So then what happened?

Flourless in the time of Quarantine:  Part 2.

If you’re new to the story, you can read “Flourless in the time of Quarantine” Part 1, here.

Bread Gift

Or, you can skip ahead to this recap:
After the virus-induced grocery stampede, I couldn’t find flour to keep up my sourdough bread baking until generous friends and neighbors shared:

  • The single sandwich baggie-size cupful left with a note in my mailbox…
  • The one 5-pound bag of all-purpose flour found shoved to the back of a grocery shelf…
  • The stacks of gallon-size baggies, scooped from a friend’s sister’s 25-pound stash, which she had gotten from a friend…
  • And so much more…

All this beautiful gifted flour turned into enough ingredients to allow me to revive my starter into a fresh bubbly yeast, which I kneaded into laughing dough balls, which became gratitude loaves, which I’ve now started to embellish with a sunburst scoring pattern to represent hope.

Sunburst

And then things got a little crazy.

Hard to find mustard, picked up by a friend, turned out to be just the thing to go with the hand rolled Indonesian lumpia made by my neighbor, and left on the front bench.

Another neighbor hid Easter eggs in the front yard for my grandkids.

A long-time friend texted and offered me some yeast.

Bakers, who read my story, e-mailed Voice of OC asking for my sourdough recipe. At this very moment new-to-sourdough bread makers are crossing fingers and hoping for a good loaf.

A woman who called herself “The Flour Fairy” left two, 25-pound bags of flour at my front door yesterday after reading the story. Two! That’s 50 pounds.

At this, my husband laughed out loud.

“I knew you really did want that 50-pound bag of flour from Restaurant Depot and after reading your story I see I was right. So I jumped online and found a specialty shop and you’ve got 25 more pounds of flour coming next week!”

I’ve never been good with numbers, but even I can figure out that I have more than 75 pounds of flour. Seventy. Five. Pounds!

So I’m putting out the word. Flour! Flour! Does anyone need some flour?
Sourdough starter! Sourdough recipe! Does anyone want to bake?
Homemade sourdough! Homemade sourdough! Does anyone want some fresh bread?

I found one connection to a most gracious “senior” woman without family who I’ll now be fetching groceries for. She said she’d love some fresh bread. First delivery, Wednesday. “And some brownies too, if it isn’t too much trouble.” No trouble at all.

Next I’m figuring out how to scale up my tiny one-loaf-at-a-time production and I’ll be reaching out to food banks, maybe offering small batches of rolls. I really am just a hack baker. I don’t have a sewing machine to make face masks, or the knowledge to find a CoVid cure, but goodness, have I got flour and enough sense to say when the universe showers me with flour, I’d better get baking for others.

Batch of rolls

Please reach out if you, or someone you know, needs baking guidance, or if you’re in Orange County, California, if someone needs flour or bread.

And thank you to all the farmers and the pickers, the truckers and shelf stockers, to the grocery store cleaners and clerks and checkers, to all the good people who feed us, who never considered their work might be life-threatening, but who are now showing up every day so we can eat.

I see you. I’m grateful for you. May you stay strong and well.
Catherine

Next up: Sourdough Bread Recipe from my neighborhood village ancestors.

 

Flourless in the time of Quarantine

This story first appeared in Voice of OC.

Bread Gift

Flour is not metaphor. Flour is flour. Flour has gone missing.

It’s not in my pantry. Grocery stores have none. Even the specialty baking resource King Arthur Flour had this reply to my desire for one, 10-pound bag, Unbleached All Purpose Flour: Order contains item(s) on backorder. We will ship and charge your order when items become available.That was 20 days ago.

This rebuke, from the “Baking with joy since 1790” company that started “The Isolation Baking Show” to teach us quarantined how to bake bread, make bagels and doughnuts, to master the difference between baking sourdough and whole wheat bread made me feel especially empty. I’m missing the essential element to join the #greatcovidbakeoff.

My heart raced when an Amazon Fresh order promised two, five-pound bags of unbleached all-purpose flour delivered in 10 days! They delivered, yes. But substituted, without permission, two small boxes of gluten-free bread mix requiring yeast. I don’t need bread mix. I need flour.

Besides, I have no yeast. Yeast has gone missing. It’s not on my shelf. None of the groceries have any yeast. How will we rise?

Baking isn’t a new desire for me. Sometimes I’m called the Bread Lady. I learned in the kitchen of a friend and in her spirit, I’ve freely offered more sourdough bread baking lessons to others than I can count. I’ve passed along dozens of jars of ripe, bubbly starter, shared from my own starter which came to me by way of that friend, who got it from another friend, who got it from her grandmother, now long laid to rest.

Bread is my love language. I bake it for mothers who have just given birth; to nourish sick neighbors. When my dear friend’s father died, and I learned that it’s a Bulgarian funeral tradition for family to share bread with funeral goers, who say a prayer as they eat it, I baked her a loaf scored with a “W” for her father’s first name. It was leavened from the same jar of starter I had shared with her years ago, the starter that lifted the bread that she baked for her father, for what turned out to be his last meal a few days earlier.

