99%: A Reflection on Ancestry and Interconnection

When asked about my ethnic heritage I have always said I am 50% Italian and 50% Northern European mutt, with the mutt side coming down my mother’s line. There was never a question that my father’s family was anything but 100% Italian.

My great-grandfather, Salvatore Castagnola immigrated to the United States from Genoa, Italy with his brother in the early 1900s. Commercial fisherman, they both established successful fishing enterprises here in Santa Barbara. Salvatore sent for my great-grandmother, Cesira Ghio, soon after his arrival in Santa Barbara and they married in 1906. He was 30 years old. She was 16. The couple had 8 sons and 3 daughters. My Grandma Eva was the middle daughter.

I never knew my great-grandfather, but I did know my great-grandmother, whom everyone in the family called Nannie. As a child I spent many Sunday afternoons at her house on Santa Barbara St., in what is now the Funk Zone, with my Grandma Eva and her sisters, eating raspberry filled cake from Henning's Bakery and drinking cups of coffee my grandma would pour for us. We kids felt very grown up as we heaped tablespoons of sugar into our milky cups of coffee.

Sometimes we sat at the kitchen table at Nannie’s house listening to the grown ups share family gossip in both English and Italian -- Though Nannie came to this country when she was 16, she never became fluent in English. -- Often though, my cousin and I would play outside among the lobster traps or in the giant ice room in the fish processing building, or we’d sneak into the closed Castagnola Brothers fish market right next door to the house, pretending we worked there. Later, both of us would.

My Grandpa Joe’s parents also immigrated from Italy to Santa Barbara, where they leased land on the Riveria to farm Lima beans. My Grandma Eva says my Grandpa Joe was a show off as a teenager. But show off or not, Eva Angelina Castagnola married Joseph Bregante in 1933 and had eight children together including two sets of twins. My dad is the oldest. And I was the first grandchild -- some would argue the spoiled favorite grandchild. I have many, many memories of my Grandma Eva’s tiny kitchen, watching her make homemade ravioli or gnocchi for holidays, eating her “green spaghetti” (long before anyone knew what pesto pasta was). My grandma could usually be found either in her kitchen or on her knees digging in her yard, planting and tending the flowers she loved.

My Italian ancestry was always something I took pride in. Then my dad sent me a little kit in the mail, a genetic test kit from a company called 23 And Me. I spit into a little vile, slapped a bar code on it, and mailed it off to 23 And Me for analysis. Here are the results from my Ancestry Report:

British and Irish 26.8% - no big surprise there

French and German 19.2 % - interesting

Scandinavian 6.1% - not sure where that comes from

Broadly Northwestern European 34% - ok

Italian 5.1%...

Now wait a minute. 5.1% Italian? What about my great-grandparents? How about my Roman nose? What about all those homemade ravioli my grandma learned how to make from her mother, who was born and raised in Genoa? This is not at all who I thought I was. I have more Scandinavian genes than Italian genes? I don’t know how to be Scandanavian!

But there you have it. DNA doesn’t lie and mine is not nearly as Italian as I thought. But does that really change anything? Who I am is shaped by more than my genes. So I started thinking about where I came from. And I came across a project by poet George Ella Lyon called “Where I’m From: A Poetry of Place.” Adapted for classroom use, you can go online and download a “Where I’m From” poetry template. I decided to try my hand at one.


Where I’m From

I am from East Gutierrez Street and a house full of olive skinned aunts and uncles.
I am from ranch hands from Oklahoma and house cleaners from Missouri.

I am from large battered cast iron pots and smells of tomato sauce and turkey soup.
I am from fresh-baked dinner rolls, fried chicken, and sweet tea.

I am from 7-Up and Vicks VapoRub when you’re sick.
From Dr. Pepper and Lawrence Welk on Saturday night.

I am from Ravioli for Christmas Dinner and opening presents youngest to oldest.
From Eva and Joe, Effie and Vern.

I am from “just a little ‘t time” and “oh fiddle.”
I’m from impatiens and begonias, and from sheets snapping on the clothesline.

I am from lapsed Catholicism.
I am from evangelical alter calls, speaking in tongues, and “in Jesus’ name we ask it.”

I am from Uncle Ronald who died at 21.
I am from Grandma Eva who died at 102.

I am from my Nana on Martin Luther King Jr. Blvd and “I just don’t know why people make such a big deal out of him.”

I keep a photo of young Grandma Eva all dressed up like I’ve never seen her.
I keep Nana’s hankies in my sock drawer.
I light candles for them all on The Day of the Dead, inviting them to visit.

I look at their faces and see my own.
***

So I have my genes, and my ancestors, and my stories that make me uniquely me. But in this time of divisiveness and tribalism, maybe that’s not what I should be concerned about. Rather than what makes me unique, maybe I should be looking at what connects me with everyone else.

According to my DNA, I am just 5% Italian. But maybe what’s more interesting is that I share 99% of my DNA with every other human on Earth -- not to mention 98% with Chimpanzees! Maybe it makes more sense to stand in awe of the fact that I share 99% of my DNA with a refugee fleeing  El Salvador, a man experiencing addiction and homelessness, and even a narcissistic politician. Maybe I need to help mend the tears in our interconnected web by first focusing on our connections rather than my uniqueness.

