Dayenu!

"Dayenu!

"The Jewish people have a beautiful prayer form, a kind of litany to which the response is always "Dayenu!" (It would have been enough!). ...They list, one by one, the mirabilia Dei, the wonderful works of God for their people and themselves, and after each one, shout out DAYENU! As if to say, "How much is it going to take for us to know that God is with us?!" It builds satisfaction instead of feeding dissatisfaction." - Fr. Richard Rohr, OFM

Day 2 of Lent.

I was struck this morning, driving through our neighborhood, by the beauty of the snow covered trees.

As Francois and I practice making our litanies of satisfaction -- combing our lives for evidence of Love, Beauty, God's presence this Lenten season, this image seems a perfect example of something that might inspire us to exclaim: "Dayenu!" - or as Fr. Rohr translates, "How much is it  going to take for us to know that God is with us?"

What say you?

Happy Lenten Journeys!

Lenten Prayer: "Mirabilia Dei" - "Dayenu!"

On this blessed Mardi Gras, I'm contemplating ways that I might prayerfully journey through this Lenten season.

En route to Centering Prayer this morning,  feeling joyfully rooted in our life together and calm in the face of our morning routine, I called my husband and asked him what we might do as a family to move through Lent together. I posed the question as a prayerful invitation, trusting some prayer practice or intentional action would surface. Et voila! The following writing from one of my favorite Franciscans gives me an idea:

"Let us compose litanies of satisfaction! Of abundance! Of enoughness! Let us start each day mindful of how much we have and how great is our God."

Will you join me?

A Prayer to Avoid Entitlement
by Richard Rohr
 
The Jewish people have a beautiful prayer form, a kind of litany to which the response is always "Dayenu!" (It would have been enough!).
 
They list, one by one, the mirabilia Dei, the wonderful works of God for their people and themselves, and after each one, shout out DAYENU! As if to say, "How much is it going to take for us to know that God is with us?!" It builds satisfaction instead of feeding dissatisfaction.
 
If we begin our day with any notion of scarcity, not-enoughness, victimhood, or "I deserve," I promise you the day will not be good--for you or for those around you. Nor will God be glorified.
 
Maybe we all should begin our days with a litany of satisfaction, abundance, and enoughness. God, you have given me another day of totally gratuitous life: my health, my eyes, my ears, my mind, my taste, my family, my freedom, my education, clean water, more than enough food, a roof over my head, a warm bed and blanket, friends, sunshine, a beating heart, and your eternal love and guidance.
 
To any one of these we must say, "And this is more than enough!"
 
(Adapted from a post to Fr. Richard's blog, Unpacking Paradoxes, on January 30, 2012) 
 
* * *
 
In his annual Lenten letter, Fr. Richard shares some of the blessings he celebrates this season, including the tremendous support of CAC donors. Thank you for sharing your gifts of God's abundance with CAC, allowing us to share Fr. Richard's teachings.
 
Read Fr. Richard's Lenten letter and participate in alms-giving out of joyous "enoughness"!
cac.org/lent-2013

Recommending Dorianne Laux, the Poet

Why do I like Dorianne Laux?

I've read two poems by her in my life, (only two? yes, only two) but each gave me pause. (Titles: The Shipfitter's Wife and Dark Charms.) And each tickled something in me. I appreciate another writer's ability to hone in on a subject and reveal something about it that resonates or sheds light or gives it words that inspire awe, a sigh, a giggle. Right? This is true for the people we recommend -  the work they do - they inspire us?

I haven't spent much time with poems lately, but I hear them in my head, and my daughter's speech comes tumbling out of her in a poetic manner at times.

Last night....
2.5 year old: the ocean wants to wear a birthday hat.
Me: The ocean, Mags? What do you mean?
M: The ocean. The big water. It's going to the party and needs a birthday hat.

Back story: We were going to a monthly gathering of my friends, which she thinks of as a party,  which she associates with birthdays, which she associates with party hats, which always means everyone needs to have a birthday hat on.... But the ocean? She was waking from a nap when she said it, snuggling with her blanket. I know this precious bundle of yarn has taken on many identities. --It's often a horsey she rides or a baby who is crying and needs its mommy, and at least once, I've heard her refer to it as "the ocean." And so, of course: the ocean wanted to wear a birthday hat. *sigh* *smile* A poetic line from my daughter. It tickled me.

Anyway. I like this latest poem, "Dark Charms"  though I don't really know what it's all about. I was just struck by how she plays with the idea of the future  -- its advancements manifest and reveal our aging... ultimately, it takes the poet (and us) to her (our) past...?

We continue to speak, if only in whispers,
to something inside us that longs to be named.

For me, this thing whispering, wanting to be named, is my childhood, is my history, is my growing up and fashioning me into Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde. Question: What inside you wants to be named? What inside any of us desires language?

We name it the past and drag it behind us,
bag like a lung filled with shadow and song,
dreams of running, the keys to lost names.

If there was any phrase in this whole poem that made me think it might appeal to you, I guess its the idea of dragging the past around like a bag, like a lung. Whew.

This is a sweet exercise for me this morning. I hope you enjoyed this, or are inspired to pick up a Dorianne Laux poem!

Peace! Happy New Year! Read on!

A month into this grief business: Finding gifts

Welcoming Xavier Jean Kiemde -- September 13, 2012

I woke up last Thursday morning and had this thought, "It was four weeks ago today that we met Xavi." My day, really my entire week, has been marked by this month anniversary of his arrival.

"I had a son..."

These words have the ability to break open my heart all over again...

"The mind, in such pain and turmoil, is seeking comfort and meaning. In Victor Krankl's book "Man's Search for Meaning" he tells us that in the worst circumstances humans face, the ones who survive are those who can find meaning in their suffering."

I see Xavi's tiny body, smell his newborn skin, think of the ways that Francois and I marked his very brief time with us;  I cry and I laugh recalling it all. His squeaks-- taking in air; his warm skin next to mine; his 3 pound 9 oz frame that struck me with its perfections. Hello toes. Hi fingers. Hi little nose and dark hair. Even his omphalocele felt perfect -- like an extension of umbilical cord that we dressed with his diaper -- not at all daunting or scary, as I had envisioned it might be. His 29 week old body that we bathed, anointed in oil, baptized and loved completely: all God's; so Melissa's and Francois'.

