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lenten journal: allergies and anger

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: allergies and anger

I have wrestled with allergies as long as I can remember.

I don’t remember a time in my life when I did not take antihistamines. I have seen a number of allergists over the years and most all of my encounters have ended up with me being dissatisfied and they being upset because I expected more of them.

Last month I started seeing a naturopath here in Guilford in hopes of finding another way to think about my allergies. Her name is Synthia Andrews. When we enlarge our vocabulary about anything we create possibilities. I needed some new words. New metaphors. And she has some.

I can’t say I understand all that she is doing, but I am learning from it, as well as finding some new possibilities. She uses a machine that is in the biofeedback family. It reads the frequencies in my body and spirit and then offers frequencies as invitations too healing. She attaches the sensors to my wrists and ankles and puts a small band around my head. I lay still for about fifteen minutes and then she starts giving me verbal feedback. Some of what she has to say relates to my physical body and some to my emotional and spiritual state. What continues to amaze me is how the two are connected.

Yesterday, one part of the treatment for my allergies involved the machine sending out the frequencies and then sending her words based on what it was reading in me. She said the words could be about me or someone around me, but they were connected to my allergies. I didn’t have to respond, just take them in. As I sat there she said three words over four or five minutes.

ANGER

BETRAYAL

SADNESS

The reality is we live in days when anger, betrayal, and sadness are pervasive, particularly in the irrational and irresponsible way Trump has engaged both his presidency and the pandemic. But aiming all of this at him would be for me to take the easy way out. What she was saying is the anger, betrayal, and sadness are in my cells, my bones.

The way I understand allergies is that they are a reaction to something the body deems a danger. The body produces histamines in hyperbolic amounts trying of offer a defense. The sneezing and itchy eyes are the body’s reaction to the pollen or whatever. That I take five antihistamines daily and still fight allergies means that my body’s histamine production has lost all sense of reality and stays in an unending crisis mode. I am overwhelmed by my own responses. I stop up. I break out. I can’t think. I feel less than myself. The force with which my body responds takes me out. I have to find new frequencies–new resonances–to change my responses.

What a helpful metaphor.

David Whyte has the most helpful words on anger I think I have ever read.

Anger is the deepest form of compassion, for another, for the world, for the self, for a life, for the body, for a family, and for our ideals, all vulnerable and all, possibly about to be hurt. Stripped of physical imprisonment and violent reaction, anger is the purest form of care, the internal living flame of anger always illuminates what we belong to, what we wish to protect, and what we are willing to hazard ourselves for. . . .What we name as anger is actually only the incoherent physical incapacity to sustain this deep form of care in our outer daily life; the unwillingness to be large enough and generous enough to hold what we love helplessly in our bodies or our mind with the clarity and breadth of our whole being.

And then,

. . . anger in its purest state is the measure of the way we are implicated in the world and made vulnerable through love in all its specifics: a daughter, a house, a family, an enterprise, a land, or a colleague.

Anger is compassion at its most profound and, perhaps, most vulnerable. Sadness–grief–is love living with loss. Betrayal is broken trust. In the same way that anger expressed violently is the “incoherent physical incapacity to sustain this deep form of care,” so my allergies are an incoherent and incessant reaction, even as my body is trying to protect itself.

I’m so wrapped up in the metaphor now that I am not sure this makes sense to anyone but me, so I will sing myself out. I recorded a mashup of “Everybody Hurts” (REM) and “Pass Me Not, O Gentle Savior” for use in one of our upcoming virtual worship services.

Keep looking for resonance.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: (un)opening day

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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4
lenten journal: (un)opening day

Today was supposed to be Opening Day for Major League Baseball but, like so many things over the past few weeks, it fell victim to Corvid-19. Or else this is payback for the Red Sox trading Mookie Betts. I grew up as an amazingly average athlete and the son of a man for whom sports was the primary metaphor for life. While we sat up late at night in Africa listening to games on Armed Forces Radio, he taught me to love baseball. And, because he loved the Yankees, I became a Red Sox fan.

Football has become the most popular sport, but baseball is our pastime. And there is a big difference , as George Carlin points out.

