Peonies in the Kitchen During Finals Week

Three weeks ago, as I was entering finals week at Parkland College, where I teach English and Humanities, I turned to flowers to ground me. Marilyn, my spouse, had planted a new peony bush in front of our two older ones. The new bush had two deep crimson blooms, and they were already opening when the old plants’ pink buds were still tightly closed. I cut those two flowers and placed them in a vase on the kitchen counter, where I saw them every time I looked up from grading papers. 

That week, in addition to the usual grading marathon, I was also saying goodbye to students to whom I had grown attached. My classes had become genuine communities; students chatted with each other instead of staring at their devices before, during, and after class, and we often laughed together. I had grown to love them and often been inspired by them, these students who came from so many different places: a night-shift at the hospital, thirteen years in the army, successful treatment for depression, a mental-health break from the U of I, a job lifting boxes for UPS. The semester was ending, and they were moving on: one transferring to Columbia College in Chicago, another to the University of Missouri, most returning in the fall for more classes—but not to our class. Our communities were temporary by definition. 

I was exhausted, ready for summer, and I was also sad to be saying goodbye. 

That week, I found myself checking in with the peonies each day, burying my nose in the petals, inhaling their fragrance, and taking photos. As the week went on, the peonies opened fully, then started to lose their petals. Eventually, the fallen petals dried up in a small pile around the base of the vase. But I wasn’t ready to let the flowers go. Finally, a couple of days after I had submitted grades and the semester was officially over, when Marilyn asked me yet again whether I was done with those peonies, I said yes. I photographed the dried petals; even at that stage, the peonies were beautiful, and then I said goodbye. 

 

Two of my South Asian Cultures (HUM 109) students working on a rangoli together in class. Rain kept us indoors, but a sense of discovery and play filled the room. These two students had not worked together before. Their creative collaboration was typical of that class.

[I read this reflection during the annual Flower Communion service at the Unitarian Universalist Church of Urbana-Champaign on Sunday, June 2, 2019.]

One Year Later

I wrote this reflection, "An Ordinary Friday," for the Nov. 12, 2017, service titled One Year Later at the Unitarian Universalist Church ofUrbana-Champaign. (Audio at the link above)

A year ago, in the days after the election, I was in the throes of grief, and I wasn’t sure how I was going to get through it. I wore black for a week. I love color, but I couldn’t face it.

In the year since, I have felt the need to turn inward, to find ways to nurture my compassion and my gratitude—to balance out my anger and fear. And to turn outward as well, to engage in ways I can sustain and which sustain me.

Over these months, I have found that the world has come to feel more fragile and more precious. I have come to realize even more deeply how much I love it, this world of ours.

I was reminded of the preciousness and beauty of our world on a Friday about three weeks ago. I was sitting in Westside Park in downtown Champaign, eating an early lunch and choosing the poetry I wanted to read for our UU coffeehouse, when I heard children’s voices behind me.

“It’s the Music Man!” a little boy exclaimed. After a brief pause, he added, “He’s going to make music!” The certainty in his voice moved me, and I turned around to look.

About eight children—they were about four years old—were walking one behind the other, holding onto a rope. They were heading towards the nearby preschool. A little distance from them, on a low stool, sat a middle-aged man, a bag beside him. He reached in, took out what looked like a small horn, and began to play music. Excited sounds came from the children.

I smiled and returned to my lunch and reading. A minute later, I heard more young voices.

“It’s the Music Man!  Hi, Jay!”

About a dozen more kids were on the path to the preschool.

                                                  

“Hi Jay! Hi Jay!” a chorus of voices called out. The man kept playing the music; the children waved and smiled and chattered excitedly.

I was struck by the joy the Music Man and the children brought each other through the repetition of what was clearly a regular event in their lives. I had been reading poems that emphasized our interdependence—and here I was witnessing the joy it brings. Witnessing it brought me joy.

I was struck by how this still goes on, this kind of kindness and interdependence, even while  chaos and cruelty dominate the highest levels of our government. Noticing moments like this is what has allowed me to nurture gratitude and compassion in myself, to avoid being consumed by anger and despair. There are opportunities every day, and I try to remain open to them.