I. Want. Flour!

Feeding the multitudes was one of my favorite Bible stories. A large group is gathered and hungry. The cautious counters look at the thousands and say, we can’t possibly feed all these people. We have only five loaves and two fishes. Yet the food multiplies enough to fill the hungry.

It’s been many years since I’ve been in a church, but this season of quarantine brings that story to mind. When shoppers began hoarding food, I was slow to shop because I didn’t really believe I needed to rush out and collect food. My cupboards were far from bare. I figured if someone was stockpiling they must need the rice, the toilet paper, the chicken, the can of cannellinis more than I.

And then I ran out of flour. Where are the miracles?

I became a needy little recluse at the same time all my Instagram friends, and real life friends, and my sisters, nieces, and neighbors were all comfort-baking bread and posting photos. Even though I’d been baking homemade sourdough for years, I was shuttered. I hid my starter in the back of the refrigerator to wait until I could revive it.

I answered a barrage of calls, texts and DMs, problem-solving for all the new bakers. Is my dough too lumpy? What kind of pan should I use if I don’t have a Dutch oven? How long should I bake my bread if I don’t want it too crispy? I had a HouseParty app conversation to troubleshoot a too-gooey Sourdough Fig Walnut loaf.  Does this look right? No. Now? Yes.

Are you baking? What kind of bread are you baking now that you’re stuck at home? You must be making so much bread!

“No. No, I’m not baking. I have no flour, can’t find any. Not online. Not in stores.”

Well, there was that one 50-pound bag my husband found at Restaurant Depot a few days into the grocery stampede. When he texted to see if I wanted something that big, I declined, figuring a food bank or small bakery or restaurant trying to survive on take-out needed it more.

I tried to act as if I didn’t care. I had my health, and a roof over my head, two loaves of store-made wheat bread. My desire was insignificant in the face of so much global uncertainty.

Fresh Bread

I was appalled to discover I did care. I looked at old photos of my homemade bread and consoled myself that eventually stores would restock flour. It’s only a loaf. I’m happy others are learning to nourish themselves, Wait, she’s baking now too? She never even liked to walk into her kitchen…Bahhhh!

It was a tennis match: my petty envy pitted against the kind of person I thought I was. With each ungrateful thought, I tried harder to find new ways to be helpful.

I scraped together my last bit of flour and made a small starter for the neighbor who asked because her kids, now home all day, wanted to start baking. What could I do with a scant 3/4 cup when it takes more than four to make each loaf? Could I ask her to share some flour in exchange? What if she only had enough for one loaf would feel bad saying no since I was giving her starter? I printed out my favorite recipes and left them with her new starter on my front porch. Good luck! Let me know if you have any questions.

And then —

How to explain this?

Flour began to slowly sift in as if by gentle wind. It first came in a sandwich baggie-size cupful left with a note in my mailbox by my elderly neighbor. I know you like to bake, maybe this will help.

It arrived on my front-porch bench from another neighbor who found one 5-pound bag shoved to the back of a shelf on her last grocery run.

It multiplied again when stacks of gallon-size baggies, scooped from a friend’s sister’s 25-pound stash, which she had gotten from a friend, were left it in a cardboard box on my porch.

In a matter of days, I went from having no flour to an absolute whiteout. I shook my head with each delivery, overwhelmed by what I hadn’t even asked for. Could flour make me cry?

I Googled the safety of sharing baked bread with others in the time of quarantine. I washed my hands, wiped down my counters with disinfectant. I washed my hands, then washed them again. I pulled out my mixing bowl, my bread hook, my kneading board, my coarse salt and parchment and baking stone.

The first loaves into the oven were gratitude loaves. I baked for all the flour sharers, and left them on porches with notes as messy with the over-use of “thank-you!” as my flour-dusted floor.

Next I baked for my friend whose young adult son is dying on a hospital bed in her family room, not from the virus, but from a horrible disease that has outrun his ability to fight it. She’d withdrawn last week from the meal train of friends. We would like to thank everyone from the bottom of our hearts for the wonderful meals over the past 3 months. It took a tremendous load off around dinner time. We are requesting our friends to please stop and take care of your own food needs during these difficult Corona Virus times.

I blessed her loaf with a prayer for peace and left it on her front porch.

I baked for my 85-year-old parents, and my daughter, my grandchildren, my son; each loaf passed from a long distance across a porch, left on a driveway without a hug. My family missed my bread, they say, easier to miss bread than to reveal how much we crave each other standing there, unable to touch.

