[we shall rise our Lord to meet
treading death beneath our feet]

Barbara Eileen (Gerken) Hunter, 60 of Baytown, Texas passed away Sunday December 6, 2009. Barbara was born July 21, 1949 in St. Louis, Missouri and grew up in La Grange, Illinois. She graduated from Lions Township High School in 1967. She earned her Bachelors degree in Elementary Education and Geography from Valparaiso University in 1971. She went on to earn her Masters degree in Geography from Western Michigan University in 1974, after which she devoted her life to teaching elementary students in Michigan, Indiana and Texas for over 35 years; retiring in May 2009.

Barbara was an active member of Our Shepherd Lutheran Church since 1987 and enthusiastically served on the Board of Education and Building Committee. Her Christian faith and the OSL congregation were central roots of community, love and support in her life. Barbara had a caring and loyal personality. She read avidly, was a talented pianist, and held a deep fondness for antiques and camping and hiking outdoors. She took great joy in the domestic arts of cooking, knitting, gardening and nurturing her roses. Her quick-witted intelligence allowed her to learn new skills and delight in sharing them with her children, students and friends. There are not words to express the loss of this brilliant, beautiful and steadfast mother, sister and friend.

Barbara was preceded in death by her parents, Rev. Theodore and Helen Gerken. She is survived by her brother, Paul Gerken; sister, Kathleen Platt; sister, Miriam Temme; daughter, Amber Lainey Hunter; son, John Glenn Hunter III; son, James Garrett Hunter; her children’s father, John Glenn Hunter Jr. and her nieces and nephews. The family will receive friends from 5:00 to 8:00 PM Thursday, December 10, 2009 at Sterling-White Funeral Home. Burial will be held at 10:00AM Friday, December 11, 2009 at Sterling-White Funeral Home. Memorial Services will follow at 11:00AM at Our Shepherd Lutheran Church. Pallbearers will be Amber Lainey Hunter, John Glenn Hunter III, James Garrett Hunter, Paul Gerken, Kathleen Platt, Miriam Temme, John Glenn Hunter Jr., and Ken Temme. Contributions may be made to Austin Recovery Center, 8402 Cross Park Drive, Austin, TX 78754 http://www.austinrecovery.org or Heifer International at http://www.heifer.org.

[growing into this skin]

the oxford-educated british author, dorothy l. sayers, summed it up beautifully in a piece she penned nearly sixty years ago, though it could've been written yesterday:

"perhaps it is no wonder that the women were first at the cradle and last at the cross. they had never known a man like this man--there has never been such another. a prophet and teacher who never nagged at them, flattered or coaxed or patronised; who never made arch jokes about them, never treated them either as "the women, god help us!" or "the ladies, god bless them!"; who rebuked without querulousness and praised without condescension; who took their questions and arguments seriously; who never mapped out their sphere for them, never urged them to be feminine or jeered at them for being female; who had no axe to grind and no uneasy male dignity to defend; who took them as he found them and was completely unselfconscious. there is no act, no sermon, no parable in the whole gospel that borrows its pungency from female perversity; nobody could possibly guess from the words and deeds of jesus that there was anything 'funny' about women's nature."

watercolor and ink drawing entitled "freedom"

by melanie weidner

[all saints day: thin places]

reading: the barn at the end of the world by mary rose o'reilley

the smell of marigolds cover my hands, even hours later. something of the outdoors, something fresh and bitter.

today marks a convergence of many raw threads-- historical, theological, and personal, so deeply personal--as the already, but not quite yet is tangible. the minor chord of sorrow and death inter-mixing with the major chord of life and promise of all things being made new.

under the careful guidance of m. we tied and hung long strands of hemp to encircle our liturgy space. dangling from each length were strings with paperclips affixed to the ends-- the infrastructure to hold our cloud of witnesses and saints. c. brought brilliant, fresh marigolds to place throughout the sanctuary, and tea candles covered the alter.