Some time ago I went to hear a lecture by Father Gregory Boyle, a Jesuit Priest and founder of Homeboy Industries, the largest gang rehabilitation and re-entry program in the world. He said many things that inspired me and gave me hope. He spoke of compassion and kinship. Here is a quote from his book, “Tattoos On the Heart:”

“No daylight to separate us. Only kinship. Inching ourselves closer to creating a community of kinship such that God might recognize it. Soon we imagine, with God, this circle of compassion. Then we imagine no one standing outside of that circle, moving ourselves closer to the margins so that the margins themselves will be erased. We stand there with those whose dignity has been denied. We locate ourselves with the poor and the powerless and the voiceless. At the edges, we join the easily despised and the readily left out. We stand with the demonized so that the demonizing will stop. We situate ourselves right next to the disposable so that the day will come when we stop throwing people away.”


I am 5.1% Italian, but I am 100% human. I want to us to stop throwing away our brothers and sisters. 

Appraisal: A Reflection on Spiritual Sustainability

"Life itself is the proper binge." ~ Julia Child

About a month ago we had to get an appraisal on our home for a new loan. After setting up the appointment, I walked around my condo with the cold eye of an appraiser. It was a sobering experience. Allow me to take you on that walk. 

Entering the front door you are immediately greeted by a full book case and a shoe rack that is cluttered with – shoes, yes – but also backpacks, sweatshirts, dirty socks, bike helmets, random school assignments, and other items in no way related to footwear.

Turning left into the living room, your eye will be drawn to the 1970s era open staircase with black wrought iron railing and worn carpeted steps. There are popcorn ceilings and tile floors. You'll notice that the walls are a drab white and in need of new paint. The living room might generously be described as cozy, and the couch is clearly where the two teenagers who live here spend the bulk of their time. Computers, game controllers and textbooks cover every surface, even those meant for sitting on.

We'll make a quick stop in the "guest" bathroom with its temperamental plumbing. Then, just off the bathroom, we'll peek in the laundry room, which we like to call "the room of requirement." Harry Potter fans will know what I mean. Whatever you're looking for, if you dig around enough, you're likely to find it here. You can do your laundry in here, but you'll also find toilet-paper, dog food, cat litter, a small tool box, a crock pot, kick boards for the pool, computer paper, and a large box of brownie mix among other things.

On to the dining room and kitchen, the heart of the home. As a real estate appraiser, you'll want to check the kitchen appliances. You'll quickly discover that none of them work properly. The refrigerator drips water (which we collect in a bowl and use to water plants); the dishwasher hasn't worked in years; and the oven struggles to bake a batch of cookies. The cabinets are stained a dreary dark brown and look old and worn. The dining room is more of a multi-purpose room really, with a small desk, a piano, and a large bookcase. Paper tends to congregate and multiply here.

I'm not going to take you upstairs. The bedrooms are where we REALLY let it all hang out, and you would need protective gear to enter the kids bathroom. Let's just sit in the dining room awhile. Pull up a chair. I'll put on some coffee.

So what do you think this home is worth? If you're looking at it with the cold eye of a real estate appraiser, you're going to say it's below market value. There's a lot of deferred maintenance here. When we get this new loan, my partner and I plan to start investing in repairs and paint, upgrades and cosmetic improvements. But right now this is our home. We live here everyday with our popcorn ceiling and our bad plumbing. Our lives are not on hold, waiting for new kitchen appliances and bathroom fixtures to begin. 

***

Last week, my minister asked us all to think of one object in our houses that epitomizes home for us. I chose my dining room table, where you and I sit now with our coffee. My table is made from recycled pine with a wax finish. It's got gouges and stains. There are little paint spatters from old art projects, and dime sized circles of candle wax next to the chalice we made at a church family night some years back. 

A lot of life has happened around this table: Besides the hundreds of family meals we have eaten here, it has been the place where Easter eggs are dyed and Christmas cookies are decorated; science fair projects have been conducted and written up here. Bills are paid at this table and homework happens here. Lively political debates have taken place and board games played with spirited competitiveness. Countless works of art have been created on this surface. And I have written blog posts and reflections, and consumed a lot of coffee at this table. 

My children made their case for getting a dog around this table. And it is where they learned their parents were getting divorced. Tears have been shed at this table, and laughter has bounced off the walls of this room. Arguments have ensued and been resolved here. Saturday morning Sabbath french toast is eaten here, and music is often in the air. – Friends and family regularly gather at this table to share food and the good company of each other.

What is this home worth? As exciting as the prospect of new appliances, fresh paint, and a remodeled kitchen are, they are not what makes this home sustainable. A shiny new stove is not the taste of a home cooked meal and the sound of lively dinner conversation. A beautifully tiled bathroom is not the the invigorating feeling of a morning shower. Brightly painted walls and pop-corn free ceilings are not the blessing of shelter on a hot day or a rainy night. And a perfectly placed piece of art cannot compare with the beauty of a rich family life – with its bright spots and rough edges – lived here every day. This is what sustains us. And this what is sustainable.