Bart Giamatti, who, among other things, was the commissioner of baseball, wrote,

That is why it breaks my heart, that game–not because in New York they could win because Boston lost; in that, there is a rough justice, and a reminder to the Yankees of how slight and fragile are the circumstances that exalt one group of human beings over another. It breaks my heart because it was meant to, because it was meant to foster in me again the illusion that there was something abiding, some pattern and some impulse that could come together to make a reality that would resist the corrosion; and because, after it had fostered again that most hungered-for illusion, the game was meant to stop, and betray precisely what it promised.

Of course, there are those who learn after the first few times. They grow out of sports. And there are others who were born with the wisdom to know that nothing lasts. These are the truly tough among us, the ones who can live without illusion, or without even the hope of illusion. I am not that grown-up or up-to-date. I am a simpler creature, tied to more primitive patterns and cycles. I need to think something lasts forever, and it might as well be that state of being that is a game; it might as well be that, in a green field, in the sun.

In my favorite baseball movie, Field of Dreams, Terrance Mann says,

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It’s been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.

By the time I came to live in America for good, my chance to play baseball had come and gone–not that I would have ever actually gotten to play. The closest I got was church softball, and even then I ended up in right field. So this song by Peter, Paul, and Mary holds a special place for me.

playing right field, its easy you know,
you can be awkward, you can be slow,
that’s why I’m here in right field,
just watching the dandelions grow

But then along came Steve Earle and sang a song about baseball that has been an anthem for me: “Some Dreams.”

well, just because you’ve been around
and had your poor heart broken
that’s no excuse for lyin’ down
before the last word’s spoken
‘cause some dreams don’t ever come true
don’t ever come true
aw, but some dreams do

If it’s the middle of the eighth inning at Fenway, the crowd is going to sing “Sweet Caroline” and when we do, good times truly never seem so good. This week, Neil Diamond rewrote the words in the wake of Corvid-19; that feels like a good way to close out.

Peace,
Milton

cocoa cinnamon cookies

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5
cocoa cinnamon cookies

I became a cookie baker because of a friendship.

I mean, I had baked cookies over the years, but I had never thought about making special cookies. I just followed recipes. When our friends Areli and Leon opened Cocoa Cinnamon in our Old North Durham neighborhood, I wanted to do something to help mark the occasion. They started with a Coffee Bike, making custom coffee drinks at the Durham Farmers’ Market. As Ginger and I got to know them, we learned they had so much more that they wanted to do. Cocoa Cinnamon was coffee, but also Mexican drinking chocolate. Amazing.

As they began getting ready to open the shop, I learned that every move they made had a reason, and an artful one at that. They named the drinks on the menu after people and places that were significant in the history of coffee. They paid their workers a living wage, not a minimum, from the first day. They weren’t just serving coffee, they were creating a community.

I decided I would surprise them with a Cocoa Cinnamon Cookie for their opening day. I played around with recipes until I came up with the one written below and made a double recipe. The morning they opened, Ginger and I took them down to the shop and gave them the cookies. A couple of days later, Leon said the cookies had been a big hit and wondered if I would bake them regularly so they could sell them.

I did. A few days after that, I was in the shop and saw my cookies in the baking case with the label “Milton’s Famous Cookies,” because, Leon said, they were famous in the shop. When I opened my cookie business, Milton’s Famous, they let me turn the coffee bike into a cookie bike so I could sell at the Farmers’ Market. I wish I could still bake for them.

Today, there are three Cocoa Cinnamon shops in Durham, as well as a coffee roasters. Though they share a name, they are different in that each reflects the neighborhood it inhabits. Areli and Leon continue to pay a living wage and are committed to amazing diversity and community with both their employees and their customers.

The shutdown because of Corvid-19 is a challenge for many. Areli and Leon are working hard to find ways to make money so they can pay all of their staff through this crisis. If they can sell 230 bags of coffee a day, they can make payroll. They ship coffee all over the country. You can be a part of helping sustain their wonderful endeavor by ordering something from Little Waves Coffee Roasters.

When the coffee comes, make the cookies and a fresh pot and you will get a little taste of Durham.

cocoa cinnamon cookies

1/2 c butter
1/2 c shortening
1 c brown sugar
1/4 c sugar
1 large egg
1 t vanilla
2 c flour
1 t baking soda
1/2 t baking powder
1 T espresso powder
1/4 t salt
12 oz semi-sweet chocolate chips
8 oz Heath Bits-o-Brickle (1 package)

1 c sugar
1 t cocoa powder
1 t cinnamon
1/8 t cayenne pepper

Preheat oven to 350°.

