Mastery Year 3: Part 8: Post 2: New Years

When I think of New Years' and school, I always think of that giant parade we had in the snow, it seems so inherently like us to do something like that. But it's only happened once, that I know of. This year, I won't even be on campus for New Years--I wasn't for Christmas. I was with June's family, missing my family and school, because the alternative would have been for her to miss hers, and she did that already at Thanksgiving.


June's family doesn't quite celebrate Christmas, which sometimes makes me wonder why we can't spend Christmas with my family (who do) instead, but I can see why she doesn't want to miss her non-Christmas, either. It's this low-key, unofficial, non-religious day with a big, yummy breakfast and everyone getting and giving little stocking-stuffer type things with everyone else. It's lovely. It's family time. And I seem to be welcome. I could see learning to miss this myself, if one year I couldn't go.

Is this what growing older is just like? The more people and places you connect with, the more you wish you were somewhere else no matter where you are?

June's family was similarly low-key about New Years last year--we all just stayed up to toast at midnight with Champagne  in nice glasses, then we went to bed--but I hear they're planning a party this year. I'm looking forward to it.

And I'm thinking about things on campus, about the party they're gearing up for, and about which of my friends will be on campus then and which will not.

I'm thinking about something Allen said to me the other day.

June and I were on campus for Yule, of course, before leaving for a week and a half with her parents (including travel time--it's a long way), and in the evening, before the masters withdrew again to wherever it is they go outside of the school year, I asked Allen something about whether he was going to Charlie's for Christmas. And, I guess, there was an edge to it when I said it. I didn't mean there to be.

The thing is that I've always wanted to be part of what these people have, and there's a sense in which I always feel excluded. There are things students aren't allowed to join, there is Charlie being prickly and growling to keep others--sometimes me--and there is the fact I'm just not as close to them as they are to each other. I'm not really being excluded or rejected, but somehow it just feels like I am. Allen would say I'm being emotionally needy. And sometimes it shows.

And Allen can always tell.

I said whatever I said and he grinned at me fondly.

"I'm always amused," he said, "That you yearn so deeply for that which you already have."

Mastery Year 3: Part 2: Post 4: Easter Greenery

Note: In 2009, when this is set, Easter had already occurred by April 17th, and Passover was in progress. -D.

Happy Easter! June and I went to my parents' place for the weekend after I swore up and down that we'd make an extended visit to her parents sometime this year. The problem--the reason why this is an issue--is that her parents live so far away that we can't really make it a trip of less than a week, but June and I almost never have a week off at the same time. After I earn my ring, we won't have this problem. And in the meantime her parents are coming here to visit for a week sometime this summer.

Anyway. Yes, Easter. Nothing unusual happened except that I severely wished I'd stayed home on campus. Not that I wasn't glad to see my family, and Easter is a traditional time for us all to gather now, so I really couldn't miss it, but I've only really been on campus for Easter once and it was lovely. I wish I could do that again--and it suddenly occurred to me, right there in church, that now I never will, not as a student, anyway.

I could almost have wept.

It's a very strange thing to be charging forward to complete something that I don't entirely want to end.

We were able to attend a seder this year on campus, my second one. We're not Jewish, but we have friends who are, and we were invited. It's curious--far more of the campus community were raised Christian than Jewish, and very few remain monotheists of any stripe here. Depending on what definition you use, we don't actually have any practicing Jews, and yet the Passover seder is well-attended, as are several other Jewish holiday gatherings over the year. The non-practicing Christian component doesn't do anything like that. Most like to pretend that they don't even know when the Christian holidays are. I get people asking whether I go to church, though I've been going openly and regularly the whole time I've been here, as if they're hoping I'm going to tell them I've stopped. It's like all religions are OK but that one, and people want to forget they ever belonged to it. Our Jewish pagans want to remember their origins, though, and so they hold seders.

In other news, the forest turned green this morning. The leaves aren't really out, yet, of course, most of the trees are still quite skeletal, and those that aren't have flowers, not leaves. But the leaf buds are bursting, and the tiny tips of the newborn leaves poking out cast a kind of green mist over proceedings. It literally just happened this morning, or possibly over night. I noticed it on my morning walk with Steve.

Steve didn't notice at first, and I didn't say anything because I wanted to see when he'd figure it out. It's a strange thing to be an expert, however relative, because there's this constant temptation to lord it over the less-knowledgeable in one way or another, and there are so many ways. Was I waiting for him to figure it out--or fail to figure it out--so I could say "gotcha, I already know"? I wasn't even sure myself and it bothered me, but on the other hand I really did think giving him a chance to notice the green on his own was the best thing to do.

He didn't say anything. He seemed to be in a good mood, which didn't surprise me because the morning was gorgeous--cool and dew-kissed, with the sunlight on everything a clear, bright sort of apricot just past dawn, and a wonderful smell in the air of flowers and damp earth and growing things--but he didn't say anything. We just walked and looked around.

I was beginning to think he wouldn't say anything, and I was wondering whether I should, and how to do it without coming off like an ass, when we came up the the magnolia on our way back--it's just starting to flower now--and there was Charlie examining one of the unfolding flowers. We greeted him and I asked him what he was looking at, so he gave some smart-assed reply the way he does, and I had to decide whether to argue back or not--and then Steve spoke up.

"Hey, Charlie," he said, "you must be happy, it really feels like spring today!"

And Charlie looked at me, and I looked back at him, and I felt bizarrely as though my teacher had complimented me somehow.

Mastery Year 1: Part 7: Post 8: Christmas

I'd been planning to go home for Christmas, as I have every year except my first year as a novice--I stayed on campus then mostly because my brother and his wife went on a cruise over the holiday, so my parents decided to delay the family celebration until they got back. But the thing is that June can't really take the time off to go to her family, has no special attachment to mine yet, and wants to stay on campus because she's a yearling and has things to do here, anyway.

And it occurred to me about a week ago that I'm married. That means that when when I'm with my wife in the place where we live, I AM home with my family. We count.

So we stayed here, together.

I've only spent Christmas on campus once before, when I was a yearling. Then, I was self-conscious about being one of the only Christians who stayed on campus and I expected the day to feel lonely and strange. I was pleasantly surprised when some secret someone--probably the masters' group--arranged for the handful of us to receive simple but thoughtful presents.

