go now, and create.

craft room.

Camas left me with a gift.

A night spent in the camas living room by candlelight and rich hot chocolate listening to guitar and ukelele, tapping a drum and hearing mag’s snappy songs composed in the “boredom of new jersey summers…”

Gave me life.

Life to make candles out of recycled wax.

A dress out of curtain fabric (was a momentary panic when my measurements were still one thigh short of fitting… exclamations: “I am too fat for my own dress! How does that happen?” )

Fifty postcards of paint and justice and peace liturgy.

String of shells and scraps and heather and pebbles to hang over my bed from the wall to the window.

ash & maggie go to camas.

I have returned from camas and am in love.

With creation, life, possibility and beauty (ha. corny.).

We are calling it the camas drug and I can’t stop smiling.

From a ferry ride to a 2 ½ mile asphalt walk, passed mckinsey’s auto shed where diet cokes go for sixty pence, to a half mile walk down a thin plank track in ankle deep bog, camas, in its simple fishery goodness, right on the blue water of the sound of mull, emerges as a well deserved reward for the journey it takes to get there. on our way, we passed friends tom and callie, who were each wheeling wheelbarrows to the road gate to pick up supplies for the week. woah.

we (adventure buddy maggie and i) traded one bit of isolation for another. And it was brilliant.

So, we were shown to our accommodation: a small mongolian yurt erected in the center of camas’ organic veggie patch by becky, the resident gardener and resident lovely person-fairy. The yurt is becky’s. A circular red tent piled high with cushions and enough space for a downward facing dog (no mountain pose) -- strung with a mini glass tea light lantern and opens to cucumbers with mini doors, I am quite positive that I could spend the rest of my days happily in that yurt.

I knitted on the seaside,

Waded into my knees in a flooded saltmarsh,

Talked family and spirit with burly rob,

Played pitch,

Ate veggie dinner with norwegians,

made music by candlelight,

repaired a stone labyrinth,

And was astounded by the simplicity of the chapel of the nets.

Something about those orange fishermens’ nets, piled high like dunes around the found object sculpture of community: defined in anchors and shells, glass plates and rope… pulled together to create a haphazard whole.

A circle of tealights called it sacred.

Maggie is one of my favorite people on iona. She is smart, articulate, quirky, and wears a blue bandana. She focuses on consensus making games and anti-oppressive, peace building programming for children who come to iona (she invented “capture the illuminated manuscript). She was a perfect partner in adventure. And she writes songs. Good songs.

officially linked.

one of my most ancient-est friends, elizabeth, gave me a shout out on her blog.

the only thing is, her blog is cooler than mine and she makes me sound really embarrassing.

(i may or may not have attempted to adjust the theme and format of my blog after seeing hers, which led to the complete and utter aesthetic breakdown you are now viewing live on this blog.)

and no, lizzy, i didn't have the birthday party in the tree house, damnit. maybe for my thirtieth.

nice ones, christina.

town.

abbey internal.

(when its not beautifully, relationally messed up with circles instead of rows for my services.)

looking down from the hill at about 9 pm.

george macloed wasn't exactly a feminist theologian.

we make up for that now.

so i am starting to be a vegetarian, which is normal when...

happy birthday, dad.

another list.

top twenty reasons why my dad isn't as lame as his age.

1. he collects rocks and writes their location of origin on the back. and saves them for eternity.

2. he is always up on the latest innovations of the container store.

3. he trials all the latest energy-concoctions peddled by 7-11 before i do.

4. his genetics enabled my quasi-narcolepsy and ability to sleep for short spurts of time in any location.

5. he is always the shortest groomsman.

6. he has stacks and stacks of family photo albums for travel that he doesn't replace with new photos, he just gets a new album. (possible hoarding diagnosis.)

7. he insists on taking his own photos on his own duck-taped camera, even though my mom has a professional telephoto lens... simply because he likes to develop them himself.

8. he buys movies instead of rents because he is incapable of returning rentals on time.

9. he writes "MARRIAGE TIME" on the calender because my mom "doesn't have time for him."

10. he considers walking quickly ending with a cup of coffee and thick slice of buttered banana bread to be just as valuable as running. this makes him my hero.

11. he attended my baptism even though it was inconvenient.

12. steel magnolias and terms of endearment are his favorite movies. he owns copies.

13. he ineffectively tries to mask the fact that he smokes cigars in his car by using cheap air freshener. even though he burned the upholstery on the drivers side (when he and mom were the only drivers.)

14. his secret handshake with grace.

15. he read his first book this year. as in fiction. no, dad, reading the first three chapters of "rich dad, poor dad," and "seven habits" don't count. go mr. baldacci.

16. during my adolescence, he purchased every tacky trinket that had to do with "having a good attitude" so that i wouldn't be a depressing, victimized adult. i was forced to wear a "golden attitude" pin on my backpack.