we began to gather at 5pm bringing with us photos, drawings, cd covers, writings, mementos of these who are part of our great cloud of witnesses. the saints who have formed us to be a people following in the way of jesus:

dr. truemper

oma and opa

dorothy day

sandy schurman

the communities of camp lone star and valpo

oscar romero

d's uncle

mr. tanz

baby m

we created a sacramental cloud of witness - hanging these visible signs of these invisible (yet very present) graces in our midst.

we celebrate and acknowledge that in christ we are all saints.

we carved out a space to grieve and openly weep for those in our community who have died this year.

we are reminded we do not create ourselves [we could not and do not dance this dance alone] and the mystery of the "communion of the saints" that extends across all time and generations. these wonderfully imperfect mothers and fathers of the faith, living or dead, who shepherd us in this very time and place.

the cloud will surround us during november, the season of thanksgiving.

oh, this has been such a year of sorrow, tragedy and trauma:

may our focus on the resurrection be all the more sharpened.

'twas 80F at noon yesterday with the air thick with humidity and an indian summer that just won't let go. two hours later when i ran out for coffee, a cold front had tumbled in and my bare legs were frigid enough to warrant purchasing a pair of tights at the store on the way back to work.

the skies are vacillating between crystal clear turquoise and the creviced grey hills of winter clouds. austin's trees are caught unaware, with bare roots exposed as the leaves haven't been given proper warning that it's time to fall down and give cover.

the seasonal art of layering begins once more.

---------------------

the autumnal seeds we sowed are now being seen:

sowing and seeing: this we do.

[all i want for autumn is to go camping]

juniper berries scattered on limestone rock paths. the long rays of autumn's light splatter through the leaves. full river banks tumble down waterfalls with oak leaves and acorns spinning in the currents. simple, naturally ordered rhythms of life humming all around.

children running around campfires, dizzy with delight in the cool air. slowing our hiking steps so short legs can keep up. keen inquisitive hands point out centipedes, lichens, red berries and a school of tad pools. oh, so much honor and care for these wee ones-- theirs truly is the kingdom.

a patchwork quilt of meals. someone once said that "mosaic" is hebrew for "likes to eat good food" and oh-la-golly even a campfire meal is a feast with tofu skewers of fresh garden veggies, espresso in the morn, three types of chocolate for s'mores, and brewed libations inspite of the feisty park ranger.

the moon is hidden in it's cycle through the skies, so it's by starlight, firelight, and flashlight the wilderness soaks into our senses. the milky way seems to be our sole companion, dancing above us to an ancient song.


as we wake ice cold dew covers our tents, our noses glow hot pink and so we add another layer crawling forth from our warm cocoons. sweet wake-up noises of children singing ditties about eating gooey chocolate for breakfast. us older folk hover and shiver while the water boils for coffee. morning breaks in a holy blaze.

----------------

these jaunts outside of city bring such a deep sense of grounding, and a refreshing breathe in my sails. something of the simplicity and intentionality... some bit of hope for the days to come-- all mixed with the smell of a campfire.

[what is good.]
listening to: dark was the night compilation
reading: the devil's highway by luis alberto urrea
watching the film: sin nombre


it is still going on.
though the night is dark, though the shadows of the trees lengthen and every circumstance goes muddily, slivers of the divine make their way into the dust and reflect up to us a bit of love. the numerous steadying hands keep stepping into our circle, as gifted grace upon unexpected gifted grace compassionately approaches saying, "little one, you are not alone in this. aqui estoy, contigo."

no one shares my familial blood, and yet these here [and you far there] are the roots prodigiously chosen for me. rooted in love. i could not dance this dance alone. it is still going on.


"but the final word is love. at times it has been, in the words of father zossima, a harsh and dreadful thing, and our very faith in love has been tried through fire.

we cannot love God unless we love each other, and to love we must know each other. we know him in the breaking of the bread, and we know each other in the breaking of the bread, and we are not alone any more. heaven is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship.

we have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that loves comes with community.

it all happened while we sat there talking, and it is still going on. "
-dorothy day

juntos podemos.