Combine butter, shortening, brown sugar, and sugar in a stand mixer and beat until light and creamy–about five or six minutes. Add the egg and vanilla and mix until combined well.

In a separate bowl, combine flour, baking powder, baking soda, espresso powder, and salt. Mix well and add to wet mixture. Mix until mostly combined and then add chocolate chips and Heath bits. Mix until it looks like cookie batter.

In yet another bowl, combine the sugar, cocoa powder, cinnamon, and cayenne pepper.

Using a 2 oz. scoop, scoop the cookies on to a parchment-lined baking sheet or a Silpat. Once you have them scooped out, roll each one in the cocoa-cinnamon sugar and place back on the baking sheet.

Cook for 13 minutes. Makes about two and half dozen cookies.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: help somebody

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: help somebody

I did my best to stay away from the news today. Instead, I got up early before work and kept my morning date with Pádraig Ó Tuama’s In the Shelter, journaled, prayed, drank coffee, and fed puppies. Actually, the pups demanded they be first on the list and then the rest fell in order.

Pádraig pointed to one of my favorite stories in the gospels in my reading this morning: Jesus’ encounter with the woman who had been hemorrhaging for twelve years. Mark is the gospel writer who tells the story, and his is the gospel of human touch. No social distancing here. The woman had heard of Jesus and was determined to get to him in the crowd. She is not named. But the way Mark tells the story, we know the details of her life. We may not know what to call her, but we are in the crowd with her, we are seeing Jesus as she sees him, we know what she has at stake as she jostles and pushes to get closer to Jesus. All she wants to do is touch his cloak. She is convinced that would do it.

Mark gives us her eyes.

That also means Mark doesn’t tell us about any of the others she pushes past. We are taken by her singleness of purpose; we no nothing of anyone else’s story, just like the disciples who were gathered around Jesus trying to protect him from the crowd–the abstraction.

This evening I dared to open the Times digital front page to find that the Economic Stimulus Bill was being blocked by four Republican senators who are worried that the unemployment compensation is so generous that people will choose not to work. As though that is actually a choice at this point. The fact that we keep using the language of stimulating the economy is troublesome to me because the economy is an abstraction. We do not need to stimulate an abstraction, we need to help people. If people have enough money to pay bills and buy stuff, then those own businesses will be able to stay in business and the communities they live in will be able to thrive. The more abstract the bill is, the more likely it will be abused and the money won’t go to those who need it most.

We need to take care of people. Nurses. Doctors. Respiratory therapists. People working in nursing homes. Restaurant people. Grandparents. School children. Teachers. Folks experiencing homelessness. Single parents. Daycare providers. Shop keepers. Mechanics. Actors. Musicians. Artists. Baristas. Office workers. Sanitation folks. Mail carriers. The list goes on . . .

Let the corporations figure it out from the ground up, not from the perspective of the CEOs and the stock brokers. They can live off of what they have been skimming. (I will admit my bias: I am willing to let them be the anonymous crowd we have to push through to find healing.) Those who are sick and vulnerable are not the abstraction. We have gotten way too used to doing that. Those who live in poverty and who have no health insurance have been anonymous for decades and abstracted as “Welfare Moms” and the “Working Poor” whose benefits can be cut and who can be blamed for our deficits.

But compassion requires specificity. Humanizing. The virus became real to many when Rita Wilson and Tom Hanks were diagnosed. We all wait to hear the names of those we know, because we treasure those we know. They are real. They are reasons to make changes, to stay home, to pay attention. To help.

Mark says that Jesus turned around when the woman touched him and asked who had done it. The disciples were incredulous. All they saw was the crowd.

“I felt power go out of me,” he said.

The woman stepped up and identified herself.

Though Mark never gives us her name, Jesus says, “Daughter, your faith has made you well.” The fact that the woman had been bleeding for twelve years probably means the age difference between her and Jesus was not that big. Jesus wasn’t talking down to her. He was naming her in a relational context: daughter. You belong. Specifically. You are more than a face in the crowd.

Corvid-19 is its own abstraction. I see the numbers going up and I don’t know how to make sense of them. So I look to see what has changed in Connecticut. I check the numbers in Durham, North Carolina. I watch my Facebook feed for names I know. Today, it was Jackson Browne. We need to change our language. We are not trying to stop the virus; we are taking care of each other. You are taking care of me. I am taking care of you.