That is how I get through: looking at sunlight on the tall tree outside the Champaign Public Library where I wrote some of this homily, or noticing the engaged looks on my students' faces at Parkland as they listen to each other discuss meditation or feminism, or witnessing the kindness and joy of strangers. These moments of beauty and attention and kindness are as real as the injustices and violations that capture the headlines. Each morning, standing with palms pressed against each other and looking out the living room window, I greet the day and bring to mind the compassion and beauty I witnessed the day before; this practice of paying attention nourishes me and strengthens me and opens me. It reminds me why I love our world and reminds me why I must keep fighting for it.

---

Two works, introduced to me by Rev. Florence Caplow, our new settled minister at UUCUC, have helped lift me during the past year: 

the poem "Now, I Love You. Now, I Witness" by the UU minister Theresa Soto

and the song "I'm Gonna Walk it With You" by Brian Claflin and Ellie Grace.

What has helped you? 

Community has sustained me this year. These candles were lit at the beautiful Solstice service yesterday at our Unitarian Universalist Church; they represent individual goals for the solar year, goals pursued with the knowledge that we have the support of our community. 

The Space Between

My tattered bumper sticker reminds me each day: Change is inevitable. Growth is optional. Below is a reflection about change and growth that I delivered on June 3^rd at the coffee house to bid farewell to Rev. Joanne Giannino, interim minister, Unitarian Universalist Church of Urbana-Champaign (UUCUC).

The backstory:

Change has felt very present recently—in my personal life, in our national life, and in the life of my spiritual home, UUCUC. At our UU church, after our minister of nineteen years moved to the west coast—his new church is about a mile from the Pacific Ocean--I served on the Transition Team of our first interim minister, Rev. Janet Newman, for a year and then, after careful thought, I accepted a nomination to a seven-member search committee, which worked for thirteen months and put in hundreds of hours to find our next settled minister. That committee became like a family to me, and I am sure I exchanged more emails with them than I have with anyone else in a one-year span. During our search process and this second year of transition and self-examination, our church was guided by our second interim minister, Rev. Joanne Giannino, whom we will say goodbye to at the end of this month.

Here is the piece I delivered at the coffee house:

Recently in an article in Lion’s Roar magazine, I learned about the Buddhist concept of “bardo”—spelled B A R D O—and it made me think of the past two years at our church. Our church has experienced many moments of “bardo” recently—maybe we have even been in one, long bardo. “Bardo,” the article tells us, “is the Tibetan term for the intermediate state or gap we experience between death and our next rebirth…. More generally, the word bardo refers to the gap or space we experience between any two states.” The article goes on to say, “We actually experience bardos throughout our day”—for instance, when I finish reading this piece to you and before the next one begins, there will be a moment of bardo—“a tiny gap following the end of one activity and preceding the start of another. If you notice them, these bardos of everyday life are places of potential transformation.”

            The article adds, “Bardos are spaces of potential creativity and innovation, because they create breaks in our familiar routines and patterns. In that momentary space of freedom, the fresh perspective of something new and awake may suddenly arise.”

            A break in our familiar routines and patterns, new spaces of creativity and innovation, the fresh perspective of something new and awake—all of these describe our two years of transition as a church and especially our interim year under the gentle, steady, clear guidance offered by Joanne.  She has nudged us when needed, comforted us often—especially in the difficult weeks after November 8—and accompanied us as we have taken action, including at the women’s marches and in our work for racial justice.

As one of the members of your Ministerial Search Committee looking for a settled minister to lead us into the future, I knew we faced a tough task because I heard very often, “I wish Joanne could stay on,” “I’ll miss Joanne so much,” or “How will we find someone as wonderful as Joanne?” (FYI: UUA guidelines do not allow the interim minister to continue on as the settled minister). When our committee shared these comments with Joanne, her advice was characteristic of her: she put our needs as a congregation first—it wasn’t about her. She said, “What do you think they are responding to when they say that? You can use that as a guide in your search.”

            We followed Joanne’s advice and found someone wonderful in her own way. The unanimous vote on May 7 suggests you all approve of our choice. But there is only one Rev. Joanne Giannino, and I feel very fortunate and grateful to have had you, Joanne, to lead us in this bardo, this time of potential transformation.

            I’ll end with a poem by Alberto Rios, a poem about giving and receiving and about how those actions change us. We have received much from you this past year, Joanne, and have been transformed by it.

“When Giving isAll We Have” by Alberto Rios [Please click the title for text of the poem I read at the coffee house; you will also find a recording of Rios reading the poem.]

Thank you, Joanne, for all you have given us and for what we have made together.