Grace and the Christmas Fish: A Reflection on the Gifts of Christmas

"Christmas is doing a little something extra for someone."

~Charles M. Schultz

As an Agnostic Unitarian Universalist, I struggle a bit with Christmas: A virgin birth; a guy in a red suit jetting all over the world in a flying sled; out of control consumerism that starts the day after Halloween; nativity scenes next to giant inflatable snowmen on people's front lawns; cheese balls and fruit cake. If you're not a Christian, what does it all mean? 

For years I wrestled with this, especially when my kids were little. What should I tell them we were celebrating when we decorated our Christmas tree and sang Silent Night? I found some wisdom in the words of religious educator, Sofia Lyon Fahs who wrote a poem entitled "For So the Children Come, " which includes this message about what is holy.

Yet each night a child is born is a holy night.

Fathers and mothers—sitting beside their children's cribs—

feel glory in the sight of a new life beginning.

They ask, "Where and how will this new life end?

Or will it ever end?"

Each night a child is born is a holy night—

A time for singing,

A time for wondering,

A time for worshipping.

I also appreciated the pagan connections between Christmas and the Winter Solstice, and the way all of the winter holidays -- Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanza, Diwali, Solstice -- celebrate light out of darkness, hope and love. Some years we hung pine cone bird feeders in trees on the solstice, or shared hot cider and sunburst cookies on the beach with friends as the sun sank below the horizon on the shortest day.

But, no matter how much I loved all of the depth these new traditions added to an old, familiar holiday, the truth is, my family celebrates Christmas primarily because it is part of our cultural heritage, a passing along of generations of family traditions. And it turns out that's enough. So, I've stopped searching for one cohesive narrative to glue this Christian and Pagan holiday together. Instead, I simply try to practice our Christmas traditions with love and presence. And I wait to see what gifts might arise unbidden each year.

In that spirit, I'd like to share a family Christmas story I like to call, 

Grace and the Christmas Fish

When my daughter Frances was nine years old, she and her brother sat down at the kitchen table to write letters to Santa Claus. This was not something we did every year, but Frances was beginning to question the whole Santa operation. She began pondering questions like, how does Santa manage to cover the entire globe in a single night, and why do the presents look like they come from Toys R Us if the elves are making them? I would reply with something like, well honey, Christmas is all about magic, and then feel twinges of guilt for lying to this smart, inquisitive child. Or I might throw the whole inquiry back at her by asking, what do YOU think? And then quickly turn up the Christmas music and offer her another cookie.

In any case, I wasn't ready to reveal Santa's true identity yet -- Miles was only six after all -- so the kids proceeded to jot down a little note to Santa about what they would like for Christmas.

Among other things, Frances asked for a Beta fish and some chocolate. We addressed the envelope to Santa Claus at the North Pole, put the letter in the mailbox and went about our holiday decorating, baking, and nightly reading of Christmas stories. Frances continued to pose questions about Santa's existence. And I artfully evaded direct answers. Just one more year, I hoped. As Katrina Kenison writes in her book, Mitten Strings For God, "A touch of magic can reawaken the childlike spirit in all of us..." I wanted Santa to hang around awhile longer, for the kids sure. But also for me.

One afternoon, a little more than a week after the letters to Santa were mailed, the postman knocked on our front door. He handed me a small package addressed to Frances. The return address said, The North Pole. What could THIS be? The postmark was from a town about 100 miles north of us, but there was no name and I couldn't think of who might have sent it. With nervous anticipation, I called Frances downstairs. You got a package from Santa, I said. She could tell the surprise and wonder in my voice were genuine. Inside the package was a xeroxed copy of her letter to Santa and a small wrapped gift. Go ahead, I said. -- I was as wide eyed as she was! -- Open it. She carefully tore the paper as Miles and I watched. Inside were several squares of Ghirardelli chocolate, a small fish ornament to hang on the tree, and a gift card to Petco. Wow, I said. That's amazing! Santa sent you an early present! That small package of kindness was the highlight of Christmas for us that year. We told everyone we knew about Santa's mysterious gift.

To this day, we have no idea who that gift was from. I like to imagine an elderly woman with white hair, wearing a red and green Christmas sweater and sensible shoes. I've named her Grace. I picture plucking Frances's letter out of a mailbag full of letters to Santa. I can see Grace shopping for the chocolates, wondering if Frances would prefer milk or dark chocolate. I imagine her puzzling over how to wrap a Beta fish while sipping a cup of tea, and being pleased with herself for coming up with such a clever solution. (We exchanged the Petco gift card for a red Beta fish Frances named Harry Wotter.) And even though I had to quickly scramble for an explanation for why Frances got an early present and Miles didn't (I think I said something about a random drawing, sort of like the drawing for the bell from Santa's Sleigh in the popular story, The Polar Express), it was worth it. Grace's small act of kindness gave us another year of magic.

***
Christmas means many things to many people. But, no matter what your beliefs, there is always room for kindness, enchantment, and the excitement of anticipation. Like Winnie the Pooh said about eating honey, “Well, what I like best," and then he had to stop and think. Because although Eating Honey was a very good thing to do, there was a moment just before you began to eat it which was better than when you were, but he didn't know what it was called.”