[every autumn is singed with the business of sadness]

an open letter to the person or persons who tore the screen on our window, jimmed the lock and robbed coleto last tuesday at mid-day:

good afternoon to you(all)--

have we met before? are you(all) a neighbor who we've shared meals with these past 2.5 years in the chestnut neighborhood? are you a youth who we've opened our home to, danced with, and played with? have you(all) been watching our home waiting for the moment we were all gone to climb the tomato trellis and tear the screen? or are you(all) a random stranger meandering along?

do you(all) frequent the open-air drug market two blocks away? did you(all) need rent money, money to feed your family, alcohol money or just a thrill? were you armed?

did any of our neighbors see and are too frightened to speak up? do our neighbors care?

was it an act of anger, retribution, or reaction to oppression and poverty?

do you realize how much of an unspeakable violation you have ripped into our lives? it's not so much the things themselves-- you can have the monetary worth of it all... it's the memories and heart strings: the six years of photos, papers, journal entries, music... the lifestories shared between siblings saved on just that harddrive.

how do i reconcile the sense of commitment i feel to living in marginalized, raw, multi-ethnic, and poor areas with a personal need for safety, communal respect of one another and trust?

i have alot of questions for you(all) i guess.

i know cognitively we'll probably never get to have this conversation, but we're struggling so much with how to respond that writting an open letter helps in some small manner to articulate the swirling instability and chaos.

let's be honest-- how do we respond truthfully, hopefully, and with love & forgiveness?

i'm aware of systemic injustice, institutionalized violence, and the cyclical nature of poverty & oppression. i try to work for another world without police brutality, without a growing gap between the have's and have-nots, and without racism, sexism, and addiction... but i'd still really like you(all) to take responsibility for the gravity of your actions.

i want to believe in you(all). i want to be able to say namaste-- go, now, you are forgiven. i'd really like to journey alongside you allowing another world to be conceived and enfleshed.

but i'm not there yet.

'tis officially a bon automne... thanks to bon iver & megafaun.
at the paramount. last eve. epic. truly epic.

the old paramount theatre set the stage with concave walls and perfectly rounded acoustic ceilings. seated on the edge of the mezzanine with no one in front, it felt like i'd climbed up a large oak tree and sat listening to autumn's haunting breeze whispering what has been and hinting at what might be.

bare bones instrumentation and though not a seat empty, there was an intimate richness of the kindred sort. a willing sincerity to humbly share one's personal excavation. rare moments of joyful rapture and intent reflection.

i appreciated so much the rawness of bon iver & megafaun's affection for one another. the depth of their history together was evident in brief words, an unplugged acapella song, and the poetry of their friend thax. it was a privilege to be let into these moments.

lingering in my ears and heart was bon iver's invitation to join in on "the wolves (act i and ii)". beginning softly and crescendo'ing to a pouring out of the heart, "what might have been lost... what might have been lost" we all belted out our personal expressions of the various dark nights of the soul we've walked through.

at the end of the eve, i could only feel thanks... deep thanks to bon iver & megafaun for sharing the work of their hands, hearts and voices.

mmm... raw. epic. beautiful.

[to and fro]

growing edges felt oh so acutely,
as unfamiliar places shift your vision of the horizon just ever, so slighty-so,
leaving your heart as a raw sponge.

business class, airplane tickets fed-ex'd to me addressed as "dr. amber".
second professional conference of three, in three weeks.
doctoral students, triple degrees, gray-haired canadian scholars, and immigrants, too.

arrived to the southside of miami on thursday eve. the bustle & hum of sharp suits, the smells of rich perfume and cuban cigars. fancy cars driving down miracle mile, and historic buildings holding couture designers. marble-floored stairways to luxurious hotel rooms and conceirges willing and ready to attend to you. the registration attendant gave me two keys for my room, with a wink saying "just in case you meet someone you want to bring home for the night." shocked, flushed and receiving a pulse check for my age, social location, race, and socio-economic class i bumbled out to the street to find some dinner.

