Magnolia Rocks, Massachusetts
And so ends Day One of the Hunt family cruise. And so begins ya’all’s opportunity to read all of my ridiculous ramblings and reflections on the crazy world of cruising. It’s no secret that I have some serious misgivings about participating in a cruise, but I have decided to make the most of it—and part of that involves including you in processing what I observe. I hope you don’t mind.
A few snapshots from the day: a lounge singer with the all-too-stereotypical long, slicked back black hair covering ACDC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long” on his acoustic guitar (followed immediately after by Cat Stevens’ “Father and Son”), three crew members and a Lumberjack (who shows up later in our story) performing choreographed dances as we board the ship, this same lumberjack (who is British, incidentally) dancing around the pool, handing out beers to other dancers and identifying to the rest of the ship (yelling into his handheld mic) all of the dancers he perceives to be drunk (it might just be his favorite word), and my cousin competing in a dance-off for a free facial and shave—which he lost, by the way.
If that hasn’t sold you already on the idea of a cruise, I really don’t know what could. I mean, seriously, can you get more entertaining than that? The fact that what I find entertaining has nothing to do with any of the actual scheduled entertainment is irrelevant.
I have learned some important things about cruising on my first day. While there have been a number of lesser lessons, most of them really fall under the same umbrella: going on a cruise is like going to summer camp. I mean, where else do staff herd their eager participants in through long check in lines and room assignments with over-the-top enthusiasm, ear to ear grins and dancing? If you’ve ever worked a summer as a camp counselor, you know exactly what I’m talking about. Even the staff:participant ratio is similar—I swear there must be a crew member for every 4 cruisers. I’m sure the American Camping Association would approve. They have song leaders who teach otherwise normal individuals how to perform hand (and hip!) motions to songs immediately regressing them to the days of summer camp lore (and quite possibly sending some secret code to extra terrestrials in the process). In fact, today there were two song leaders—british lumberjack included—who’s only responsibility was to get people dancing—and they even had several individuals who’s only responsibility was to dance in the crowd! Summer camp. I secretly found myself envious of their jobs. Okay, let’s be honest: it wasn’t so secret at all. I want their job. I’m pretty sure it may be my calling. If only I wasn’t so stinking anxious in front of large groups of strangers. Hmmm . . .
Another element of Summer Camp-dom emulated by cruise ships: competition. We all get these little “activity cards” where we get points for participating in competitive events on ship like pub quiz or shuffleboard (yes, that’s right, people do actually play shuffleboard on the deck of the ship). At the end of the cruise we can qualify for “exciting souvenirs” depending on how many points we’ve accumulated. Sound like summer camp cabin competitions where cabins compete with each other over the course of the week to earn points from things like cabin clean up? Yup. I thought so, too (except I’d really rather win the Golden Dustpan than a pack of Norwegian Cruise Lines playing cards). One other such competition involved my cousin in a dance-off this afternoon with 3 other men competing for a free facial and shave. Nick made it to the dance-off finals, the elimination round if you will, and while he didn’t win the facial, the guy who did win bought Nick a beer.
Interruption: the lounge singer just switched from a Beatles tribute to “What a Wonderful World” and a handful of ladies in the 80s dance party in the next room over just started yelling. It’s after 10pm. This is such a strange place.
Another thing like summer camp: the staff all really seem like they’re having a good time. Maybe they’re not, but if so, they are damn good actors. I imagine the staff of our ship like the staff from Dirty Dancing: making the new girl carry watermelons through random dance parties and other such nonsense—just hopefully no Penny-like “incidents.”
The lounge singer has his mandolin out now and is covering Bruce Springsteen.
Seriously though, we got to see an amazing sunset over the San Juan Islands tonight, and while we can’t see the beautiful Sunshine Coast we’re passing now in the night, tomorrow is the Inside Passage. And for as much as I might find to tease about this surreal cruising subculture, perhaps it is an invitation for me to not take myself so seriously. To embrace my inner song-leader, as it were. We shall see.
And because it had to happen (and I will leave you with this): the lounge singer is now singing “If You Like Pina Coladas.”
I stink at titles. Always have. Blech.
An emotional day. Intense conversations. Big life changes. Hard stuff.
I tried hard to listen to myself and what I needed after taking part in those conversations: I furiously vacuumed and mopped the upstairs of our house, cleaned the bathroom, took a bath, played my guitar, watched the women’s world cup final . . . Late in the afternoon I decided that I wanted to watch a movie–preferably one where I could cry a lot, but possessed a great deal of beauty and hope. I landed on A River Runs Through It–one of my favorite short stories and movies ever. Just watching the beauty of the Blackfoot river (which is actually the Madison River, I believe) is enough to bring me back to center. The added bonus of a beautiful story and ample opportunities for crying is just icing on the cake. There was only one problem.