In the time that has passed since we met Xavi, I have marveled at the graces afforded us in this grieving process. (The family and faith friends showing up at the hospital, our amazing neighbors showering us with food and flowers and support; the concentric circles of  blessed beings enveloping us at Xavi's funeral; all a demonstration of community, of love, of people to be with in grief and in our next steps of joy, recovery, hope.)

I should maybe back up -- I need to say that I marvel at the graces afforded us since the start of this journey conceiving and bringing Baby Boy Kiemde to the earth! In hindsight, it is all gift, all love and mystery wrapped in this tiny, precious being who lived for one hour inside the walls of United Hospital, after he blessed me for 29 weeks growing in my belly -- and lives on in our hearts, minds, and the blessed realm of angels.

I believe that with our son's brief life has come a transformational opportunity to heal wounds that have been debilitating for both me and my husband.  

How long did I dream of a son? For how many years has Francois imagined himself a father to a boy? And for this desire to come to pass in such a fashion? It is both a cruelty coupled with an unfathomable gift of fate, methinks...

I say "gift" over and over these days, when I think of Xavi's brief life, because I think of all the ways that I have known love and calling coupled with sorrow and loss in my life. I can make a list of ways that I have felt, beyond reason and without a doubt, called to love and be present in specific ways that have ultimately not played out in a manner that I had hoped or desired. (Do you remember when I taught high school? Do you recall the non-profit I started and folded? Who remembers the early days of me crashing vehicle after vehicle? Shall we reflect on the way I have loved tequila in my life? How about men?)

I can count the ways that I have felt myself to be a kind of failure, or to have failed in my work or role or relational stance. To conceive a child and then learn of his many fetal anomalies resulting in literal death is of course the biggest doozy of fathomable failing -- at least in my book. But is any of this thinking really helpful? No. Not if you want to live happy and upright...

Xavi's birth and death has been gift because it has helped me grieve --quite publicly, transparently, with all of you --all that I haven't been able to fully grieve in my 43 years. (Shoot, the way I live and believe and process -- weeping and simultaneously laughing -- I imagine I might be grieving for a whole host of family members whose stories are stored somewhere in my bones!)  I think of all that is encoded in the cells of my being; I believe that with our son's brief life has come a transformational opportunity to heal wounds that have been debilitating for both me and my husband.

Xavi was born at 8:03 am on Thursday, September 13, 2012. He died at 9:03am.  At around 5:30pm on Friday, September 14, I handed his body over to the mortician who came personally to my room to receive him. During the hours in between, I got to hold his precious body against my own. Breathe him in. Bond as any mother and child do beyond the embrace of womb. And in that time, I got to sigh, laugh, smile, weep, and utter sounds of grief that only feel possible in a primal loss sort of way.  I released sorrow from the very bottom of my soul that I believe could have been stored there for centuries.
Mother.
Dead child.
Arms.
Open mouth.
Ache.

In those hours of holding Xavi's body, I couldn't fathom letting him go to be buried. I had just gotten him; there was no possible way in my mind that anyone could take him from me. I believe with all my heart, this side of the experience, that each hour I held him was akin to a year of my life where I had known loss (shame even?) unprocessed. In all of his precious body was the promise I had clinged to of a career; a new life, a love, a way of leading and inspiring change that I didn't get to see fully realized -- at least not according to my own visions.

Taking Xavier to the hospital chapel and presenting him to God in that formal space was a key point in letting him go. While his spirit was released hours before in his literal death, it took me - as his mom - more than a day to catch up and embrace the way his body could simultaneously go...

With special permission of hospital nurses and security, my friends Brigid and Marianna accompanied me with Xavi in my arms, under a blanket, from the 2nd to the 4th floor. They wheeled us into the chapel and placed me with my son beneath an icon of Mary and Jesus. There, for maybe twenty minutes, a half hour, hour? -  I listened. I sat, cried, giggled, and tuned into the way that I heard Xavi speaking to me, alongside God, reassuring me of a presence beyond this physical realm, experiencing a joy possible only, in my mind, beyond the limitation of our human selves.  I got instructions from my son and God as to what to do next.

In that space, I knew Xavi's spirit beyond the room. I could "see" him as a toddler; then as a four or five year old curly headed wonder, all rough and tumble boy. He was wearing jeans and red sneakers, a striped shirt with numbers. All around him were happy, licking puppies and non-threatening bouncing balls. He was laughing and told me, "Mom, Heaven rocks."  I giggled with these sacred images of son; I still cling to them as inspired, transformational memories that communicate happiness and inform a deep peace in my heart.

When I looked back down at his anointed body resting in my lap, I felt his limbs cool to my touch, and saw his omphalocele pulling back from his skin. His physical self was giving way; and I knew that I didn't have to cling to him in this form.

"I'm here mom, in your heart, in your mind. I do not live in that body. You don't have to let me go, ever, because I'm here."

With that, I knew I could hand over his physical form.

And a month later, I can see that most difficult moment as a graced one guiding me in all of my grief. We receive, we let go. Xavi's life was not to be defined by me, or contained in my human hopes or maternal longings. He came as a gift, not unlike every other gift of Love we have received in our lives. Francois and I had this privilege of conceiving him, of bearing his life, his gentleness, his imperfect perfection -- into this realm. And we are transformed because of the journey.

***

On the anniversary morning that all these thoughts started to take shape, I was giving our two year old daughter a bath. Instead of our ritual wrapped-in-a-duck-towel-snuggling post suds, Marguerite stepped out of the tub and put her hands on my head in a blessing fashion.  Did she hear all of these reflections tumbling around in my heart and mind? Did she sense my desire to honor her brother Xavi with some kind of contemplative prose? Who knows. But Thursday morning, four weeks after her brother's birth and baptism, in all of her own naked wonder, Mags placed her still wet palms on my forehead and said, "Bless you, mamma."

Indeed. I am blessed. We all are. We know such fierce love.