This year...I'm not sure if I am a Christian anymore. June isn't, either. It's not that I've stopped believing in Christ, it's that there are so many other things I now believe in also. I wasn't sure if I was comfortable identifying myself as a Christian celebrating Christmas on campus if it meant somebody else was going to go out of their way for me.

I brought up the matter with June and she said "Why shouldn't other people go out of their way for you? People like you, Daniel. Why would you deny them the opportunity to act like it?"

God, I love this woman.

And so, we all got up Christmas morning--there were ten of us, the majority of the school's Christians (including Ollie) being off-campus for the holiday--and discovered little gift-bags with our names on them under the tree. Each gift was perfect and well-thought-out, just as they were my first year. The yearlings among us marveled, since we in the know hadn't told them the gifts would appear, and couldn't figure out who had done it. I knew--my guess that the masters were responsible was borne out when Allen asked me, on Yule morning, what June would like for Christmas, as he'd heard she'd be celebrating it on campus. He ended up not going with my suggestion--her gift bag contained a Goddess-centered chaplet, an ironic but perfect gift for her--but his question tipped their hand. No matter. I did not tell the others what I knew.

Afterwards, June and I joined Andy for breakfast, and then Eddie and Ebony, who do not celebrate Christmas, joined us. Ebony asked to see Andy's gift--yes, she said "see," and only June showed any surprise at her choice of verb--so he passed it over.

"Is this a Bible?" she asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"I thought you already had one?"
"I have several. But this one is mine."
"And the others aren't?"
"They are...but my name is on this one. On the front fly leaf, near the top."

She touched the appropriate area, as though she could feel the letters. Maybe she can. I didn't ask. I did look over her shoulder and there was Andy's name in large, wobbly letters-- a clumsy version of his handwriting.

"Ok,..." prompted Ebony.

"Ok, so I didn't write that today."
"When did you write it?"
"Seven years ago. The man who baptized me gave me that Bible when I was Saved. I lost it two weeks later--I think I left it in the bed at a shelter. They don't let you come back during the day, and that night, it was gone. Now, here it is!"

We all gaped.

"Where did it come from?" I asked. I imagined the thing had turned up in a thrift store and that one of the masters--with the uncanny good luck they had--had spotted it and noticed Andy's name. But I didn't know for sure, and obviously Andy didn't know either.
"From God, presumably," he answered, anyway. Of course, he did.

"Do you remember, that year," I asked, "you were so excited to get presents, you said it meant other people cared about the Baby Jesus."

"Yes."

"Do you still think that way?" I asked. "Is that how you think about Christmas presents?"
"Sort of," he said. "I was so mixed up, then. I was right about Jesus, but I thought...I felt so alone, even here. I'm not."

"I always thought Christians were supposed to disdain presents," put in Eddie. "Materialism and Santa Claus. Tis the reason for the season, and all that."
"Oh, presents don't have to be materialistic," Andy replied. "This one, for example--I could get a Bible, it's not about this object, it's about how it feels to get this object--or those objects," he indicated my gift, a new write-in-the-rain notebook and a pair of thin but warm gloves so I can write outdoors when it's cold, "I am reminded of miracles. You are reminded that you are known and loved. How it feels to receive these things--it's how it feels to receive the reality of God."

"You sound so wise when you say that,"said Eddie, "but I don't believe the God you're talking about exists."
"That's ok," said Andy, "He exists whether you believe in Him or not."

"But it does matter whether we believe, doesn't it?" said June, stirring her cocoa. "I mean, different people say all different things about God, and we have to figure out who's right. If we guess wrong...I mean, I personally know people who think everybody at this table is headed for Hell, one way or another."

"I don't guess," said Andy. "I know."
"So do I," said Eddie. "And I know different than you."
"Maybe you can both be right?" suggested Ebony.
"They can both be right in some ways, but not others," I said. "Whether multiculturalism is a valid option is itself a matter of disagreement." I wished Ollie were here. He could sort this out. Or Allen.
"It's not like we can't sort this out without Ollie or Allen," June said, and I stared at her open-mouthed. "We all have brains that work."

"That's just it," said Ebony, "we all have brains, so there must be something we can do to figure it out, or else there's just no justice."
"How do you mean?" That was Andy.
"No offense, but staying out of Hell can't just come down to trusting the word of a passionate and insistent human being."
"Jesus is a human being."
"That's not what I mean. You say you know what the truth is. So, I'm supposed to just take your word for it? I have to be able to figure it out for myself, or else--say you're right, but only the people who happen to agree with you go to Heaven? Then who gets Saved is arbitrary."

"Calvinists would say it is arbitrary," said June. I have know idea whether she's right. I don't know anything about Calvinists.
"Some would say we do have that process, and it's called reason, but that my reason's on the blink because I've been disobedient so long I've forgotten that I'm being deliberately disobedient." This was Eddie. "I've been a very bad girl." His voice was heavy with irony.
"That's preposterous," said June. "If you can't tell the difference between a decision to rebel and your actual identity, then you're back to not having a process to discern the truth."
"But people do say that, though."
"People are wrong."

"But you're not a girl," said Andy, who had apparently missed the note of irony. "I don't know why God made you this way, but He did, and God does not make mistakes."
"That's just what a disobedient person like you would say," asserted Eddie. Andy frowned and bit his lip, confused.

"I still wish Ollie were here," I said. "Or Allen."
"Allen would ask why you wish he were here," June pointed out.
"Not if he was here," I answered. "Because then I wouldn't be wishing he was here. Because he'd be here."

"I think you're all missing the point," said Andy. We all looked at him. It's unlike him to criticize anyone, even mildly, unless something is very important to him. "You're all missing the point. It sounds like you're trying to justify not being Christian, for one thing, which is weird. But you're looking for some rational way to know if you're right about God? The only thing I know about God for sure is that humans can't figure Him out not completely. And the only thing I know for sure about humans is that we screw things up. We fail. At pretty much everything. That's the whole point of Christianity, the whole point of Christmas--we don't have to feel like failures anymore because Jesus came to meet us halfway. We don't have to be perfect. We don't have to be better than we are. He came to lift us up. Trying to figure out who is right about God--nobody's right, because we're human. God loves us anyway. That's the whole point."

"You don't sound like any other preacher I've heard," said June.
"I do the best I can," said Andy.