17. he thinks that i would be a "catch" but that "guys are just complete idiots and seriously delayed and immature. they are basically boys until they are forty." helpful, dad.

18. he sends all of his children mass emails with conservative republican propaganda "chain letters" of whatever issue we disagree with him and motivational readings of the "inspirational quote with inverted rainbows, kittens and waterfalls" variety.

19. he inverts the names of things because he thinks its really funny. example: "young group" and "bible life." "my book" and "face space."

20. he tells me he loves me out loud, which makes me expect that of others.

so, dad, to the one who takes enough vitamins to last a lifetime and who wants to "just go" on adventuring....

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, OLD MAN!

love, ash.

a list. (because i love them.)

Top Ten of the Past Two Weeks. (in no particular order.)

1.) boat trip with guests to stunning staffa. listening to fingals cave and trapezing the cliffs to see puffin birds.
2.) morning tea breaks. every single day. with scones.
3.) making lavender mint tea out of the herb garden.
4.) the smell of the musty library.
5.) cleansing ritual on the top of Dunn I mountain in the legendary fountain of eternal youth.
6.) planning and scheming justice and peace services. re-learning hymns.
7.) taking a run and doing yoga on a knoll overlooking the sea with sheep and cows looking on.
8.) putting lavender flowers in my hair.
9.) impromtu hikes with other staff... to port ban. stripping off our clothes and swimming in the frigid water.
10.) a fancy breakfast on a day off that started with eggs benedict and lasted 2.5 hours.

a nunnery.

last night was christina, a southern, tennessee seminary student with a hard rock story and a 'i want to be a pastor, but i don't know about the whole jesus-is-the-answer thing'' perspective--'s, birthday.

she wanted to drink scottish beer under the stars in the ruins of the nunnery.

so a triad of us had drinks, under the stars, in the cool of the night, on a blanket, with the village cat and a couple of chocolate macaroons.

honestly, it was beautifully, hauntingly, amazing.



we reckon the nuns would have been proud.

justice and peace.

this week i led a full morning service and a service of ''prayers for justice and peace.''

thursday justice and peace:

circle of chairs around a candle in the middle of abbey church.

opening responsive prayer.

opening silence.

reading of first half of hosea 14.

introduction of fist-opening exercise (copyrighted lex cariello).

guided meditation on internal existence of coercion, violence, and manipulation.

invitation for the reading aloud of phrases written on slips of paper around the center candle:

We pray for women and men making decisions affected by a lack of reproductive choice options.

We pray for members of the military and their families who feel bound to military service due to economic constraints.

We pray for change in corporations whose coercive advertising promote the abuse of alcohol and other substances.

We pray for change in corporations whose coercive advertising further consumerism.

We pray for women and men forced or coerced into sex.

We pray for children whose opportunity for access to education is dictated by structures of systemic oppression.

We pray for those who are affected by policies and social stigmas that restrict the liberation of diverse sexuality.

We pray for those who remain in emotionally, physically, or verbally abusive relationships.

reading of second half of hosea 14.

closing silence.

(or something like that.)

"specials."

Here, at iona, we love people with “special diets.” Because the majority of my day revolves around the distribution, cleaning up, and safe storage of food, I think about food and those who consume it constantly. As a guest at iona, if you are low sodium, gluten-free, no-onion, dairy-free, low sugar, light pepper, vegetarian, or pesctarian, we will accommodate you -- graciously. Not stigmatizing, or “othering” people’s dietary needs or choices is an active cornerstone of our hospitality.

What normally happens, as in this evening, is at the beginning of each meal, the menu is announced and the refectory is informed of the following:

“Tonight we will be having pasta bake with mushrooms and red sauce and bowls of salad with an oil and honey mustard sauce – there will be specials for Kath, Kate and Ross, and other specials for Julie, Ian, and James. There is also a special for Amelia. Specials will come out after the main meal.”

At this point, we, the housekeeping staff, bring out the trays of steaming hot food with our oven mitts that are connected like the pair of mittens with a string that your mom made you wear when you were six. After all “non-special” food has been distributed; the folks with special diets descend on the front cart to dish out their distinct, though frequently mono-colored dishes that have been painstakingly created by the kitchen to accommodate our “special” people.

This evening, however, at the front of the refectory, a disagreement emerged between members of the resident staff and guests attempting to lay claim to the special’s “specials.” We have, in fact, had to do a bit of crisis mental health work surrounding the self worth of guests when they arrive every week and confront, perhaps for the first time, perhaps again, from the recesses of their memory, that they are in fact, not special. Or, for those who, with their peanut allergies and lactose intolerance, have endured decades of marginalization and feelings of guilt when having to pick through and pile small mounds of toxic-violent food on their plates to the looks of disdain and annoyance of the kitchen mister-mistress, they have, perhaps, finally “come home” as it were: finally been told they were... “special.”