Trump’s daily ramblings show he sees no one but himself, so he is incapable of seeing beyond the abstractions of power and wealth. He can’t lead. Andrew Cuomo, by contrast, broke through the abstraction by talking about his mother. It gets real when it gets personal.

Pádraig said the Irish words for hug literally mean “to squeeze somebody with your heart.” We can do that across physical distance. We can deal in specifics. We can let the power go out of us, even if we can’t touch.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: quarantunes

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: quarantunes

Inspired by Rita Wilson, who is recovering from Corvid-19 with her husband, Tom Hanks, Ginger asked me to make her a “Quarantunes” playlist to help get us through our isolation. As these days turn into weeks, I thought it might be time for some more music. Most of these songs have been around a while, but they sing like they were written last week.

The first track tonight is a Mark Heard tune recorded by Buddy Miller called “Worry Too Much,” which Heard recorded first in 1991.

it’s the quick-step march of history
the vanity of nations
it’s the way there’ll be no muffled drums
to mark the passage of my generation
it’s the children of my children
it’s the lambs born in innocence
it’s wondering if the good I know
will last to be seen by the eyes of the little ones

sometimes it feels like bars of steel
I cannot bend with my hands
oh oh I worry too much
somebody told me that I worry too much

Bruce Cockburn wrote “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” in the 80s. He and his music are still going.

when you’re lovers in a dangerous time
sometimes you’re made to feel as if your love’s a crime
but nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight
got to kick at the darkness ’til it bleeds daylight
when you’re lovers in a dangerous time
lovers in a dangerous time

Mavis Staples has been singing songs that matter longer than most of us have been alive. Nine or ten years ago, Jeff Tweedy produced a record for her and wrote several songs, one of which is the title cut, “You’re Not Alone.”

you are not alone
I’m with you
I’m lonely too
what’s that song
can’t be sung
by two?

a broken home
a broken heart
isolated and afraid
open up this is a raid
I wanna get it through to you
you’re not alone

Another song from a decade ago is “Nothing But the Whole Wide World” by Jakob Dylan.

was born in a stable and built like an ox
down in the pastures I learned how to walk
mama, she raised me to sing and just let ’em talk
said no rich man’s worth his weight in dust
bury him down same as they’ll do us
God wants us busy, never giving up
he wants nothing but the whole wide world for us

nothing but the whole wide world for us
nothing, nothing
well there’s nothing but the whole wide world for us
nothing, nothing
well there’s nothing but the whole wide, whole wide world for us

The Indigo Girls released Swamp Ophelia in 1994 and since that time “The Wood Song” has remained one of my favorites because of its tenacity in the face of uncertainty.

sometimes I ask to sneak a closer look
skip to the final chapter of the book
and then maybe steer us clear from some of the pain it took
to get us where we are this far yeah
but the question drowns in it’s futility
and even I have got to laugh at me
no one gets to miss the storm of what will be
just holding on for the ride
the wood is tired and the wood is old
we’ll make it fine if the weather holds
but if the weather holds we’ll have missed the point
that’s where I need to go

Pierce Pettis is one of my favorite songwriters. “I Will Be Here” was released in 1993 and is the kind of wonderful statement of solidarity we need to be singing to each other.

it would take a lot of work
to drive me away
I can take a lot of hurt
I’m willing to share your pain
no, you don’t impose
you don’t intrude
I’ll never turn my back on you, no no
I will be here

I am the friend you cannot lose
I am the one you did not choose
I am the friend who loves you still
I am the one who always will be here
I will be here

JD Souther will offer our closing song tonight, “Little Victories.”

in my hometown and family circles
they seem unsure and un-empowered
oh, they don’t understand and you can’t help that
though you can love so hard, that never comes back
till you just can’t take it for one more hour

little victories
I know you need one
iittle victories

I know it hurt sometimes to look around
the sameness of it beats you down
and the best seems all behind
before you start

little victories
oh, I know you need one
little victories of the heart

All of these songwriters are acquainted with both grief and hope, not so much that everything will always turn out alright, but that what matters most is that we are in it together. We are not alone.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: what’s the story

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: what’s the story

One of my enduring metaphors is that life is a lot like a Saturday Night Live skit: it starts off with a pretty good premise, but no one has any idea how to end it well. I thought about it again this morning when I read these words from Pádraig Ó Tuama:

I don’t know if the story of our griefs has an ending, only a next chapter or, perhaps, the careful telling and retelling of the recent chapters.