Mastery Year 1: Part 2: Post 5: Easter

Note: this year, Passover includes Easter, but ten years ago, when this post is set, Passover was significantly earlier, which is why it's not mentioned in this post. There was a Seder on campus, but I didn't attend it that year.

Happy Easter!


June and I went to my parents' house for the weekend--we went to hers last year, but they're farther away and a short visit there is less practical. It was nice to be home for Easter again, and June got to hang out with my sister-in-law, which she really hasn't done before. It's not that they hadn't met, though they really hadn't spent a lot of time together, but they hadn't seemed to feel much motivation. Now, it's like they have something in common, a little support group of women who love Kretzmans, I suppose, that I never noticed before. I think that it's because we're engaged--there's a shift with how my whole family is around June, like they're starting to believe she's going to stay awhile.

Our intergenerational egg-hunt tradition is over, by the way. My oldest nephew is almost six, and even my brother's littlest kid is old enough to hunt eggs, so the kids have totally taken over the day again. It's all for them. My Mom does still give my generation Easter baskets, though--this year she made one for June, too, which June totally was not expecting. That was cool. I did take the kids on a walk around the neighborhood and into the park and showed them birds building nests and piles of frog jelly in ponds and ditches. That was my brother's idea, and I prepped for the walk on Saturday, the same way I would have for a workshop at school. Next year, or maybe the year after, I'll have them do their own searching.

Or, we will. June is a bit miffed nobody thought to ask her to be involved. She is an environmental educator, but I don't think my brother knew that. And I just got caught up preparing for the walk. I'm not used to having a partner.

This was the first time June and I have been to church together. I think it may have been the first time June's attended this kind of service at all--she was raised Quaker, and their services are very different. And not all of them even celebrate Easter. I'm afraid we didn't hear much of the sermon, though. June tapped my foot with hers, so I tapped back, and pretty soon we were tapping and kicking and kind of playing surreptitious tag until my Dad, who was sitting behind us, leaned forward and whispered "children, behave!"

The actual children, sitting a row in from of us with my brother, heard and kind of jumped, but they were behaving. Unimpeachable conduct, really. It's obviously not genetic.

June and I walked back to the house afterwards while the others drove.

"Do you believe that stuff?" she asked me.

"What, you mean like the Resurrection?" I asked.

"Yeah."

"I suppose not, not like a literal fact. I used to. I kind of want to, but I don't."

"I used to, too."

"What happened?" I asked. "To us?"

"We grew up," June told me, sighing.

"So did my parents. So did my brother. They believe."

"Do they? Have you asked?"

"No," I acknowledged. "But there must be some genuine believers. It's not like religious people are stupid, or childish, or something." I thought of Ollie and of Andy, two of the best, most mature and responsible people I know, and they believe. They'd say they are mature and responsible because they believe.

"Growing up must mean different things," June suggested. "Up means different things, you know. Down always points to the same place, the center of the Earth, but up always points to different places. Our heads aren't pointed in the same direction. As long as we stand on a curved Planet Earth, our bodies aren't parallel."

Somehow I found this idea lonely. She took my hand as we walked.

"Sometimes I almost believe," I said. "I believe in God, I believe in Spirit, and I hear all these ideas, Kit's ideas, and Joy's, and Greg's, and they all make sense. I read my Bible, and it makes sense. I learn things from all of these places, all these different ideas. I think they could all be true, at least a little bit, you know, like the blind people touching the elephant...and then I got to church and the preacher says something, or I talk to my Uncle and he says something, and I can't help it, I think 'you can't actually believe that nonsense, can you?'"

"What does Charlie believe?" June asked.

"Charlie doesn't believe. Charlie acts. And he teaches me to do the same."

"And to feel. You've said he taught you how to love."

"He did. Love is an action," I said, although love is also a feeling. Or, at least, there is a way I feel when I love, or when I know myself to be loved. I don't understand, not really. I squeezed her hand. "Hey," I added, "how come you don't need a spirit master? You don't attend services."

"I'm spiritual but I'm not religious. I told them so, and I guess they believed me."

We went home--to my parents' home, I mean--and had our egg hunt for the kids and our walk in the park looking for real nests (that I'd found the day before), and then we had dinner, our traditional local and humanely raised ham and organic, local fixings (this year they were all local, so nothing was fresh except for the steamed dandelion greens and the flower salad I made, and of course, my Mom's egg salad, but everybody liked the meal), and had a good time.

But the whole day, off and on, I was thinking about my friends back at school and what they might be doing. Ollie was leading the campus Easter service, I was sure. I almost stayed so I could attend, I'd love to hear him preach and I never have. Kit may have been steadfastly ignoring the day as too Christian (though I know people who consider it too pagan), or she may have attended to on-campus service. She does sometimes, and did my first year. I remember seeing her there, her red hair shining in the sun. Allen was there that day, too, but he usually doesn't attend, because he's usually not on campus on Sundays. He and his family attend a Unitarian Universalist church, and I expect he was attending Easter services there.

I found out this morning I was wrong.

Ollie, remember, has been spending his weekends with Allen's family so he can see therapy clients. They normally bike, so I'd thought Ollie would just bike back early for the service, but for some reason this time Allen drove him. The plan was for Allen to attend the service on campus, and then go meet his family for the church service afterwards, but that's not what happened, either.

Ollie told me that he and Allen arrived early at Chapel Hall, so Ollie could get ready, but several people were already there. Charlie was one of them. While Ollie was setting up chairs with a few other people, he overheard Charlie ask Allen, "Do you want to play hooky?" And he didn't see Allen after that.

But a yearling had already given me the other half of the story, without knowing that he was doing so--he'd seen both Charlie and Allen up in a tree together, looking at something through binoculars--Allen still wearing the suit he'd planned to wear for the service, except he'd left his jacket at ground level. It was his red tie that snagged the yearling's attention. I'd asked what they were looking at, but the yearling didn't know. He did point in the right direction.

The cider house is in that direction. And I happen to know there is a fox den underneath it. I saw the mother vixen about two and a half weeks ago (I can't recognize her individually, I just noticed her swollen teats), which means the kits must have been about ten days old, or she wouldn't have left them. That makes them about four weeks old, the age at which fox kits start coming out of their den.

Allen and Charlie watched the kits come out into the light of day for the first time on Easter morning.

Year 4: Part 2: Post 10: Easter

Remember that in 2003, when this narrative is set, Easter fell on April 18th. -D.