I walked quickly away from the pacifist outbreak of disagreement over which dietary requirement deserved the better looking dishes. A woman who had two days earlier rubbed me the wrong way by informing me that our method of cleaning via tea towels was unsanitary (I do two loads of sanitary was per day to have starch clean tea towels for each meal, fyi.), was claiming that because she was a vegetarian, she needed a special dish, and was attempting to claim the gluten free option from three other hungry residents. After three attempts to inform her that the non-special option was in fact, already vegetarian, I decided to let the wolves sort it out and flee to the kitchen, acting as if I had something else industrious to be doing, such as fill teapots.

Now don’t get me wrong, I absolutely love vegans, wannabe vegans, veggos, and any variety of the above. In fact, I wish I was special! I want to be special! Why did I not know that I could experiment with being vegan while I was here --

But back to this evening.

I left the kitchen when it appeared that everyone had dispersed and took my seat at the common table. As I forked my first bite of steaming pasta bake and brought it to my mouth, a gangly teenage boy, the same one that I have had to remind on two occasions during the week that he must wear shoes while in the kitchen, tapped me on the shoulder.

“Uhh, excuse me, do you know if the salad dressing have honey in it?”

(I gave him a blank stare of incredulity. This kid is a new vegan, negotiating the world of yeast extracts and international travel. I mentally contemplate the article about vegan-purists to whom honey is considered an animal by-product to be extricated from diet.)

After I double checked that the honey mustard was not in fact vegan friendly, I offered, because I am so hospitable olive oil from Palestine and red wine vinegar. Though this was through clenched teeth and my patience was about ran out, it wasn’t until a few minutes later when he asked if I would get him soy milk to add to his fruit crumble that I responded, “You can get the soy milk yourself! You know where it is….!!!” With the head warden across the table looking at me as if I was crazy…

a series of posts.

so here's a new series of posts.

email has been difficult to enter into, with it being a gigantic, sticky personal computer that approximately 35 people are vying for everyday. so, last night i resigned to writing handwritten letters, a discipline i have been wanting to take up for years, that perhaps might begin to emerge while i am here.

today is my day off.

and i am going to hand this mini laptop back to its owner.

last night, over dishes,
tears for self,
confusion,
and a carry out dinner in spanish
with cornel west
to plan a peace and justice service.

and craft room conversations about
our transgendered leader,
a father, a girlfriend.
over letter writing and cups of hot tea.


midnights on iona carry goodness.

this is where i work.

its called the "refectory" and is where the monks used to eat. though perhaps not apple pie and sweet potatoes, which we had today to celebrate american independence day(?).

i have a team of four: a swede, brit, scot, american, and me. we fold laundry, wash mugs, bath mats, rubber gloves, tea towels, rags, knickers, mop heads, teaspoons, and the floor.

we talk about politics, the world cup, justice, making music, and our understandings of god, organized faith, love, and other things that matter. and sometimes we don't talk at all.

and we talk about you, the people we love and spend our time with and who have shaped us into who we are.

here's to "remembering" as an art form and spiritual discipline.

a day in the life ( + earplugs are god's most brilliant invention.)

day in the life -- because it is so exciting and worthy of record. (note: sarcasm.) i get up from my cubicle. a room share of 5 women aged 24 to 65ish.

and then i look out my window to see if it is raining.
or windy.
or sunny.
or misty.

(and i hear sheep.)

and i boil a cup of tea and have a piece of toast over a book. then i walk the little path past big fat cows and bleeting sheep to the abbey where i work.

(see below view from herb garden.)

the journey there.

on a train ...

through a wood ...

to a ferry ...

and iona.
(though this was taken from the ferry and isn't iona.)

reading material.

a quote i like from what i have been reading:

''Creativity in all kinds , in art, in prayer, in justice-making, in human relationships, is born when people wrestle with angels, outside eden, on the border between heaven and earth, where they struggle to create a new form, a new song, a new template, a new ethic with all the disciplne and passion they can bring to bear. many of the old boundaries have shifted, and where they are now is risky, dangerous territory. we should expect to be wounded, as jacob was.''

kathy galloway, dreaming of eden: reflections on christianity and sexuality.

iona has a small printing press where they publish volumes from members of the community. perv on my reading, if you'd like: ''chasing the wild goose: the story of the iona community,'' ''journey,'' ''dreaming of eden,: reflections on christianity and secuality'' and ''yearning and bliss: meditations on authentic christian spirituality.''

... and of course, robert burns.

and there really isn't a better way to spend a day off than to sit on a bench overlooking the sea and sheep pastures with a cup of hot tea -- going from sleep to reading back to sleep, then journalling and re-filling your tea cup.

what am i doing here? ( + a laugh.)

