Dear Jack

A little more than 12 years ago family and friends began to receive word of my mother's death. It was grim news. The kind of news that makes you sick. Heart sick. Gut sick. News of her death barreled through the month of May like a runaway train, filleting us all like fish, and leaving us irreparably changed.

At the time I did not have the capacity to think much beyond my own grief. But yesterday, for the first time, I was given a bitter pill that must have been much like the pill swallowed by friends and family so long ago. What do you do and say when something sickening, needless, and desperate swallows up the beating heart and expanding chest of a friend?

Jack, your death is tragic. That is all there is to it. We are shell shocked and sad. We are sad for you and for your family, and for every living, breathing thing that will not have the privilege of spending time with you again.

I went to a rodeo last night. As a Southerner, you would have been uniquely charmed by the boys called Cody and Ty and Clem riding horses and bulls, swaggering away from each ride in pain and pride and chaps. As my sister and fiancé ate sweet, doughy elephant ears, licking their fingers covered with cinnamon and sugar, I thought of you. I thought of all the fish you have caught, the woods where you have walked, and all the rivers you have not graced. I thought of your kindness at weddings where dance partners were few and Nancy shared you with the rest of us. I thought of your hospitality in New York City, your Southern Spiritual wisdom, and your fatherly tenderness.

You now know more than all of us. You have seen the other side and I suspect that Jesus is near. Lean in Jack. You deserve it. Your earthly journey is finished, good and faithful servant, and at this moment I know you need the support of the One who knows life, suffering, compassion, and death more intimately than the rest of us. Bask in the fullness of redemption, resurrection, and life everlasting. May its sweetness bear you up amidst the grief and sadness.

We will do our best to love Nancy and Martha and your boys. You would want it that way. We all wish it would have been different. I know you do too.

Farewell, friend. Until we meet again,
Carmen

I'm getting hitched

When I told my Swedish friend, Micke, that I was getting hitched he said, "Congratulations! You are pregnant!"

I was bewildered and said, "No, I'm getting married."

Micke was bemused. He thought "getting hitched" meant that something was hitching itself to me, like a wee baby (not a spouse). Wouldn't want that rumor flying around, eh? So, no, I am not pregnant. And yes, I am getting married!

Hooray for love and joy and marriage and friendship, etc, etc.

We're getting married on All Saints Day, which I love because there are so many saints who will not be with us in the flesh, but will certainly be with us in other ways. Clark and I are getting married at pretty Mt. Pleasant Presbyterian and then heading over to Alhambra Hall for the reception. I like having the wedding in such a historic place-- so many important things have happened in that building (from serving as a hospital in the Civil War to a school in Reconstruction). I like that we will add our little wedding to the list.

Fingers crossed, there won't be a hurricane to bother us.

Clark and I are having a good time making plans. We are waging war against the very powerful 'Wedding Industrial Complex' here in the States. Do you know how much garbage people want you to buy or believe in just to make this day "the most perfect day of your life." Yuck. I bought my dress off the rack and when I asked the gal how many fittings would be necessary for alterations she said, "We like to give girls at least 3 or 4 fittings, so they have time to lose weight."

Ponder that one for a second.

Seriously?!?! You say this to women!?!!?

There is much silliness, but deep down I confess I love some of this party planning. I want to jump out of my skin with excitement when I think of all the wonderful people that will be together in one space for the affair. Clark and I have officiated at a million weddings, of course, so it will be interesting to be on the other side this time. My 6 year old nephew Tyson has said he'd be willing to read in the service, but "does not prefer the Old Testament." Tough cookie, we'll see what we can scrounge up for him.

Welcome to Charleston!

All right. Much has happened since I last wrote. I moved to the South. That is right. The Southern region of the United States of America. I now live in Charleston, SC and am currently living in a darling little cottage (temporarily until I can find an apartment downtown) and I have a view of the Charleston Bay. Fabuloso. It is luxurious in a completely different kind of way than my little brick duplex in Kitwe, Zambia or my outrageously beautiful apartment off of Central Park. I can see Fort Sumter from my back porch, which is where the Civil War began 150 years ago. I was talking to a fisherman a couple of days ago who told me, “The Civil War is all this place has going for it.” Ha! A bizarre claim to fame. The guy then asked Clark, “Which side are you for?” He replied with a laugh, “I’m all for the war being over.”

Charleston is beyond charming. And fascinating. And strange. And beautiful. Sultry nights, sunshine, white beaches, palm trees, cobblestone streets, and no-see-ums (swear to you- this is what some folks call little biting gnats that are hard to see). I have been met with warmth, cordiality, and genuine hospitality everywhere I’ve visited in this town, but boy-o-boy is this a whole new world.

Undoubtedly, there will be stories worth telling. I thumbed through a magazine called Garden and Gun the other day. I kid you not. Garden and Gun. Among other things, I found a recipe for bacon crackers. Some people make them for bridge parties. You grill up bacon and wrap them around crackers. That was one of the featured recipes. Bacon crackers.

That being said, this is a FOOD town. I love it. Fantastic restaurants (one-word names are all the rage)—Fig, Husk, Sette, Magnolia’s, Fish, Mercato, Sienna, Tristan, etc. And this doesn’t even count all the BBQ (Clark tells me that the more personified the pig on the sign, the better the barbecue).