“Spirits” by Birago Diop

Xavier Jean Kiemde, September 13, 2012

The following poem is deeply moving to me. I first heard it in the hospital room on the evening of my son's birth and subsequent passing. My husband and another dear friend from West Africa were reciting it in French. The words ring true to my heart and help me celebrate Xavi's brief, precious life here on earth and his presence still in the spirit realm. I love thinking of him "in the trembling of the trees, in the water that runs..in the bush that is singing, in the voice of the fire" -- as Diop suggests. Amen.

Spirits

by Birago Diop

Listen to Things
More often than Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the sighs of the bush;
This is the ancestors breathing.

Those who are dead are not ever gone;
They are in the darkness that grows lighter
And in the darkness that grows darker.
The dead are not down in the earth;
They are in the trembling of the trees
In the groaning of the woods,
In the water that runs,
In the water that sleeps,
They are in the hut, they are in the crowd:
The dead are not dead.

Listen to things
More often than beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the bush that is sighing:
This is the breathing of ancestors,
Who have not gone away
Who are not under earth
Who are not really dead.

Those who are dead are not ever gone;
They are in a woman’s breast,
In the wailing of a child,
And the burning of a log,
In the moaning rock,
In the weeping grasses,
In the forest and the home.
The dead are not dead.

Listen more often
To Things than to Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind to
The bush that is sobbing:
This is the ancestors breathing.

Each day they renew ancient bonds,
Ancient bonds that hold fast
Binding our lot to their law,
To the will of the spirits stronger than we
To the spell of our dead who are not really dead,
Whose covenant binds us to life,
Whose authority binds to their will,
The will of the spirits that stir
In the bed of the river, on the banks of the river,
The breathing of spirits
Who moan in the rocks and weep in the grasses.

Spirits inhabit
The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits much stronger than we,
The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the dead who are not really gone,
Of the dead now no more in the earth.

Listen to Things
More often than Beings,
Hear the voice of fire,
Hear the voice of water.
Listen in the wind,
To the bush that is sobbing:
This is the ancestors, breathing.

 
Source: The Negritude Poets, ed. Ellen Conroy Kennedy. New York: Thunder’s Mouth Press, 1989.
 

The Sanctity of Gay Marriage: Procreation Through Another Lens

I want all people who are called to marry to be able to do so,  both within and beyond the borders of church. I am grateful that the cultural tide is shifting where same sex unions are considered. I'd like to advocate within my own Catholic faith community, however, for an expanded definition of marriage in the sacramental sense which includes gay and lesbian brothers and sisters. The following conveys some of my thinking about this topic of marriage as sacred, unitive and procreative for all called into it. I am writing for members of my Catholic faith community who are discerning this issue in both civil and religious contexts.

If you love well, no matter who you are or what your orientation, you have the ability to inspire and create a more loving world. Love begets love, right?

I think of this wild, amazing God who made my body, and all bodies, and created us to love. He gave us all these unique parts -- to touch, to kiss, to hold, to embrace, to intersect, connect, interconnect and even the capacity, especially in sacred and holy unions, to transcend our limbs and glimpse Him in our love-making. Every reflective and religious man or woman I know who has had the opportunity to be loved in a physically and spiritually honoring manner, inside a deeply caring relationship, talks about the ineffable experiences that are the result of God’s gift to us when we make love. These are generative experiences that inspire our capacity to love more, to give more, to serve more, to live Christ more, in a humble and honoring fashion. These kinds of love-making experiences are not exclusive ones for heterosexuals. Gay and lesbian sexual experiences can be just as pro-creative, if you will, as heterosexual ones, if you expand the definition of creation possibilities to include acting creatively and in service beyond your bedroom. If you love well, no matter who you are or what your orientation, you have the ability to inspire and create a more loving world. Love begets love, right? (Consider the infertile heterosexual couple’s capacity to love and be procreative, and therefore okay morally, through this lens.)

I wonder: how does this thinking resonate within your heart?

Who are your gay or lesbian friends and family members? (Do you have a list of heterosexual ones?) What do they look like? Which "group" are you a member of? Do you have a hierarchical ranking in your heart or mind when you think of all these people? Who desires to be married civily AND religiously? (What are the benefits of each?)  What does a marriage in the eyes of God, affirmed by the church,  stir in you? What GLBT person sees their love, and capacity to love, as different from heterosexuals’ love? Who gets to decide whose vocation to love is inferior or superior? What does God say to you in your heart when you think on this? Does he whisper differently into the heart of a gay man or lesbian woman?

I keep hearing in my prayers, in the quiet of my own heart, as a Catholic woman, that I’m called to love and support other people in their vocations to love with their whole heart, mind and body. I am working to this end right here, as I write, pray, and advocate for marriage equality.

I do ask for your prayers. This is tough, messy stuff.

Life Cycles

Standing in community: Balm for heartache

I have been carrying around an enormous amount of ache in the last 24 hours, and going unnamed or processed it feels harmful to my own spirit, or certainly not helpful for my psyche and my capacity to parent or partner well. I turn here to identify this sadness and describe what has (or is) transpiring, with the hope that in doing so, some of this will be transformed and or eased.

A couple of weeks ago, at the end of a discernment class that I help co-facilitate at a catholic, urban spirituality center, two participants requested some special prayers for a newly born child who was on life support. While I had no connection to this babe, my friends did, and entering into the sacred space of quiet and love-filled silence required nothing, save for my sincere intention. Yesterday, at lunch, with two mom friends in relationship with this child's parents, and one of the catholic nuns we all work with, we learned that the child passed away. She had been taken off life support on Wednesday, began breathing on her own, and then abruptly died on Thursday.

In the same lunch/ work space, with  this news arriving via text message and shattering the calm and ease of our cohort, came tears and a request for further prayers. Sr. Mary* lead us quietly in a beautiful reflection on this child's passing, imagining her ease into Heaven, her arrival into the arms of ancestors and angels, and asking the God we all believe in to hold the family closely, guiding them in their grief and gratitude for this little girl's brief life.

I sat at our corner table, feeling tucked and safe with my friends, but wildly open and vulnerable in my heart and whole body. Days away from celebrating my own daughter's second birthday, and thinking of the small being growing inside my own belly, (for those who may not know I am 10 weeks pregnant) I thought I might crack in half with sorrow for this kind of loss of life.