I went home for Easter again, and we had the intergenerational egg hunt and the humanely raised ham and so on, just like the last few years. My family asked me more about the school, I did some more dishes and some yard work. We all had a good time, and I stayed over Sunday night and went straight to work from there in the morning (remember, we don't get a break for Easter at school). Just like last year and the year before.

What was different was the presence of my nephew. He's old enough now to participate in the egg hunt in a modest way, so we hid a couple of eggs in obvious places where he could reach them and we all clapped and made a big fuss whenever he found one. It's curious--even though we were all searching for eggs too, the event seemed mostly about him. We were making an event for him and enjoying it vicariously, not having an egg hunt for ourselves. We didn't plan it that way, but he could not participate with us as an equal, so we all had to make a circumstance where he could participate the way he could. Somehow, the presence of a child made us all act like adults.

He wasn't the only child there--I have a niece now, also, but she isn't anywhere near walking yet and was mostly an observer.

The other thing of real note this weekend happened at church.

We were partway through the service when I realized a bird had flown in. The day was nice out and I suppose a window must have been open somewhere. I'm not sure what kind it was, I never got a close look at it--probably and English sparrow. There are a lot of them in town.

It flew here and there, trying to find a way to get out, and gradually everyone in the place noticed it was there. I watched it happen--the glances, the pointing, and then the resolute refocusing on the service. The pastor noticed somewhat later than everybody else because it spent most of its time flying above or behind him, but finally he saw it and then deliberately ignored it. I'm not sure that anyone heard anything else he said, we were all watching the bird.

Afterwards, my dad laughed about the situation. He thought the pastor would have done better to acknowledge the bird and that the man's ignoring the situation had distracted everyone. It reminded him, he said, of a play he'd seen where a fly had buzzed around and around the head of one of the actors during an important soliloquy. The actor had chosen to pretend the fly wasn't there, and had done an admirable job of doing so, but the attempt had backfired; ignoring the fly destroyed the audience's suspension of disbelief because if the action on the stage was really real, the people on the stage would have noticed the fly.

Interesting point, but my Dad took it for granted that the bird was an interruption of the service. Everyone I spoke with during the Fellowship Hour said something about the bird, and for all of them it was simply obvious that the bird was not a proper part of the service. Even the children I spoke to thought its presence had been hilarious fun because there was something naughty about it. 

Out of everyone in the place, maybe one or two hundred people, I was the only one who didn't get the joke, the only one who saw no reason why an Easter service shouldn't involve a wild bird.

I could have wept. I just suddenly realized I can't ever go back. I mean, I can attend services at my childhood church with my family any time I want to. But I'll always be the odd one out, now.

Year 4: Interlude 1

Hi, all, It's Daniel-of-2016 here.

Happy St. Patrick's Day (I'm writing this Thursday night), although as far as I know, none of my heritage is Irish. My last name sounds German, but I really don't know much about where my family is from. Perhaps I'll ask my parents, see if they know. Anyway, June's family isn't Irish, either, but we're celebrating anyway. Largely, I think, because June and I are bored and needed an excuse to do something different.

Not that “bored” means “having nothing to do,” you understand. We have a three year old. But we got bored with our typical version of busy and decided to do something else.

What we did was to invite over a pile of people and serve pizza (it was Pi Day earlier this week, after all) and green cupcakes and watch The Secret of Roan Innish.

The guest list—you’ve heard of most of them, Allen, Lo, Alexis, Kayla and Aidan—but Steve Bees wasn’t married thirteen years ago, so I haven’t told you about his wife and their two kids. I don’t know Sarah very well (this is not the same Sarah as the farm manager from school, obviously), since she’s seldom healthy enough to socialize much, but our families have spent a lot of time together because their younger son, Charlie (yes, named after my teacher) is just a year older than Carly and they play together. Their older son, Sean, is almost eight and is sort of an unofficial kid brother to Aidan, who was a Sprout with Alexis.

Anyway, we actually got take-out pizza, which I hardly ever do, but we made the cupcakes from scratch. Not that Carly actually cares what the cupcakes are as long as there is icing on top. She actually iced all of them for us, after we showed her how, while telling us this long, involved story about how she had supposedly had cupcakes in all different colors, “pink and gween and lellow and puple,” when she had a St. Patrick’s Day party when she was our age. She says that a lot, “when I was your age,” and I have friends who are convinced it’s evidence she has past life memories, but actually that’s what she does with phrases she hears but doesn’t understand. For a whole week she found a way to introduce almost every statement with the word “technically.” We’ve been following the primary coverage, so she’s started talking about “superdelegates.” She has no idea what any of these things mean.

I'm thinking of bumping back up to two posts per week, though I don't know if I'll have time. After all,I’ve started to teach workshops and things for the group of new students we have, plus a group of us are trying to get this interconnected group of businesses off the ground, and none of this is paid yet so I have to keep doing everything else I was doing for money before. Plus, as I said, I have a three year old. So, we’ll see.

I like to add some extra information about the narrative during these interludes, but nothing jumps out at me right now. Maybe it’s because I’m tired. My attention has been pre-empted by My Little Pony cartoons, “gween” icing, and the prospect of little naked seal babies beaching their cradles upon formerly abandoned islands.

Year 3: Seventh Interlude

Hi, all, Daniel-of-2015 here--for the last time. Next time I write to you I'll be Daniel-of-2016. Still the same person, of course. I'm posting this today rather than Monday more or less because I feel like it. I was going to write this up early and just sit on it until Monday, but it's my Christmas post, so I might as well post it on Christmas.

Anyway, as some of you may have noticed, I'm changing things up a little. Rather than putting the interlude before the sabbat, I've put it after--and the following section, all my posts until just before Brigid, will be non-narrative, essentially an extended interlude, just like I did for January last year. I was not on campus for these weeks, and so rather than writing about what it was like to live with my parents, I'm going to write a series of posts about the school to fill in details you might have wondered about but didn't fit into any story so far.

This has become an odd time of year for my family. Religiously, we're pretty fluid these days, and usually no one really cares--the people we actually share our religious lives with are people we can sit down and have a real conversation with, so we don't really need a one-word definition of who we are and what we're about. But at Christmastime we both have relatives who assume we celebrate it...and we both kind of want to, but more and more, it's Yule that feels like a holiday to us and Christmas doesn't. So sorting through all of that--and figuring out how to explain it to Carly--is difficult.