Christmas is sparkly and bright, especially on the surface. When you unwrap this big, unwieldy holiday though, sometimes you find you didn't get what you asked for at all. It might be too big or too small, too gaudy or dull. Broken maybe, filled with past pain and disappointment, people behaving badly. Then again, sometimes Christmas surprises you with small acts of kindness that can thaw even the coldest spirit. 

And while you never know what you're gonna receive, you can always choose to be the giver of kindness. You too can delight a child with a Beta fish or make someone's day with a surprise visit. And so I'm offering this simple phrase for all you kids from one to ninety two: Show up for the holidays. Invite Grace and kindness into your heart. Be present for the moment before the honey AND the moment it drips onto your tongue. And if you end up covered in a sticky mess this year, be present for that too. Notice who shows up to help you clean up. There are gifts to be found in all of it. I dare you not to find one.

(Adapted from a Reflection for the Unitarian Society of santa Barbara, December 21,2014)

The Sabbath French Toast

A Reflection on Sabbath

for the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

June 29, 2014

Audio link: http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2013/20140629_Reflection_Charla.wav

Silence walks in and pulls up a chair.

She touches her hand to my shoulder.

Where have you been? You're so hard to find

In this noisy world, I told her.

Please sit down and put up your feet.
I'll make a cup of good coffee or tea.
I want to hear my heart beat.

​Won't you just sit here with me?

I wrote that snippet of a song while I was walking my dog on the beach a couple of years ago. I was thinking about how much I love the time of silence in our church services, how I always want it to be a bit longer, how I wish I could find more moments to sit with silence and feel her soft breath. On that walk -- watching my dog Zeke embrace every moment on the beach -- I left my "to do" list behind, put my smart phone away, and accepted the gifts the day was offering. I listened to the still, small voice inside me and I heard it call for quiet and rest and, what's more, I heard it in a song! I sang out loud as I walked. My heart was light and I felt connected to everything around me, from the sea to the sky, to the creative process within me. I gave myself over to this time I had carved out of my day for renewal.

I wish I could tell you that all of my dog walks are that joyful and mindful, but sadly, at least half the time they feel like one more chore I have to squeeze into an already busy day. Like a lot of people, I am not very good at giving myself permission to rest. Doing "nothing" makes me feel guilty, so I tend to take a more circuitous path to resting that is really not restful at all. I trick myself into slowing down by distracting myself. I'll look at the pile of dishes after dinner and say, I'm just going to check my email before I get started on those. Next thing I know, I've read my email and scrolled mindlessly through facebook, and 45 minutes have gone by. Do I feel rested and renewed after this electronic binge? No. I feel guilty and lazy. I feel like I have had spiritual junk food instead of real sustenance. And I wonder, what if I had given myself permission to sit with my kids in the living room for 45 minutes after dinner? What conversations might we have had? What peaceful silence might we have shared while we read together?

In his book, Sabbath: Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight in our Busy Lives, author Wayne Muller writes, "Sabbath is more than the absence of work; it is not just a day off, when we catch up on television or errands. It is the presence of something that arises when we consecrate a period of time to listen to what is most deeply beautiful, nourishing, or true. It is time consecrated with our attention, our mindfulness, honoring those quiet forces of grace or spirit that sustain and heal us."

Sabbath is rest with intention. It is about clearing a space for something to grow, or quieting the din for something to be heard. It is a time to reflect, to play, to bless, to feel gratitude and experience joy in the ordinary. Sabbath is about honoring the rhythms and cycles of our lives and recognizing the importance dormancy plays in growth. In Jewish and Christian traditions, sabbath is not just a suggestion; it is a commandment from God! Remember the Sabbath is on the same list of rules as thou shalt not kill, and thou shalt not commit adultery, for Heaven's sake!

Some of us feel guilty when we stop working. But Sabbath is not selfish. Quite the contrary. We need the sabbath to fill our stores so that we can do good work in the world. When I don't give myself time to rest and reflect, I get sloppy, lazy and resentful. I snap at my kids more than I listen to them, I get impatient with the students I work with, I view my day as one long to-do list. When I don't allow myself to rest I lose my appreciation for the rhythm and cycles of life. Focusing instead on the Sisyphean tasks of chores and obligations. As Wayne Muller writes, "Sabbath is not only for ourselves; rested and refreshed, we more generously serve all those who need our care. The human spirit is naturally generous; the instant we are filled, our first impulse is to be useful, to be kind, to give something away." Muller says that by sabbath-keeping our work will have the "wisdom of rest" in it.

Remember the sabbath. OK, but how do we do that? Some years back I took an Adult RE class on sabbath here at USSB from our own Ken Saxon. We explored the elements that would help us create a practice of sabbath that was meaningful for each of us. We considered the candles, prayers, and food from the religions of our childhood. We explored whether we needed to experience the sacred rest of sabbath alone, with family, in community, or all of the above. We thought about the best times for us to honor the sabbath. Do we want to start our day with a prayer? Do we want to create a weekly meal with family or friends? Is it important for us to be in nature? 