To retreat to the heart of my home, to bury my hands in dough and know this one small thing. I can touch something as ancient as man and fire, as miraculous as the way the right kind of bacteria ferments with grain to leaven a loaf that nourishes body and feeds spirit. I’m trying not to start rationing flour now that I can once again feel the rightness of the world as my kitchen warms with the scent of bread. I’ve looked up the practicality of growing wheat in my canyon.

Just now I went to leave another gratitude loaf on the bench to be picked up for a nurse and her firefighter husband.

There, on what I’m becoming to think of as my miracle bench, was another gift. A few weeks back, I shared corned beef and cabbage, mushrooms and fresh oranges with a neighbor. Today, she and her sons baked Blueberry Lemon Bread. “Thank you for your kindness,” she wrote. “This is our favorite. We hope you like it!”

And so on, and so on. And so on this day I know that no matter what happens next, flour is only flour, but love remains as powerfully contagious as virus in the time of quarantine.

Magic Bench on the Front Porch

With awe and gratitude,
Catherine

P.S.
You can’t believe what happened after this story appeared in Voice of OC.
That story is “So then what happened?”

To read more adventures, or misadventures, with bread baking, you might enjoy A fig. A failure. A long wait.

“You will go back to your own life…

I’m on a quest to intentionally incorporate one simple act of kindness into each day for one year. My hope that kindness can change the world feels a little like throwing a glass ball into the ocean and believing it won’t break.

You can call this series: 365 Reasons to Roll Your Eyes, but science says your own happiness will increase if you share the journey.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You will go back to your own life, but what will happen to me?” This simple question, asked years ago by a young boy, haunted a poet / editor friend of mine and ultimately inspired her to publish Collateral Damage, a benefit poetry collection dedicated to children impacted by trauma.

7TZr+hJ6TbusB7Wq0tmW6Q_thumb_2b75

I first met Ami Kaye, that poet and editor, shortly after I embarked on my dream of creating dirtcakes, a literary journal. 

“Exceptional works to replenish the spirit.”

This mission statement of Glass Lyre Press, Ami’s publishing imprint, inspires me. It resonates with my own reasons for wanting to get into publishing, what I hope to accomplish every time I sit to write: “to replenish the spirit.”

I sought out Ami at a writer’s conference in Los Angeles to ask her advice for running an independent literary press, which means one with no institutional financial support.  Ami graciously encouraged me, then painted a picture of how at publication time she rallies a small group of volunteers around her dining room table in Illinois. They make editorial decisions about which literature will further the mission of the press, design covers and interior typesetting, diligently proofread galleys, hand package the books and magazines to be sent out to readers. Finally, someone volunteers to drive the batch to the post office.

All for the love of the word.

For so many creatives – writers, artists, musicians – and the people who promote their work, getting art out to humanity is a gesture of kindness. My lasting impression after first meeting Ami Kaye was that she’s a woman who leads with her heart. 

So I wasn’t at all surprised when I learned to she was putting together a benefit anthology titled Collateral Damage.

“This benefit anthology seeks to raise funds for children with basic survival needs, for programs that protect and educate children, and foster child advocacy. This book will highlight children caught in the crossfire of war and political strife, adult ambition and greed. It will also address the transformative power of love and care. As current custodians of this world we need to protect the future: our children. Only if we work together can we harness the strength to speak up for those not allowed a voice; turning away is not an option anymore.”

I consider myself fortunate to now hold Collateral Damage in my hand. It includes two of my poems alongside powerful work from many of my poetry heroes. Not surprisingly, one of my poems is about sharing bread.

CDamage

Putting precious resources of time and money into a book of poetry as a response to war, famine, abuse, injustice and healing might seem like a small, insignificant act of defiance.

But guess what? Counterintuitively, it may be one of the most effective ways to combat psychic numbing to trauma, whether personally experienced or witnessed through media, by offering our human psyches specific imagery, which is one of the superpowers of poetry. And that’s intriguing considering that the National Endowment for the Arts just reported poetry reading is on the rise, at its highest levels since shortly after 9/11/01.

Poet Naomi Shahib Nye offers insight into how poetry has the ability to uniquely connect humanity in an often quoted essay which appeared on Oprah.com  in early 2002.

“Apparently, the entire United States has taken to reading more poetry, which can only be a good sign. Journalists ask, “Why do you suppose people are finding strength in poetry now?” Those of us who have been reading poetry all our lives aren’t a bit surprised. As a direct line to human feeling, empathic experience, genuine language and detail, poetry is everything that headline news is not. It takes us inside situations, helps us imagine life from more than one perspective, honors imagery and metaphor—those great tools of thought—and deepens our confidence in a meaningful world.”

The allure of poetry, of its ability to find a way “inside situations” and create an impact makes sense according to research on witnessing reactions to wide scale trauma by Paul Slovic, PhD, founder and president of Decision Research, a non-profit organization investigating human judgment, decision-making, and risk. Dr. Slovic has invested much of his career trying to understand why epic tragedies like mass genocide, climate change, refugee crises, create numbing among witnesses rather than mass action.