Within moments of this news, Sr. Mary shared a tale from her own northside community that involved another kind of ache and loss simultaneously being experienced across town. She told us of a mother who she has known for years who was, that afternoon, giving her newborn daughter up for adoption. The why of it was not fully disclosed, but details of this mother's other, OLDER children --  six and 8 years,  begging for their mom to bring the baby home - were again enough to send me over the edge.

Yes, the mom is an addict.
No, this wasn't the first child she'd given up.
Yes, she was in darkness and despair.
No, the older kids were not doing well -- stepping into a space to caretake for their mother.

I immediately thought of a lesbian couple I know who have adopted three children -- all with special needs, two from the same mom, both of them born addicted to narcotics. I saw their sweet faces and robust smiles and snapshots of arms wrapped around their tiny frames -- all so loved.

I was angry and grateful and overwhelmed all in one breath.

"Man, is God busy today" were the words that came quietly out of my mouth toward Sister Mary. She nodded and smiled, "yes."

My friends processed a bit of their own immediate grief over the death of the daughter that they knew personally, and tears flowed as they considered the way their own children's knowledge of this passing would bring them so much closer to their own mortality and questions of life, death, vulnerability, God, uncertainty, and the fragility of life.

I listened to these moms reflect on ways that they would parent through this time, addressing their 4, 5 and 7 year olds' fears, and considering the larger community that they have in common and will journey with as adult friends.

We moved through our lunch and planning meeting in stops and starts, and I personally was grateful for the distraction of our work tasks at hand.

After my colleagues left, I turned to email and other to-dos, and almost immediately got another note that was a blow to my heart and mind. My long time friend, colleague and teaching mentor sent an email to share that her sister had died suddenly the day before, completely unexpectedly - and so no, she wouldn't be able to make our monthly date for dinner.

WHAT?

***
Today, at ECFE (Early Childhood Family Education), we gathered in a circle with Teacher Todd for songs and stories and up on the whiteboard behind him was a penned obituary for the guinea pig that had died a few days ago. (Even this classroom pet was not safe from the cycle of life playing out!) 

The levity in my morning, and balm for all this ache and woe, came in fact from one small child named Lily, who confided in me near the guinea pig's cage while feeding the other remaining pet a carrot: "She went to guinea pig heaven, you know?" I nodded, in awe at this child's capacity to state so clearly what had happened and why the cage was a bit emptier. After a brief pause, she looked at me, shook her head, and uttered one more word, "Shoot."

Next to this large classroom cage, with one lonely guinea pig being plied with straw and carrots --like any good family-survivor-in-mourning household would be --I acknowledged my own broken, grieving heart and gave thanks for this space.

"Shoot" is a very appropriate response for it all.

***
Thanks for being on the receiving end of this reflection. Please keep all families who know loss and death at this time in your thoughts, as images of love, largeness, community,  life-cycles, especially birth, buoy us, and remind us of the circles that envelop and permeate our existence, and perpetuate and transform our hearts and minds.

LOVE,
Melissa

*not her real name.

Guacamole and God: A bit on Parenting my Toddler

by Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

Being a mother is the hardest role I have ever taken on (save, being a wife!) I think most days I could go back to teaching at North High and find it a "cake walk" compared to mommyhood. My students in Minneapolis have nothing on Marguerite Kiemde in terms of inspiring intense emotion and the deepest sense of inadequacy within me. (Good thing I'm wildly in love with my daughter!)

Kiddo has been sick. Let's just acknowledge this fact. We are going on day six of Ms. K. suffering from a hacking cough, green-yellow-phlegm in her nose, and a whacked out eating and sleeping routine. I am trying to ride this wave of unwellness, by nurturing, supporting, parenting her in the best manner I know. (Stroller-rides in the sunshine, warm chicken broth, lots of songs and snuggling during the day and night.) Yet during several moments in this past week, I have admitted defeat. Her suffering I cannot alleviate, and this fact, coupled with my own plate full of desires/ dreams/ tasks to complete, makes me quake within my own sadness, anger, frustration and wall-hitting. Her suffering parallels and informs my own. And I wonder where to turn in such moments.

It just sucks being inadequate -- or feeling inadequate.

Yesterday, it was a packed up bowl of guacamole that my precious kiddo threw at me, hitting the side of my car, that started my descent into parenting-self-doubt hell. Tantrum? Yes, it was a tantrum. She was mad she had to get in the car. I have been "feeling" these deep emotional expressions of defiance (or passion?) since baby girl was six months old and arching her back and letting me know she was pissed, or wanted to be in charge.

I feel for her. I get on every level the desire to throw guacamole when you are mad. What I'm faced with now, is how to compassionately and boldly parent in the face of what I understand.

I can add to the guacamole break down. Any moments of "no" or "redirection" (shoot, even a cheerful hello when she's engrossed in something else) this toddler takes personally, falling into a puddle of tears. She closes her eyes, opens her mouth, the snot pours out of her nose, and she wails. Tears stream down her face. I can count all her teeth during these moments. I imagine her experiencing utter rejection in these minutes; her expectations of the world are not being met with a desired response. Mom's and other's expectations or desires are threatening to her very core, and this brings on the tears.

Today, both my neighbor and a church friend were met by Maggie's hysterical outbreaks when they warmly greeted her. Did kiddo not hear the friendly tone in their voices? Did she mis-interpret their words? Were their "Hey Maggies!" translated into requests for something that she wasn't able to deliver on? I am plagued on this count. I wonder, "Why the broken heart, kiddo?"

With closed eyes, then, and outstretched arms, my daughter begins walking towards me in such moments of despair. She's like a blind zombie baby moving desperately in my direction. I try to embrace her need, without overdoing the coddle. I try not to laugh. And I ask myself: "Do I really need to 'save' her from these moments?" Ack! This is the parenting rub I'm currently up against!

My spiritual self sees these moments of angst and emotion akin to my own melt-down moments, sans the adult filter. My child acts out physically in a manner that I think perfectly expresses what I am doing inside on a faith level with God. Wailing. Eyes closed. Arms outstretched. Blind. Trying to find comfort or security or a saving grace.

So in my inadequacy as a parent, I take a deep breathe and try to tune in. I may comfort, reassure kiddo, but really its not my comfort to give. I believe with all my heart that within Marguerite, within all of us, is the Divine indwelling, that can provide a peace not found anywhere else. Question is: how do I teach her to tune into this kind of love?