When the class was over I initiated a Sunday afternoon walk with friends, kids, and dogs, followed by a meal of soup and bread with my family. It was a gentle way to end the weekend and prepare for the week ahead. We brought out the good dishes; we lit a chalice; we listened to music; we said a blessing and shared what we were grateful for. And it was lovely. ... Until we began to neglect our sabbath meal and it eventually faded away. Sabbath, like children, marriage, friendships, and gardens, needs to be tended in order to thrive.

Like any good Unitarian Universalist, my sabbath practice is always evolving. Right now it centers on gratitude, silence, nature. ... And challah french toast.

My boyfriend, Chuck, lives in Oakland. We begin every morning by texting each other three things we are grateful for. This morning pause to remember what is good in our lives is like a small prayer to start the day. 

Every evening my dog, Zeke, insists on a sabbath walk on the Ellwood Mesa. He doesn't KNOW it's a sabbath walk, but the joy and connection with the natural world he exhibits have all the earmarks of a sabbath walk and, when I am present and open, I feel that joy and connection too. He reminds me.

And at the end of the day, sitting in my bed, I take out my gratitude journal and write down three more things I am grateful for, enjoying the feel of pen on paper after a day of texting and typing. I could write a whole reflection about how the regular practice of gratitude has changed my outlook on life, but suffice it to say, feeling grateful for all that I have right now is an essential piece, maybe even the crown jewel, of sabbath for me.

And then there is the challah french toast. 

We used to have a family tradition of french toast on Saturday mornings, a late relaxed breakfast of comfort and sweetness. Sadly, this tradition withered in the face of Saturday soccer games and a crumbling marriage. Last year I decided my children and I needed to revive it. Typically we make French toast with thick slices of Trader Joe's cinnamon swirl bread and we do not scrimp on butter and sugar.

But when Chuck started joining us for Saturday french toast, he brought something new to the table: Challah bread, the bread traditionally served at Jewish shabbat meals. Beautifully braided and golden brown, challah bread makes for thick, soft pillows of french toast that soak up butter and powdered sugar and leave a perfect indentation to fill with berries. So good! Chuck's daughter is living in IV this summer, so we are inviting her to join us for challah french toast too. Yesterday I even pulled out the good dishes and lit a chalice. We listened to music; we enjoyed our wonderful children; we slowed time down for awhile. -- And voilà! A sabbath meal was born. I'm even thinking of bringing back Sunday evening soup so that our weekend is bookended by sabbath meals -- restful time with people I love.

***

A couple of years ago I was snow shoeing in Mammoth with five close friends. It was October. There was already a fair amount of snow on the ground, and it felt like we had the mountain to ourselves. As you can imagine, a group of six women does not naturally lend itself to silence. But I insisted we spread out, sit down, and be quiet for 10 minutes. It was such a complete silence, snow buffered and soft. I could have stayed wrapped in that restful place all day. -- Silence, nature, people I love, gratitude -- If that's not sabbath I don't know what is.

I wish I could command all of you to remember the sabbath, to make time for sacred rest in your lives, but I am not God or any kind of boss around here. What I can do, however, is remind you that together we observe the sabbath every Sunday morning right here. We're doing it right now. And I can invite you to join me in restful silence. I encourage you to close your eyes and listen to that still, small voice inside you. Hear what it has to say.

Amazing Grace: Reflections on Repair

Delivered at the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

December, 29, 2013

If you prefer to listen, click on the link below for an audio recording

http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2013/20131229ReflectionCBregante.mp3

"It's not a cry you can hear at night

It’s not somebody who has seen the light

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah"

~ Leonard Cohen

I've been a Warming Center volunteer for the past couple of years, cooking and serving casseroles on cold, wet nights under the eaves of Jefferson Hall with friends and my kids. Never have I encountered such gracious dinner guests as I do in the people who arrive, cold, tired and hungry for a meal on those nights. Never have I BEEN such a gracious guest. Some of the guests don't say anything, but many of them express heartfelt gratitude for the simple meal we have provided. It makes me wish I had done more, made homemade cookies instead of store bought. Something to be deserving of such gratitude. I get the sense that when your life is missing so much, you develop a visceral appreciation for things most of us have the luxury of taking for granted: dry socks, hot food, warm blankets, shelter.

It is hard to put into words the impact the warming center has had on me. I have both nothing and everything in common with these hungry, cold people seeking a meal and a bed. My life seems embarrassingly rich, my problems so trivial compared to what fate has dealt these brothers and sisters of mine. I can give them a meal, but I am not equipped to repair the myriad problems that accompany them to that shelter on a rainy night: Homelessness, unemployment, addiction, mental illness, a safety net of family and friends that is damaged or missing entirely. 