exploring nooks and crannies of foreign locales is a great joy to me: where does this cobble-stoned street lead to, or from whence does that soulful blues music come? honestly i was slack-jawed and eyes agape as exquisite cuisine simmered out of doorways, the finery of couples radiated from their affectionate touches, and accents of cubano & puerto rican spanish abounded.

a few rings to various friends at home just to raise my eyes above the horizon a bit to their's saying "i know."

and it's in the midst of describing the landscape to j that i almost bumped into her. here, here on the miracle mile with her hands clapsed around her face peering into one of the designer living rooms was a wrinkled afro-carribean woman muttering a few words to herself. she pushed a shopping cart that held her life: a windshield washer poked from the side, a dirty mat for sleeping, and some broken bottles to recycle for five cents each. the stench of body odor wafted from her bare feet to her covered hair as the crowds apathetically side-stepped around her as if she were a tree or a concrete wall.

and she
she was oblivious,
oblivious to all of us.
out for an evening stroll perhaps--to meander down the miracle mile just to people watch and observe the american dream unfold. purposefully and slowly she ambled from store-front to store-front. at each she did a broad scan of the whole window display before picking one section to study. perhaps she's looked at these models before, or perhaps she was simply as slack-jawed as i was. 'twas thankful no one jeered her. glad there was not an officer of the law in sight to steer her from her course. silently hoped the colors and lights were a brief enjoyment for her. strickingly she was a shaft of light that shot straight into my heart.

it is for her,
"them",
"these" and "those" that i applied for graduate studies.
for the working poor, the homeless, the newly immigrated, the refugee, the undocumented, the mentally ill and on parole, the asylee, the survivor, the new mother:
for full communion with all of these.

[the marvelous jam giveaway]
listening to: jellyman kelly by james taylor

ohmy, ohmy!
i'm bursting with a bit of excitement, but a proper landscape must be painted first, as means of introduction.

the most fiercely kind silversmith, the noisy plume, pours out her heart and soul into the most organically inspired masterpieces of silver. such as this autumnal beaut below:

admittedly the sole jewelery i've worn in recent years is the coconut earrings from southern mexico which i never really take out. a t-shirt, skirt and chaco's is just normal wear around these parts-- and while i admire fine adornment, i've never connected with jewelery or found it compelling or some echo of my inmost being.

yet oh my! it has been an unexpected delight to stumble upon the noisy plume's prose, poetry, and the work of her hands in her silver shop. i resonate so strongly with her love of earthy things, prairies, wild spaces, mountains and the creative inspiration of these places. her works are true, good and beautiful outpourings; strongly laced with the song of the divine.

living on a sweet homestead in southeastern idaho, she & her husband tend to a cornucopia of delicious fruit and vegetable goodness alongside their vocations-- she as an artist, he as a fireman. and in the spirit of community sharing the fruits of the earth, she's made up several batches of jellies and jams for the coming months!

i'd love to learn to can veggies & fruits someday; as my mother always said [in the most endearing manner possible] that my birth into the world interrupted her tomato canning during the summer of 1983.

and so it came to pass that on a whim i threw my name into the plume's drawing... and what do you know my friends, this dear package arrived in the mailbox yesterday!

home-grown, home-canned goodness of plum jam from southeast idaho, with some goodearth tea to boot! it shall be a lovely rememberance of summer as autumn is sure to blow in soon... j & i have plans to eat it with a high tea-- complete with toast and a viewing of the wire.

