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.”

Why Don't We Just Start? (Revisited)

Reflection on Joy

Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

September 30, 2012

(includes "re-purposed" 

stories from earlier blog posts)

When I was in college I wanted a pair of low heeled red pumps. With a limited budget, I began haunting the Macy's sales racks, just waiting for the perfect pair of shoes to go on sale. I became obsessed with finding these pumps, certain that my life would be magically transformed and filled with happiness and fulfillment once I found them. Like Dorothy's ruby slippers, these pumps would take me wherever I wanted to go.

I developed a rich fantasy life around these shoes. I would meet the perfect boyfriend who would accompany me to art museums and cafes. I would find an amazing job with hip coworkers who would join me at coffee bars and happy hours. My clothes would be perfect, and I would never have another bad hair day ever again. My red pumps would lead me down the yellow brick road to happily ever after. I was so convinced of the power of these mythical shoes that my roommate Laura began referring to them as the “life perfecting red pumps.”

And then one afternoon I found them: A pair of size 8 Nine West, low heeled red leather pumps, on sale at Macy's. My heart soared as I handed my check to the sales clerk. No, I don't need a bag. I'll wear them home. I walked on air back to my dorm room, and my feet WERE beautiful in those red pumps. But alas, as time moved forward, my life was not magically transformed.

This is a silly story, but those red pumps became a metaphor for me. I began to see that I was a person who waited for people or things to come along and fill me up. I tended to believe that joy was outside of me, something that other people (or things) had the power to grant me. When I met the perfect man, I'd be happy. When I found the right job, life would be good. If only I had better hair or the right clothes, THEN everything would fall into place. I wasn't able to take even the first step toward finding joy until someone came along and put ruby slippers on my feet. But, of course, ruby slippers are only found in Oz. And wizards and princes only exist in fairy tales. Where, then, was joy found?

***

For as long as I can remember, I have wanted to sing. When I was in high school I would come home after school and stand in front of a mirror with a hairbrush microphone singing along with Carole King's Tapestry album over and over again. I had every nuance of every song down. At night, when I went to brush my teeth, I would stand in front of the bathroom mirror imagining myself on the Merv Griffin show. Remember Merv? Well, Merv would ask me questions about my amazing talent and my meteoric rise to fame. And I would dole out brilliant and witty answers like candy. Merv loved me. The audience adored me. Why let reality muck up this perfect fantasy?

The truth is for years I mostly sang in the privacy of my bedroom. Painfully shy and terrified of failure and public humiliation, I chose to keep the dream of singing largely in the realm of fantasy. At times I even thought it was a cruel joke that I was born with the ability to sing, but not with the personality of a performer. (I am no Ken Ryals!) There were years I managed to convince myself that singing wasn't even really all that important to me. I sang along with records and in the car. I sang at a few friends' weddings and in choirs where I could hide amongst a herd of altos. But mostly I kept the longing to sing safely tucked away where it couldn't be tarnished by reality. Someday, I thought, someone will come along and lead me out of my shell.

When my son Miles was in preschool at Starr King, a group of parents came up with the idea of having a fund raising benefit at SoHO. A handful of parents with musical talent were invited to perform. My renditions of “Little Red Caboose” and “The Wheels On the Bus” were well known from leading circle time at the preschool, so I was invited to perform, along with my friends Mari and Jeff. I started to panic immediately.

In fact, for two months every time I even thought about that impending SoHO gig, my blood froze and my heart raced. For two months a low level anxiety was the background music of my day to day life. Except when we rehearsed. Every time Mari, Jeff and I got together to rehearse, something else happened, something that felt just the teensiest bit like joy. I loved harmonizing with Mari. I loved hearing Jeff come up with the perfect guitar arrangement for a song. I discovered just how much I loved sharing music with them, and it was a comfort knowing I would not be up there on that stage all alone.