A couple of years ago I met a man who had ridden his bike from Oregon pulling his dog in a baby trailer. He was not a young man and he clearly grappled with some mental health issues. He was making his way the best he could. He eagerly showed me some of the repairs he had managed on his bike, outdoing  MacGyver with his resourcefulness. It was really incredible. And he told me he thanked God everyday for what he had. He thanked me for the simple meal I had prepared as if it were a feast for a king. His gratitude was genuine and immense. And when he talked about his life, he did not dwell on the brokenness of it. Rather, he held up all that was good and true to him (his dog, his handiwork with his bike, his faith in God). He wanted to share that with me, he just wanted me to listen. And though his was surely a broken hallelujah, it was beautiful and humbling.

But then, don't we all sing a broken hallelujah? Life is tragic and beautiful, sometimes in the same moment. Troubles are NOT distributed evenly among us by a long shot. And not everyone accepts their lot like the man on the bike, nor should they. But even the most desperate among us see at least glimpses of grace from time to time, maybe enough to repair a flat tire, or find a hotmeal and a bed for the night. To be human is to be broken. And it is that beautiful, broken humanity that I share with the guests of the warming center and everyone else. 

In her book, Stitches: A Handbook on Meaning, Hope and Repair, writer Anne Lamott says, "We live stitch by stitch, when we're lucky. If you fixate on the big picture, the whole shebang, the overview, you miss the stitching. And maybe the stitching is crude, or it is unraveling but if it were precise, we'd pretend that life was just fine and running like a Swiss watch. This is not helpful if on the inside our understanding is that life is more often a cuckoo clock with rusty gears."

Sometimes in our effort to repair, we get the thread all tangled up. And that's ok. It happens in spite of our best intentions. A friend of mine has a young adult son who is depressed. He dropped out of college and seems to be at loose ends. Like any loving father, my friend wants to help his son fix things. He gave him all kinds of "useful" advice, but his son just made excuses or, worse, blamed him for the state his life is in. Frustrated, my friend told me, you know what? I give up. I'm just going to listen when he needs to talk and let him know I love him. As you've probably guessed, he's untangling the knot his "helpfulness" created and together they are making small, messy stitches toward repair.

Where do I begin to repair what needs mending? Sometimes, just getting through the day takes all my energy. Can I learn to pick up a needle and thread, pull together the frayed pieces of fabric as best I can, and make one small stitch? And can I appreciate the beauty inherent in my imperfect needlework? Can I let go of my need to control enough to let other people help when I've tangled the thread or don't see a place in the fabric to insert the needle?

I can prepare a casserole for the guests at the Warming Center on a cold night. I can take a moment to remember what being 16 feels like and offer my daughter empathy instead of criticism.  I can apologize to my ex when we've had a misunderstanding. I can put my arm around my son and let him rest his head on my shoulder when junior high school overwhelms him. I can bring my 99 year old grandma a cupcake and see her smile as she devours it. I can have a glass of wine with my aunt and just let her talk, knowing that her days are spent taking care of small children and my grandmother and she is exhausted. I can give myself permission to be good enough instead of perfect. -- Of course I can roll up my sleeves and join forces with other people to tackle the bigger repairs too, homelessness, climate change. But day to day, I can practice doing small things with great love, as Mother Theresa reminds us. I can be an instrument of grace. We all can. And THAT is amazing when you think about it!

Anne Lamott talks about the lost art of darning. Darning, she says, " is to send parallel threads through the damage in socks and sweaters, in and out, in and out, back and forth over and under, and somehow you have a piece of fabric again - such as the heal of a sock, that's good enough again, against all odds. This is sort of a miracle - good enough again." You just have to find a spot in the fabric to start from.

Some time ago I was walking with a young woman I work with. She has pretty severe autism. She is not very verbal, though she does like to sing, mostly Disney songs. She likes it when I sing too. She was agitated on this day as she sometimes is, screeching and periodically hitting herself on the head. I can only imagine how overwhelming the world must seem to her at times. Like all of us, she just wants to shut it out sometimes, scream at the world to stop spinning for a second so she can grab hold again. -- As we were walking, she sang the word hallelujah a couple of times. I didn't recognize her melody so I started singing Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" to her, (sing chorus) She looked at me and her whole body quieted down. Mine did too! I touched her arm and sang it again. And together we walked back to the car.

I am beginning to think that, paradoxically, it is our brokenness that makes us whole. Repair happens along the frayed seam, the rough edge. That's where we grow and become stronger. As Leonard Cohen says, the cracks are where the light comes in. And I think it is in the daily mending of this beautiful crazy quilt called life, the appreciation of its mismatched fabrics, in the knots and loose stitches, that we find meaning, hope and grace, amazing grace.

"Amazing Grace how sweet the sound

that saved a wretch like me.

I once was lost, but now I'm found.

Was blind, but now I see."

Fingers Pointing at the Moon

Reflection on Truth

for the Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

February 3, 2013

Audio Link: http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2013/20130203reflectioncbregante.mp3

The first time I learned that religious truth was not one universal story, one singular path, was in fourth grade. It was December and we were learning how people around the world celebrated Christmas. This was my first exposure to "world religions" and I was struggling with it a bit. I thought the entire world celebrated Christmas. And I thought they celebrated it just like I did. Santa came on Christmas Eve, presents were left, stockings were filled, and on Christmas morning it was all torn open in a frenzy of wrapping paper and ribbon. Oh, and then there was that story about baby Jesus. So what was all this business about putting out wooden shoes only to find oranges, nuts and maybe a piece of candy in them in the morning? And who the heck was Santa Lucia and what did she have to do with anything?

