December grey. The white window frame, the black tangle of tree branches against the half-tone sky — these could be a nineteenth century photo. There is no color in them at all.
What to make then of the soft multicolored lights on the Christmas tree? I thought twice before turning the tree on this morning. Its lights belong to an evening celebration. It seems like a leftover party guest when it's on in the morning, dressed up in evening lights, a little awkward and out of place as I drink bitter black coffee and read the morning news on the laptop.
A friend gave me a pair of bayberry candles last night, in a box with an artful red ribbon. The candles came with a scrap of paper that says burning these down to the nub on the night of the winter solstice will bring good luck in the coming year. True? Or just a way to sell candles?
A search of "bayberry candles solstice" brought me to the James T. Callow Folklore Archive with pages and pages of field notes about Christmas customs involving candles, bayberry and others. Some were about good luck, some about hospitality, some about lighting the way for the Christ Child. The Google search also turned up sites on pagan Yule-tide customs, which is what you'd expect when solstice is in the search box. And of course, there were many hits for sellers of bayberry candles.
I lit the candles last night, on an impulse, because there were tall candlesticks still hanging around in the living room from the Thanksgiving dinner table. Blew them out, though, after an hour or two, before they were down to the nub. Seems a waste to burn them up in one night.
There's no extravagance in keeping the Christmas tree lit all day--maybe a tiny bump in the electric bill to keep the electric candles lit in the windows at night, to power the string of energy-efficient LED's around the back door and the lights in the kitchen window. The natural light outside is harsh in the daytime, and so is the cold.
Candlelight, on the other hand, is soft and warm. Have I jinxed myself by not giving it a chance to bring in luck, to welcome peace, hope, God?
There are many colored nights ahead, and many grey mornings.
December 22 and the sun is up, on the day after the winter solstice, the longest night of the year.
It did not come up in a big, glorious sunrise. There's light, but it's December grey. The white window frame, the black tangle of tree branches against the half-tone sky — these could be a nineteenth century photo. There is no color in them at all.
What to make then of the soft multicolored lights on the Christmas tree? I thought twice before turning the tree on this morning. Its lights belong to an evening celebration. It seems like a leftover party guest when it's on in the morning, dressed up in evening lights, a little awkward and out of place as I drink bitter black coffee and read the morning news on the laptop.
A friend gave me a pair of bayberry candles last night, in a box with an artful red ribbon. The candles came with a scrap of paper that says burning these down to the nub on the night of the winter solstice will bring good luck in the coming year. True? Or just a way to sell candles?
A search of "bayberry candles solstice" brought me to the James T. Callow Folklore Archive with pages and pages of field notes about Christmas customs involving candles, bayberry and others. Some were about good luck, some about hospitality, some about lighting the way for the Christ Child. The Google search also turned up sites on pagan Yule-tide customs, which is what you'd expect when solstice is in the search box. And of course, there were many hits for sellers of bayberry candles.
I lit the candles last night, on an impulse, because there were tall candlesticks still hanging around in the living room from the Thanksgiving dinner table. Blew them out, though, after an hour or two, before they were down to the nub. Seems a waste to burn them up in one night.
There's no extravagance in keeping the Christmas tree lit all day--maybe a tiny bump in the electric bill to keep the electric candles lit in the windows at night, to power the string of energy-efficient LED's around the back door and the lights in the kitchen window. The natural light outside is harsh in the daytime, and so is the cold.
Candlelight, on the other hand, is soft and warm. Have I jinxed myself by not giving it a chance to bring in luck, to welcome peace, hope, God?
There are many colored nights ahead, and many grey mornings.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Thanksgiving dinner, pre- and post- (part one)
I was thinking of live-blogging Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. The apple pie was about to go in the oven and it looked very nice, sealed up, brushed with a little milk, and encircled with bright orange silicon pie crust protectors.
(These are the best thing ever if you are a pie-baker. Thank you, niece Gerianne, for knowing how happy these would make me every time I bake a pie.)
The live-blogging got as far opening up my laptop and setting it on the kitchen butcher-block table. But I couldn't quite bring myself to place to buttered-and-floured fingers on the keyboard. It would be one more thing I'd have to clean up later.
So instead, it's random thoughts from a woman who is up too early this morning, but who should be using that time for one last run to the grocery store.
Thanksgiving cooking -- or at least, the thinking about Thanksgiving cooking -- got a late start this year. There was work to do all weekend, and some kind of stomach bug to contend with on Monday and Tuesday. There aren't any exotic ideas in this year's Thanksgiving dinner, and not much that's creamed or rich or au gratin. Couldn't bear to think of that stuff two days ago.