The day of the SoHO benefit finally arrived. I was the poster child for anxiety disorders all day long. I couldn't eat. I couldn't concentrate on work. My breathing was shallow and my heart raced. I couldn't believe I had volunteered for this torture. How was this joyful? During the sound check I felt like a fraud. What the heck was I doing on stage at SoHO for a sound check? That's what real musicians do. When the sound tech asked if I was getting enough sound in my monitor, I had no idea what he was talking about. Any minute now someone would surely realize that I had no business being there and kick me out.

Finally we walked up on stage to perform. My heart was pounding, but I was also relieved that the months of anticipation were over. We started to sing and I relaxed a little. By the time we were into the second song, I was hooked. I was doing something I loved with people I loved. And the audience responded with applause and supportive cheers. I was actually enjoying myself. I was “in joy,” experiencing joy from the inside out, right then and there, fully present for it. When our set was over, I wanted to do it all again.

I learned something from that SoHO experience. Sometimes the path to joy is rocky and a little scary, especially if it is a path toward a long held dream. But I don't long for ruby slippers for the journey anymore. I prefer to walk barefoot, my feet touching the ground, feeling the sweet wet grass and the occasional sharpness of a rock on my sole. And I am no longer waiting for other people or things to bring me joy. Instead I am looking, really looking, both inward and outside of myself at what is already there. I have gifts to share and amazing people in my life. I have had all the ingredients I need for joy all along. But it's up to me to create it.

There will never be a perfect time to follow a dream. I continue to face obstacles to singing, some self imposed, some beyond my control. But I figure I have a choice. I can use those obstacles as an excuse. Or I can sing as much as I'm able to right now and wring all the joy I can from the experience.

Beloved educator and children's musician, Tom Hunter, begins one of his recordings by musing, "How to begin?" After a moment of guitar noodling as he tries to craft the perfect introduction to the song, he says to his fellow musicians, "Why don't we just start?”

Audio version:
http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2012/20120930reflectioncbregante.mp3

Know My Name

Reflection on Dignity

Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

August 12, 2012

Deportees, by Woody Guthrie
performed by Arlo Guthrie and Emmylou Harris
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TN3HTdndZec

reflection audio link:

http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2012/20120812reflectioncbregante.mp3

The song, Deportees, is the story of a 1948 plane crash in Los Gatos Canyon that killed 32 people, four Americans and 28 migrant farm workers who were being deported back to Mexico from California. The farm workers were part of the braceros program of the 1940s through the 1960s, a program designed to bring in temporary, low paid contract workers from Mexico to harvest the fruit fields and orchards of California. Today these workers would be referred to (somewhat ironically I think) as “guest workers”.

During the time of the braceros, it was common to bring workers over the border from Mexico with intentionally flawed contracts (in English) so as to make them legally invalid. Following a season of backbreaking field work in California's orchards and fields, the braceros would ocassionally be rounded up as illegals because of the invalid contracts and deported without being paid at all. I do not know if this was the case for the victims of the crash over Los Gatos Canyon.

Everyone on board that 1948 plane crash died. News coverage of the event gave the names of the four American flight crew members, but referred to the migrant workers only as “deportees.” The Mexican victims were buried in a mass grave at Holy Cross Cemetery in Fresno. Only twelve of the victims were ever identified.

Woody Guthrie was outraged that these people were not identified, that they were robbed of the simplest measure of dignity, their names. He responded by writing Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos) originally as a poem. And while he did not know the actual names of the victims, it was crucial to him that they have names in this poem. Goodbye to my Juan. Goodbye Rosalita. Adios mis amigos, Jesus y Maria. 10 years later a schoolteacher named Martin Hoffman set Woody's poem to music, and it became the song we know today, arguably one of Woody's most powerful and relevant songs.

I find this story heartbreaking, both for the individuals who died without their names in this particular incident, and for the fact that we still treat the people who harvest our crops with little dignity and respect.

I could continue this reflection by talking about the abuses and injustices with which we continue to treat our farm workers. And I could feel rightous about speaking out about these injustices. But the truth is, we all rob people of their dignity all the time. We don't always promote the inherent worth and dignity of every person, as our first principle instructs us. Sometimes we forget that this principle applies to every person, not just people we like or agree with. We all rob people of their dignity.