At this point in human history, none of us was here for the beginning of the story and we will not be here for the end. Our life stories are all being told in the middle of it all. If we want to think about it as one big story, then we are on stage for our scenes and then we exit, stage left. If it is all one big story, it is an incredibly convoluted one. The plot is all over the place. It helps me to think of it more as an anthology, rather than an epic–a collection of loosely, and sometimes surprisingly, connected short stories.

Pádraig’s words also make me think about those who point out that all our stories follow basic plot lines. Somewhere, probably tucked inside a book, I have a card with a quote on the front that reads, “The story of my life has a wonderful cast of characters, I’m just not sure about the plot.” The real life of any story is in the characters, not the plot twists.

We are living in an extraordinary moment when our global circumstance has connected us in unusual ways because of Covid-19. We are all trying to figure out what to do and hearing about parts of the world we rarely consider. It has reminded me of a poem I wrote many years ago about all those in the world who live happy and fulfilled lives and never miss knowing me.

spokane

a family is gathering
for a meal outside Spokane
the daughter is still wearing
her soccer uniform
the mother is chatting
as she passes the potatoes
the father is nonverbal
tired
trying to engage
the dog is waiting
for someone to share

they will finish their dinners
their conversations
their homework
they will turn on the television
the phone will ring several times
it will not be me

no one in that house knows
I live across the continent or
I have tales to tell
of my youth
of my life
of what I did yesterday
they don’t know
I can cook or play guitar
or that I’m writing a poem
they don’t know
I’ve never been to Spokane
they’re not concerned

they are finding their dreams
building their lives
breaking their hearts
living out their days
without knowing me

they are not the only ones

in all my years
no has ever called to
“Come quickly to Spokane
we just realized
we can’t go on without you”
the same could be said
for the table
across the room
from me
in this coffee shop

the gossamer tether
of humanity
doesn’t appear
to reach as far
as the next booth
unless the light
is just right
and I can see the lines

I’m not sure which view
is easier to live with

It struck me this morning that another way to imagine how our stories fit together is to se4 them as some sort of cosmic multi-track recording, each track layered on the others, harmony and instrumentation, with the melody jumping from one track to the other–improvisational jazz–depending on who is taking the lead in that moment.

All my metaphors so far imply that we are the actors or the characters; we are also the audience; the readers; and, at least, co-writers who will all leave the ending unwritten.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: good questions

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: good questions

We moved from Africa back to the States for good the middle of my junior year in high school. For the first time in all our moves, I started a new school in the middle of the year and i started at a school where I knew no one. When they asked me what electives I wanted to take, I didn’t really know what an elective was, but I saw Drama on the list and signed up.

The students, all of whom had been in the class for awhile, were getting ready for one-act play competition and used the class time to perform and ask for critique from the rest of the class. One pair of folks did a scene from The Bald Soprano by Eugene Ionesco, which was my introduction to the Theater of the Absurd.

I haven’t thought about that class for a long time. It has come to mind several times as I have watched the White House daily briefings and listened to the absolute–no, absurdist–disconnect between the questions asked and the random string of words that come as responses. For the Absurdist playwrights, the point was that life has no ultimate meaning. As fascinated as I was by Ionesco and Beckett and others, that is a perspective I have never been willing to fully embrace.

On the other side of the continuum, I grew up as a Baptist kid who heard more than once that “Jesus was the answer,” which pretty early on made me wonder what the question was because life never felt that simple. The more I got to know Jesus, the more he became the question.

Sometimes the answers we get depend on the quality of our questions, as demonstrated in this clip from The Pink Panther.

Pádraig Ó Tuama tells of leading an Ignatian prayer retreat for a group of teenagers at a church in Australia. After a guided meditation, one of the young people said in his “imagination walk” he had encountered Jesus and that Jesus had asked him three questions:

How would you describe today?
Have you seen anything interesting along the way?
Is it working?

I carried those with me as the day passed. I thought more about what it would mean to answer them instead of just thinking about today. They feel worth carrying for the coming days.

How would I describe today?

It is tempting in these days to just say it was a lot like the last few days of our unfortunate isolation, or rattle off a list of details, but describing today asks for something more that just rattling off what I did or didn’t do. The question is asking for more than a line drawing of my day; it wants a full color image. Details. Feelings. Relationships. Awareness.