[se parece como asi]

reading: a severe mercy by sheldon vanauken

listen to: time(revelator) by gillian welch

eating by the mound: honey crisp apples

speaking tour [for work] of autumn 2009 is fast moving, jet-setting, west coast to the east coast.

for me conferences are a mild bit of cursing mixed with thankfulness for the learning to be had.

growing edges forged a bit deeper and sanded down with experience.

can't get over the intricate diversity of our country's topography,

especially the beauty of a bird's eye view.

however

the return,

the reunion,

the satisfying fit of slipping your key into the front door

home,

our home,

is unparalleled.

coleto is gift.
you all who live & have lived in the rooms, danced on the floors, sobbed, baked homemade scones and made pink & green, cleaned for us, porch-sat, smoked, welcomed our neighbors, left a pile of rocks on our steps & gnomes in the garden, called us at midnight just to look at the moon...

you all make coleto, coleto.
you all are gift.
can.not.dance.this.dance.alone.


these days i'm a wee bit sentimental [ie. swooning] over
-autumn's plaids
[especially when worn on bearded fellows bicycling by.]
-the intersection of re-purposed, sustainable, beautiful and affordable design
-the poetry of mary oliver
-thoughts of grad school to begin in enero, si dios quiere

-kathleen norris' new book acaedia & me
-hearing my youngest brother dream once more

an old friend once wrote:: joy will not be rugged and durable and deep through suffering where there is not resolve to fight for it::
sensitive, empathetic, melancholy hearts still press onward. the glimpses of light, yes, yes LIGHT! are treasured and stored deep within-- such as this moment when j & s were watching the film grey gardens:

to the journey,

tally-ho

[autumnal delights]

“there is a beautiful spirit breathing now
its mellow richness on the clustered trees,
and, from a beaker full of richest dyes,
pouring new glory on the autumn woods,
and dipping in warm light the pillared clouds.
morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
the gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
and silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved,
where autumn, like a faint old man, sits down
by the wayside a-weary. through the trees
the golden robin moves.” (longfellow)

the saturday afternoon rain was properly celebrated by j and i putting on our swimsuits and letting the showers nourish our souls as we gardened in coleto's front yard. our neighbors were highly amused by two grown women running amuck in the puddles, clods of dirt sticking to us, sopping wet hair matted to our heads and shovel in hand. it simply was time for those sweet seeds to make their way home into the rich, moist earth.

----------------

[the revitalized bed our community dug and planted for j. that jewel of a broccoli is too strong on an anchor to dig up, so she stays along for a second season. basil in the far corner, scallops along the wall, and a fall green in the foreground that i can't remember the name of.]


[this is the third squash in it's own pot. the new bed dear family pearson's helped me dig last week in the background. can you see the glimmers of green beginning to poke through?]

[five days later, and right on cue, baby buds are sprouting. miraculous inspiration.]

[and these sweet williams were originally planted two years ago in honor of e.lodowski and faithfully come back each year as autumn's breeze comes in]

[ode to saint fiacre*]

the skies have graciously clouded over this week, with drops of water, pelts of rain, and something almost cool in the air. i swear you can hear the ground beneath our feet humming & sighing in relief! it's been downright madness how many days our parched skin has endured 100F+ temps. oh blessed rainclouds keep on a comin' over to these parts--grey skies & gifted quenching of thirst.

i find myself searching for autumn in most every crevice, opening of the mailbox or footstep coming up our porch. to spur it's arrival i've been wrapping myself in golden hues, allowing my cubicle trapped work days to be inspired by all things tree-like, and letting these curls lean into their natural tight spirals with all the humid help.

my friend said i'd fall in love with the aspen trees & the afternoon aspen glow which dances across colorado's mountains. that sounds really grand. for now i'm contenting myself by sipping on iced mate, whose mossy greenish-yellow echos a harvest field and wandering boggy creek's urban farm rows and the farmer's markets floral stands...buying flowers to fill every mason jar of coleto with the beauty of the earth.

[flowers & plants which strike me:
eryngium
eureka lemon trees
sun star
solidago
eucalyptus
craspedia]

dear family pearsons came by last eve, bringing the pickaxe and spade to break through the layers of tree roots entangling our front yard. 'tis the second year in a row their sweat and love have helped dig my garden. coleto home now has two wee urban organic plots--one in honor of she who was and one in hope for what shall be. memories & dreams vivid and given life through the textures of chard, collards, kale, beets, carrots, squash and perhaps some spinach, too. commitment to a specific people & place take on a new meaning as sweet three-year-old naomi scrambles with bare feet over the double-dug rows of earth.

i have all intention on becoming utterly & completely drenched in the weekend's showers. this is my vow: by any means necessary.

we put another season's promise in the ground.
let's plant our dreams in this garden & intwine ourselves like vines.