I rob people of their dignity.

Whenever we group a bunch of people under a heading, be it illegal immigrants, gays and lesbians, Republicans, or Unitarians we must be very careful. While these labels provide a short hand for talking about a group of people in similar situations or with similar beliefs, they remove the individual identities of the people who make up those groups, making it too easy to stereotype. The names and faces of the people belonging to any group (with the exception of the most prominent members) are erased.

I do this all the time when I refer to the Religous Right or Republicans. I am quick to laugh at jokes made at their expense and to lump them into narrowly defined groups with little compassion, a people I view as brimming with hatred and self-rightousness. Granted, most members of the Religious Right, and probably even more Republicans, do not suffer the humiliation and cruel injustices faced by migrant farm workers. But that's not the point. What does it say about me when I am quick to crack a joke that might deeply offend someone I know? Someone I love? Because when I talk about the Religious Right, I am talking about people I love.

The Religous Right is my sister-in-law, Mary, who paints beautiful, delicate water colors of Texas wildflowers.

The Religious Right is my dad's wife, Nelda, who grew up playing the piano in her Baptist Church on Sunday mornings.

The Religious Right is my cousin, Rod, his wife Susan, and their four beautiful children who I share Christmas dinner with every year, and enjoy catching up with.

The Religious Right is my late grandmother, Effie, who loved to go camping, who knew how to laugh at herself, and baked the most delicious dinner rolls on the planet.

The Religious Right is my own father who loves me unconditionally, a man I can openly disagree with on politics and religion, but whom I will always love and who will always love me in return. My relationship with my dad is the embodiment of the words we UUs hold so dear: “We don't have to think alike to love alike.”

***

Last week's shooting at a Sikh Temple in Oak Creek Wisconsin made me think of Woody Guthrie. How would he react to this tragedy and the slow response of the media to report on it? What sort of poem or song would he write to remember the people who died? Would he write a song like Deportees that reminds us that Sikhs are not nameless faces, but our brothers and sisters? Would he remind us that we cannot fight hate with hate? As the son of one of the victims said, “My father used to say you could not put out a fire by putting gasoline on it.” Would Woody tell us that if we do not ask hard questions about this event, about race and religion, that we are in danger of losing what is best about America? At it's best this is a country where we can practice our various faiths, celebrate our many cultural heritages, and disagree openly with our politicians. These are things worth protecting.

I don't know what kind of song Woody would write, but we can be sure he would give the victims of this tragedy the dignity of their names. Goodbye Suveg Singh Khattra, Satwant Singh Kaleka, and Paramjit Kaur. Goodbye Ranjit Singh, Sita Singh, and Prakash Singh. May you always have your dignity.

On Wisdom and Reflection

Reflection on Wisdom 

Unitarian Society of Santa Barbara

Sunday, June 24, 2012

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If you prefer an audio version, click on the link below.

http://www.ussb.org/mp3s/2012/20120624reflectionCbergante.mp3

We all have stories. Things happen to us every day, big and small. If we make time to think deeply about these stories, to chew on them as we go through our day, we often discover that our stories contain wisdom. I like to use journal writing and blogging to reflect on my experiences. Here is one of my stories.

When I was offered the job as a Vocational Assistant for students with severe disabilities, I almost didn't accept it. In the interview I learned that the young adult students I would be working with were non-verbal and some were aggressive. They needed intimate assistance in the restroom, and there would be some lifting of wheelchair bound students. And I would be one on one with these students at job sites out in the community. Oh boy. I left the interview thinking, I hope they don't offer me the job. I'm not cut out for this. But they did and, with some trepidation, I accepted.

When I walked in the classroom the first day, there were six students, the teacher and two classroom aides. After about ten minutes, the teacher took me outside and gave me the rundown on each student, warning me about one in particular. Helene (not her real name).