I am serving as an Associate Pastor at a church called Mt. Pleasant Presbyterian (www.mppc.net) and I love my new job. The church is not located on a mountain or a hill or even a mound for that matter (as far as I can tell), so I’ll have to do some investigating on the name. I am suspicious of the word pleasant, of course. It is like the word ‘interesting.’ There is something supremely non-descript about it. But if I did like the word, I might actually concur at the town meeting that designated this place ‘pleasant’ so many years ago. When I walk to work I watch the pelicans sweep over the docks, the cardinals sing in the live oaks (Spanish moss draped through the branches), and if I wanted to I could drop by a local general store and order a grilled cheese sandwich and a soda from a guy named Billy Mack or William Chadsworth, III. This is gonna be an adventure y’all. AD-VEN-TURE.

Ha! I cannot say that with any integrity, yet. Y’all. I had to have Clark spell the world.

Signing off,
Your Carmie

Mary Oliver for Lent

Wild Geese

“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
call to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”

― New and Selected Poems, 1992

Spectacular. Magnificent. Incredible.

I wish I could throw my body in the air to punctuate each of these words for you.

I am home after 2 weeks in Denmark and a brief visit to Iceland. I was sitting on a plane yesterday, a few Icelandic documentaries under my belt, when I peaked out the window to see something soul-screeching amazing.

When you fly west out of Iceland, bound for Seattle, you fly over Greenland and over a body of water called the Davis Strait. At this time of year the body of water separating Greenland from the uninhabited snowy fjords of Northeastern Canada is made up of giant sheets of fractured ice. For hundreds, even thousands of miles, jagged indigo veins thread their way through milky plates of ice. White cliffs jut curiously up from the sea and not a living thing can be seen. Nothing breathing, nothing photosynthesizing, nothing moving to the rhythms of the strange and stunning landscape. On this trip we were quite close to the North Pole, so we traveled for 8 hours with the setting sun. The light on the shattered landscape was breathtaking- everything awash in pink and gold, purple and blue. As I snapped a few photos out the window I felt my heart leap for joy. Leap.

For a moment I looked around, wondering what we ought to do. I considered promoting a collective dance. Or a subdued squeal. Something.

Instead, I just said thank you for every possible thing I could think of. I gave thanks for the plane and the pilot and human flight. I gave thanks for the sun and the moon and for the quirky bus driver who invited us to “stare into the darkness” when we arrived in Iceland, etc. etc. Like most people, most of my days are filled with the humdrum of daily decisions. I navigate life with unconscious consciousness. But yesterday I was given 30 minutes of magnificent.

It's amazing what 36,000 feet and a puny window can do for your soul.

A Wintry Update

I'm sicker than a dog for the second time this season. I need to stand in line with all the old ladies (a.k.a. the bright one's of the earth) and get a flu shot next year. Tomorrow Clark and I are bound for the land of Danes and I am already dreading facing the poor person who will be sitting next to me in 34D. They are going to despise me. I am drugged up and resting today, so hopefully will be in much better shape by tomorrow at 3:30 when our plane departs.

Clark and I are going to Denmark to paint my cousins' house. As a thank you they are flying us through Iceland on the way home. Who does this kind of thing? We're hoping to soak in some hot springs and admire the Northern Lights. Fabuloso!

There is much to catch up on and discuss in the world. We could discuss the assassination of the Iranian nuclear physicist or the genocide occurring in Southern Sudan. Or the exciting happenings in Myanmar.

This is all worthy chatter chatter, but I've only the capacity for celeb gossip. Britney Spears is getting married again, which nearly prompted me to buy a teeshirt with her face on the front yesterday when I was at Value Village picking up a few things for painting. I googled her this afternoon and was invited to follow ol Brit on Twitter. I think I can say with certainty that I cannot imagine wanting to follow someone less.

A few random updates from my neck of the woods:

On Sunday (the eve of Carmen Vs. The Flu Round 2) Clark and I went snowshoeing in the Cascades. Lovely.



We went to Florida to spend time with Clark's fam for Thanksgiving where I caught my first fish, swam in the Gulf of Mexico, and spent my first Thanksgiving holiday in a pair of flip flops.



I loved spending time with my fam for 2 full weeks over the Christmas holiday. Such a luxury. And now a Christmas confession: you all know I am a feminist and believe in supporting strong, healthy compassionate boys and girls, yet I admit I bought my niece princess gear this Christmas.

Shoot me now.

Happy Birthday UW!

One hundred and fifty years ago today , a young whipper-snapper bravely began teaching classes at the "Territorial University of Washington" in a rough and tumble mill town. According to the article I read this morning, Seattle was a shabby settlement where about 250 white folks lived in wood/mud shacks and spent their time gambling and boozing. When UW opened its doors, there were 2 distilleries, 11 drinking establishments, and one bawdry house (brothel) in the neighborhood. Ha! Seattle! Such promise. Such excitement! Clearly, this teacher had an inkling of all the possibilities that lay ahead. Microsoft and Boeing, send us your weary, innovative masses.

I am proud to say that my Alma Mater has come a long way. The first graduate was a woman, Clara McCarty, who went on to become the superintendent of Pierce County schools. Today the University of Washington is one of the oldest universities on the west coast and receives more federal research funding than any other public university in the nation. It is routinely ranked among the top public research universities in the country and the top-25 list in the world. Happy Birthday to the Huskies! Glad to be part of the story.



By the way, one of the primary reasons I went to this school had NOTHING to do with its prestige or academic rigor. No. I thought it was pretty. It "felt collegiate." Have mercy. That was my reasoning as an 18 year old. Whatevs.

It IS pretty.