Sunday, March 29, 2009

Musician Man

I had to suffer though approximately 36 husband-less hours this weekend. It will happen again, too. It's kind of a big deal, since we can still count our nights apart as married folk on two hands. Beyond that, pregnancy has taken it out of me, Dan helps me hold it together mentally and physically with his kind and calming presence. This absence, however, is the price I pay (mostly gladly) for having married a musician who is picking up the axe again in preparation for a couple of live gigs. Truth be told, I really like to see him perform, and if practices away from me are part of the deal, then I suppose I'll figure out how to live with this every 2 weeks or every month or so.

This particular band project started in 1991 -- well before Dan and I met -- at Biola. The collaboration between Daniel and Jeff has been consistent in the intervening years, and the fact that they are both in the Carolinas now (Jeff in South, Daniel in North) has made the prospect of actually performing again a possibility. The duo have picked up additional musicians (local to Jeff, in this case) and their mostly recording project is becoming something a bit more again.

This arrangement has several benefits for Daniel:
1. Excuses for road trips, which he loves
2. Being a performing musician again in more than just a church choir capacity
3. Male bonding
4. Inspiring new admiration in his wife

The major benefits to me are having a husband who gets to pursue a hobby he loves and the opportunity to go fan-girl on him when I see him with his guitar. I've always especially loved his musical talents, and seeing him perform is a rare treat. In fact, while I have done some of the photography for one of their albums, I have never seen this band perform! I will probably go watch them practice one of these days when I am feeling up to the travel. I am told that both practice CDs and video were made at this session, so I look forward to reviewing them at the very least.

Dan's back safely and enjoyed his time with his newly enlarged band very much. I look forward to seeing what they can do.

With that, I will wish Jeff, Dan and collaborators well, and I invite you to get to know their band, Writ on Water, if it is new to you. And, for fun, I'll throw in a candid picture of Daniel and Jeff from Jeff and Heather's last visit to our neck of the woods.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Embracing Strangers

I went to church on Wednesday morning to observe the feast of the Annunciation: that glorious appearance of the Archangel Gabriel announcing the imminent Incarnation of Christ. That tells me a couple of things.
1. Christmas is 9 months off
2. Lent is about halfway gone
and
3. Greece is still free of the Ottoman Turks.

Okay, so I admit that my awareness of #3 began this year.

As I was leaving church, one of the lovely "yiayias" (grandmothers) of the church invited me to come to lunch at her house that afternoon at noon. I agreed, not realizing that what I had been invited to was actually a rather sizable party. Once I got there and was introduced to all of the others present, I quickly came to the realization that I was quite possibly the only non-Greek in the house, and I was unquestionable the youngest. One of the major challenges this fact produced from the beginning was that I would have some difficulty remembering names. I get from them a lot that they can remember my name because they have a sister/cousin/daughter/etc. named "Nikki", but I can honestly say that I have never before met an Evagelia, Panagatitza or Soteria, so I am at a bit more of a loss to make name/face associations, unless they mercifully tell me that I can call them "Bessie" or "Eula" or some other somewhat less challenging name.

What I encountered at this party was a larger slice of the Greek community in northern central North Carolina, as some people had come from 40-45 minutes away to be there, including a priest and his wife from another Greek parish. The focus of the day was two-fold, because it was Annunciation and Greek Independence Day. Apparently Independence Day was quite purposely chosen to be associated with the Annunciation. While I don't fully understand why that is, it's quite clear that the promise of good things to come is very strong in both celebrations.

The party itself was amazing. The hostess managed to make food appear as effortlessly as if she was waving a wand, and little yiayias made sure I had plenty to eat. "Eat more, Nikki," was possibly the most common thing I heard (that I could understand). The food was wonderful, and since I had decided to simply accept hospitality without questioning everything as is my wont, it was only after I had tasted the fish roe dip and decided that it was good that I was told what I was eating and decided that I might not have tried it if I had known!