I walked over with Ginger at ten this morning to meet Jake, our Minister of Faith Formation, so they could ring the bell for worship and hit send on the link for the online service. The day felt like the room: vacant when it should have been filled. The online stuff was meaningful, but it was not filling in the way the smiles and hugs and joys and concerns of the people I am used to seeing every week are.

That was not the only way the day felt, but there is definitely a vacancy sign on the door of my heart.

Have I seen anything interesting along the way?

The question seems to be another way of asking have I paid attention. It calls to mind the words of Elizabeth Barrett Browning:

Earth’s crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.

It was cold today in Guilford, but sunny. The sky was as blue as the air was chilled. A number of people were out walking, which is about all we have left to do when it comes to getting outside. We all paid attention as we passed one another to create safe space. Ginger and I watched a really fat squirrel try to negotiate the huge acorn he had found as he tried to climb back up the tree. Whatever time of day it is, the way the light hits the steeple of our church always catches my eye.

Paying attention leads to lots of questions: What is growing? What has died? What did I hear? What did I listen to? What did I see? What did I miss?

Is it working?

I am more puzzled by this question. I wonder what it is, and I wonder what working means. Ruminating on it also led to other questions: What resonates with the picture of my life? What needs to change? What can I change? Is the way I am living sustainable? Who can help me make this work?

All three of the questions pull me into the moment. They are not of the what-are-you-going-to-do-with-your-life kind of questions. They are questions that need to be asked over and over; the power is not the answer, but in the asking.

In one of the songs we wrote together, Billy Crockett looked back on our friendship and thought about questions friends ask each other over the life of a friendship. The song “Are You” put those questions to music. I hadn’t heard it in a while, but tonight, with all of these questions, I went back and listened. It seems worth sharing.

put on the coffee
and I’ll tell you a memory
we stood on the edge of time
as the river flowed silently by

we looked up at the stars
I still remember
and talked of what your life could be
you’re an old friend
won’t you tell me

are you as sure of the dream that you had on the way
finding enough of the truth at the end of the day
caught now and then by something like grace
are you

are you still keeping the light on inside
shimmer of hope against the tide
finding your life is worth the ride
tell me are you

remember that summer
we told one another
how we could change this world of ours
and quoted our heroes by heart

and here in this moment
we watch the way the river bends
you’re an old friend
I’m going to ask you again

The meaning of life, my friends, is not in our answers, but in the quality and persistence of our questions.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: doing what we can

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: doing what we can

As Ginger and I walked down to the marina late this afternoon, I tried to figure out how many days we have been in our communal isolation. Best I can remember, the restaurants and bars in Connecticut closed down last weekend. Maybe it was last year. The way the days pass right now reminds me of the “crazy cat diary” that shows up from time to time.

DAY 752 – My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects. They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while I am forced to eat dry cereal. The only thing that keeps me going is the hope of escape, and the mild satisfaction I get from ruining the occasional piece of furniture. Tomorrow I may eat another houseplant.

It is getting more difficult to keep track of what day it is because one is not so different from another.

I am aware that, for me, I think of our new world order beginning last Sunday because that was when we had our “farewell service” at church. About seventy of us gathered (and spread out) in the sanctuary to say goodbye to our physical gathering and to commit to our ongoing solidarity. Tomorrow will be our first virtual worship. Jake and Ginger will go over to the building and ring the bell, but our church will be all over town, in living rooms and bedrooms, worshipping together.

This afternoon, I baked cookies–something I have not done in a long, long time. At Ginger’s request, I made my Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Sriracha Cookies, which were a favorite in the days of Milton’s Famous. Ginger has been craving them for a while and the chance to share with some folks as a way to reach across the distance made it a compassionate endeavor as well. Two of the people we wanted to take cookies to live down near the marina, which is why we walked down there.

After we dropped off the cookies, we ordered dinner from the Guilford Mooring. They make a Cape Cod Potato Chip-crusted fish and chips that Ginger loves. Their Bolognese is one of my favorites. I called and ordered both as we walked. We got home with our food only to find fried clam strips instead of fish. When I called the restaurant, I learned that they were not going to keep the kitchen open after tonight and they were out of fish. They were kind to refund the cost of our meal.

I felt for Ginger and I felt for the man on the other end of the phone. He said they had decided to close because they couldn’t figure out how to order food in a way that made sense. They are a fresh seafood restaurant. Instead, they are just going to wait it out. That means, of course, no one that works there will draw a salary.