In a 2018 interview with science reporter Brian Resnick in VOX, Dr. Slovic broke down some key findings:

“People care about individuals. We see it over and over again: There’s a child who needs an operation, his parents can’t afford to pay for this operation, and there’s a story in the newspaper. An outpouring of money donations and support is often tremendous. We do care a lot about individuals. We don’t scale that up, even when we’re capable.

“Individual stories and individual photographs can be effective…they get us to see the reality, to glimpse the reality at a scale we can understand and connect to emotionally. But then there has to be somewhere to go with it.

“These…stories of individuals…give us a window of opportunity where we’re suddenly awake and not numbed, and we want to do something. If there’s something we can do, like donate to the Red Cross, people will do it. But then if there’s nothing else they can do, then over time that gets turned off again.”

So here, in Collateral Damage, are poems, “stories of individuals.” One poem, “An Interdiction Forbidding Mourning: Tehran, 2009” by Susan Fox, is dedicated to “Neda Sultan Agha, shot by a sniper for not wearing a chador.” Another, “The New Breed” by Alison Letterman is “For Emma Gonzalez and the other student activists” who are protesting gun violence. The collection holds heartbreak and paths to redemption. 

After I received my contributor copy of Collateral Damage, I sent Ami Kaye a few questions via e-mail about the back story of the anthology and her hopes for its future. She graciously responded for you, dear readers. 

What inspired this anthology?
During an undergrad semester I worked at a blind school and struck a friendship with a teenage boy. After the day’s lesson I shared stories and poems, he sang songs and told me of his dreams. On my last day he was withdrawn and refused to speak to me. After some prodding he burst out, “You will go back to your own life, but what will happen to me?” His words always stayed with me and I became very conscious of the plight of children. After I became a parent, I was even more aware of the staggering problems facing children, and while I was involved in various ways over the years, I did not have the means to do much. Now with the energy and talent of so many wonderful people, I hope we can do more.

In what ways did the project exhaust or energize you?
The sheer volume of correspondence, reading and selecting work, and the production logistics were daunting, but the response from the literary community warmed our hearts. I think that kind of enthusiasm, the shared dedication, and most of all, the thought of the children energized everyone working on this multi-dimensional project.

What did you have to say “no” to in order to say “yes” to this project?
We did not say no to other projects so last year was difficult for all of us. We ended up with a four-month backlog that has spilled into this year, but we think it is worth getting this project off the ground.

Was there a poem (or more than one) that made you cry?
There were several poems that hit me in the gullet. Some poems were powerful, some arresting, some with vivid visuals, but all had components that bolstered the cause. Taken as a whole, the book gives a voice to those rarely allowed one. I know readers will find a number of poems that speak to them.

Who deserves a shout-out for making this a reality? (I see Tracy McQueen, Steven Asmussen, Linda E. Kim, and Karen Bowles’ names on the front matter. Anyone else? Do you care to say a small detail about something one of them did that made the project as beautiful as it is?)
Steve deserves the lion’s share of praise for production, but Linda Kim and Karen had the painstaking job of copyediting. Karen especially, while wrestling with health issues and an evacuee from the recent California wildfires, somehow found the energy to participate in this project. Tracy’s stark cover art is a wordless poem. Most of all, each and every one of our authors and submitting poets deserves a shout out for their dedication to this cause. That kind of sincerity and emotion humbles me and gives me hope.

Is there one specific organization that will benefit from the proceeds? What impact do you imagine it will have?
We were originally thinking of UNICEF, or we’d like to try an organization more likely to allot a greater percentage of funds directly for the children. We are thinking of Shriner’s Children’s Hospital, and a few others. Please email amikaye.pf@gmail.com with any other suggestions.

Obviously our first hope is to raise money for the children, but sometimes impact comes in unforeseen ways. I hope people will read the heartrending poems and be moved to spread the word and raise awareness for programs that benefit and foster child advocacy.

I’m deeply grateful for all the work that Ami and her team at Glass Lyre put into Collateral Damage and all her other projects.

So, I’m spreading the word. And I’m cheating a little with one of my self-set rules for this Year of Kindness: Don’t use monetary donations as an act of kindness.

I bought three issues. But I’m giving myself a pass because I want to share these three issues with you, especially if you run a writing program where you tackle issues of trauma. If you want a free gift issue of Collateral Damage , please send me an e-mail using the form on the sidebar to your right telling me a little something about why you would appreciate this particular volume.

That’s it.

Then go read some poetry. National Poetry Month is in its waning days, but our psyches thrive on the images, the music, the human connection that poetry gifts us with, and that in turn gives us more inner fire to be kind.

Light the world with kindness,
~Catherine

 

Is kindness more than skin deep?

I’m embarking on a new adventure: to intentionally incorporate one simple act of kindness into each day for one year. My certainty that kindness can change the world is a little like throwing a glass ball into the ocean and believing it won’t break.