People were very accepting of me and very hospitable, apologizing when their English/Greek conversation tipped to the Greek side and occasionally offering an explanation of what was had been said. There was also a water toast offered at my table to the my health and that of our baby. Also, the hostess added to the lusty singing of three Greek songs that were sung before the main courses (two of them from the church service of the day and one that I assumed was the Greek national anthem or another patriotic song) "America the Beautiful," reminding us all that this is our country now, and that it is, indeed, beautiful. The vase in the kitchen was decorated with both national flags.

It was such an amazing experience, in that I was clearly an outsider, and yet I was embraced by their community even outside of the church walls. I have a theory: Daniel did much of the work to this end by doing some beautiful Greek-language byzantine chanting in a recent church service. One woman present told me that she had taxed her non-Greek husband with the fact: "See! He learned to chant in Greek, and he's not even married to a Greek!" Ah, the many talents of my husband... and the kindness of these lovely people. I contrast this with the question I had been asked once before at another Greek church: "You're not Greek, so why are you here?" While some people did want to know how I came to be orthodox, they didn't make me feel at all that I was less welcome for having been given a Greek name without the Greek parentage!

What better day for accepting others? This was the day on which God announced his intention to draw all of creation to Himself anew. It was the day that Mary embraced the Son of God, who, while being flesh of her flesh, was coming to into the world in an entirely new way - God and man. He, who would come unto His own and be rejected, she cradled in her womb. Strangers would embrace Him as she did first.

As I was leaving, I thanked the hostess for her hospitality. I really felt that the invitation had been emblematic of acceptance that went beyond anything I had expected when we first darkened the doors of this church. She said in reply, "I'm happy you could come. You and Daniel just fit right in from the very beginning. Not everyone new does that." I smiled and replied. "Ah well, you may just make me Greek yet!" In truth, in spirit -- she might!

Today marks the crowning of our salvation and the revelation of the mystery before all ages. For the Son of God becomes the son of the Virgin, and Gabriel proclaims the grace. Wherefore, we also cry out with him, "Hail, O full of grace, the Lord is with you."

Sunday, March 22, 2009

Spring is busting out all over!

And so is my waistline...
...but for the very best of reasons, I think.

Thursday, March 19, 2009

My Favorite Song

"My favorite song is one I'm singing"

I got to thinking about singing when one of my Facebook friends posted a lament of the loss of folk music and "group sing". He was referring to silly, jubilant or patriotic songs that people might sing in public places, but he also included churches in the decline of group sing. The seventh inning stretch song is just one barely surviving example of group sing music (both sacred and profane) that survives, but Americans are put to shame by international "football" fans in the sports singing arena. Churches still sing, but most of them are abandoning the old feeling of gathering around the piano (as used to happen in homes, as well) in exchange for (often beautifully orchestrated) ensemble music that leaves the congregation in more of a receiving posture than a giving posture when it comes to music, unless they happen to be gifted enough to be on the stage.

No offense, Mom and Dad, but I remember how sad I was to discover that the hymnals of my childhood had given way to powerpoint slides with lyrics for Christmas Carols and rather inventive chord progressions at the last service I attended at the church where I grew up. I couldn't even sing in the parts I had sung almost since infancy because the songs had been reworked so that the old harmonies didn't fit with the new polish. If there is one thing that was amazing about growing up singing hymns from a 4-part book that goes beyond the great old hymns themselves, it has to be that singing in church gave me my most lasting musical education and instilled in me the love of singing and comfort with song that has taken me so many different directions in my adult life. Church singing gave me something many of my non-churched peers didn't get anywhere: a voice.