It only got worse from there. Later that week our teacher told us that Gary Segal, one of our own classmates, did not celebrate Christmas at all. This was a jaw dropping moment for me. She explained that Gary was Jewish and in December he celebrated Hanukkah, not Christmas. There was no Christmas tree, no Santa Claus, not even a stocking hung by the fire. There was something about a candle holder, a spinning top, and potato pancakes, but I was barely listening at this point. Frankly, this was all too much for me. My truth had been shattered.

Up until this point I hadn't given religious truth a whole lot of thought. I assumed that everyone followed the same belief system I did. That is, Jesus was born, he was called the son of God, and there was Christmas. There were some interesting stories about Jesus walking on water, raising the dead, magically multiplying loaves of bread, and turning wine into blood. Then he was hung on a cross to die, rose from the dead himself, and there was Easter. The key religious figures for me were God, Jesus, Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I did not know what to do with people like Gary Segal. How could there be more than one truth?

***
Sister Joan Chittester, a Benedictine nun and a wonderful writer, tells us how, even within monasteries, places of uniformity and a seemingly singular path to God, there are differences on the path to truth. She says, "Isn't difference in the face of the commonplace the very sign of the singular and intimate relationship between God and every one of us?" Chittester tells the story of two nuns, Sister Rosalia and Sister Marie Claire, both living in the same monastery, but with very different relationships to the holy.

Sister Rosalia was "a model of the 'living Rule.' She kept silence -- always at night, almost always during the day. She never consorted with 'seculars.' She walked head down, eyes on the ground -- just as spiritual masters for centuries had recommended we do as an aid to acquiring perpetual 'recollection' or consciousness of God. Her room was sparse and antiseptic to the core. She cut no corners, took no liberties, strayed from none of the disciplines."

Then there was Sister Marie Claire.

"Sister Marie Claire, a music teacher, lived strewing beauty wherever she went. She had mysterious ways of getting cut flowers of extraordinary color for her music room, grew pots full of African violets large and full and in jungle proportions everywhere. ... Marie Claire brought a sense of abundance to life. ... Marie Claire lived, generous and open-hearted, an Auntie Mame figure who swept into every room with a smile on her face and a warm hand-shake or arm hold for every person there."*

So, which of these women who took the same vows and lived in the same monastery was truest to the truth? Or had they each formed their own uniquely personal relationship with God, with truth?

Chittester tells us that truth is too great to be grasped by any one of us, but that we are all capable of holding a piece of it. She says, "The real truth is that God is too great to be lost in the smallness of any single sliver of life. Truth is One, yes, but truth is many at the same time." The danger, of course, occurs when a person or a religion claims to have The Truth. To make this claim is, at best ludicrous, at worst hubris. We have seen the dangerous consequences of this hubris time and time again throughout history and in our own time.

***
I finally rejected Christianity as The One Truth during a college anthropology class. As we learned about tribal religions in Africa, I finally began to grasp that humans everywhere were seeking the truth, and coming up with very different definitions of it. How could any one religion claim to be right? And when you considered all the tragedy and loss that stemmed from religious conflict, well what was the point of any of it? So I declared myself an atheist and threw out the murky bathwater of religion. Unfortunately I threw the baby out too, at least for a time. My search for truth stalled for many years.

When I found the path of Unitarian Universalism 14 years ago, it felt spacious and accommodating. Here was a faith that did not claim to have all the answers, but encouraged me to seek my own truth. What a relief. I stepped onto this path with my pack full of questions and continued my journey in the company of this beloved community. Unitarian Universalism has taught me to love and respect all paths to the truth. And it has taught me the difference between the path and the truth, illustrated beautifully by this gem of a story from Zen Buddhism.

A nun asked the Sixth Patriarch, “I have studied the Maha-pari-nirvana sutra for many years, yet there are many areas I do not quite understand. Please enlighten me.”

The patriarch responded, “I am illiterate. Please read out the characters to me and perhaps I will be able to explain the meaning.”

Said the nun, “You cannot even recognize the characters. How are you able then to understand the meaning?”

“Truth has nothing to do with words. Truth can be likened to the bright moon in the sky. Words, in this case, can be likened to a finger. The finger can point to the moon's location. However, the finger is not the moon. To look at the moon, it is necessary to gaze beyond the finger, right?”

***So, how do we know if what we are looking at is truth, or at least a piece of the truth? Joan Chittester writes, "If the question is, How shall I know the truth when I see it? the answer must be, truth is that which does the good of God and does it kindly so that none of the people of God are hurt by it." I invite you to define God as it fits with your truth, or remove the word entirely. Her words still ring true to me: Truth is that which does good and does it kindly, so that no people are hurt by it.

So where do we search for truth?

That's simple. Everywhere. And in everything. Every day.

When Rabbi Steve Cohen was with us last week, he reminded us that silence necessarily precedes hearing and speaking our truth. If we want to open ourselves to truth, we must find time to quiet our minds, still the busyness of our lives and listen. Religious truth, unlike scientific truth, requires an open heart as well as an open mind. It is a deeply felt truth. And we must listen for its many voices.