Our family has grown to an astounding size, with spouses and fiancés, significant others, and a new generation of children. I count 21 for dinner. With a dining room table that seats 8 comfortably, 10 closely, 12 squished.
It took a beer--a New Belgium Fat Tire--to get me started in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, after an hour and a half of "my house will never be clean" anxiety. I never vacuum under the couch cushions. Heck, I almost never vacuum. Why did that become so important yesterday afternoon?
Cooking Thanksgiving dinner is a lot of work, though I suppose it's only as much work as one decides it's going to be. And timing it all is challenging. I spend a day and half thinking, what can I be doing now to make things easier tomorrow/this afternoon/an hour from now.
The list was running through my head as I get out of bed. Turkey in the oven at noon. Stuffing casserole dishes at 3. Take them out of the fridge earlier. Don't forget the rolls. Gluten-free cornbread in the cast iron skillet. Traditional corn bread in the molds. Wine goes in the refrigerator when the turkey comes out. Set the table as soon the turkey goes in. And figure out what's going to have to happen in the living room.
At least one chair from the living room will have to go in the bedroom--how else will we be able to open up that extra table? When will this happen? How many of my kids will I have to persuade to go along with this? Will they have a better idea?
Yeesh--I'm going to the grocery store. Back home. Church. Many descants.
Then cooking.
It's all good. It will be good enough. God is good.
(These are the best thing ever if you are a pie-baker. Thank you, niece Gerianne, for knowing how happy these would make me every time I bake a pie.)
The live-blogging got as far opening up my laptop and setting it on the kitchen butcher-block table. But I couldn't quite bring myself to place to buttered-and-floured fingers on the keyboard. It would be one more thing I'd have to clean up later.
So instead, it's random thoughts from a woman who is up too early this morning, but who should be using that time for one last run to the grocery store.
Thanksgiving cooking -- or at least, the thinking about Thanksgiving cooking -- got a late start this year. There was work to do all weekend, and some kind of stomach bug to contend with on Monday and Tuesday. There aren't any exotic ideas in this year's Thanksgiving dinner, and not much that's creamed or rich or au gratin. Couldn't bear to think of that stuff two days ago.
Our family has grown to an astounding size, with spouses and fiancés, significant others, and a new generation of children. I count 21 for dinner. With a dining room table that seats 8 comfortably, 10 closely, 12 squished.
It took a beer--a New Belgium Fat Tire--to get me started in the kitchen yesterday afternoon, after an hour and a half of "my house will never be clean" anxiety. I never vacuum under the couch cushions. Heck, I almost never vacuum. Why did that become so important yesterday afternoon?
Cooking Thanksgiving dinner is a lot of work, though I suppose it's only as much work as one decides it's going to be. And timing it all is challenging. I spend a day and half thinking, what can I be doing now to make things easier tomorrow/this afternoon/an hour from now.
The list was running through my head as I get out of bed. Turkey in the oven at noon. Stuffing casserole dishes at 3. Take them out of the fridge earlier. Don't forget the rolls. Gluten-free cornbread in the cast iron skillet. Traditional corn bread in the molds. Wine goes in the refrigerator when the turkey comes out. Set the table as soon the turkey goes in. And figure out what's going to have to happen in the living room.
At least one chair from the living room will have to go in the bedroom--how else will we be able to open up that extra table? When will this happen? How many of my kids will I have to persuade to go along with this? Will they have a better idea?
Yeesh--I'm going to the grocery store. Back home. Church. Many descants.
Then cooking.
It's all good. It will be good enough. God is good.
Sunday, November 02, 2014
Now, on All Saints' Sunday
It's the first day of "fall back," the return to standard time. It's also All Saints' Sunday. The golden evening is gathering in the west, as the sun sets at 4:43 today here on the eastern end of the Central Time Zone.
A gentleman named Duane is outside raking my leaves. He may, or may not, have a job interview tomorrow at Walmart, or Cosco. He rang the doorbell, and begged, hands folded, for the job. He said he was a Christian. Maybe he is, or maybe he just thought it was a good thing to say. He may, or may not, be high on something.
In truth I wanted him to go away, but he was persistent, and there is cash left over from the weekend in my wallet with which to pay him. I told him to meet me around back at the garage door and I'd give him a rake. He introduced himself again on the back sidewalk and asked my name.
Gwen, I said. As I punched the code into the garage door opener, I added, and I am a Christian too.
We are both saints.