I can't point the finger backwards without taking issue with what I also see in some Orthodox circles. Music plays an enormous role in Orthodox worship, but the degree to which the congregation is encouraged to sing in Orthodox parishes is as varied as the parishes scattered across the United States. One of my sadnesses at our current parish is that they have gorgeous service books with the music for the services available to everyone in the building, and I didn't know this (since nobody was using them) until I joined the choir and talked to the director, who had spent years putting the book together, not so it could gather dust in the pew racks, but so that a singing community could be established. I can still sing. I traipse up to the choir loft and participate there, but I miss the sort of parish where everyone sings the services, and I find when I am not in the loft, mine may be the lone voice quietly singing along downstairs so as not to stand out.

I appreciate the well-polished sound as much (if not more, perhaps) as just about anyone. I glory in the chance to actually participate in making music that orderly, beautiful and disciplined, but I'm not sure that performance has any place in church. In fact, I don't think it belongs. What does belong is the prayerful, joyful noise of a community of praise. I don't mean that church choirs shouldn't practice, because awful singing from the song leaders is distracting at best, but I do mean that singing ought to be for everyone present, and, ideally, instrumental support should be just that, when present - support of the voice lifted in song. Perhaps it is no mystery, then, that I would be beguiled by the idea of Sacred Harp.

Sacred Harp is a tradition of singing that has been around since the 18th century and still lives in many communities - especially in the rural South. I titled an earlier post this week "Awake, My Soul" (which my mind fills in with the words "and Sing!"), not having any idea that the phrase was the name of a documentary film made exploring the living history of shape-note singing which came into full bloom in this part of the country. This community sing art form is so raw and vibrant -- and forgiving of voices, musical skill and personalities.

Daniel and I have both read a bit about this exuberant and primitive music, and we discovered today that there is an active group meeting once a month about 40 minutes from us, and another meeting twice a month about an hour away. I'd love to go sometime. In the meantime, I'd like to share the trailer for the documentary in hopes that this strange and wonderful music might touch another heart or two.

The quote at the beginning of the post? well, that's my favorite quote from the trailer... probably because it's exactly how I feel about 98% of the time. I wish everyone could know that joy. At the very least, I hope my child will know it.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Great Expectations

The long-awaited ultrasound this morning revealed that we are expecting...













a boy. :D

Looks like the family guesses turned out to be right. We're thrilled, of course, as we would have been to be shown any healthy baby, but it was fun to have my "feeling" confirmed.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Awake, my soul.

I found my soul…
deep in slumber in a cold, dark place.
Surrounded by a slick black shell
encasing it from the beginning.
There it lay, far from the warming
light of the Sun,
content to shiver and sleep.

Until one day
I watched as warm rays
penetrated the darkness,
and water poured from Heaven
mixed with oil.
First softening,
then cracking,
then washing away the coffin walls,
and freeing a tender shoot
to wend heaven-wards in its search
for warmth and light.

I saw its weak and stooping back,
time and time again
--buffeted by winds,
swarmed by gnats,
nearly trampled underfoot,
choked by weeds--
droop from lack of sustenance,
and fall to the earth.

Each time,
I saw the gardener,
hands scarred by a life-giving tree,
clear the brambles,
water its withering roots from His veins,
and lift the arms of my soul anew.
So that it could reach again for heaven,
head bowed in gratitude.

I found my soul at last,
its face warmed and radiant,
unfurling petals of purest gold,
revealing in its upturned face,
the unmistakable likeness
of the Sun.


Sunflower image in the public domain.

"It is not he who begins well who is perfect. It is he who ends well who is approved in God's sight." - St. Basil the Great.

"So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them." - Genesis 1:27

"But if we walk in the light as He is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus Christ His Son cleanses us from all sin." - 1 John 1:7

"Wherefore seeing we also are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which doth so easily beset us, and let us run with patience the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God." - Hebrews 12:1-2

"By your endurance you will gain your lives." - Luke 21:19

"The night is far spent, the day is at hand: let us therefore cast off the works of darkness, and let us put on the armour of light." - Romans 13:12

Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Cookies and Lent

Yesterday I went to church to help a bunch of Greek ladies (and one gentleman) prepare Kourambiedes, which, for those as uninitiated as I was, are essentially a sort of shortbread cookie made with plenty of butter and even more love. The cookies will eventually be sold at next fall's Greek festival, and these dedicated people have already been baking for weeks.