Yule is easier, unambiguous. Part of it, I'm sure, is the school community. Yule is still ours. Our ceremony has changed with changing circumstance, but we still gather.

At the Yule party this year, which was a little before the solstice for various reasons, Kit asked me if I was ready. I think I must have given her a rather desperate look, because she laughed and said "welcome to Pagan Standard Time!" That's a common phrase--it means that pagans generally are late and disorganized a lot.

"I'm all ready," I explained, "if you count decorations that droop and look funny, presents wrapped in newspaper and addressed with a Sharpie, and a tree decorated by a two-year-old. And I think we're having Chinese take-out for Yule dinner. Oh, Kit, how did you do it at school? Everything always came off so perfectly!"

"No, it didn't. We had all these grandiose plans that never worked out."

"Oh? Like what?"

"We were supposed to have a dedicated ritual space for students--a temple--but we never did. We never could decide where to put it or what design to use. So that's why my covens always circled in the Martial Arts studio. I wanted to choreograph all these sacred dances--the others agreed, but I never got around to it. We always talked about serving Boar's Head for Yule dinner, but that hardly ever happened. I wanted a mummer's troop, but couldn't get anyone interested...."

"I don't think that's on the same level as gifts addressed with a Sharpie."

"We had those kinds of problems, too, in the beginning. The last few years we did pretty well--but even then we made mistakes."

Allen's smile faded for a moment. It was a mistake of his that triggered--not caused--the chain of events that forced the closing of the school. That didn't have anything to do with a holiday, though. I squeezed his shoulder and he smiled again.

"You have to remember," he added, "that we were at work. Making the holidays happen was part of our job, not something we had to take time out to do."

All the holiday stories I tell seem to involve these two, Kit and Allen. There is a reason for that. Charlie became my teacher, my Yoda, if you will (my Dumbledore?), but those two become my friends. In fact, that year, the year it is in my narrative, 2002, was the first time I shared part of a holiday with either of them off campus in a non-incidental way.

Or, a semi-non-incidental way. I planned to go home, but I couldn't get a ride and my parents couldn't come get me. I couldn't borrow a car because I'd be staying off campus for weeks.It was Christmas Eve, and I was getting desperate, when Allen stepped out of the office right in front of me and solved my problem. I hadn't even known he was still on campus. He said he'd heard about my problem, and that Lo and the kids were picking him up in a few hours and that if I cared to go with them to the midnight service, they could drop me off at home on the way back.

So, it's not like it was a purely social invitation, but it was helpful and kind, and they did include me in part of their family holiday.

We went to the same UU church that I went to the one time I stayed on campus for Christmas--where I bumped into Allen and his family, but back then he was friendly only in the way that teachers are when they see students in public--with a distance. This time, they were all really glad to have me with them and we laughed and joked and had a good time. After all, I'd camped with them that spring and was friends with David. Lo had largely adopted me.

I grew up Methodist and the UU service was always this interesting mix between the familiar and the different. One of the familiar elements was the scattering of Christmas carols throughout the service. One of them was Joy to the World. When the pastor announced that one, Alexis whispered "Jeremiah was a bull-frog," and giggled. She's still too young to whisper quietly, so we all heard her and laughed, even Lo, who gave her a disapproving glance first and shushed the rest of us.

Later, on our way out, Allen suddenly started singing that other "Joy to the World" in the middle of the parking lot--loudly and, as normal for him, slightly out of tune. Lo busted up laughing, obviously startled and delighted, and we all joined in, singing. And all the way to my parents' house we sang, first Three Dog Night, then other songs, "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree," "Run, Run Rudolph," and "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer."

And we had a fantastic time.

Year 3: Part 3: Post 8: Grace

Note: this year, yesterday (Sunday) was Pentecost and Shavu'ot was the day before. Thirteen years ago, however, Pentecost fell on the 19th of May  and Shavu'ot on the 18th. I had just returned from the Island on the 17th. So this is another occasion where I'm publishing posts a little out of order because of differences in dates from year to year. Today (Monday) is, of course, Memorial Day, but I don't plan to do a Memorial Day post--as far as I recall, we completely ignored it on campus that year.

Yesterday was Pentecost. We celebrated it when I was younger, although it was never a very big deal, and I've even met other Methodists who have never heard of it, which surprised me. It's the day when the Holy Spirit descended onto the Apostles and the other early followers of Jesus, empowering their ministry. Among other things, they gained the power to preach in other languages so that they could carry the Good News to everybody, all over the world. What I remember, mostly, is that the sermon on Pentecost Sunday would usually focus on the universality of the Church and how we should not let social or cultural barriers stand in our way of reaching out to others--a good message.


I also remember that last year I asked Ollie if he planned on leading a service on campus, as he'd lead one on Easter and he looked at me like I was crazy. Apparently, Baptists don't celebrate Pentecost, regarding it as overly ritualistic or something. This year I went to a service at the UU church (they celebrate everything) and thought of him.

He hasn't begun his Absence yet, since he's waiting for Willa to graduate, but I hardly ever hear from him. Probably it's that most of what we did was go running together, and we can't do that now that he's off campus.

I was feeling kind of glum about it, especially since this morning was beautiful weather for running and of course I went alone. So, after I got back from working at the landscaping company, I went into the Mansion, intending to go upstairs and take a shower, but instead I wandered into the library and sat down. It was cool in there and no one except Aaron was about. I've gotten into the habit of talking to him recently, which is kind of funny because he's a librarian and I'd always thought that the main job of a librarian is to tell people not to talk.

I asked him about that once and he made a noise like "pffh!"

"If you want a quiet place to read," he told me, "You can check your book out and go someplace quiet! This is a library. Anyway, if we couldn't talk, how could I help you find your books?"

More recently, I mentioned that I've gotten to like talking to him.

"Yeah, I think a lot of research librarians get that," he said. "We're just kind of there. Like bar tenders."

"People talk to bar tenders because they're drunk," I told him. "Bar tenders get used to dealing with drunk people in crisis." I don't actually know if this is true--I haven't spent much time in bars, for obvious reasons. "I don't see the similarity to librarians."

"Don't you?" He asked me. "I'm a research librarian, not a circulation librarian. You guys mostly come talk to me because you have some homework assignment due and you have no idea how to find the information you need. That's not so different from a drunk in crisis."