Feel free to call this series: 365 Reasons to Roll Your Eyes, but science says your own happiness will increase if you share the journey.

Maybe this week’s actions aren’t even in the category of kindness. You tell me, according to my definition:

“Kindness is any gesture I make directly to – or on behalf of – myself, my fellow humans, or the environment, as a way of saying, “I see you. I believe we’re interconnected. I recognize your dignity and value. 

Kindness must be offered in a way that arises out of attentiveness to another. No one wants to be felt sorry for as much as listened to. Seen. Heard.”

BreadFace

I’m a white woman.

I mostly bake white bread.

I live in a country where white families are statistically still – as in it’s always been this way – wealthier than non-white families.

I live in a country where white students are statistically still – as in it’s always been this way – scoring higher on standardized testing.

I live in a country where white babies are statistically still – as in it’s always been this way – twice as likely to survive their birth than black babies.

“…recently there has been growing acceptance of what has largely been, for the medical establishment, a shocking idea: For black women in America, an inescapable atmosphere of societal and systemic racism can create a kind of toxic physiological stress, resulting in conditions — including hypertension and pre-eclampsia — that lead directly to higher rates of infant and maternal death…” New York Times Magazine, “Why America’s Black Mothers and Babies Are in a Life-or-Death Crisis” by Linda Villarosa. April, 2018.

Can I spend a whole year dedicated to kindness and not inform myself deeply, and talk about, about these inequities?

I’ve benefitted all my 60 years from being white. I’ve never seen art or literary works by white women hauled out for special attention during “White History Month.” It’s assumed that my whiteness is always visible and on the shelf. Every month is white history month.

Yes, there are fewer women than men represented in the arts, and we’ll get our Women’s History Month in March, but I never have to decide if I should first fight for my race rights or my women’s rights.

When I read books by people of color, I specifically have to seek them out. Representation on book shelves isn’t even close to being equal. For example, when I searched for books in my countywide library system with “kindness” in the title, I got 79 results, none written by a person of color.

steprightup

Well, there is that one children’s book about a former slave, written by a white woman, but illustrated by a black man. Does that count? It’s the true story of William “Doc” Key, a former slave. Doc trained his horse Beautiful Jim Key to spell and read by using kindness rather than cruelty. The “Afterword” points out that “Doc and Jim’s legacy lives on in today’s stronger humane movement, better enforced animal anticruelty laws, and greater societal compassion toward animals?” Is it easier for us to advocate for kindness toward animals than kindness to each other?

I have a white dog to whom I’m incredibly kind. I’m friends with black dogs.

 

I subscribe to newsletters: one from Lee & Low Books, “the largest multi-cultural children’s book publisher in the country and one of the few minority-owned publishing companies in the United States”; and another from We Need Diverse Books, a non-profit and grassroots organization of children’s book lovers that “advocates essential changes in the publishing industry. Our aim is to help produce and promote literature that reflects and honors the lives of all young people.”

I follow @goodblackreads@wellreadblackgirl, and @diverseclassics on Instagram to help lead me to books I might not easily find on my own.

In Old English, “kindness” or “kyndness” means “nation.” This is a derivative of “kind.”

Middle English kinde, from Old English (ge)cynde” natural, native, innate,” originally “with the feeling of relatives for each other,” from Proto-Germanic *kundi- “natural, native,” from *kunjam “family”

“With the feeling of relatives for each other…”

What would you do for family? What does any of this have to do with kindness?

If you’re following along with this month’s “Grow your heart” Kindness Calendar, you’ll notice repetition:

February 1: Find ways to volunteer in your community. Send 3 e-mails asking for information from a group.

February 6: Seek out a book or film set in a community different from yours.

February 8: Did you hear back from your 3 volunteer organizations?

February 21: How’s that book / film coming? Read more.

February is Black History Month. I’ve been reading, devouring really, stories about being black in America. Histories. Herstories.

I watched Jada Pinkett Smith’s Red Table Talk: Unpacking White Privilege and Prejudice.

I’ve been listening too. I heard this conversation, after a viewing of BlacKkKlansman:

What was the timeframe for BlacKkKlansman? At least it’s not like that in America anymore. Things are better now.

Better for whom? I’d like for my kin to experience no measurable disparity among races.

In 2019 still, in America, being black is a statistical disadvantage for mental health and physical safety, bad for economic stability, and for representation in books, film, art, dance, music, in boardrooms and for over-representation in the criminal justice system. Anything other than white is still “other.” If you’re shaking your head “no, no, no” right now, take a reading break and go on a search engine scavenger hunt. Look up “weathering hypothesis” and “black infant mortality.” Read “A visual look at discriminatory lending in the U.S.” Look up “US Incarceration Rates by Race.”