*the patron saint of gardens

[brown paper grocery bag full of books]

as a child, one of my most treasured summer memories is our weekly trip in my mom's gray dodge aries to the stratford branch of harris county public library. the unassuming, metal and brick, low-ceiling building from the seventies, tucked away off a side street in the tiny bayou town, served as a dock, a port, an airport from which i'd sail & fly off into uncharted territories and foreign lands. there was such joyful anticipation as the librarian knew i lovedlovedloved historical fiction and she would set books aside that she thought i would relish. my brothers would ruff-and-tumble their way through the children's books and i'd sit at a table in the adult fiction section sinking into the tales, and allowing myself to become bosom buddies with the characters on the page.

my mother was quite insistent we could only take one brown paper grocery bag full of books home each week and at the time i thought it was such a tragedy i couldn't take more. but now, BOY HOWDY a WHOLE GROCERY BAG FULL OF BOOKS! we'd fill the bag carefully, trying to squeeze in as many treasures without tearing the sides. a few years ago i stumbled across a photo of myself wearing my cousin's extra-large hot pink shirt [it was the 80's, you know] over navy blue spandex shorts and my eyes just peaking over the rim of the bag o' books as we're walking out of the library. priceless! land sakes, a verbivore, bookworm, indeed.

it's with this deep fondness & affection for books & libraries in mind that i must share that in a dreadful state of affairs my Austin Public Library card has been negligent for almost 15 months now. a small fine of one dollar and fifty cents has prevented me from diving into the stacks of literary treats-- no holds possible, no musical discs to be borrowed, no latest releases to be read. granted, it's my own sanguine-ness which barred me from just getting on my bicycle and biking to the downtown library to pay the darn fine... instead i've managed to justify numerous book people and half-price books purchases rather than just give a reasonable donation to my favorite public institution.

but today, today, my friends all has been redeemed, rectified, set-aright, and the universe feels generally more aligned.
amber's fine at APL= $0.

books & cd's on hold for which i'm quite excited to get to know and fall in love with:
farm city: the education of an urban farmer by novella carpenter
wife of the gods by kwei quartey
strength in what remains by tracy kidder
the brief wondrous life of oscar wao by junot diaz
a homemade life by molly wizenberg
marry me by st. vincent
awkward annie by kate rusby

i'll let you know how it goes. tally-ho.

[marigold and basil]
the colors crafted to linger in those hard to grow places.

tiny shards of marigold petals scatter across the floors of coleto as we remember-- time has simultaneously passed mercilessly swift and painstakingly slow these six months. how do we celebrate and honor the life which was lived with such brilliance, beauty and bravery? may these traits imprint themselves in the creases of my heart, the crows feet around my eyes, and in the rough callouses of my feet.

there were heirloom tomatoes, a small bunch of broccoli, plentiful chard, and a bit o' cabbage. these days, the soil of the garden bares only the sturdy basil, sole herb we seem to be able to keep alive in the longsuffering drought of oh-nine. and so we give all attempt to tend it faithfully. weed the ragged grass which tries to suck the vibrancy away. water with hope the new leaves of green which refuse to wilt in the heat. and seek the counsel of the agronomists amongst us, who have walked these paths before.

there is an empire, sitting where we sit
there is a barbed wire scratching our cheeks in
there is a factory made out of cement
there is a small flame escapes from the top of it
there is a thick wall built out of blue coal
there is an army, one thousand years old

there is a land, it is full of giants
but do not lose step, do not be frightened
there is a great fire, it came from the mountains
we wait in the watchtower trying to keep it lit

it cannot be too much longer!

we wake up slow
we come like a ghost town
bandages weave into a wedding gown
o sleeping city!
o stealer of souls! do you see us coming?

it cannot be too much longer!