"Blessed are the meek, blessed are the poor," said this morning's Gospel reading. I'm more certain of Duane falling into these categories than I am of myself. Even if he's only meek some of the time. Even if he bears some responsibility for his own poverty.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness." I'll give him this. I think Duane's claim to the name of Christian suggests that he desires to be forgiven and righteous before God. And anyway, it's God's blessing to give, not mine to judge or withhold.
The word I heard most in church this morning was "now." "Beloved, we are God's children now" in the second lesson. "Blessed are you, now," in the pastor's sermon. There were multitudes washing their white robes in the blood of the lamb in some distant heaven, out of time, out of space, in the first reading from Revelation. There were saints passing in bright array in the great Vaughn Williams hymn for the day. There were the names of those who have died in Christ in the last year in our congregation read out loud in solemnity and tearfulness.
But the word I heard was "now." The hymn I loved was Fred Pratt Green's text describing where you find saints now: marching with events, bearing someone's cross, showing patience in caring.
When we got to the "forever and ever" in the Lord's Prayer--I wondered, why is that there? Jesus' words in scripture when he taught his disciples to pray are all about now don't have that ending about power and glory forever and ever.
Now. Your kingdom come. Now.
A gentleman named Duane is outside raking my leaves. He may, or may not, have a job interview tomorrow at Walmart, or Cosco. He rang the doorbell, and begged, hands folded, for the job. He said he was a Christian. Maybe he is, or maybe he just thought it was a good thing to say. He may, or may not, be high on something.
In truth I wanted him to go away, but he was persistent, and there is cash left over from the weekend in my wallet with which to pay him. I told him to meet me around back at the garage door and I'd give him a rake. He introduced himself again on the back sidewalk and asked my name.
Gwen, I said. As I punched the code into the garage door opener, I added, and I am a Christian too.
We are both saints.
"Blessed are the meek, blessed are the poor," said this morning's Gospel reading. I'm more certain of Duane falling into these categories than I am of myself. Even if he's only meek some of the time. Even if he bears some responsibility for his own poverty.
"Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness." I'll give him this. I think Duane's claim to the name of Christian suggests that he desires to be forgiven and righteous before God. And anyway, it's God's blessing to give, not mine to judge or withhold.
The word I heard most in church this morning was "now." "Beloved, we are God's children now" in the second lesson. "Blessed are you, now," in the pastor's sermon. There were multitudes washing their white robes in the blood of the lamb in some distant heaven, out of time, out of space, in the first reading from Revelation. There were saints passing in bright array in the great Vaughn Williams hymn for the day. There were the names of those who have died in Christ in the last year in our congregation read out loud in solemnity and tearfulness.
But the word I heard was "now." The hymn I loved was Fred Pratt Green's text describing where you find saints now: marching with events, bearing someone's cross, showing patience in caring.
When we got to the "forever and ever" in the Lord's Prayer--I wondered, why is that there? Jesus' words in scripture when he taught his disciples to pray are all about now don't have that ending about power and glory forever and ever.
Now. Your kingdom come. Now.
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Belong where?
"Give therefore to the emperor the things that are the emperor's, and to God the things that are God's." Matthew 22:20
The Pharisee's trick question about paying taxes was the Gospel lesson for today, the Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost. Jesus answer begs the question, doesn't everything belong to God?
I found myself thinking not about everything belonging to God this morning, but about that word belong and about what kind of economic model is implied or assumed in the statement "Everything belongs to God"? Capitalism? God is the owner and we are the labor force? More than enough evil for the day is apparent if you pursue that metaphor; neither God nor capitalists come out looking good. Feudalism? And we are all vassals paying tribute--even the emperor? Might be what Jesus' followers thought of, but we western European thinkers abandoned that Chain of Being social model sometime around the Enlightenment.
What about other models of God's economic relationship with the world? I'm no ethnographer or scholar of world religions but I've lived with the mythology of the American West long enough to have heard that Native Americans didn't believe in owning land. The Great Spirit put it there to support and sustain all. Fuzzy, hippie thinking? Maybe, but it's a concept of God that will get you away from mental images of dividing piles of coins between taxes, tithe and treasure house. Or from belonging to God meaning servanthood or slavery, with no agency of one's own. It might even lead to better stewardship of God's creation.
When I sat down to blog this afternoon, I typed belong into the search box in the computer dictionary, expecting to have my prejudices about the economic taint of the word confirmed. But no--some other ideas showed up:
Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's: taxes, coins, whatever. But for yourself, belong to God, with God, where God is.
(Of course, on Tuesday, November 4, belonging to God's kingdom just might influence your vote!)
The Pharisee's trick question about paying taxes was the Gospel lesson for today, the Nineteenth Sunday After Pentecost. Jesus answer begs the question, doesn't everything belong to God?