If I solely identify as white, I don’t have to spend one second of time or energy fighting racism on my own behalf, or that of my family. I statistically benefit every day from things I did nothing to earn but being born of white parents. This leaves me with a hefty store of reserves for #KindInKind, starting with my February 22 suggestion:  How about that volunteer effort?

I volunteer with the Orange County Human Relations committee to speak about hate crimes: How to identify them, report them, prevent them. I went through hours of training, a background check, fingerprinting, practice.

I’ve been waiting more than a year for someone to call on me to present, to allow me to stand safe on the other side of the podium under the banner of OC Human Relations committee and talk about race issues. I’m happy to speak to you or your group, but I’m not waiting anymore for someone to call to take action.

Do you want more from Black History month than quoting Martin Luther King?

Here are four things you can do to kindly “Grow your heart.”

Read: Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption by Bryan Stevenson.

Just Mercy is an unforgettable account of an idealistic, gifted young lawyer’s coming of age, a moving window into the lives of those he has defended, and an inspiring argument for compassion in the pursuit of justice.”

Listen: The red line: Racial disparities in lending  by Reveal, The Center for Investigative Reporting.

“Forty years ago, Congress passed the Community Reinvestment Act, which required banks to lend to qualified borrowers in blighted neighborhoods. The act aimed to eliminate government-sponsored housing discrimination, known as redlining…Today, a new epidemic of modern-day redlining has crept quietly across America. The gap in homeownership between African Americans and whites is now wider than it was during the Jim Crow era.”

Watch: Slavery by Another Name, a 90-minute documentary.

“It is rare to have the opportunity to bring to television a story that, outside of academic circles, is virtually unknown,” says tpt National Productions’ Catherine Allan, executive producer of the 90 minute documentary for PBS.  “In telling the story of what happened to African Americans over the 80 year period of “neo-slavery”, we hope to add a significant new facet to America’s ongoing discussion about race.”

Write: Write to your library, your children’s school, your church, your market, your favorite book publisher / shoe store / media outlet / pet store. Write a letter that goes something like this:

Dear________________________,

I appreciate all you do.

You know I’ve always been a supporter of ________________, and I know the impact all your great work has in the field of ____________________.

Are you open to a suggestion? In ___________________ (months, years) it seems the number of white (presidents / preachers / teachers / presenters / readers / managers / guest speakers / etc.) far outnumber those who are people of color.

Don’t you think it’s time to make more opportunity and visibility available to the full spectrum of humanity that lives in our country?

Of course I wouldn’t dare make a suggestion without offering resources. I’m here to help in any way I can. (Don’t worry, dear reader. If you write this letter, I’m willing to help you find those resources. #KindInKind.)

Hunh, I really didn’t anticipate a deep dive in this Year of Kindness, but deep I go. That dialogue about race everyone’s saying we need to have? It’s been going on and on and on and as a white woman, I need to listen, to learn, to speak up, to widen my circle of  kynd.

I like white bread.

I like my white dog.

I love my white grandchildren. And I really want them to work with me on changes that create kindness and lasting equality in their lifetime. 

Be well. Be aware. Be kind.
~ Catherine

I see you

eclipsing moonsg

I’m embarking on a new adventure: to intentionally incorporate one simple act of kindness into each day for one year. My certainty that kindness can change the world is a little like throwing a glass ball into the ocean and believing it won’t break.

Feel free to call this series: 365 Reasons to Roll Your Eyes, but science says your own happiness will increase if you share the journey.

It was cold and windy a few nights back when Chester and I headed out the door on his last walk before bedtime. Rain was forecast. A south easterly breeze kicked up, already strong enough to rustle the eucalyptus and jangle the wind chimes. Two owls called to each other down the dark hill.

I was a little mad at myself, wondering if this year of kindness was already floundering since I hadn’t really found a way to be intentionally kind all day. I’d baked bread and shared it at a neighborhood dinner potluck. But I would have done that anyway. I’d been part of a conversation about where to donate the jar of money our friend group fed  all year instead of buying gifts for each other. But that felt like riding the coattails of a 2018 decision. Bah, I thought. I’ll do two kind things tomorrow.

Watch for coyotes, Jim said when we left. I saw one crossing the street just now as I was taking out the trash cans.

Stepping into nearly silent darkness, with its sage-fresh cold air, and tree-lined canopy, is my favorite nightcap. I take a flashlight, but rarely turn it on, especially on a night like this with the waning crescent moon, mars on the far horizon and stars enough to brighten the road.

Forgive me, I asked the moon.

There isn’t a sidewalk, but I can see cars’ headlights in plenty of time to move onto gravel or bushes long before the driver would have to swerve. Anyway, in my sleepy neighborhood on a Sunday night, cars are rare and I’ve never been hit.

So when a black SUV roared up the hill and pulled a u-turn a few feet from me and Chester, I startled. The back passenger door opened and a figure emerged, stood at the car’s back bumper, seeming to watch me. Chester growled low.