My friend Lisa, witness to one of these outbreaks today, who works with kids all day long, said, "Ah, give her some toys. She will cry. She will learn to self-soothe."

I agree. And I pray. I hope for the "God-soothing" wisdom and instinct to develop and be re-inforced as she grows. May the moments of heart-ache that Marguerite experiences teach her about the world, about her own desire, and may she find a balm within her, a song that carries her into the next moment of love.


Photos by Louisa Marion Photography

On Structure: Inviting a Framework for Healthy Living

Some days I miss teaching. Rather, I miss the rhythms and order of the school day. I crave the structure inherent in a formal educational setting, complete with an early rising, mapped lesson plans, the ringing of the school bell, and allotted time for lunch, further prep and recess. I marvel reflecting on the discipline required by this profession to have learning objectives and a curriculum laid out that guide each class of learners, and me as their teacher/ facilitator. I miss this kind of framework for my daily life, as well as my role in helping co-create this structure.

As a mom who works part time professionally from home -- and coffee shops-- I need this kind of structure for my sanity, productivity, and well-being. However, this marked rhythm of the day often eludes me. With a beautiful small child at the center of my priorities and focus comes the needs of this little wonder and her own body's growing, changing requirements and evolving temperament. Life changes from day to day. As the old adage goes: the minute you get comfortable knowing your child and their needs, he or she changes.

Marguerite is a good little sleeper by all accounts. There is no question we were blessed by a combination of her disposition and some intentional parenting advice that gave rise to a fairly healthy sleep routine. Kiddo goes down consistently between 7:30pm and 8pm and 9 nights of out 10 stays happily put until 7:30am the next morning. (I'll admit that 7:30am is even EARLY for her to wake, and it's more like 8:30am or 9am when her father or I lift her out of the crib.) It's that tenth evening out of ten, however, when baby girl rears her head towards sleep -- is so engaged in some new piece of learning -- that her spirit demands further awake time, or better yet, more contact time with mom, and things have to shift. My life and rhythms have to shift.

This is parenting, this is a role I have prepped for -- consciously, or unconsciously -- all my adult days. This life is hard.

Add that my dear husband's schedule has changed from week to week for the past 105 that we have been married, and you may begin to fathom my knee-wobbling, weary status. "When do you go to work? When are we having a meal together? Will I see you in bed tonight? Are we able to attend mass together? Do you think we might be able to go out on a date next week?" Nothing is ever really consistent. On Thursday, Mr. Kiemde learns about his Saturday's schedule. Planning ahead is virtually impossible. Add some rocking college courses to the mix of our lives and his schedule, and it all adds up to create a challenging life that invites me to live, most often, ungrounded, but in the present moment.

I hold the needs of my husband and daughter in the center of my heart, and respond accordingly. It's not unlike education in that regard, in that I find my priorities falling behind those of the dear ones that I feel called to be present to, and in the case of family, made a lifetime commitment to.

Enter: The Visitation Sisters. Enter these religious women who have also made a lifetime commitment to Love, to one another, and to God, but whose order of the day is grounded in prayer. Four times a day these nuns convene to pray the liturgy of the hours, to tune into what scripture is saying to them, and unpack their lives through the lens of Love, of God, of inspired Word. It's awesome. I believe this is certainly why I feel called, over and over again, to return to the monastery, to be among the sisters and pray.

Recently, I made a commitment to return to a weekly structured prayer time in the vicinity of the Sisters. The Centering Prayer group that convenes every Tuesday morning at 7:45am at St.. Jane House under the auspices of Vis Companion, Brian Mogren, has rejuvenated me.

I rise -well before my body normally wakes- to shower, dress in the dark, and creep out the door to make my way in early morning rush hour traffic from St. Paul to north Minneapolis, in order to join a group of 15 to 20 or so other friends in silent prayer. Some days I'm able to enter the space during a storytelling time, when a member of the Centering Prayer community is sharing a narrative about their faith journey; I listen and am inspired. Then, with the ringing of a singing bowl announcing the start of prayer, and some intentional words guiding our silent meditation, we enter into the quiet. For twenty minutes I breathe in and out with nothing save the goal to empty myself and make way to tune into the Divine Indwelling. I sit within this circle of aligned individuals from various faith traditions who likewise crave quiet, order, an emptying of all personal agenda, except to Love, Heal, Be. In a word, it's "awesome." At the end of twenty minutes (which goes all to quickly for this aspiring prayer-warrior), another bell rings, and individuals speak aloud prayerful intentions that have surfaced in their meditation. Together, we are joined as individuals in the world with all other prayerful beings around the globe as we give voice to what is in our hearts, or even silently, as we offer these thoughts to a benevolent Creator and one another. Together, we slowly recite the Lord's Prayer, and by 8:30am, we are standing to go on about our day.

And this weekly structured activity is like my salvation. This is where I am able to turn over any and all concerns that plague me and give voice to my heart's deepest longings and largest joys. I celebrate that this group exists. I celebrate all that is necessary for each person to convene to actually convene. I recognize that it is not without some significant conversations and intentional actions on the part of my husband and I to make this weekly activity a possibility for me. I celebrate the way that this experience helps ground me, at least momentarily, in world where I feel so wobbly and crave stability and structure. I celebrate the way that this one activity every Tuesday morning inspires me as a wife, mom, and writer, tuning into the many ways that I am called to love, create and serve in this world.

***

I wonder how you are making structure, or find such parallel experiences or activity in your world?

Peace, Happy Contemplating,
Melissa

On Marriage, Love, Stories: An Invitation to Reflect

"It's my ongoing prayer for all men and women to lead lives that honor the way their hearts and God have called them to love. This includes being able to marry." --Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

I attended a gathering of families and friends on Sunday evening, November 6, 2011, marking the beginning of a year long campaign to celebrate marriage equality. There was food, kid friendly activities, and a short program on the MN United for All Families campaign to defeat the "Marriage Amendment", defining marriage as between one man and one woman. A Catholic neighbor of mine invited me to the event. It was at this gathering that each person present received another invitation. Our host, before her 30 or so guests -- all standing or seated next to each other around the periphery of the living, dining and entryways of her home -- said, "I invite you to tell your stories of what marriage means to you. Don't point or refer to large groups of people in general, tell your story. Make it personal. Share something that can be said in six words, or up to six minutes; think of what you might be able to convey to someone, for example, riding on an elevator with you."