Many of these ladies have been at this task for 40 or more years, and the art has become a science. I'm clearly not Greek and had to look up Kourambiedes on the internet to have any idea what was to be baked, so I fell into a different category altogether. It turned out, however, that didn't matter; They all embraced me into their well-established fold and allowed me to participate in the process.

Once we had worked out that I had a Greek name, "Nikki", and that my husband was the man who directed the choir the week when our regular choir director was absent, and that we are expecting our first child in August, I was shown where to find my apron, I washed my hands and I was put to work.

My first job was to cut huge blocks of butter into sixths so that the industrial mixer could more easily incorporate them into the dough. The ladies were almost done with that process by the time I arrived, so I only cut up one batch of six pounds. There must have been twenty batches or more.

My next assignment was to stand at a huge metal table in the sprawling kitchen (which, when I admired it, was proclaimed "too small" - "You should see the kitchen at the parish in Winston-Salem," I was told...) and cut circles of dough with little round metal cutters. I was fairly sure I wouldn't mess this task up too badly, but I still approached it with a bit of fear. I left the dough patting in preparation for cutting to the expert women who had been doing it for decades. The dough had to be just right - and the only accurate measure was a practiced eye. Once I had cut the cookies, I lined them up precisely on a baking pan in nine rows of six and collected the scraps so that the next flattened batch of dough could be prepared by experienced hands.

In the process I learned a few Kourambiedes secrets, though I got the feeling I only scratched the surface. At home, some of the women cut the cookies with drinking glasses (or whatever comes to hand) into crescent shapes rather than circles. However, there is more to know that varies by locale and home.
Local custom when baking festival cookies is threefold:
1. Never break the cookies.
2. Never sample the cookies.
3. Hide whatever cracks cannot be avoided with a generous layer of powdered sugar.
One lovely younger woman explained the rules to me, telling me that she had broken rule number two by sampling a cookie the first time she helped and had received a stern reprimand. Now she knows better and was willing to help others avoid learning the hard way.

I, on the other hand, must have come on just the right day. One cookie of thousands had been proclaimed smashed, and I was allowed to have a little nibble. The cookie was delicious (probably because of its decidedly non-lenten butter), and I proclaimed the cookie's virtues enthusiastically when all of the ladies asked my opinion.

It struck me that ultimately these people were all laboring together in preparation for a feast, much in the same way the church labors together towards the resurrection of Christ. There was order and planning, and everything was done "just so". We were making cookies -- as perfect, sweet and uniform as possible -- for the thousands of people who will swarm the church for the festival - our guests of honor, much as we work to perfect our hearts together during lent to receive the resurrected King of all.

Any one of those present could have made cookies at home alone. They all could have brought the finished product to church on the day of the festival. They could have labored in solitude, and the cookies would, I am sure, have been lovely. But they didn't. Each of them sacrificed his or her time and energy and schedule to do this work together, which allowed for a beautiful uniformity in the finished product, not to mention unrivaled efficiency and building of relationships. The process is perfect: they have figured out what works, and they do it -- together. All of us were needed. Those who had done the work for years were there to show the way; those who were newer to the fold were there to learn... and perhaps, someday, to teach.

I tend to resent order and imposed rules. I really, really like to do my own thing my own way. Every once in a while, however, I am reminded gently of why my own thing my own way isn't the right approach. This time, the reminder came in the form of a lenten kitchen that exemplified the beauty of order and laboring together. My part was small and my understanding incomplete, but there was a space at the table for me. For example, when one tray of cookies came out a bit more brittle than desired, I joked that perhaps that was the result of my inexperienced hands "touching them the wrong way." The answer I received was that it would be great if a hundred people would come touch the cookies the wrong way. What mattered was that I was there.