Mrs. Keefe!

I recognized the voice of a now-man, a once 7-year-old boy I’d met when we first moved in.

Zach was long gone from the neighborhood, but his father still lives on our block. I was starting to shiver, not eager to stay out longer and tempt the rain and coyote gods, but there was something urgent in the way he’d called out in the dark.

I picked up a thread of conversation we’d been pulling for more than ten years.

Are the right teams going to the playoffs? Zach played football through high school and we always caught up on his life through sports.

Nah, nothing is going right. He kicked the dirt, shoved his hands in his pockets. Inside the SUV, I heard voices between beats in the music.  I just got back from a funeral. Maybe you read about it. A guy I knew was riding a bike and he was hit by a 16-year-old girl. It was really sad. Nothing good about any of it.

Zach is the kind of guy that goes to funerals. This wasn’t the first time I’d seen him in front of his house after doing so. A friend’s mom. A friend. It seems like for such a young man he’s seen plenty of death.

So the wind blew and the cold settled while I listened to Zach talk in the dark about two shattered families. The fragility of life. How to find meaning.

I said I was really sorry about his friend.

I pointed at the sky and told him sometimes when I feel bad, I look up just to feel that blanket of stars cover me.

Mhmmm, he said. It sure is beautiful out here. Every day. We’re so lucky to be alive.

According to the United Nations, about 6,775 people die each day in the US.  Odds are we walk past, or brush by, someone grieving more often than we know.

How can we learn to carry a kind, open gentleness in our hearts when someone seemingly snubs us or nearly runs us over?

Can we learn to slow down a little, to look up together in the cold, dark and take time to listen when someone unexpectedly trusts us with an admission of sadness?

Zach and I finally said goodbye. Chester and I returned home. I sat on my balcony watching the moon slowly disappear behind gathering clouds. As clouds cover the moon, you can watch an ever-tightening circle hug the moon closer and closer, creating a focal point of light in the night sky.

The air grew damper and the wind picked up as the chimes clanged a louder dissonance. Down the hill, the owls still called. The lights went out in Zach’s house and I went in to bed.

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Grief is, unfortunately, an unavoidable part of being alive. Additionally, we seem to be living in a particularly high-stress time according to one recent indicator reported in the January 14, 2019 Los Angeles Times under the headline: “Mental health books outsell diet and exercise books at Barnes & Noble.”

“In a shift, American readers have become more interested in books about mental health than about diet and exercise, according to data released by bookstore chain Barnes & Noble.

The data, collected around the New Year’s season, seems to indicate that readers’ annual resolutions are focusing less on losing weight and getting in shape, and more on reducing stress and increasing self-esteem.” Michael Schaub

According to research, kindness is contagious and can lead to elevated feelings. In “Kindness Contagion,” a recent article in Scientific American, Jamil Zaki explains:

“Witnessing kindness inspires kindness, causing it to spread like a virus…We find that people imitate not only the particulars of positive actions, but also the spirit underlying them. This implies is that kindness itself is contagious, and that that it can cascade across people, taking on new forms along the way.” Jamil Zaki

I suppose there are many reasons why this is so, but I think fundamentally there’s great hope, healing, and joy when we feel seen by another. If you find yourself catching the kindness bug this year, and taking on new forms from my experiences, here are two simple ways to inspire others and uplift the common mood.

1: Post about your action on Instagram using hashtag  #KindInKind.
2: Write about what you did and get in touch via this blog. I’ll share your story, either anonymously or giving you credit, whichever you prefer.

Speaking of credit, my favorite photographer, Susan Greene Photography, gets all the credit for Super Blood Wolf Moon Lunar Eclipse photos.

Believe

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I’m embarking on a new adventure: to intentionally incorporate one simple act of kindness into each day for one year. My certainty that kindness can change the world is a little like throwing a glass ball into the ocean and believing it won’t break.

Feel free to call this series: 365 Reasons to Roll Your Eyes, but science says your own happiness will increase if you share the journey.

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I printed out the January 2019 Random Acts of Kindness Calendar to stuff in my adult kids’ Christmas stockings. I thought instead of buying things, our family could bond over the challenge of trying to do something kind in our own little worlds, in a Bingo sort of way. First person to finish five kind acts across the calendar, or down, or diagonal, or a blackout, would win the month and share the victory via family text. If it went well, I’d branch out to my sisters, nieces, nephews and send everyone a February calendar, then March, then…then…then…

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I anticipated darting glances, an awkward silence or, worse, feigned public interest with hidden giggles. At the last minute, I yanked the gold-tied calendar scrolls and hid them in my underwear drawer. I hung the stockings, with not so much care as a light touch since there was nothing in them but a book: 52 Lists for Happiness: Weekly Journaling Inspiration for Positivity, Balance, and Joy by Moreea Seal.

Who doesn’t want happiness for their children?

