Book Reflection: On That Day Everybody Ate

On that Day Everybody Ate, by Margaret Trost.

Ms. Trost’s story begins with a “reverse mission” trip to Haiti in which the goal of the hosting organization is for the participants to be transformed. She volunteered in a hospital and orphanage and observed first-hand the physical hunger that the Haitian people suffer and the spiritual satiety they posses. She returned to the U.S. so transformed that she recognized a series of events for what they were—a personal call to help feed the hungry children and adults in Haiti.

Partnering with a local Haitian Catholic church, she raised the money to start a feeding program that provided one hardy meal a week to 500 children—some of whom walked 5 miles to get that meal. Donations kept rolling in so she started a non profit—the What If? Foundation, based in Berkeley-- and they were soon feeding 1,000 people five days a week, as well as running a summer camp and sending some kids to school with scholarships.

All of this happened before this year’s earthquake in Haiti. Their kitchens in Haiti were miraculously spared severe earthquake damage, so in the aftermath of the disaster they are now serving about 2,000 meals a day.

All right then. Ever since 2008 when I read about Haitians eating “mud cookies” (made out of lard, salt, and dirt), Haiti has been in the back of my mind nagging at me like an item on my grocery list that I just can’t recollect. A logical next step would have been to go to Haiti earlier this year after the January 15th earthquake, but I feared that there was so much chaos in Haiti at that time that my trip and intentions would be wasted. I’m still waiting for my call to Haiti and it feels like I’m revving my engine at the red light, waiting for it to turn green so that I can peel out over the starting line.

Until I get that green light, I’m pondering some of the lessons from this book.

1) The reason Margaret Trost was on the original trip to Haiti in the first place was because her husband had unexpectedly died 18 months earlier. Her life as she knew it had ended, and she was ripe for a new beginning. Oftentimes something new doesn’t begin until we have experienced and honored an ending. I’m on the watch for endings in my life (jobs, relationships, interests, etc).

2) The Haitian women who partnered with Ms. Trost in the original once-a-week feeding were women who worked full-time jobs in addition to caring for their children. However, they still carved out time to go to the farmer’s market every Saturday morning, buying sackfuls of rice, beans and vegetables, then cooking all day and night Saturday, then serving 500 meals, and then finally cleaning up on Sunday after church. The author describes their joy as they sat in a circle peeling carrots, picking bugs and rocks out of the rice, cooking the meal with love and care. Where, oh where is my heart for service like that? I considered it a monumental sacrifice to dedicate two nights in a row recently to cooking a meal for the homeless one night, and serving it the next night.

3) I’m still trying to figure out what to do with mathematical and ethical incongruencies like that the money I spent on organic strawberries at the farmer’s market yesterday could feed 24 Haitian children their one meal of the week. Or that I have a cupboard full of pasta, beans, and sauces, and Haitian mothers are baking “mud cookies” in the sun to give their children something to fill their tummies.

Drive Slowly

She snuck into the quiet chapel about 10 minutes after the liturgy had begun. Jingling her keys restlessly in her left hand, she plunked down on the bench beside me, exuding a nervous energy. The liturgy rolled on. She shifted her feet. Choruses were chanted. She stretched her arms. Scriptures were read. She inspected the ceiling. Prayers were spoken. She blurted out call and response one beat ahead of everyone else. I started thinking of her as the Frenzied Female.

Officiating monk: “The Lord be with you”.
Frenzied Female: “Andalsowithyou”.

At the appropriate time in the liturgy the monks formed an inner circle around the altar and the retreatants stood as an outside circle along the walls. Frenzied Female stood next to me. More Scripture readings, more prayers, and then the passing of the peace. Hesitant retreatants received robust hugs from grinning monks.

Retreatants and monks: “Peace to you.”
Frenzied Female: “Peace to you father, brother—WHATEVER IT IS!”
The kindly monk graciously smiled and nodded.

The elements of wine and bread were ceremoniously served up. I waited patiently for the monks to go through the line first, and the Frenzied Female kept inching toward me, trying to get me to cut in their line.

Hissing Frenzied Female: “Areyougoingtogo?”
Me: “Yes, I’m going to go…”

After the Eucharist service my 5 day retreat was over, so with great regret I got in my car and started down the two mile road to coastal Highway 1. About a third of the way down, I glimpsed a car in my rear view mirror and within seconds it bore down on me. “Who would be tailgating me from a monastery?” I thought. I felt an immediate sense of urgency and an annoyance at being shaken out of my peacefulness during my first five minutes off the mountain. It was rude, obtrusive, and incongruous.

Nevertheless, the driver of the Volvo Stationwagon didn’t back off from tailgating me. As soon as I could, I pulled over at a turnoff and the Volvo whizzed past me. The driver wore dark sunglasses, she stared straight ahead, and she didn’t give me a glance or a wave of “thanks” for letting her pass me. The driver was the Frenzied Female.

Car idling, I stared in disbelief at the dust her car was churning up down the road. Easing my car into gear, I looked up through my windshield at a hand-painted sign the monks had posted by the road.

Mustangs Roaming the American West

I spotted a wild herd of at least 25 Mustangs roaming the California coast between Santa Cruz and Hearst Castle. Clustering at the best vista points, they cling to the cliffs overlooking spectacular bridges constructed in the 1950’s. They are playful and beautiful-- their bodies gleaming in the California sun. Symbols of freedom and adventure, the Mustangs roam unfettered throughout the American west, wind blowing past them as they race up and down the coast. They travel to isolated areas, embracing the wonders of the natural world and invoking the pioneer spirit. Mustangs are slightly domesticated and are one of the most splendid means of transportation known to man.