I found myself thinking not about everything belonging to God this morning, but about that word belong and about what kind of economic model is implied or assumed in the statement "Everything belongs to God"? Capitalism? God is the owner and we are the labor force? More than enough evil for the day is apparent if you pursue that metaphor; neither God nor capitalists come out looking good. Feudalism? And we are all vassals paying tribute--even the emperor? Might be what Jesus' followers thought of, but we western European thinkers abandoned that Chain of Being social model sometime around the Enlightenment.
What about other models of God's economic relationship with the world? I'm no ethnographer or scholar of world religions but I've lived with the mythology of the American West long enough to have heard that Native Americans didn't believe in owning land. The Great Spirit put it there to support and sustain all. Fuzzy, hippie thinking? Maybe, but it's a concept of God that will get you away from mental images of dividing piles of coins between taxes, tithe and treasure house. Or from belonging to God meaning servanthood or slavery, with no agency of one's own. It might even lead to better stewardship of God's creation.
When I sat down to blog this afternoon, I typed belong into the search box in the computer dictionary, expecting to have my prejudices about the economic taint of the word confirmed. But no--some other ideas showed up:
[ with adverbial of place ] (of a thing) be rightly placed in a specified position: learning to place the blame where it belongs.and
have the right personal or social qualities to be a member of a particular group: young people are generally very anxious to belong.God, to whom we ascribe personhood--which can be limiting, might also be thought of as something like an "adverbial of place"--an "up where I belong" or "at home where I belong." Even "with whom I belong." Giving to God what is God's might mean being rightly placed, rightly oriented, living as part of God's kingdom or reign or without all that kingship stuff--as part of God's life and breath here in the world.
Give to the emperor the things that are the emperor's: taxes, coins, whatever. But for yourself, belong to God, with God, where God is.
(Of course, on Tuesday, November 4, belonging to God's kingdom just might influence your vote!)
Monday, October 13, 2014
Island weekend
I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet, so let me try to explain about the Island.
The Island is Washington Island, off the tip of Door County, Wisconsin. You must cross Death's Door to get there—Death's Door being the name of the strait to the south of the Island that connects Green Bay with Lake Michigan. It was a dangerous place for sailing ships more than a century ago, but the Porte des Morts name probably goes back to the 16th century and the Winnebago Indians, whose demise as a tribe may have begun with the loss of 500 warriors in a storm on Lake Michigan--500 warriors sneaking up on the Potawatomi. It's confused as history--the Potawatomi may have been the bad guys in the story.
Today you cross Death's Door on a ferry boat run by the Washington Island Ferry Line. It's a domesticated experience, doesn't feel risky or adventurous. On a windy day the boat goes up and down over the waves and cars at the front of the boat get wet. Walking across the deck might be hard on such days if you're timid or careful about your balance. But the engine churns loudly underneath you and you feel secure on these boxy vessels.
The Island is a small place, with a small population. In the height of the summer tourist season there may be 2000 people there including day-trippers. (I heard that somewhere, I'm not sure). Many people have summer homes on the Island and others (like my family) camp, rent cabins or stay at one of the quirky motels, hotels, or resorts.
This last weekend my daughter and I stayed at the Cedar Lodge Resort. The present owner has been there for 41 years and has been trying to sell for the last four. It's on West Harbor, with a beautiful water view from the lawn. Inside--butt-ugly was my first reaction, with an avocado green refrigerator, burnt orange vinyl flooring in the bathroom, and a cut-velvet greenish-gold sofa in the living room. It's not my favorite place to stay on the Island (that would be the Sunset Resort half a mile to the south), but it's what you can get last minute for Columbus Day weekend, the biggest weekend of the fall.
But a weekend on the Island is not about the decor. The gentility and consideration of Island hosts. is not stuck in the 70s. It's assumed and innovative. There was a night light in an outlet in the kitchen in our apparent. Seemed like a strange place for a night light but it was exactly what was needed to light the way to the bathroom from any bedroom in the middle of the night. There were cast iron skillets on the stove if we'd cared to cook. The space heater kept the living room warm. The shiny new chairs on the porch and the old chairs around the fire pit focused on what was important: the view.
You can sit and look at the water on the Island and people will let you be. You can talk, or not, knit, read, write, walk, poke around, go to an Island festival or go out to dinner. Low expectations are rewarded. The restaurants aren't extraordinary. The service is friendly but not super well-trained. If you're open-hearted and respectful, that's what you'll get back.