I can’t find my copy of the movie. Anywhere.
I have this lovely habit of loaning out movies and books that are super special to me because I want to share that which is special to me with others. But I also forget who I loan them to. And, that I’ve loaned them out in the first place. Hence my dilemma this evening.
So, instead I decide to watch this PBS documentary I’ve been wanting to see for a while called Sweetgrass. The description reads,
An unsentimental elegy to the American West, “Sweetgrass” follows the last modern-day cowboys to lead their flocks of sheep up into Montana’s breathtaking and often dangerous Absaroka-Beartooth mountains for summer pasture. This astonishingly beautiful yet unsparing film reveals a world in which nature and culture, animals and humans, vulnerability and violence are all intimately meshed.
So, not exactly “River,” but it will do. And let me tell you folks, this is one beautiful film. There’s no dialogue (unless you count sheep) until about 15 minutes in–which is still a guy talking to a sheep. Set in SW Montana, the movie is more landscape than anything else. While the story may center around the cowboys, the landscape tells the story, not the people. And if you’ve ever been to SW Montana, you know what a story that can be . . .
Unfortunately, there were no opportunities for crying per se in Sweetgrass (I’ll have to figure something out for tomorrow), but it was still a welcome opportunity to do some knitting in the presence of some intense beauty. It also reminded me of one of my favorite books ever: The Solace of Open Spaces. The back of the book reads:
Writing of hermits, cowboys, changing seasons, and the wind, Ehrlich draws us into her personal relationship with this “planet of Wyoming” she has come to call home. She captures the incredible beauty and the demanding harshness of natural forces in these remote reaches of the West, and the depth, tenderness and humor of the quirky souls who live there.
I first read this book at another time of significant loss in my life, and I was more than pleased to be reminded of it this evening. It seemed fitting, and perhaps an invitation to return to these stories about Wyoming. They are, in essence, stories of resurrected hope. Ehrlich says in her introduction, “The lessons of impermanence taught me this: loss constitutes an odd kind of fullness; despair empties out into an unquenchable appetite for life”
Amen.
So, I actually wrote this post a few weeks ago and just forgot to post it. Apparently I’m having a little difficulty with follow through these days . . .
(I intentionally misspelled “gramma” just in case anyone was overly concerned)
An unexpected, but lovely evening with Gram tonight. We had been trying to find a time when we could go up to visit my brother Aaron’s gravesite (who passed away 25 years ago this month), but I have been just so damn busy (when did I get busy again???) that we hadn’t been able to find a time. This afternoon I realized that I finally had an evening open so I called up Gram and made plans to head over after work.
She had dinner ready when I arrived–which is not so uncommon as feeding people is one of gramma’s ways of showing care, love and hospitality. Mind you, it was a rather curious combination of food: salad, fried ham, spanish rice and steamed zucchini (creative food pairings are alive and well in the Hunt household). I realized that our pilgrimage was not likely to transpire at this point and pulled up a chair–and a beer.
We began to chat about family, community, conflict, peace-keeping, living the life you actually have, wanting the life you don’t, grief, loss, change, you name it. I love this stuff. Inevitably, these conversations make their way back to gram’s childhood in a Bohemian neighborhood in Chicago as the daughter of Polish and Croatian immigrants. And, invariably, I find myself thinking, “damn! I need to write this shit down.” And just as invariably: I don’t.
And that’s okay, because sitting with gram in these contexts is way more important that taking notes. But it does make me ponder how much of our history impacts our own story and how much of that history we are completely unaware of. And how we’re going to lose that history–how we’ve already lost so much of it. How do we document our family’s story? How do we document our own? Does it matter? I suppose the jury’s still out, but I think yes.
Several years ago, before my other grandma passed away, she put together a family scrapbook of memorabilia she had assembled. Among the pages was a copy of a letter, written by a female relative on a ship crossing the Atlantic discussing the merits of the temperance movement in the states (see: feminism is in my blood!). It was a surreal moment for me to hold those words in my hands, picturing who the woman who wrote it might have been and how her passion so coalesced with my own, a hundred years removed. Another item featured in the scrapbook was a sermon given by a Methodist preacher (there were many on my mom’s side of the family, apparently) in the 1860s for Memorial Day honoring the Abolition movement and calling on people to continue the fight. Again. Surreal. Who was this preacher with the audacity to preach such a message in that day and age? What motivated him? How did his congregants respond? Who was the last person in my family to actually know him? Remember who he was?