Helene is nineteen years old. She has severe autism. She does not speak, but she understands. She is slow moving, but outweighs me by many pounds. When frustrated, she is prone to self-injurious behaviors such as hitting and biting herself, along with screaming and hitting or grabbing staff members. The teacher told me that I should ignore these behaviors if they occur. I should not express sympathy or concern or she would target me, increasing the frequency of her maladaptive behaviors. Back in the classroom I kept my distance from Helene, not daring to even make eye contact with her, certain that she would smell fear and come after me.

In the coming weeks I got to know the students a bit and I witnessed Helene scream and grab a staff member. The other staff members assisted Helene with all of her tasks, including the restroom. I was never alone with her. I noticed that other staff members were not very warm with Helene. And I supposed that detachment was what was called for in working with her.

Finally, my time came. The other female staff member went out on disability leave with a bad back and I, green as I was, became the senior female staff member in the classroom. This meant I would be the one taking Helene to the bathroom.

Well, the bathroom was one of the places Helene had the most trouble with. And it wasn't long before I got trapped in a stall with her screaming, biting her arm, and eventually grabbing the front of my shirt in a tight grip while slapping at me with her other hand. Foolishly I had let her get between me and the door, so it took some careful maneuvering to get myself out of the stall. Helene continued to scream and bite her arm while I waited outside, my heart racing. When she calmed down I helped her back to the classroom, shaking, but feeling like I had survived a rite of passage. I could do this.

That was two years ago. Through presence, patience, and persistance, Helene and I have built a strong relationship. We walk arm and arm when we go to her recycling job. I fix her hair and look at fashion magazines with her. After she completes her job, I give her hand massages with sweet smelling lotion. We listen to music together in the car and she smiles and rocks while I sing along. Although she is pretty much non-verbal, she does let out a good humored expletive on occasion. (This is considered “inappropriate” behavior, so I turn my head when I smile.) I compliment her on her clothes and tell her that if her green cowboy boots were in my size, she'd have to worry. I give her choices whenever I can, because she has so few in her life. I even know what type of guy she likes (it's all about muscles for Helene). She still has outbursts, but not as many as she used to. And when she does, I do not ignore her behavior (and neither do other staff in her new classroom). I assure her that she's OK. I tell her that I'm not going to let her hurt herself. And I tell her that I'm not going to let her hurt me either, because we are friends. I wait her out.

Helene does not talk, but I am learning to listen. And she has taught me a lot about about what it means to be fully human. Here is some of the wisdom she has imparted, all without uttering a single word (except for the occasional expletive):

• Everyone wants to be seen, really seen, and accepted for who they are. Pity only tells someone there is something wrong with them. As the author Temple Grandin, who also has autism, says, “I am different. Not less.” Aren't we all?

• Everyone wants to be heard. We want people to listen when we are upset, angry, sad, happy, confused. If we are having trouble expressing these emotions, we want someone to take the time to help us figure out what we are trying to say. Temple Grandin says, “I can remember the frustration of not being able to talk. I knew what I wanted to say, but I could not get the words out, so I would just scream.” I can't begin to count the times I have wanted to scream (and occasionally actually have screamed) when I just couldn't get the words out or did not feel heard.
  
  
  
• Everyone wants to be touched sometimes. Remember that when you are around someone who is maybe not immediately loveable and cuddly. A gentle touch on the hand can go a long way. How many times has a touch or a hug or a back rub been your saving grace on a bad day?
  
  
• Patience gives you time to really see, hear, and care for a person. Slow down and just be present with someone, fully present. And be persistant. Don't assume that what other people say about them will be true for you. Every relationship is a new beginning.

I am grateful to Helene and the other students I work with for reminding me of these things every day.

Wisdom can come from many sources, some more obvious than others. But whether it comes from a sage or from a young woman who cannot speak, I believe it's impossible to fully embrace wisdom without reflection. THAT particular piece of wisdom is something I have learned time and time again from so many people and experiences right here in this place. We all have stories. And in every story, there are truths and wisdom just waiting to be uncovered. Be present. Be patient. Be persistant. And take time for reflection.