"I invite you to tell your stories of what marriage means to you. Don't point or refer to large groups of people in general, tell your story. Make it personal. Share something that can be said in six words, or up to six minutes..."

The prompt gave me pause, made me smile, and stirred something deep within me that longs to talk about this issue, especially as it relates to my faith, my family, and how I'm called to live love, or "Live + Jesus!" as we say.

Marriage is the transformational vocation I received to live my life committed to one other person, a radical action in any time, in my opinion, evolutionary in its charge. I believe God called me to this institution and to my husband, Francois, just as He called and calls me over and over again to serve others in and through relational ways. Marriage is hard work, no matter who you are or what your sexual orientation is. It's something my partner and I return to daily as we tune into the ways God invites us to love and be gentle and nurturing with one another. I could not do this work without a community of people alongside me, helping model and remind me of Love's mystery, grace and on-going call. The Visitation Sisters, the Catholic women I am a companion to, are such a community of nurturing, religious women, who help anchor me in the ways I've been called to love, partner and serve, as they live their faith and the mystery of the Visitation, fostering mutual love alliances at every turn.

It's my ongoing prayer for all men and women to lead lives that honor the way their hearts and God have called them to love. This includes being able to marry.

Our daughter's godfather is a beautiful Catholic man - who happens to be gay. We chose Zac to serve in this baptismal role for Marguerite because of his gentleness, wisdom, humor, and dedication to his faith. We believe he is a model of God's love in our midst: a God-father for our child in the fullest sense. If Zac is called to marry, and be a father to his own children, we want nothing less for him, as a Catholic family, but to have his heart and calling honored by our larger church and civic communities. We want him to be able to have the love and support that we so need in living out our vocations.

And so we pray. We invite you to share your own stories of what marriage means to you.

******

I share this post here today as a Visitation Companion, as part of my call to write about - and for - women and men discerning their vocations and the way that they may be called in a religious Catholic tradition, as well as in a larger, universal sense -- honoring the Salesian tradition that the Visitation founders - Sts. Francis de Sales and Jane de Chantal - modeled for us.

Fried Green Tomato Church

by Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

After an incredibly trying church service (in which the newly walking Marguerite Kiemde strutted her developmental stuff, doing laps to the front of the church to the choir, out the side door to the street, around the corner to the front steps, toddling up and back inside, and then repeating the entire procedure with me closely behind, celebrating her steps, trying to stay calm, and avoid any judgmental? stares.) If you can imagine: I came home a bit beleaguered.

(How to parent in church? What does an enriching mass experience look like for a young family without a cry room or child-care center? What fine line exists between cultivating a child's physical/ emotional/ developmental stages appropriately, alongside her spiritual sensibilities? If I am not "fed" spiritually, as my child's mom, how do I ever nurture my babe?... That's another blog in and of itself!)

I turn to how Mags and I made "church" at home, after our early departure from Ascension (post-homily/ pre-Eucharist.) In a phrase we found God in: Fried. Green. Tomatoes.
YES!

This past week on facebook there was a whole strand about this delicious summer fare that included several exchanges from my Aunts Marian and Peg and their Osmond/Colorado friend Audrey Wanke Dummer. I asked for recipe ideas, and I got them. And today, after the above described nearly God-less mass, I came home and adapted these cooking ideas, using fresh green tomatoes from my own garden, and tried to channel as much love and family and Jesus as I could into the experience.

I share these recipes with you now, smiling, with a sleeping baby; both she and I with full, happy bellies.

Fried Green Tomatoes
4-6 hard, green tomatoes
Buttermilk
Flour
Panko crumbs
Cayenne Pepper
Garlic Salt
Bacon grease

I began by frying a half a pound of applewood smoked bacon in a skillet. Once browned and crisped, I removed the bacon, placing it on a large paper-towel lined platter, that I would use for the fried tomatoes. I reserved the hot bacon drippings for frying my green tomatoes.

I cut the tomatoes pretty thin, between 1/8 and a 1/4 inches, salting them, and then soaking them in buttermilk, covering them in the cayenne pepper/ garlic salt flour mixture, and adding panko crumbs for extra crunch, before putting each in the hot bacon fat. I was working this assembly line as quickly as possible with messy fingers, and thanking God for a content Marguerite in her high chair (eating a banana and playing with a clean feta cheese container.)

I fried these till they were golden brown, and appreciated the way bits of bacon adhered to the panko crust. Delish!!

Sweet Onion Relish Sauce
Half of a sweet onion, chopped and cubed
1/2 cup mayonnaise
3 Tablespoons rice wine vinegar
Salt

Note: I totally ripped this recipe off from Paula Deen, when I was doing research for the best item to accompany said green tomatoes. (Buttermilk dressing? Spicy mustard? In a sandwich? I didn't know how exactly I was going to EAT the tomatoes once fried.) This sauce rocked!

Paula adds sugar to hers; I didn't. I prepared this onion mixture and served it next to the tomatoes. Maggie then climbed up on my lap and we gobbled up the dish. (Well, mostly, I gobbled up, and she alternated showing me her shoeless and shoed foot.)

***

"How is this church?" you might persist in wondering. To this query, I respond, channeling my best St. Francis de Sales thinking: that all small actions, done with love, are prayerful ones. I add that when we couple prayerful activity --our intentions directed toward God-- with the company of family, friends, angels, saints, are we not in deed experiencing a kind of church?

Today, I experienced service in a literal way, at Church of the Ascension in north Minneapolis, (in all of its parenting complexity) alongside a more figurative celebration: in my kitchen and at my dining table with my daughter, and the company of women and men who have grown and prepared fried green tomatoes in our family. It was a most nurturing kind of meal that buoys who I am as parent.

AMEN.

"Be still and BE:" Gentleness on the Front Lines of Parenting

"Be still and BE."

I'm spending time with the St. Francis de Sales these days. His words on gentleness, and examples of this way of being, are continually emerging in my life; combined with the line "Be still and BE" that I received in an email this morning, this all speaks loudly to my heart and mind.

