Dear Friends ~ This afternoon while slicing onions and tossing them into a pan, the realization washed over me that in four decades I've eaten more than (at this point I pulled up the phone calculator, allowing the onions a few slow minutes to soften in the oil) 14,000 evening meals. While I do my fair share of cooking these days, it's safe to say that I've personally prepared only a small fraction of those many, many dinners. If I haven't cooked all that food that sustained and satiated me, I wondered, who has?
At times the world feels like a pot boiling at too high a temperature and sputtering angrily over the edges. We stew in stories of fear, division, and the end of things. And yet, this is the exact same world where each of us has sat down to countless suppers laid before us by other hands: from loved ones and strangers alike. Many nights of our lives we have received nourishment from another person who has not asked for evidence that we deserved it or demanded that we align with them in every ideological way before we partake. The poet Joy Harjo points out the grounding nature of shared food when she writes, "The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live./The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on."
If all things begin at a table, it's not too far of a stretch to imagine that healing and forgiveness can happen there, too. It's not just a place where banter and small talk counteract the disconnectedness of modern life. It's also a place where we can experience the miracle of seeing the "other" as a guest. I wish you many warm and generous gatherings, my friends. ~ Joy
A note from Jerusalem Community in Paris:
Recently, Sr. Francesca-Marie wrote that a foundation of their community seems to be in gestation for the United States. She and several others spent time this summer gathering information and meeting with friends in the states for prayer and discernment. She asks us to pray in the Silence that the Lord of the harvest will send forth enough living American stones to build a solid foundation.
"Water from the moon" -- a Javanese proverb for what one cannot have. Why are we so full of these strange movements for what is not here? Longings get touched, yet have no place to expand into fullness. And what is longing anyway? Water. From the moon. I am not at home -- never have been. Not that I don't know at some levels my way around. I do. But in the end, I am alone. Still waiting. Still riding the swing of my childhood years with my feet stretching up to the clouds ... The person of a thousand dreams rarely realizes one. And worse, never gets broken by one -- and humanized ... So, what claims me? Perhaps only that I set my face toward the stars -- less compellingly than I could hope ... and yet, more tenaciously that I would wish. I face. Perhaps that is enough.