***
My piece of the truth is about embracing the great Mystery now, and my path is an agnostic one. Agnosticism is often considered a wishy washy position, a fence to sit on for those who cannot commit to one side or the other. But agnosticism is not a fence, it is one path to truth. For me agnosticism is about spending time with and truly loving the great Mystery. Agnosticism reminds me that truth is large and many faceted, and that I will never grasp anywhere near all of it. I believe that truth is fluid like a river, not granite like a mountain. My faith, as we UUs like to say, is a living faith, open to new ideas and change.

UU minister Reverend Marilyn Sewell sums up my agnostic path best when she writes, "When we venture into the Mystery, we are entering the ground of the infinite with the powers of a finite mind. An awe-filled agnosticism is perhaps the better part of wisdom." An awe-filled agnosticism. For me that is a rich path, filled with wonder and possibility.

***
We must all find our own path to truth, but whatever that path is, Love must be the trail guide. As Sister Joan Chittester writes, "Truth is not any one truth, not any one institution, not any one way. Nor can we truly bend ourselves to all of them. Instead, each of us must live our own singular piece of the truth with love. What else can possibly be the final test of what is truly true?" Amen.

*From Welcome to the Wisdom of the World and its Meaning For You, by Sister Joan Chittister.

It's About Time

Reflection on Creation

Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

December 2, 2012

audio link: http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2012/20121202reflectionCBregante.mp3

A couple of weeks ago, my son Miles' teacher snagged me in the parking lot. I was just wondering, he said, why Miles is about 15 minutes late to class every morning. I stalled and tried to hide my blush. I've known this teacher for several years now. I wanted to say, oh, you know Miles. He's so absent minded and easily distracted, it takes him 15 minutes just to get his shoes on. However, while this may be true, it is not the reason why he is late to school. So I sort of gulped and said, I'd love to blame Miles for this, but it's me. I'm the one who can't get out the door on time. Then I made a vague promise about trying to do better.

I have a very slippery relationship with time. I am often breathless trying to catch up with it and, like a greased pig, it slips away from me all too often. I am a master of magical thinking when it comes to time. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, each new day I believe that I will be able to get everything done in the exact amount of time that proved to be insufficient the previous day (OK, the previous year, but who's counting). My relationship with time is like that definition of insanity: I do the same thing over and over again, but always expect different results.

This is not how I want to live my life of course, rushing from one thing to the next, always late, adrenalin coursing through my veins. If I ruled the world (god help us), everyone would be required to pause when they finished one activity before moving on to the next. Let's say you just finished a project at work. I would ask you to sit down in a nice, cozy armchair with a cup of tea or stretch out in a grassy meadow and watch clouds drift overhead. Perching on a rock overlooking the ocean would be permissible, as would twirling and dancing like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music (for those who just can't sit still). Gazing at a delicate flower, a grand tree, or a passage of poetry would be highly encouraged. Then I would have you close your eyes for a few minutes of reflection or meditation. Just breathe in and out and begin to gently guide yourself back to yourself. Only when you feel sufficiently centered and present, would you be allowed proceed to the next activity in your planner.

I am not in charge, however. The clock ticks on and I must play by the same rules everyone else does. But I do have some choices in how I relate to time. I can slow my pace just a bit and focus my full attention on what I am doing in any given moment, rather than trying to absorb my entire to do list all at once. As Sister Joan Chittester says, “How we spend our days is, of course, how we spend our lives. The tragedy is that we ignore so much of it in the interest of getting to the real stuff.”

The real stuff of every day is making breakfast, helping Miles find his shoes, taking a shower and getting dressed. It's going to my job and helping the disabled students I work with manage the real stuff of their lives, something that requires a special kind of attention to detail on both their parts and mine. The real stuff is a conversation with my daughter, Frances, about hair color or homework. It's walking the dog on the Ellwood Mesa and noticing the green grass beginning to poke through the grey. It's asking my husband about his day, it's making dinner and folding laundry.

I can do these things on auto-pilot or I can look at each of them as an opportunity to create a small moment of beauty, grace, awareness or connection. In an Op-ed piece for the NY Times Bill Hayes writes, “One can be alive but half-asleep or half-noticing as the years fly, no matter how fully oxygenated the blood and brain or how steadily the heart beats. Fortunately, this is a reversible condition. One can learn to be alert to the extraordinary and press pause — to memorize moments of the everyday.”

THIS is how I want to live my life: Alert to the extraordinary, aware of the beautiful hum of the ordinary. When I slow down, just a bit, just enough to pay attention and breathe more deeply, I create a sort of spiritual space, a place where relationships and ideas can grow, poking up through the grey field like the grass after the first rain of winter. Slowing down and paying attention invites creativity into my life. Because creativity begins with paying attention.

UU Minister Karen Hering writes, “For me, creativity is an act of slowing down. Paying attention. Taking time. Never doing in one day what could be spread out over seven, including a day of rest. It is no coincidence that this is also how I meet the divine.”