Ok, then.

So, today I went in and sort of flopped down and the table in a dejected kind of way and Aaron came over and asked what was up.

"Ollie hasn't contacted me."

"Oh? Have you contacted him?"

"Not recently."

"Well, then."

"Yeah."

"Litha's coming up. Ask him to come visit for a few days."

"My bother and his wife and kid are coming."

"Yeah? So get Ollie to come, too."

He had a point.

"Aaron, you're Jewish, right?"

"You're pronouncing it wrong. I'm a Jewitch."

"Ok, I mean you were Jewish."

"I was a man of the book. Now I am a man of many books."

"You celebrate Pentecost, too, don't you?"

"Not especially."

"I mean there's a Jewish version."

"Yeah. Seven weeks after Passover. Pentecost is the Greek name for it. Fifty days. We call it Shavu'ot, or the Festival of Weeks."

"What's it about?"

"It's the first harvest festival and it commemorates the giving of the Torah."

"Like Lammas plus literature?"

"Something like that. So, what's yours about?"

"Pentecost?"

"Yeah."

"It's the birthday of the Church, the day when the Holy Spirit descended on the followers of Jesus."

"So it's the same thing--the beginning of the religion."

"Yeah, I guess so. Founders' Day." I hadn't thought of that before. "Hey, why doesn't the school have a Founders' Day?"

"We thought about it, but it didn't seem that important."

"We? Were you there?" I hadn't heard anything about Aaron's history.

"I was a candidate when we bought the campus. Two years later, just after I won my ring, they hired the non-teaching staff. There was a woman named Lara in the library for a while, but when she left they hired me."

"Why did she leave?"

"I don't know. A bunch of people did, though. They did a whole lot of volunteer work to get the school up and running and then when it was they decided they wanted to go do something else. Maybe they were afraid they'd stay forever?"

"How long have you been here, Aaron?"

"Seventeen years. I'll be here till I croak, I expect."

The scents of summer, grass, flowers, and animals, floated in through the open window and mixed with the scent of old books and clean wood. The dust still on my knuckles from working itched and I felt a tickle on the back of my neck, at my hairline. I reached back and pulled off a tick and watched it wave its eight legs in the air. It was at my mercy and I knew I was not going to kill it. I can shoot a deer if I have a good reason to do so, and I can eat her afterwards, but I cannot kill an animal simply for biting me. It would seem an unfair trade.

"I can understand that," I told Aaron.

Year 3: Part 2: Post 6: Easter

Note: Thirteen years ago, both Easter and Passover fell much earlier in the year than they do this year, so this entry is actually out of sequence. -D.

I went home for Easter again this year.

I had a great time, actually. My siblings both came home, too, and my brother brought his wife and the baby. My nephew is too young for an egg hunt yet, but we all had an egg hunt with each other, just like last year--we did two hunts, so we could take turns hiding and finding. And, just like last year, I arranged for humanely raised ham--I got eggs from free-range hens, too. And I helped look after my nephew and did all the dishes--guys in my family don't usually do things like that, and both my parents remain thrilled that I've broken the trend.

I also spent some time telling my family more about school--what we do for Easter on campus (not much, though there is a small non-denominational service) and what Ostar is all about. They liked the idea of Charlie's egg hunt, so we all went outside to look for nests for about an hour, but we didn't find any. If my Dad worried about me losing my faith, he didn't say anything.

And yet, I think I am continuing to do exactly that--lose the faith I had when I was younger, while gaining something else.

At church today I once again found the service anemic. Once again, everyone seemed to be trying to sing quieter than the next person, and once again the sermon was about the Resurrection and Christ's triumph over death, and while I'm not sure that I disbelieve in those things, I also don't think they are very important anymore.

That looks so strange, to have written it--the Resurrection not important? It's supposed to be the single most important thing in Christianity, the central miracle, the best and most relevant of the Good News. But honestly I don't think that way now. Everything dies, and if nothing did, there could be no recycling of matter through an ecosystem--that's the kind of resurrection I'm interested in. I guess at least some of what Charlie's been talking about has stuck, although I don't think communicating cosmology has ever been his intent. Anyway, if no one died, than no one could be born, either, and there would be no more babies. I was thinking about that, while I was quietly playing with my nephew in church today. Babies are good. I think the world should have babies in it. That is a cause I'm willing to die for, though I'd rather not do it any time soon.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that if I have faith in anything, it is the principle that life is good. Death is a part of life, so how could death really be bad?

What interests me about Jesus...there is his remarkableness as a person, of course. I admire his physical and moral courage as well as his kindness, his radical generosity, and his willingness to say things other people don't want to hear. Frankly, I don't do very well at that one. I wish I were a little more like him in that respect.

But what really gets me at the moment is the idea of Jesus-as-invisible-friend. That was the first way I understood him, and I'm still fond of it. Like that song, which I currently have stuck in my head-- "you ask me how I know he lives? He lives within my heart."

I guess my understanding of Easter is still a lot like it was when I was five--candy and Easter eggs and a nice man named Jesus.

I didn't go to a Seder this year, though I kind of wanted to--the scheduling just didn't work out, for various reasons. But I've been thinking about that, too. I like the idea of a meal as both a sacred practice and a teaching method. I like the idea of celebrating a major holiday in the company of children, and children--or, at least the youngest people present--having a definite role. There's a wholeness there that I like.

I can't experience a Seder the way I can experience a Christian service, as something I can really get inside with the child in me, but I like the thought that people can. I think, maybe, the more different kinds of rituals a kid can experience, the better.

Year 2: Part 2: Post 8: Easter

As I mentioned last post, in 2001 Easter was earlier than it is this year, although the fact that the days of the week fell on different dates makes it difficult to tell when my Easter post should be, exactly. I’m doing it this week, writing as though Easter Sunday were yesterday.

I just got back from my parents’ this morning—I made it back in time for my landscaping shift, though I missed breakfast on campus. I was at my parents’ place, of course, for Easter. I got there Saturday afternoon, went to church with them on Sunday, and had Easter dinner with them. There were no uncles and aunts this time, like there were for Thanksgiving, but my brother and his wife were there, so we were all together. That was good.

