wisdom from a young Lithuanian sage

“You are not like these other people,” the young man says in his heavy accent.

Great, I say in my head. Another day, another sage. I put on my best anthropologist face and respond, “Now, tell me what you mean by that. I’m a traveler, just like all the other people at the Orlando airport. And you are not from here, so tell me what you see that makes you say that.” We are hustling with the rest of the line, to the baggage claim, and we need to ride the train-like shuttle between points at the airport.

“Lithuania. I am from Lithuania. But I live on Nantucket, and you remind me of people from there. What you are wearing,” he raises his hands in a shrug, as if what he is saying is evident. I am wearing a nice black skirt, a little long but very practical, and my favorite nice-ish shirt—it’s made by Grimicci, a climbing company, but it’s stylish, interesting. “What?” I say, shaking my head. He’s right, though, it’s neither office wear, as some travelers are wearing, nor jeans, which some travelers are wearing.

“The skirt, it is long, no? Not like anyone else. And the backpack. You look ready for anything. And that bag!” He points to my very unusual bag, which certainly is an eye-catcher. It’s a messenger bag crafted from a Cambodian fish food bag—bright orange imprinted with carp and the label, “Golden Feed” in red and yellow. “Looks like… from a (he is looking for the word)… a health food store!” He is congratulating himself for describing it just right. “’Ippees. There are people, I think you call them hippies, on Nantucket. Your face looks like them. Like you are happy to be here. Like you are friendly to strangers. Like you would talk to a couple of guys from Lithuania.”

“Okay, then,” I laughed. “I am in fact happy to be here. I’d like nothing more than to talk to a couple of guys, half my age, from Lithuania. If you think I am a hippie, you should see my hair!” It is twisted up in a loose French twist with hairsticks, and I have no idea how it looks, but there are probably corkscrews of hair escaping from the pile on my head.

“It is unusual. I see it.”

“This bag is from a health food store—you are exactly right. I work at a health food store. You have lived in the US maybe six months, and already you can tell these small nuances—you are a good anthropologist.”

“But will it help me find girls who will dance with me, on Key West? That’s where we are headed, Key West. No night life on Nantucket. No one is wearing t-shirts here—am I dressed okay, I want to ask?”

“It’s a chilly night, by Orlando standards, outside. You will be cold in a t-shirt, but I’m sure once you get to the Keys, you will find you are dressed just right. I can see you are a very smart student of people. I bet you will find girls who will dance with you.” He is so vibrant, so merry, so fresh for whatever is going to happen. He says goodbye at the baggage claim and I wish him luck.

I live in my own skin pretty comfortably—I have no idea on a day-to-day basis what might make me stand out from a crowd, except my hair and my Cambodian fish food messenger bag. Maybe I just don’t know how to dress myself, as one friend said of people who don’t watch a lot of television: maybe we just miss all the cues of what we are “supposed” to value and do. But I’ve lived with a string of these kinds of encounters, people who need to tell me something they see in me, some truth about me—that’s been happening my whole life, even when my hair was short, and long before the bright bag. I expect it to slow down, now that I am clearly middle-aged and nothing special to look at. I’ve always been trying to understand what it is people see when they speak to me this way.

So now I know. Although I’ve been traveling in what I considered perfect anonymity, I look like the kind of person who would talk to a guy from Lithuania. Which is absolutely true.

weather inside my head

One summer, I spent a quarter of my waking hours in and around Bear Cave, exploring more than a mile of fissures with small children in helmets. There are many things to love about a cool cave on a hot day, but the best, best thing was to emerge from the cave, to clean up from the trip, to have a hot shower and to happily devour whatever camp food was served. After the interior of a cave, every single thing in the world looks good, smells good, tastes good, feels luxurious and rich. After the darkness, the scent of good clay, the world seems sparkly and delicious.

My headache lifted last Thursday. I’m mildly euphoric about it. I’m writing and organizing my writing, and enjoying being pain-free.

annunciation, through the eyes of my daughter

church newsletter magi

My priest asked me to write an “advent reflection” for the church newsletter, and this is what I submitted, after forgetting at least twice, after a deadline was extended for me.

I am thinking about those Magi.

Advent is the season of waiting and preparation, two activities for which I am ill-suited, if my day-to-day life is any indication. I can barely keep the laundry up-to-date and the pantry full enough to feed my small family, and I often lose track of the chores on my list, and then I lose the list, too. So when I ask how to prepare for the Christ child to arrive in my life, anew, and how to prepare for the Parousia, that future coming of God to complete the work of creation, the people who capture my imagination are those mysterious magi, about whom we know so little.

What kind of people watch the sky so closely that they know nearly two years in advance when the paths of several stars will meet? What kind of people are so learned that they can read the meaning of such things? What kind of people know a good thing is coming, know it so deeply they will sell whatever it takes to gather money and resources to make a journey so risky, halfway around the known world? These are wise men, we are told, wise enough to know they might lose their lives in the process, in a foreign land at the hands of strangers. What does it mean to be so hopeful and so ready?

The Magi invested their whole lives, their minds and hearts, watching for something life-changing. Years later, perhaps after these students of the sky were long dead, Jesus spoke the parable of The Pearl of Great Price, about a nutty guy who gave up everything he owned—and one would assume his livelihood as a pearl merchant, too-- to obtain a pearl he never intended to trade, just for the beauty and perfection of the thing. I wonder if Jesus was remembering a story his mother told him about sky-watching travelers from the East, who knew about Jesus’ coming birth even before Mary was told by an angel. They packed frankincense and myrrh, which are beautiful, and about as useful as a pearl to a baby whose parents are on the run.

When I think of the dumbfounded shepherds in the fields around Bethlehem, I see someone more like myself, but both the unprepared shepherds and the brilliant Magi yearned for the world to make some sort of sense, yearned for God to show us more clearly what life is about.

Perhaps I do have a gift for Advent: I am yearning for the fullness of God’s kingdom to take hold of us all and sweep us into that place where there are no more tears. In the words of a popular song, I am yearning for that place where the streets have no name. Tell me what you are yearning for, and perhaps we can get ready for that place and time, together. What if we were preparing for a long journey, one that could take years, and we wanted to bring the best of ourselves that we could offer? What if this journey required commitment, sacrifice, cunning? What if this trip might be the very best moment of our lives?

A blessed Advent to you.

journal cover to inspire

taylor's treasure bag, recycled wool