A simple Salesian phrase from the Visitation Sisters' co-founder that feels connected to this line comes to mind:

"All is gentle to the gentle." --St Francis de Sales (LR VI 28)

I believe that when we allow stillness, simple breathing and an emptying of our hearts and minds to occur, that a gentleness may wash over us.

***

In the midst of my scrambling this morning, sad from an exchange with my husband that simply didn't go the way that I wanted, the effervescent Marguerite spilled over a glass of raspberry iced tea that I had left out. The contents landed on me, my white shirt, light green pants, and some of her "new" garage sale clothes that had recently been laundered: white and khaki items now turned pink-colored.

I swore, and then started crying. I don't like my child to experience me in such a state, but it is my humanity at work, and so what else is there, but to then be gentle with myself, her and respond as I am able. In the moment, I placed my 15 month old daughter in her high chair, and took all the soiled linens to the basement and sprayed them with stain remover.

When I returned, she was staring at me, and all I could see were the piles of dirty dishes in the sink, the unwashed countertops, an ajar back door: things that needed my attention. I was even more mad. And still: crying.

I could hear this Salesian priest speak to me: The more mercy we require, the more we receive.

I spoke to the knives in the kitchen drawer: I need a lot of mercy right now! Patience! Gentleness! Please?

And my child stood in her high chair, reaching her arms out to me.

That was two and a half hours ago. It's amazing what moving through moments, consciously, prayerfully, full of angst is all about.

"Be still and BE."
AMEN.

--
Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde,
Visitation Companion

Marguerite Meditation...

by Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

I am daily in awe of this small child that I call my daughter, Marguerite Marie Kiemde. Born May 22, 2010, at St. Joe's hospital in downtown St. Paul, MN, to Francois Kiemde and I, this little girl is rapidly emerging as a fiercely independent, dancing, lunging, walking, willful wonder. I pause this day to reflect a bit on her growth, personality, and all that she's tickling in me.

Social, cognitive, physical, and maybe spiritual developments rattle inside my brain:
--"Hi" is Marguerite's favorite word, used to greet us daily when we enter her room, along with every human being, or creature, who passes by. "Hi. Hi. Hi. HI." She will repeat this single syllable word incessantly as a delighted salutation, as well as a way to mean, "But can I have some more kefir?" Or "Toby, will you give me that toy?" or "Daddy, turn and look at me while I eat my cheese raviolis?!"

--Long gone is the once uttered "Bye bye" as Marguerite seemingly stands firmly in the present and the constant celebration of people arriving, rather than departing. (Note: She will wave when I say "Au revoir", but refuses to speak the b-consonant-sound and word.)

--Her friend Lisa Michaels taught her to "high five" and "blow kisses" one afternoon, and, as Ms. Michaels' insists, "to send text messages." This makes us all laugh and giggle with our communicating wonder.

--Coupled lately with the repeated "Hi" is another favorite word, "daddy." Daddy is everywhere. I marveled -- while sitting in mass yesterday -- that perhaps this was one of the those words and child-inspiring lessons, where I was being invited, through my daughter, to truly meditate on the Divine in our midst. "Daddy" in the apple. "Daddy" in the cat. "Daddy" in the trees. "Daddy" in the picture of me as a baby girl. Daddy, as in a masculine father/ Creator -- a God that I believe completely in, and that she seems to see everywhere, and greets joyfully over and over: "Hi, hi, hi...HI daddy!" She received a ceramic cross plaque at her baptism that reads, "God created everything, butterflies and birds that sing, the sun above and sky so blue, but best of all, God created you." She reads this above her changing table, points to herself, points to the cross and says, "daddy." It makes me smile.

***

--Whilst big sister Gabby visited us for three weeks this summer, other developments surfaced in our family's social interactions. As Mags insisted on pointing repeatedly to my nose one day, I asked, "Can you show mommy your eyes?" To which she immediately responded by placing her finger next to her eye. Gabby and I about fell over laughing, and in awe of what she seemed to understand us asking.

--The emergence of a new dance-like move -before going to bed one eve - delighted me to no end, and has since been seen in her daily movement vocabulary. Little girl tilts her head to her shoulder and then pops her arm and wrist, twirling her hand in such a way: you'd think she was going to attempt some pop and lock move.



--Gabby's morning routine greeting her baby sister undoubtedly was a highlight of her stay, having a developmental impact on Mags. The elder Kiemde girl would come in to Marguerite's crib area, and sing "Hello" snapping her fingers, twirling, shaking parts of her body that aren't possible to move so seamlessly in this mom. Maggie immediately tried to mimic the snap, pressing her tiny thumb and first two fingers together and giggling. (There's nothing quite so inspiring as this kind of non-verbal interaction between sisters. It's priceless!)

--Going down for her daily nap or to sleep at night includes the activity that has me most by the heart strings, as I observe and reflect on my baby girls' relationship with words and images in our book-reading ritual. My daughter's recognition of her own name, written in a book, is what has me baffled lately. We are sitting in her bedroom rocking chair, me holding her on my lap, she holding her favorite nursery rhyme book. I am reading the second page of the text where the line reads: "This book belongs to...." with Ms. Kiemde's name spelled out in cursive letters, and as I do so, she looks up at me, then back at the page, points to the line, and then points to herself.
I am blown away.

--My final note on Marguerite's development stems from her upright, physical movement. While many of you received the video of her first day walking, it's actually her climbing of steps, that has me more in awe and taking note. She bounds up staircases. There's no "on your knees" forward motion, but, with her hands reaching for mom or dad, the most confident approach to going up: one foot on a step following another. She will get so excited about this process, that her whole body will become parallel to the floor with her fast footwork forward. Step. Step. Step.

I have told her father, and other family members: we cannot criticize this child for her big movements. She is excited; let this be every indication that her spirit and dreams in life are large stepping ones; we are not to dash her ambitions or dreams about moving in any direction! (Especially as she boldly proclaims, "Hi daddy!" with each step.)

Happy developmental contemplations -- as we all reflect on our physical, emotional, cognitive and spiritual growth journeys!