And—newsflash—my brother’s wife is pregnant! My bro’s going to be a dad! It’s kind of hard to wrap my head around, but I’m sure they’ll be good parents. And I’ll be an uncle. I imagine that someday I’ll embarrass this kid at Thanksgiving.

But anyway, we did have a good time, all of us together. We had an Easter egg hunt, with freshly dyed chicken eggs, and everything (I didn’t tell them about the other egg hunt I did this spring, though I did show them my wind-up egg. I said it was a prize for my skill as a naturalist in a contest, I just didn’t elaborate). I don’t think we were going to have an egg hunt, I didn’t really expect to have one, but then my Mom asked if “you kids” wanted to have one. This was just before dinner on Saturday, over a tray of dip and carrots. My sister rolled her eyes.

“Mom, we’re not kids anymore,” she said.

“Yeah,” said my brother, “I’m going to have a kid. You’ve done raised us, Mom.” But she sighed nostalgically.

“I know, but you’ll always be my kids. And you so used to love Easter egg hunts!”

So then we had a twenty minute-long discussion about whether we were too old and whether if we did have an egg hunt it would really be Mom doing it for us or us doing it for Mom, or maybe my brother needed one last chance to act like a kid before he becomes a dad, or maybe my sister still is a kid and we should all do it for her, and just because we’re older doesn’t mean she should have to grow up too fast (though she is sixteen already) and on and on and on. Until my sister interrupted.

“Hold on,” she said, “hold on! This is stupid. Let’s quit arguing about whether we should do an egg hunt and why and why not and ages and everything else. Who actually wants to do an egg hunt?”

And we all raised our hands, even my Dad. My sister-in-law walking into the room just then and asked why our hands were all raised, so my sister explained.

“Oh yeah, I’m in,” she said, and took a carrot.

So, on the way back from Church yesterday, we bought eggs and egg dye and we dyed eggs and hand an egg hunt. We actually had two, so everybody, even my parents, got a chance to both hide and seek. And then it was time for dinner. We had a ham from a humanely raised and slaughtered hog (I contacted the same people who provide hogs for campus), and various vegetable sides (some local, some not), and an egg salad because my mother refused to have to deal with forty-eight hard-boiled eggs without our help on at least some of them. And we talked about politics and who is doing what from our church and whether my sister is going to go to junior prom with this guy who asked her even though she’s not really into him, and on and on and on. And nobody asked me about my school or my religious beliefs and we had a great time.

But about church. It didn’t really impress itself upon me this year, the way the little service on campus last year did. Frankly, the congregation seemed kind of emotionally anemic, with everybody trying to sing quieter than his or her neighbor, and there were a lot of empty seats in the pews even on Easter, and the sermon was entirely focused on how great it is that we can live forever on the New Earth and all I kept thinking of was “but I want to live right now on this Earth.”

I couldn’t see the service anthropologically, as someone else’s beliefs, to be understood and respected, the way I did at the Seder the other day, because I am Christian. These are the ideas I was taught to accept. Except I don’t accept them. They just seem wrong to me, all of a sudden. Wrong as in inaccurate. And I don’t really know what to think about that.

So I got back on campus this morning, and I wanted to talk to someone about it. Logically I should talk to Charlie, but he’s not really that good for discussions because he tends to just listen to your statement and then make a pronouncement about it and that’s the end of it. But I couldn’t find anyone else this morning, and anyway I was really busy. We were getting the window boxes ready for planting later, and there are a lot of window boxes. And then it was lunch time and Charlie disappeared somewhere and I wasn’t really sure who I wanted to look for or what I wanted to say. And then I saw Greg in the Dining Hall, so I asked if I could eat with him and talk a few minutes. He is the Spirit Master for the whole school.

“I think I’m having a crisis of faith,” I told him.

“Good,” he told me. “That sounds interesting.” I rolled my eyes and he smiled at me a little. “You know that faith, as such, isn’t really my thing, right?” he told me. “I’m more action-oriented.”

“Yeah, I know.” I think I sighed a bit. “It’s just…I was raised to believe certain things, and now I don’t, and I don’t even know what that means. I mean, I was also raised to belief it’s important to have faith in certain things, it’s important to believe in certain things, so I feel remiss, now, naughty, almost. But I don’t know if that makes any sense. I mean, clearly it doesn’t make sense to believe in something as a matter of faith if it’s not true…” He smiled at me a little and considered a moment.

“Why don’t you think about what faith means?” he suggested. “That might help you resolve when and where faith is appropriate?”

“You mean, like, it’s definition?”

 “Yes, that’s a good place to start.” He considered again. I used to be scared of Greg. He doesn’t smile very often, not with people he doesn’t know well, anyway. He looks kind of severe, and he doesn’t seem friendly. I often see him at breakfast, eating by himself. But I think, now, that maybe he just isn’t outgoing. Anyway, I’ve seen him asleep on the couch with his glasses all askew, and somehow I haven’t found him intimidating after that. There is something relaxing about his presence. He really listens. 

“Faith,” he continued, thoughtfully, “it is considered a virtue. Perhaps it is good to be faithful, quite aside from whether you have something good to have faith in? It is not exactly the same thing as belief, though it is similar. You are Christian, are you not?”

“Methodist,” I confirmed. “Or, at least I was raised that way.”

“Christianity is interesting, in my opinion. Your central figure, Jesus Christ, is not simply a teacher or a role model, but an embodiment of the divine. So your living relationship with the divine must therefore be a relationship with Jesus, as a personality. I can see why whether Jesus is a real, living Person would be a much more pertinent question than whether Shakyamuni was an historical figure.” He meant the Buddha.

“Was he?”

“Shakyamuni? I do not know and do not care. I think he probably was, though his story has clearly been heavily mythologized. Someone did claim to have found his cremains some decades ago. But it doesn’t really matter. Buddhism works, whether the Buddha existed or not. But about Jesus…”

“You are right. We are supposed to love Him, and to feel loved by him,” I said. “And I want to, but lately I’m thinking that a lot of the other things I learned in Sunday school that doesn’t make sense to me, that I just don’t believe. So I’m wondering if even Jesus is real. And I used to love Him so much when I was little, before I got distracted by things. Sometimes I think someone has to be real, if people love Him. Other times, I think maybe humans just made Him up, so we’d have someone to love.”