It's okay to just be on the Island. Maybe that's because as many times as I've been there, I am still a tourist, not a resident, someone who brings commerce to the place, who spends money on the Island. Whatever I do is okay, because I'm there and gone and will pay my bill. I'm just there for a short time and don't have to figure out how I fit into the overall scheme of things, the social system.
Or maybe it's because Washington Island has a tolerance for quirkiness--old Icelandic settlers who fished and farmed potatoes and must have been plenty quirky. Its map is marked with odd little places, businesses that come and mostly go, museums curated by retired volunteers with long memories. Some people succeed, some come and go and just keep trying things, whatever. The woods and the water dwarf everything else, and the clouds that blow across the sky bring fresh starts twice a day or more.
I go to the Island to turn my face toward the lake, into the west wind, out to the sunset and up into the night sky. I try to take it all in--pine trees, maples, rocks, forests, light, to live and breathe the chilling beauty of every moment I'm there. I know myself as a child of God in those woods even as the sky beyond the water tells me I cannot begin to know the depth and breadth and otherness of God's being.
I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet. Not yet.
The Island is Washington Island, off the tip of Door County, Wisconsin. You must cross Death's Door to get there—Death's Door being the name of the strait to the south of the Island that connects Green Bay with Lake Michigan. It was a dangerous place for sailing ships more than a century ago, but the Porte des Morts name probably goes back to the 16th century and the Winnebago Indians, whose demise as a tribe may have begun with the loss of 500 warriors in a storm on Lake Michigan--500 warriors sneaking up on the Potawatomi. It's confused as history--the Potawatomi may have been the bad guys in the story.
Today you cross Death's Door on a ferry boat run by the Washington Island Ferry Line. It's a domesticated experience, doesn't feel risky or adventurous. On a windy day the boat goes up and down over the waves and cars at the front of the boat get wet. Walking across the deck might be hard on such days if you're timid or careful about your balance. But the engine churns loudly underneath you and you feel secure on these boxy vessels.
The Island is a small place, with a small population. In the height of the summer tourist season there may be 2000 people there including day-trippers. (I heard that somewhere, I'm not sure). Many people have summer homes on the Island and others (like my family) camp, rent cabins or stay at one of the quirky motels, hotels, or resorts.
This last weekend my daughter and I stayed at the Cedar Lodge Resort. The present owner has been there for 41 years and has been trying to sell for the last four. It's on West Harbor, with a beautiful water view from the lawn. Inside--butt-ugly was my first reaction, with an avocado green refrigerator, burnt orange vinyl flooring in the bathroom, and a cut-velvet greenish-gold sofa in the living room. It's not my favorite place to stay on the Island (that would be the Sunset Resort half a mile to the south), but it's what you can get last minute for Columbus Day weekend, the biggest weekend of the fall.
But a weekend on the Island is not about the decor. The gentility and consideration of Island hosts. is not stuck in the 70s. It's assumed and innovative. There was a night light in an outlet in the kitchen in our apparent. Seemed like a strange place for a night light but it was exactly what was needed to light the way to the bathroom from any bedroom in the middle of the night. There were cast iron skillets on the stove if we'd cared to cook. The space heater kept the living room warm. The shiny new chairs on the porch and the old chairs around the fire pit focused on what was important: the view.
You can sit and look at the water on the Island and people will let you be. You can talk, or not, knit, read, write, walk, poke around, go to an Island festival or go out to dinner. Low expectations are rewarded. The restaurants aren't extraordinary. The service is friendly but not super well-trained. If you're open-hearted and respectful, that's what you'll get back.
It's okay to just be on the Island. Maybe that's because as many times as I've been there, I am still a tourist, not a resident, someone who brings commerce to the place, who spends money on the Island. Whatever I do is okay, because I'm there and gone and will pay my bill. I'm just there for a short time and don't have to figure out how I fit into the overall scheme of things, the social system.
Or maybe it's because Washington Island has a tolerance for quirkiness--old Icelandic settlers who fished and farmed potatoes and must have been plenty quirky. Its map is marked with odd little places, businesses that come and mostly go, museums curated by retired volunteers with long memories. Some people succeed, some come and go and just keep trying things, whatever. The woods and the water dwarf everything else, and the clouds that blow across the sky bring fresh starts twice a day or more.
I go to the Island to turn my face toward the lake, into the west wind, out to the sunset and up into the night sky. I try to take it all in--pine trees, maples, rocks, forests, light, to live and breathe the chilling beauty of every moment I'm there. I know myself as a child of God in those woods even as the sky beyond the water tells me I cannot begin to know the depth and breadth and otherness of God's being.
I haven't unpacked my suitcase yet. Not yet.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