I digress (I usually do). The point is–do we know our story? Have we bothered to take the time to hear that story from our elders–our community “history-bearers?” Because if we don’t, we’ll soon miss the opportunity all together. Consider this a charge to spend some more time with a “history-bearer” in your own life. Lord knows it’ll be worth it. We might just learn something . . .
Four (skipping one since Gram had all boys) generations of Hunt ladies . . .
I have a tendency to save pieces of paper. It’s usually because I need to do something with those pieces of paper, but just don’t have time to do whatever needs being done. So what usually happens is I place the piece of paper on top of the other pieces of paper to be dealt with when I have the time (which never seems to materialize) resulting in “don’t forget me!” piles which I promptly forget about.
So in attempting to clean my room/closet this evening I came across one of these aforementioned piles of paper. And what fun little unexpected treasure did I find in this pile, you ask? Well, perhaps not exactly treasure, but most certainly needed and timely for me. I found the words I’d spoken around communion one Sunday nearly 2 years ago (clearly I’d been avoiding that pile for a long time!), words which I really needed reminding of . . . (which is kind of strange, when you think about it–preaching to oneself in the future? Nutty).
So here they are:
A few years back I was in a Masters program in Montana and loved it. I love school. I’m in my element there—I do well, I feel challenged, the environment is dynamic, the conversation vibrant. I was one of the top students in my program and my professors really encouraged me to think about continuing on for my PhD. I felt so comfortable there, in that environment that I quickly conceded. I traveled around, visited some schools, talked with faculty I’d want to work with and applied.
I didn’t get in anywhere. I was devastated. My professors were confused and chalked it up to it just being a really competitive year. In any case, I was about to finish grad school in just a few short months and had absolutely no idea what I was going to do next. I was directionless, discouraged and frankly, apathetic about things at that point.
A friend of mine, who is a doctor, was moving to New York City that summer and invited me to join her. She said she’d cover rent and utilities, I’d just have to worry about my personal expenses. It sounded pretty appealing to me—I mean, how many chances to you have to live in Manhattan rent free with a really dear friend? I hadn’t decided for sure, but was strongly leaning in that direction when my friends arrived in Missoula for my graduation that May.
Now, about 8 years before that I had been studying in Costa Rica and was bitten by the intentional community bug. I observed a community there, and my friends and I talked about it quite a bit. When I returned home, I continued to talk about it. In fact, for years I used to talk about (only half joking) about moving to Montana and starting a commune where we raised alpacas and knit all day. When all was said and done, however, I more or less gave up on that idea. The older I got, the less feasible it seemed, and I began to let the dream go.
So, needless to say, I was a little floored when my friends showed up for graduation and said, “hey, don’t move to New York. Come back home and let’s start that intentional community.”
It took 8 years from when that seed was planted until I saw any movement in its actualization. And it came when I least expected it, when I’d all but given up hope, and was utterly discouraged about other occurrences in my life. But God was working during that whole time.
And so the Israelites in the desert: they were discouraged, frustrated, irritated with each other and their leaders, feeling aimless and directionless wandering through the wilderness. Yet God provided for them each step of the way and ultimately led them to God’s promised land.
And we as a church are in what might seem like a discouraging place. We might be frustrated and irritated with each other and our leaders. We might feel aimless and directionless. But God is still working in this time.
We need to remember our story. The story of the Israelites and God’s provision is a part of our story. How God has provided for and led each of us individually, such as in that time during grad school for me, is a part of our story. How God has continually, over and over again provided for our church is a part of our story. We talk about our history a lot here at Vibrant because we believe it’s crucial to remember where we came from and who we are and why we are here. We need to remind each other . . .
Remembering is not a passive act. It’s a reclamation of who we are as children of God, it’s a call to action: to have faith, to trust, to hope—to keep walking forward. The prophets continually called on the Israelites to remember . . . and God gives us ample opportunity, both formal and otherwise to do the same. Let us continue to remind ourselves and each other . . .
On the night that Jesus was betrayed . . .
Good Friday. A day to observe the death of our lord. To sit with the pain, suffering and grief of the world knowing that death is a necessary part of resurrection. A day where Christians around the world sit in quiet reflection and contemplation.
I, however, hopped in a convertible yellow mini with my friend Laura and headed West to the (unusually) sunny and (usually) windy Oregon coast.