“Love is a powerful need,” Greg acknowledged. “It seems to me that to love is even more necessary to the soul than being loved. Making up a perfect person to love, someone who could deserve the devotion of which we are capable in a way no fallible human could, is certainly something we humans would do. And it would work, in a strictly psychological sense.  Daniel, I cannot help you. I cannot tell you whether Jesus exists or not, nor what it should mean for you if He does not. I suggest you sit with this, and let the mud settle in your mind. However, if you wish to love with all your heart, if you wish to be devoted, I can suggest a course for you aside from finding a perfect person.”

“What’s that?”

“Love without caring whether those you love are worth it or not.”

[Next Post: Friday, April 18th: Looking Around]

Part 8: Post 3: Christmas

 I keep thinking of that part in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," the part that begins "it came without ribbons! It came without tags!" Even though, in our case it would be more like it came without Christmas specials and holiday shopping. We did have some ribbons and tags, but we didn't have all the holiday hoopla that normally happens. Christmas came anyway. I'm completely delighted.

As I've mentioned, there were only five of us on campus planning to celebrate Christmas. We planned to have breakfast together and open our care packages from our families together. Andy doesn't have a family, so we pitched in and made a care package for him.We also agreed to exchange presents among ourselves, but only gifts that we'd made, already had, or that cost less than five dollars. Some of the other planned to join us for a semi-fancy dinner, but I didn't think there was anything official planned for Christmas at all, and we all pretty much expected that by the end of the day we'd feel pretty lonely and sad. It didn't end up that way.

On Christmas Eve I went to the midnight service in town. I was a little late--almost late for the service--because biking in the dark down the narrow road proved a little sketchy and I walked part of the way. I'd picked the UU church, so I wasn't surprised to see Allen and his family there. He seemed a bit surprised to see me, but then I'm not a regular attendee and it was a cold night for biking. He seemed a bit distant, the way teachers often do when they see students out of context, but he was friendly and invited me to sit with his family. I ended up sitting next to Alexis, the littlest, I guess she's four now.

"I'm staying up till MIDNIGHT!" she told me, with no preamble. I don't know if she recognized me, but obviously I know her Dad, so I must be ok.

"You're staying up later than that," Allen corrected her, gently, "it's almost midnight now. The service goes until at least one. See my watch?" He was still explaining the mysteries of clock time when the service started. Over his bent head I made eye contact with Lo, Allen's wife, and she smiled her fondness of him.

The service was a bit different than the Methodist Christmas service I grew up with, but familiar enough, and the sermon was interesting. I felt a bit strange attending a ceremony in street clothes, like I should have been wearing my school uniform. And then I felt strange for feeling that way. I looked over at Allen, but of course he seemed perfectly comfortable in his jacket and tie. He never looks quite right in the school uniform, anyway. When we all stood up to sing, Alexis stood on the pew and Allen grinned at her and held her hand, this sweet, unselfconscious grin. Alexis either didn't notice or maybe she doesn't realize she's loved--the same way fish don't notice they're wet. Anyway, she stayed standing on the pew, nobody corrected her, and she sang all the words, except that some words she clearly did not understand and mangled cutely. Oh, come all lee faithful, joyful and tri-umpant.

The bike ride back was beautiful, dark and frigid under the clear, crystalline stars. I was afraid of black ice and drunk drivers, and whenever I saw headlights on the trees in front of me I hopped off by bike and scooted off into the ditch at the car passed. My ride home took a long time that way and I got really, really cold, but I really didn't mind. Santa and his sleigh would only have gotten in the way of my silent,magical night.

It must have been almost three in the morning before I got to bed, but I was up again at eight, ready to open presents, like a little kid. I met the others on the landing--apparently we all had the same idea. We went down stairs to the Great Hall...and found it completely transformed.

Someone had hung the tree with candy-canes and red and green Hershey's kisses; the kisses were speared through with loops of wire so they could hang. Someone had set out trays of doughnuts and bowls of oranges. The oranges--they're as big a deal as the doughnuts, it's been months since I had any, though we did get a crate of clementines on Yule. There was coffee and hot cocoa waiting--who got all this ready? And each of us had a bag with our name on it under the tree.

Andy knelt to pick up his bag, one of those bright things that works as reusable wrapping paper. I think there were tears in his eyes.

"I didn't think anybody cared!" he half-whispered.

"About you?" I asked him, feeling quite touched, though he knew we'd gotten him something and I didn't think he should act so surprised anymore that we like him. But he shook his head. "No," he explained, "about the baby, Jesus." He reached into his bag, pulled out a large, red cloth napkin (clearly put in there in place of tissue paper, since it's a school napkin), reached in again and pulled out a booklet on local scenic bicycling routes. I don't know whether the person who got him that present cares about Jesus, but someone clearly cares about Andy and wants him to have a good Christmas. I'm not sure there's much of a difference, anyway. Jesus is supposed to have said something like "if you have done it to the least of these, you have done it to Me." And I figure, a year ago Andy was pretty much among the least--a homeless recovering drug addict with no friends and no family. Or was he even recovering yet at that point?

I got a nice pair of binoculars, apparently used--the casings are a little beat-up looking, but I can look through the window and spot robins roosting in the honey locusts down by the road. My own binoculars! Ollie got a deck of playing cards and an odd little set of magnetized marbles. And so on.

"Who did this--Ollie, did you do it?" The rest of us are yearlings, but I thought Ollie might have had a better idea of what was going on. And it would be like him. But he shook his head.

"I wouldn't have gotten myself a gift!" And he's right. He wouldn't have. And then Sally held up her gift, a tiny black china cat with a halo like a wedding ring supported by the tips of its ears.

"I didn't tell anyone about my cat. Maybe I told Joy, months ago," she whispered, "but no one else here. I had a cat, a little black cat, who was hit by a car when I was a little kid. And right after she died I just...started knowing things. That's when I became psychic, because of my cat."

We all looked at each other. Had Santa been here? Had one or another of the Masters--or, perhaps all of them together--organized this? It is true that they often seemed to know more about us than we had ever told them. It's more than just getting stuff; it's knowing that someone really knows each of us, knows us well enough to give each of us something perfect. Someone knows and cares. I don't think I want to know who it was. It would spoil the magic.

Later, after we'd opened our other things and had breakfast, I went outside in my pajamas to play with my binoculars. And there, crossing the snowy front garden, were footprints. They were the fresh footprints of deer.




[Next Post: Monday, December 30th: Birthdays]