[compline]

the campanile rings out the 9-o’clock hour as the weathered wood floor creeks beneath our steps. we slip past the cantors into the back row, just as the procession begins the slow step to the front. all the lights are dimmed low, save for two candles at the altar and four lights to illuminate the notes for the choirs’ pages. incense rises to the tips tops of the arching ceilings and settles into the curls of my hair.

not a block south of us is sixth street, infamous for it’s intoxicating music venues, libations, and excessive social stimulation. three blocks to the north lies the state capital, sprawling lush lawn in the middle of august and the pale light of politicians’ offices who never sleep. to the east of us is the trio of social service providers for the homeless, the refugee, and the poor. somehow here, exactly here, in the heart of the city, these rough-hewn stones carve out a cool space of stillness, mystery, and a steadying calm.

the rhythmic movements of this communities' liturgy have been my refugee for almost five weeks now. reminiscent of my roots, holden evening prayer, and christ in the desert i welcome the familiar constancy and stability, mixed with a level of anonymity. ebb & flow. pain & praise. hope & doubt. wrestle & rest.

after a meal of cold cantaloupe soup and fresh mozarella & prosciutto on a baguette this worn wooden pew in the darkness, in the mystery, in the heart of the city is where time is marked from the ending of one week to the beginning of the next. the inclusion and enfolding of all that was, with all that shall be. oh, come make all things new.

confession: [lately] craiglists's job posting section is probably my most visited page on this nebulous interweb.

Garde Manger / Sous Wanted
Date: 2009-08-19, 3:14PM CDT

Texas French Bread is seeking a passionate professional to help in a garde manger/sous role with our Tuesday -Saturday farm to table bistro dinner at our 2900 Rio Grande store. Launched one year ago, our dinner is growing each month; we anticipate a busy fall. If you are interested, send us a resume and cover letter telling us why you interested in all things local, seasonal and organic.

i about fell over this afternoon when i saw those three sentences requesting all of austin's finest to articulate incandescent affinity for all things local, seasonal, organic, sustainable, simple, delicious. a quick search of wikipedia increased my culinary knowledge:

"Garde manger (French pronunciation: [ɡaʀd mãʒe]), meaning "keeper of the food" or pantry supervisor, refers to the task of preparing and presenting cold foods. These typically include such food items as salads, hors d'œuvres, cold soups, aspics, and charcuterie. Larger restaurants and hotels may have the need for the garde manger to perform additional duties, such as creating decorative elements of buffet presentation like table arrangements and edible centerpieces made from materials such as ice, cheese, butter, salt dough or tallow. In most modern kitchens however, the garde manger is synonymous with pantry chef, having duties focusing on salads, soups, cold food items, and dessert platings. It is usually the entry level line cook position within a restaurant. "

...and the brave,

hopeful,

creative parts of my soul were stirred to attempt to craft a cover letter. oh to be outside of this corporate office masked as an old house. oh to not be pushing, striving, and trying to facilitate the collision of heavy never-ending human need with health and healing. oh to learn more of the fruits of the earth, to offer hospitality, meet tangible needs, and to carve out spaces where koinonia/conversation/love/being can take place. yes, such life!

but not till those gre's are complete. no siree.

but sunday.

sunday i might just give it a whirl... vamos a ver.

[a word from my housemate's mother]

"no one looks at the pilgrim resting on the side of the road and says 'failure. lazy. inept. incapable. fraud.'"

rugged individualism is for the birds. when the depression creeps in/the heaviness weighs deep, there is Light to hold the shadows in their proper place and allow the Living to continue unfolding&growing. we do not grieve as those who have no Hope. the ebenezer's of compline, nag champa wafting through my room, yesteryear's handwritten notes from camp, and accepting a frienddate to the waters of krause are more welcome than i have the words for. my shoulders begin to sink down from my ears as the knots untangle themselves from my muscles. these roots are not a cage [nor is it some badass-cool decision] but freedom.