Maybe I should have persisted with my Random Acts of Kindness monthly calendar idea. (Would it seem as if I don’t think my kids are kind enough already? Is it pushy to take my values and wrap them as a gift?)

It turns out that kindness makes you happier. In her article for UC Berkeley’s Greater Good Magazine: Science-Based Insights for a Meaningful Life, Elizabeth Hopper breaks down the findings of a May, 2018 study published in The Journal of Social Psychology, authored by Dr. Lee Rowland and Oliver Scott Curry: “A range of kindness activities boost happiness.”

“Researchers asked 683 adults from over two dozen countries—from the United States and Brazil to the United Kingdom and South Africa—to complete at least one act of kindness daily for a week, such as helping a neighbor, writing a thank you card, or paying for someone’s movie ticket. People were encouraged to carry out more kind acts—or different types of kind acts—than they normally would. One group was asked to direct their kindness towards people they were close to (i.e., friends and family), while another group was kind towards people they were less close to (i.e., acquaintances and people they didn’t know as well).

Other participants were asked to make an effort to practice self-kindness—for example, by meditating, going on a walk, or dancing to a favorite song. A fourth group didn’t engage in kind acts themselves, but they tried to observe acts of goodness carried out by other people—for example, when someone volunteered, bought coffee for someone else, or simply stopped to pick up litter. The researchers compared all these groups to a control group of people who went about their lives as usual.”

Small daily acts of kindness – for strangers, or family, or self – can quantifiably improve your happiness. We also get a mood boost by simply observing a kind act being performed.

To keep myself accountable to performing 365 Acts of Kindness, and to make you dear reader, happier by simple observation, I reached out to Kindness.org, a group with this mission statement:

“We are a nonprofit with a bold hypothesis: Kindness is the catalyst in solving the world’s biggest challenges. We believe a kinder world is possible, and we’re here to make it happen.”

Kindness.org offers the opportunity for anyone to become a Citizen Scientist, that is to try and quantify how acts of kindness in the world create positive effects. I offered myself and my writing skills up as a Citizen Scientist with this pitch:

“I too believe a kinder world is possible. I believe there are more ordinary people building a stepping-stone path toward a gentler world than any news story can tell. Invisibility isn’t non-existence. If I can help quantify and amplify with my writing skills how kindness matters, then I’m happy to do so.”

We’ll see if they get back to me. In the meantime, I’m going to call my friend who’s moving today out of the house she’s lived in for more than 30 years. I want to bring her bread and soup.

Be kind
~Catherine

I photographed Niijima Floats,” at Chihuly Garden and Glass in Seattle, WA.

Prayer before Thanksgiving

Table

Before the feast was expected to be perfect, responsibly sourced, cruelty free, gluten free, dairy free, nut free, vegan, Paleolithic meant early humans, ketosis simply what your body does when it starves. Feast and starvation are divides with plenty of middle ground.

Before the feast ever thought of being shot by a camera and able to evoke an inexplicable longing for something absent through the visual gesture of crisply edged pie and brown butter beans, sustainable meant the ability of family and friends to gather on chairs, some sturdier than others, year in and year out and be grateful for everything under the sun or snow like the way your mother is still present to pop cranberries with sugar over fire, the way her mother did, and share and the way your father’s face still lights up when he sees you. Organic meant the way we wove stories and listened until we were stuffed, as if that was cocoon enough to last all year against loss or loneliness, betrayal or hate, or the way the deep true story of the first Thanksgiving is undeniably braided with the deep true fate of the first humans to live on this land, as surely as my great aunt used to scrape the brown gravy-streaked plates white again after dinner.

Believing in the only weapon I trust, I bleed love through winter squash and garlic, bread and pie. I will lay the forks next to the napkins, hide the knives and pray so strong for peace for each hand that rises to fill an emptiness called hunger at the table in this land made for you and me. If we all share this prayer I’m certain this peace will create a collective warmth like the kitchen gets hotter when it’s filled with steaming potatoes and conversation, then a glow like vanilla votives in every window will brighten the night.

But that’s a prayer like wanting to eat without saying, first I must cook and forage, or if I eat all the feast I’ll never be hungry again.

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When we come to the table may we be so hungry we know we need each other. May we not confuse our need with anyone’s ability to fill it. May we be gentle with our expectations and may the critical voices in our heads go mute. May the brown bits crackle just the way you like. May you remember all the hands that worked in dirt and rain so you might have food on your table and may you be grateful for every small thing that fits in the palm of your hand. May you speak to someone who laughs at your punch lines and listens after asking, “How are you?” May the pie crust crumble with just the right flake to make you want to scoop up every last bit of that salty sweet and sigh and be grateful enough to walk back into the dark. May the owl sing as the full moon rises and may you lift your eyes to behold its shadow or hear it so clearly you believe it’s a sign for you alone and collectively you, and may you remember all that uplift until you gather once again.

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With gratitude,
~Catherine