It's not much different in the Church. When we labor together to create a sweet offering for our Lord, it matters first and foremost that we are there. We come, all of us, with our limitations and distractions, but just as we will all be invited to the feast whether we have come at the last hour or the first, we are invited to participate in the preparations, for the sake of our own souls and for the encouragement of others. Much like this well-ordered Greek parish kitchen, the Church in her mercy offers us guidelines for our festal preparations. She says, in effect: "There's room for you at the table. Come and participate. It doesn't matter if you don't know how to do it... if you keep at it, you will learn. It matters only that you are here. Simply come, participate, and try not to break anything. But don't worry, your faults and shortcomings can be covered with a generous layer of sweet grace."

In this kitchen, grace and generosity carried the day. I left with two carefully wrapped cookies that were presented as a gift for me to take home. I'm here to tell you that those cookies were divine.

I still have no idea how to make Kourambiedes, other than it takes a whole lot of delicious yellow butter, much sifting of flour and a generous helping of powdered sugar. Perhaps, if I persist, year after year, my understanding will eventually be made complete. I do know this much, though: when the day for the festival feasting comes, I will have the joy of partaking in and sharing the labor of my hands. I hope, likewise, that when the day of the Paschal feast arrives, my incomplete, imperfect spiritual preparations will add to the joy of the feast we will enjoy together. I know that however well or ill prepared I will be when I arrive on that day, through the grace of Christ, there will be room for me at the table.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

Holding my Breath

I'm not sure if it's my penchant for worry, the hormones raging through my system, my past miscarriage or some combination of those and other factors, but so far I would have to say that pregnancy has been a bit like holding my breath for several months at a stretch. I imagine it would be a little bit different if I didn't have known complications that limit my activity or, perhaps, if I had a job to keep my mind on other things. As things are, however, I feel like 80% of the time -- when I am alone at home or awake in the night -- I have nothing in the world but this baby and my own thoughts, and since my thoughts don't tend to be unflaggingly positive, it's a whole lot of work to avoid sinking into something akin to paranoia and despair.

Truth be told, I live for the moments of reassurance that come from good doctor's visits (that are all too few and far between for my tastes) and spend a fair amount of down time (of which I have plenty) waiting to feel a movement or to become convinced by the whispering reassuring voices in my head that I should worry less and believe more, and ignore the insistent voices that argue to the contrary. Perhaps this is a reflection of my spiritual health -- more faith = less fear -- or perhaps it's just part of the experience for me at this otherwise very quiet time in my life.

It's so hard to at the same time fall madly in love with this tiny little person and to be desperately afraid to get attached. It's too late for that already, but perhaps you know what I mean. I'm thrilled to be carrying this child, and my heart is overflowing with love for it already. I simply wonder why I can't rejoice in every minute the blessing is in my life without wondering when it will be snatched away. It doesn't seem right or fair to feel this way, but I have not figured out how to banish my worries and cling to hope.

My husband, who gave me some really adorable sports-themed baby things for Christmas, promptly hid them away in his closet when he realized that my reaction to the items was less enthusiastic than either of us would have liked. He did this because he's sensitive to the fact that I was worried about this baby in those early scary days. Fact is, I am still not ready to make our home look like it will be inhabited by another little person in about 5 months. He's been very good about just supporting me where I am, but I still feel like something is wrong with me.

One of the ways this all manifests is in my reluctance to plan too far in advance or to even buy anything for the baby. I finally broke out of that a little bit this past week by deciding that it wouldn't hurt to have done some of my research when the magic moment arrives (time TBA) that it's okay to start planning and buying in earnest. I went to Babies-R-Us after a reassuring doctor's visit and walked the aisles taking notes on what sorts of things I would like to have in the house for baby. Then, this weekend, we had a real adventure: we went to the zoo, aka IKEA in Charlotte, and while it wiped me out for a few days, we did manage to do what I had wanted to do - price and touch the cribs and other baby furniture they offer.