"we have to be braver than we think we can be, because god is constantly calling us to be more than we are, to see through the plastic sham to living, breathing reality, and to break down our defenses of self-protection in order to be free to receive and give love."

-madeline l'engle

"standing tall" gouache print by olivia jeffries

[of summer aught-nine]
listening to: page france's album hello, dear wind
reading: love in the time of cholera by gabriel garcía márquez; and the time traveler's wife by audrey niffenegger

spent two weeks with the community of el sunza, el salvador.
celebrated the beginning of this 26th year of life.
bought a eureka lemon tree.
grief lives in coleto, like a third [or fourth] housemate.
visited a migrant farmworker camp in illinois--interviewed five workers.
wrote my first grant & had it funded.
long breakfast conversations, coffee mug in hand, around the kitchen table.
soaking in the writing and artistry of gwen frostic.
defending our garden from the dastardly millbugs. [i don't have kind words for those horrific white beasts who destroyed our dear heirloom tomatoes in under a week]
taking the gre's on saturday!
trying to remember to eat all the glorious produce from the farmer's market before the heat or the flies get to it.
re-watched the vhs classic swiss family robinson.
welcomed our third housemate home from ghana.
fell in love with the film man on wire.
inspired by the delightful textures and rhythms of culinary things [thanks to julie & julia].
rejoiced that DHS announced plans to reform immigrant detention and stop incarcerating immigrant children & their non-criminal families at the t. don hutto family detention center. [si se hell yeah!]
one brother returned home from the marines while the youngest travels abroad in ticolandia as we speak!
writing essays to the school of social work for an l.c.s.w.
really adoring the silversmith's song.

(lately)
open our hearts to your power moving around us and between us and within us, until your glory is revealed in our love of both friend and enemy, in communities transformed by justice and compassion, and in the healing of all that is broken.
-revised common lectionary

threads of hope fervently stored in my heart.
anticipating autumn, immensely.

[baby it’s hot outside]
listening to: rilo kiley and jenny lewis & the watson twins
looking forward to: dinner this eve at texas french bread

statue of saint francis in the guesthouse courtyard at christ in the desert monastery

psalm of the season: o the deaths we would have known if you had not been with us

if you had not been with us
if you had not been with us
they would have swallowed us alive

the waters tried to engulf us
their fury broke against us

we were overwhelmed
and we surely would have drowned

if you had not been with us
if you had not been with us
they would have swallowed us alive

blessed be the lord
who did not leave us to be torn by their fangs

oh blessed be the lord, who does not leave us to be torn by their fangs.

last eve's grocery list from wheatsville food co-op: antioxidant-al treats
-dark chocolate
-chilean wine
-fair trade, organic coffee beans
i’ll justify this triple decadence by saying, those antioxidants are so good for you, of course you need it in threes.

a word from ms. annie dillard:
“i know only enough of God to want to worship him, by any means ready to hand. there is an anomalous specificity to all our experience in space, a scandal of particularity, by which God burgeons up or showers down into the shabbiest occasions, and leaves his creation’s dealing with him into the hands of purblind and clumsy amateurs. this is all we are and all we ever were; God kann nicht anders. this process in times is history; in space, at such shocking random, it is mystery.

a blur of romance clings to notions of “publicans,” “sinners,” “the poor,” “the people in the marketplace,” “our neighbors,” as though of course God should reveal himself, if at all, to these simple people, these Sunday school watercolor figures, who are so purely themselves in their tattered robes, who are single in themselves, while we now are various, complex and full at heart. we are busy. so I see now, were they. who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? or who shall stand in his holy place? there is no one but us. there is no one to send, nor a clean hand, nor a pure heart on the face of the earth, nor in the earth, but only us, a generation comforting ourselves with the notion that we have come at an awkward time, that our innocent fathers are all dead –as if innocence has ever been – and our children busy and troubled, and we ourselves unfit, not yet ready, having each of us chosen wrongly, made a false start, failed, yielded to impulse and the tangled comfort of pleasures, and grown exhausted, unable to seek the thread, weak, and involved. but there is no one but us. there never has been. ”