I speak, of course, of the Ford Mustang convertible. Highway 1 is rife with them. Blue ones, yellow ones, black ones, red ones. And there are only two combinations of people riding in them:
1) middle-aged man/woman couples indulging in a mid-life crisis
2) four or five screeching young women indulging in a weekend bachelorette party

A Ford Mustang convertible can be rented from rental car companies for the reasonable cost of $85.46 per day—which is a small price to pay for roaming the coast looking like the coolest cat in town.

Why California Doesn’t Suck

YES, California has…
Earthquakes
Wild Fires
Heinous State Budget Deficit
A Legislature that Can’t Get the Job done
The Governator
Atrocious Education System
Insane Traffic and Congestion

BUT, this is why California doesn’t suck:
Big Sur, California Coast, Highway 1
I rest my case.

Easing Into Sweet Silence

I knew I had eased into sweet silence when I woke up in the middle of the night thinking “what the heck is that infernal racket?” And really it was just a deer walking on the gravel in my garden.

At the monastery where I spent my silent retreat, every retreatant has their own simple room with a single bed, a desk, and a rocking chair. The desk faces out a window overlooking the retreatants’ private garden, and the garden overlooks the mountains, fog, and the Pacific Ocean.

As I lounged in my garden, a stellar jay hopped from branch to branch in the fig tree. Two hummingbirds whizzed by, playing follow the leader. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the Morning Glory creeping up the fence. The faint sound of barking sea lions echoed uphill from the seaside. Various birds chirped, cheeped, screeched, and twittered. A bee buzzed happily as it drew nectar from a Sticky Monkey Flower.

In San Francisco my ears are continually assaulted by the sounds of Muni rushing down the tracks of Judah Street, automobiles racing to the next stop sign, sirens, neighbor’s parties, and homeless couples yelling at each other on the sidewalk “I’M NOT DRUNK!” (Note to the clueless- pretty much every time you find yourself yelling “I’M NOT DRUNK!” to your significant other, the chances are that you ARE drunk)

I know a lot of fabulous people who intensely dislike silence. Silence provides the opportunity for unpleasant thoughts to be heard in their heads. Silence makes people feel lonely. Silence feels uncomfortable and unfamiliar. But I crave silence. Immediately upon arrival, I sat down in my garden and eased into the silence like it was a fur-covered La-Z Boy recliner. The chorus of animal and insect voices resounded, but believing in this proverb, I kept my mouth closed:

Do not speak unless you can improve the silence.

Wildlife Welcome Wagon

In the absence of human contact and communication for my 5 day retreat, the local wildlife stepped up to fill the void. I mean, they really rolled out the welcome wagon. In the first 10 minutes in my private garden a plump, 6-inch long lizard scurried along the wooden fence and stopped 2 feet in front of where I was sitting. She tilted her head to better cock one eye at me, and I held my breath to stare back. After a 5 minute stare-down, apparently determining that I had passed muster to sit in her garden, she went on her way.

Then a whole family of rowdy quail invaded my garden like they owned the place. They are the California State bird, so I guess there is some entitlement. The head quail stood apart and watched over the covey, with her “plume” (that funny squiggly thing on top of her head) waggling her pleasure or displeasure. The babies rushed madly about the garden, tossing small sticks and leaves in the air like women at a 75% off clothing sale.

When the sun made a downward turn towards the sea, the bunnies came out. Little grey bunnies with white tails. They tentatively nibbled grass, noses twitching, ears perking at minute sounds, eyes on the lookout for circling hawks. They occasionally stood up on their back legs to peer at me from 4 more inches of higher ground. But try as I might, none of them would let me scoop them up and give them a big hug and kiss on the nose.

The deer came fashionably late to the garden at dusk. One-by-one they strolled by my fence, peering curiously into my room before heading downhill to graze for the evening.

By this time it was starting to feel like that scene in Cinderella where all the mice and birds run about gleefully singing,
“Cinderelly, Cinderelly,
And we'll make a lovely dress for Cinderelly!”
By day's end I half expected this enchanted place to produce a talking mouse who would start sewing me a ball gown.

Silent on the Details

Last week I savored every hour of a 5 day silent retreat at a Franciscan monastery below Big Sur. My purposes for going were to be quiet, to clear the clattering in my mind, and to listen to the primary sound that matters to me—the voice of Mystery. And while the retreat was life-giving and life-changing, I’m reluctant to write about it in depth, because the experience was something akin to going on a romantic weekend tryst with a lover.

In the same way that a loving couple wouldn’t return from a weekend spouting detailed descriptions of their intimacy—“and as we laid in each other’s arms we talked about…”, “and we made love this many times…with this position_____ being a mind-numbing favorite…”, “and we both wept as we told each other…” –- so too it would be indecorous to reveal sordid details of pillow talk with Mystery.

It was fitting to kiss and tell when we were in high school, but giving intimate details of Love is just bad form when we are older. A sacred relationship of body, heart, and soul should be shielded from the profane at all costs. Sure, there are plenty of brazen bloggers who pin their spiritual delicates on the internet clothes line, but I’m not one of them.