I have a few minutes before tonights ''inner space'' service begins to jot a few lines about LIFE -- in the abbey.

first of all:

majority of my thought life has been revolving around getting into my dish washing- bed changing- toilet bowl cleaning routine: BUT, there is only so much of your brain that can be contained by such things, so I am experiencing the most brilliant amount of freedom to just BE. think. get inspired.

i have spent the majority of the past few days, while traps-ing through sheep terds from the sheep and cows that are allowed to roam free on the iona community property, feeling like god has marooned me somehow on this scrawny, craggy island for some kind of purpose. while i imagined iona to be remote, i was not quiiiiiite expecting the 3 hour train ride from glasgow, to the hour long ferry ride, to another hour long bus ride through cliffs and the only unmarked road, to another hour ferry ride.

i was also not expecting this incredibly grounding sense of calm -- calm and family -- when i arrived. while i didn't have this automatic dramatic spiritual breakthrough or sense of the divine, i almost, to be honest, felt like i came home, to a certain extent. i can't quote put my finger on it -- maybe it was the accomodation, whose bright colors, murals, kitschy spiritual art trinkets, piles of stones and mosaic furniture reminded me of the gesundheit collective i stayed in in college. maybe it was the presence of the STUFFED craft room, smell of the fresh lavender soap, or the fact that people on my housekeeping cohort already knew my name.

my sense, however, is that somewhere from giving god thanks for a rich, vegan, cuscous and curry and the moment of silence for thanksgiving offered collectively at the end of the meal, that this ''order'' -- one that celebrates and affirms life as much in the secular as in the sacred, (if there is a difference.) feels like people i have already known for a long time.

the inner space service i need to pop off to is being led by an american woman -- former struggling actress who now lives in vermont, who has promised to tell me the story of when she was taken to jail regarding some interlude with patriarchy, civil disobedience, and first class sections on airplanes. she has written a play: on women of the bible, and has involved my other residents: soul artist from sweden, canadian flautist, american poet.

YAY!

a poem passed on by a friend.

Evening
by Rainer Maria Rilke

The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the lands grow distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;

and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternity with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;

and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that, now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternatively stone in you and star.

first post in 2 years.

brilliant.

sifting through quotes from kirkgaard, merton, st. teresa the crazy, and manning, i can't discern how to begin.

but: this one from alaska sticks out. from a greeting card cliche, but.

...

life is either a daring adventure... or nothing.

helen keller.

make it happen.

(and i can't figure out how to erase my other blog posts, so if you read them: no judging.)


ps: i love that you are reading this.

In actuality...

Well, it actually IS winter...
and I actually AM in Sydney.

How ironic that this almost "annual" blog only involves itself in my life when I am in winter (contemplative, cold, burrowing), and in Sydney (a city that, in winter, is hardly itself.).

How do I find myself today? How do I approach this tiny corner of cyberspace at the moment?

Sydney in winter continues without showing any signs of ceasing. I find myself wishing for the warmth, for the freedom and fresh air of being able to go outside. I am sitting in a different place than the previous 2 posts: last one on Bower Street in Manly, last year on Lochness Court in Vienna, now on Cliff Street in Manly.

My email box is calling: absolutely shocking after having spent 4 weeks away from it. Correspondence can be a full time job: and though I love it, it doesn't come as easy as writing here, with whatever and whenever.

Tomorrow is full on with helping the boys and going to work after Grace's Charlotte's Web play at school. Work is flat out. Difficult as anything and sad. Seemingly unaffected by the joy and motivation of the Olympics, the clusters of abused, traumatized and poor are always there, lurking.

I wish that the spirit of the Olympics, the energy and optimism and discipline, could transform whole communties, but I guess that is the go, anyway: the spirit of the Olympics isn't inherently transformative. But what and where are people being transformed.... and by a spirit of what?

Of course, I know what the answer should be, but as far as physical validation, I guess I am not really getting it.

May it not be another year, another Winter Sydney day until I post again!

Winter Sydney

Well, today is a "Winter Sydney" kind of day (even though I am 7,000 miles away) which is probably what made me think of this blog. It has almost been a year since I last posted, and I will continue to only use this blog for recreational purposes until I have to use it out of necessity.

In class the last couple of days we have been doing some intense work in social work class. It has drudged up for me some of the work I have done over the year... a lot of issues that have not surfaced recently because of my preoccupation with the ever present surface boils of life.

Questions that linger include, how much do you talk about dynamics of relationships with people involved? Is it healthy or unhealthy to regularly discuss hurts, feelings, etc. in friendship? Is that too much like dating? Should there even be a difference in how relationship management is handled between the two?

I get tired of always being so intense and it being one way.

bleh. maybe I will have this blog be a private vent sesh.

am I anonymous here?