We're not rolling in the dough these days, so I find my wants are really fairly modest. I know many people in our lives will probably be happy to give us baby-related gifts, but I am looking at the baby-stuff acquisition project as a chance to decide what we would *need* if we were reduced to buying it all ourselves. I think that helps with focus in a sector of the retail world that peddles cute and cuddly to the exclusion of good sense. If I can manage to focus on function first, perhaps we can enjoy the frills a bit more when we add them on top. It helps to know what function costs so that I can spot a deal. My momma taught me that much!

There are two consignment events happening this month, and I have decided that they are good opportunities to quit fretting and start getting positive. Would it kill me to buy a couple of gently worn generic onesies? Would the sky come crashing down if I dared to pick up a used crib or other bit of baby furniture? There is the real concern that buying consignment means I can't take it back if I discover I don't need or want the item, but that's hardly a reason to wait until I have a squealing babe in arms to start buying items said squealing person will need. If we don't need them, someone will, and I am sure I can come up with a solution.

Let's get real here. Even if the sky did come crashing down and one of my worst-case scenarios became my reality ... I'm smart enough to realize that there isn't a causal relationship between buying baby things and tragedy. The only causal relationship of note is that of God's hand in everything that happens in life, and my need to trust him that whatever he has in store. You know... He *may* just bless us with a healthy baby! I wish I could get that through my head... or at least just muster trust sufficient for each day as it comes, because when it comes to holding your breath... you can only do it for so long without killing something in yourself.

Monday, March 2, 2009

Let it Snow!

We'll call this my first "real" snow at home. It's not the first time snow has fallen where I live, but it is the first snow thick enough to stick around inches deep, to cause that lovely sinking crunch under my shoes and to turn the world uniformly and gloriously luminous white during the daytime and eerie gray when night falls. We've had 3 or 4 flurries this winter, and we had a few light snows last year when we were living a bit east of here, but none of the storms has been as beautiful as this one.

As you may have seen in the news, much of this coast has had a rather unseasonable snow after a somewhat unusual winter. The storm followed a much-needed and record-setting rain that ought to help with drought conditions here. The snow topped off the dampened ground after several days of warm flirtation with springtime, during which the first shoots of daffodil and other bulbed flora poked up vibrant green fingers from the earth. Now those same shoots are under inches of powdery white and I hope they won't be worse for their temporary icy cover when it comes time to bloom.

If I were a bit more adventurous and had more energy (or if Dan had gotten a "snow day" from work so I would have had company), I would have gone to the arboretum a few miles from here to take photos of the ice-blanketed world in a more expansive and natural setting. As it is, I decided to take the pictures I could take from inside (or just a few steps outside) of our dwelling this morning, which gives you a sense of what I see when I simply step to the window to look outside.

I did put the cats on leashes (one at a time, of course) and put them outside to explore a little, since snow is a pretty new experience for our California-transplant cats. I wouldn't say that the kitties "liked" the snow, but they did tolerate a few curious moments of paw freezing and frigid air sniffing before whining, crying and hissing (MooMoo) or looking longingly at the door to the house and darting in as soon as it was cracked open (Monte). Both of them do enjoy the altered view from the safety and warmth of the upstairs windows, so we'll leave their appreciation of the wintery world at that for now.

Truth be told, I could probably enjoy a bit more snow than we get here, but the merely scattered snows are part of the reason we were drawn to this part of the country. Sure, we get to contend with oppressive heat and humidity during part of the summer, but we also get to see the leaves change and fall from the abundant trees in the autumn, we experience the riotous colors of springtime and we revel in the occasional day like today when the world is blanketed in jewels -- with all the giddy excitement of a long-anticipated Christmas morning and without the hassle of weeks upon weeks of icy roads and shoveling walks. In contrast to California's eternal summer or the frozen landscapes of the white North, we central North Carolinians get to taste all four seasons, albeit in a "lite" form.

I love it! I wouldn't have it any other way.