This has been a hard week. Not busy like my life tends to be so much as just walking through really hard stuff with my clients. Some of the hardest stuff I’ve seen so far at the center. And, mostly, there’s not a damn thing I can do about any of it. So I sit, trying to practice what Henri Nouwen refers to as a “ministry of gentle presence.” But mostly I just feel helpless.
So the idea of welcoming the empty tomb a little early instead of practicing more gentle presence with the cross was irresistible to me–I jumped at the opportunity (hopefully I’ll get around to some of my thoughts around Holy Week this year before too long, but who knows?).
With no plan besides “coast,” Laura and I hopped in the car and headed West over the St. John’s Bridge and Germantown Road. Before too long the welcome sight of Haystack rock appeared around the corner. We grabbed some coffee at the Sleepy Monk (great coffee, by the way) and made our way out to the beach.
It was a glorious day. Not a cloud in the sky. Aside from the wind (which was substantial), it was perfect.
After some good wrestling with the deeper questions of life, Laura and I opted to head North. I am a creature of habit and my Oregon coast habit is Cannon Beach and Manzanita. Not so today! We turned our cute little yellow mini the opposite direction and made our way to Astoria (we figured it could be a Goonies themed excursion). After a brief detour to Fort Stevens so we could see the shipwreck we arrived in Astoria–and the Ft. George Brewery.
I’m a sucker for yummy beer, so I was a happy camper at Ft. George–aside from the tarantula they had hanging out behind the bar! Laura in her empathic brilliance started referring to it as a turtle so I wouldn’t get up and walk out of the restaurant–or start hyperventilating at the table. ”It’s only a turtle” is now standard code for anything that’s a really big deal but needs a substantial dose of downplaying. I highly recommend it.
So speaking of downplaying, there is this matter of a bridge in Astoria that’s kind of a turtle for me. When I was a child we used to go camping in Long Beach, and to get there you had to cross the Astoria Bridge–the Super-Terrifying-Looks-Like-You’re-Driving-Off-The-Edge-Of-The-Bridge-and-Into-The-Water-Which-Then-You-Drive-Right-On-Top-Of-Astoria-Bridge.
I have always hated that bridge.
Well, I mean at least I hated it when I was a kid. I haven’t been to Astoria in at least 20 years.
Since we’d already thrown the traditional observance of Good Friday out the window, and then habitual tendencies in not going to Manzanita, we figured we might as well drive over that dang bridge. You will not be the boss of me, silly bridge!
We crossed that bridge not once, but twice, and after watching the sun set over the longest beach in the US we headed back home.
I cannot imagine a more perfect day.
There was a surreal familiarity about Reykjavik, as if I was not in fact so many miles from home, but rather just in a very pedestrian-friendly, fish-loving neighborhood of Portland with over priced clothing shops. Okay, so maybe I just wanted it to be a little known Portland neighborhood (Portlandia sketch?), but legitimately, there were some significant similarities.
For one thing–the most reliable meteorological phenomenon in Iceland is not in fact snow, as it’s name might lead you to believe, but rather rain–just like Portland! Grey, gloomy, windy rain is the order of the day in Reykjavik. Luckily for us, we were blessed with particularly strange weather and enjoyed mostly clear, partly cloudy skies each day we were there.
Secondly, there are hipsters EVERYWHERE. In fact, hipsterism may have originated in Iceland. No one has the cooler-than-though-aloofness perfected more than the Icelanders. The critical difference (in my very limited experience) was that this aloofness was merely an initial impression. Unlike with Portland hipsters whose coolness is directly correlated to their dismissiveness, Iceland hipsters quickly gave way to friendly, playful camaraderie (particularly if there was alcohol involved).
Thirdly, Icelanders, like Portlanders, are absolutely, utterly in every way, convinced that they live in the best place on earth. They have the best water (true! Though we’re a close second), best beer (not so true), mountains, bars, food, horses, you name it. The intensity of this belief goes beyond simply loyalty.
And another thing–Iceland has a tremendous music scene. A country of no more than 300,000 people (less than the size of Portland) holds annual music festivals, the winners of which are propelled through the European music scene, not to mention all of the music to be found in the cafes and pubs around town. Icelandic music is nothing short of unique–and wonderful. We Portlanders, too, are obsessive about our music and homegrown talent (even if much of that talent seems to be transplanted from elsewhere).
Just initial observations, certainly, but enough to make me want to return to spend some more time cultivating this very seemingly natural friendship . . .