Juxtaposition: Embrace

The above photographs were taken of Francois Kiemde and me during the past week. The first was shot on June 1, 2011, at Bethel College, at Francois' swearing-in-as-a-US-Citizen ceremony. Our friend, Alisa Blackwood Nelson was on hand to help document the day. The second was shot on Sunday, June 5, 2011, outside the Church of St. Philip in north Minneapolis. A reporter from the Star Tribune captured this moment just seconds after Fr. Dale Korogi officially declared my church of the past twelve years closed.

These images give me pause. They strike me as similar in subject matter, given that each features an embrace. In the former, I'm embracing Mr. Kiemde, in the latter, he's comforting me as our daughter reaches out to touch my arm. Both capture emotionally charged moments; one of joy, the other of incredible sorrow. Together, they feel like commentary to me on marriage. The way we support, envelop, wrap our arms around another and communicate presence, love.

I keep thinking of Sr. Mary Margaret's words to me so long ago in spiritual direction: When I fall in love, it will be an experience that challenges me to receive and be held in a new way. She talked about my future partner being someone who would nurture and support me in a manner that I had never known. Looking at this second picture: I see her words come true.

These images communicate the mutuality and gift of our marriage, our tenderness to one another. I'm grateful for the juxtaposition.

Tune into Tonight: CBS Evening News features Mary Johnson and O'shea Israel

Friends,
This evening on CBS Evening News, our friends Mary Johnson and O'shea Israel will be featured in a story about their tale as mother, son; mother and murderer; mother and forgiven man. I've written a bit at the Visitation Sisters' blog site about how this woman and man have so touched my heart and moved me deeply in expanding my faith and knowledge of the way grace and reconciliation occur. I invite you to tune in this evening and glimpse a bit of the tale of their lives and what has given shape to the way they work in this radical healing ministry of forgiveness and healing. Mary's outreach to the mothers and fathers of the young men and women who commit murder is what marks this ministry as truly unique, a gift to all who suffer in this realm of violence, death. Theirs is truly an inspiring tale to take in!

For more on Mary Johnson, O'shea Israel and "From Death to Life" healing ministries:

• Forgiving Her Son's Killer: 'Not An Easy Thing' (National Public Radio)
  

• In the News: St. Jane House Friends Mary and Oshea
  

• Claiming Connection: Finding Family, Hope and Faith with a Man who Committed Murder

• Encountering the Face of Forgiveness

• Contemplating the Holy Family
  

Peace, Blessings!
Melissa

Abundant Blessings: Home and more!

It's been sort of a red-letter month. (Or should I say a red-letter year?) My husband and I closed on our house, celebrated our baby girl's first birthday, Francois Kiemde was sworn in as a US Citizen, and just last night, we threw our first party, of what, I can imagine might be many.

RED. LETTER. TIMES. People!

My heart swells considering all that has occurred in our brief marriage and life together, all that has had to happen for us to be right here in this place. In a new dwelling. With beautiful girls that round out our family and expand the love we give and receive. Me, blogging for nuns in north Minneapolis, married to a baker from Burkina Faso, West Africa, and living in an old house in the Lex Ham neighborhood raising a family. If I ever, in my wildest imaginations could have fathomed that at 42 years of age, in June of 2011, that my life would look like this, I would have laughed heartily and said, "No way!"

But here we are.

And God is good.

Last night's soire is something that marks for me the flurry of life since my 40th birthday. (After selling my home of 15 years, going to Africa for 6 weeks, volunteering at my parish and finishing a book for teachers, returning to the public classrooms I left as a researcher, then meeting my husband, getting married 8 months later, and having a baby girl. It's been a whirlwind). Last night's party was truly a sort of ushering in, and anchoring of this new phase of life: marriage and motherhood, with a definite tribute to the abundance of love and support my husband and I have known in creating a home together.

Nuns were here. New neighbors came. Old arts education colleagues emerged. Our parenting friends and mentors joined us with their tikes. Fellow African and French allies honored us with their presence. Longtime loves convened with food, drink and stories. We were surrounded by a groundswell of good spirited people moving throughout our home: singing, drinking, dining on grilled yummies, being agents of love and blessings.

In short: it rocked.

Twenty four hours later, I need to just mark the fullness of it all, in this simple way, composing a post of gratitude. I extend this note to all who were able to join Francois, Marguerite and I in person at 1196 Selby, and say "thank you" to those who have been prayerfully blessing us from afar. We know and feel your love and support.

I'm really not sure any of these good things in our life would be happening without such a community of friends and people around us.

So: Thank you!

On behalf of Francois, Marguerite, and myself:
Love!

***

(Stay tuned for more pix!)

Celebrating a Door: Meditation on Home-Closing

We are trying to close on a house. Trying, I tell you. This is our first home as a family, and it is no small thing. The dwelling proper; the process of purchasing it; the path leading up to and through this very moment: none of it is without beauty, intensity, frustration and grace.

Our offer on the home was formally accepted on Ash Wednesday. We planned to close Easter Monday; the 40 days in between were not lost on me as a sort of prayerful opportunity to journey through Lent to this new dwelling, new way of life, so-to-speak, right? Acknowledging this alignment of purchasing the home with a Catholic, Christian journey toward Easter was silly initially; but at this juncture, let me tell you: it is crucial that I have this season to draw on, as I moment-to-moment, work to make my way through to the end and trust that a new life is here!

We were slated to close Monday. Easter Monday, as I said. The hour passed, however, when we were to be at the Title company. Underwriting still had our file late that afternoon, and we were not cleared to even close! (Confession: in some dark, scary part of our minds, a lingering thought existed that our financing would fall through, that we wouldn't actually be able to purchase this house. Why book a moving truck? Why pack a box? It was dark, I tell you.) But the hour passed, and around 5pm on Monday, we were given a list of a few more "To-Do's" so that we could close on Wednesday. Hooray!

****

It's Wednesday evening friends, as I write this, and let me tell you: we still do not have the keys to our house! But let me relay what has happened in the meantime.

Francois and I received a tiny gift in the wake of the delay, a gift that I'm happy to share with each of you.

In lieu of today's planned 2pm closing meeting, I went to the property with our realtor, Arlo, to check on the updated repair items. (We had requested a few things be addressed in our purchase agreement and wanted to follow up on them.) There, at the house, we had a surprise, when we met the carpenter responsible for doing 90% of the renovation work on the property. