Merry Christmas

Wishing the merriest of Christmases and the happiest of holidays to all who celebrate. We feel grateful to have spent a perfect evening with Tom's parents last week and to now have my parents here and my sister and her family arriving on Christmas afternoon. 

We are surrounded by an abundance: of love, gratitude, food, material gifts, friends, and neighbors, and could hardly wish for anything more. Peace and truth would be welcome though, and we all dedicate 2017 to those ends.

Tidy emotions

Tonight I would like to talk to you about tidy emotions. 

Tidy emotions are those that make people -mostly others, but could be you too because you've internalized others' and societal expectations- and society comfortable.

They're the "it's for the best" when someone dies. The "it was meant to be" when something crappy happens -a break-up, for example- and you're desperately and painfully trying to make sense of things. The "calm down and relax" when your heart is upset and, oh, maybe your country seems to be dying. The looks of "hmm" and the cacophonous silence when some bravely stand up in the face of injustice juxtaposed with the loud applause for bathing puppies and perfectly wrapped gifts that pepper our landscape with perky regularity.

For so many years, I was admonished for wearing my heart on my sleeve. I was chastised for my emotions. I was made to feel I was an awful burden because I felt things deeply. I was called "too much," and "too intense," and, yes, "a burden" because I worried about so many relationships and issues and because my confidence couldn't find a stud in which to brace itself against the many winds whirling about. I care about the fate of the polar bears. So sue me. I was told that I "seemed to be awfully stressed" when I had a newborn and a just-three-year-old and didn't have a night nurse and nanny like the person who was telling me I was stressed.

I am quite sure that there were times I was too much, that I was too emotional. I did learn to modulate and moderate, to assess context and situation, to respond versus react, and for that I am infinitely grateful. My porous self has certainly made life hard many times over. I have often wished for a sturdier core.

But I have also unlearned some of that muzzling. I've left behind that inner voice that commanded I be of a certain weight and size. I have worked hard to loose the reins on MY voice, and to accept, to HONOR, that it is sensitive and attuned. That although it is sometimes intense or thorny, it is, more often, generous and kind and feeling. And I will tell you that I would choose being all of that any day over privileged and aloof and tidy and small.

Tidy is women a long time ago but also too many of us today. Tidy is something you could once only afford to be. Tidy is something still afforded by class and privilege.

Tidy makes me tired, as my Aunt Da used to say. Tidy is dull and inaccessible and frequently lacks authenticity. 

The opposite of tidy isn't fake or false or vapid. It isn't singular or snotty. No, those things are as improper, in my opinion, as is superficial polish. They are, often, worse, for they are entitled and ugly and out of touch.

The opposite of tidy is real. REAL. Authentic, candid, Self translated. The opposite of tidy is not going gently. The opposite of tidy is, usually, being courageously on the right side of history. 

In today's New York Times, Charles Blow wrote

"I fully understand that elevated outrage is hard to maintain. It’s exhausting. But the alternative is surrender to national nihilism and the welcoming of woe. The next four years could be epochal years in the history of this country. They could test the limits of presidential power and the public’s passivity.
I happen to believe that history will judge kindly those who continued to shout, from the rooftops, through their own weariness and against the corrosive drift of conformity: This is not normal!"

Whether you want to see it or not, America is falling apart. As is our news, our common belief in fact, the binding threads of our communal quilt. Judgment and bigotry and exclusion and restriction are racing back into our public spheres in terrifying ways. We were better than this. I am ashamed that we've decided to put that exceptional goodness on hiatus. We should ALL be ashamed of that.

For those who are, stay loud. Stay strong. Resist. Anger is OK if you don't let it overtake you.

If someone tells you to get over it, or quiet down, or just move on, tell them to shove it. For those of you who only share lightness and animals and happy family pictures, consider why. Usually, the outtake prior to the "perfect" shot was the more real one. If you see someone suffering or struggling or simply in need of a hug, give. 

Be honest. Be real. Do not surrender. 

Ethiopian market, Christmas present for self, cheesecake

I was so jazzed about my injera and wat lunch earlier this week that I immediately texted Hiwot and asked if she might be remotely willing to teach me how to make injera. If so, where should I get supplies?

"I'm glad that you love my Injera, I'm totally willing to teach you how to make injera. You can find the Teff flour and the (Mitad) grill from any Ethiopian market or I can tell you the market address in Washington DC...I'll bring you some starter."

Um, yes. I am ALWAYS down for exploring a new-to-me market. Hiwot directed me to Black Lion Market on 14th St NW, certain it would have both black and ivory teff flour and the exact grill I needed to cook the injera. Can you even believe the loveliness of this woman? 

I walked in and shyly inquired about the grill, showing one employee a photograph that Hiwot had sent me. 

"Oh yes, you want this one! Also, it can help you make chapatis, tortillas, and pita." 

"Thank you! This is perfect. And do you have smaller than 42-pound bags of teff flour?"

"Now you need to talk to this woman. She knows everything about flour."

That lovely woman brought me over to smaller bags of flour, gallon-size Ziplocs of various flours individually weighed and priced, labeled in Amharic. I heaved one bag each of black and ivory teff, and also a large sack of red lentils into my arms, and placed them carefully on the counter by the register before adding a boxed grill to the mix.

A young man with a great smile walked up behind me, placed his bag of injera on the counter, saw my pile, and asked, "Are you going to make injera? Do you like it?" I was the only white shopper in Black Lion, and I am certain he wondered if I knew what I was doing. 

I smiled back and said, "I love it. My friend made me some and said she would teach me and that these items are what I need because she'll bring some starter. Isn't that cool?"

I showed him and the two women at the register my pictures of Hiwot's injera and they were very impressed.

"Oh yes, she knows what she is doing!"

Then I showed my photo of the wat I'd made. 

"You made that? Lentil wat? Good for you."

We were all smiling like crazy. I turned to the man behind me and said, "Now why aren't you making your own injera?" and grinned. He laughed and said, "Oh, I know I should! But I'm not so good at it." 

I stumbled out into a freezing day, arms and heart full. 
~~~
Winter break started yesterday after the kids finished school, and I cannot adequately express how deeply thrilled I am to have no homework to oversee for a full two weeks. Ah! Oliver spent last night at a friend's house, and Jack, T and I grilled a pizza and vegged out.

Today, the boys and I finished up one of the two epic projects we've been working on as surprise gifts for the grandparents, and I made a pumpkin cheesecake for the freezer and also a batch of rum balls. The latter gets better over time, so they'll be perfect when Mom and Dad arrive next week, and my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew, just after!