Cookies won’t fix that.

I have seen three or four articles this week that pointed to the variety of ways in which we, the people, have found ways to connect and support one another in the middle of our unfortunate isolation. And it is worth noting. We have had a good week. We are going to need a lot of good weeks–maybe good months–to get through this together. The acts of kindness we have shown to one another are going to need to become weekly, or perhaps daily, rituals. The donations we have made will need to be more than one time things.

We can’t lose sight of the people in lives just because we don’t see them everyday. None of us can take care of everyone, but all of us can do something. And do it over and over. All of us are going to need help to get through this, which means we are going to have to learn to ask for it the way Ginger asked for the cookies.

Add it to the list: wash your hands, don’t touch your face, help somebody.

Peace,
Milton

peanut butter chocolate chip sriracha cookies

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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7
peanut butter chocolate chip sriracha cookies

This is Ginger’s favorite cookie from my Milton’s Famous days. I made some this afternoon to take to some folks who are self-quarantined.

1 c butter, softened
1 1/2 c peanut butter
2 c brown sugar
1/4 c sriracha
2 large eggs
1 t vanilla
3 c flour
1 t baking powder
1 1/2 t baking soda
1/2 t salt
24 oz semi-sweet chocolate chips

Preheat oven to 375°.

Combine butter, peanut butter, brown sugar, and sriracha in a stand mixer and mix until smooth and creamy. Take your time. Let the mixer run for four minutes or so.

Add the eggs and vanilla and mix until combined.

In a separate bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder, baking soda, and salt. Add to wet mixture and mix until combine. Add the chocolate chips and mix until they are distributed throughout the dough.

Line baking sheets with parchment or a Silpat. I use a 2 oz scoop for my cookies. Scoop them on to the baking sheet and then flatten them just a bit with your palm. Cook for 8-10 minutes. If you use a smaller scoop, you may have to adjust cooking time.

Makes about five dozen 2 ounce cookies.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: shelter

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0
lenten journal: shelter

It is in the shelter of each other that the people live.

That is the Irish proverb from which Pádraig Ó Tuama takes the title of his book. I’ve been thinking about it all day, particularly since our governor announced a new “stay home, stay safe” policy that requires all “non-essential” businesses to close. I assume that means Blazing Fresh Donuts, across the street from our house, will stay open. What could be more essential?

Some other places have issued “shelter in place” orders, which is another way of saying take care of yourself by staying right where you are rather than evacuating. As far as the ‘Rona goes, there’s nowhere to go to get out from under it. But staying put is no guarantee.

To stay home is no guarantee of staying safe. Or, I might add after almost a week of this new world order, staying sane.

In the chapter I re-read today, three statements that Pádraig Ó Tuama made stuck with me. He talking about a particular period in his life when he said

The way I believed in God fed a distrust of life and a comfort with doom. Better the doomy god you know than the roomy god you don’t, I suppose.

I carried the image of a “roomy God” around with me all day, as I went to several stores trying to find things in short supply, or get things we needed, as I listened to news of what feels like impending doom. As the house–and the world–feel like they are getting smaller, I need a roomy God. An expansive God. An unquarantined God.

The second sentence that followed me around was a question Pádraig asked himself one morning as a part of his spiritual practice:

What is happening that I need to welcome?

What do I need to make room for, even as life seems to feel more like an escape room with the walls closing in?

The question is deeper to me than saying we have to look on the bright side of life. Asking what we need to welcome is not simply looking for what will make us feel better. It calls me to come to terms with being where I am. Here. Right now–which takes me to the third thing Pádraig said.

To deny here is to harrow the heart.

I am grateful for all of the shows of connectedness I have seen this past week: the concerts, the messages, the acts of kindness, the donations to help businesses stay open. We have set a good standard for ourselves that we are going to need to keep up for longer than we think. These are harrowing days and we need to shelter one another.

I feel like I’ve been sending you along with music all week, so I will not break my pattern. One of my favorite 80s bands was the Housemartins, and they had a song called “Shelter.”

in times when you’re troubled
seems more than you can afford
and you feel, you feel you need a friend
someone to share the load
and when your skies grow cloudy
I want you to know got a friend that’s true
just like a shelter, in a time of storm
I’ll see you through, that’s what I’ll do

Take us out, boys.

Peace,
Milton

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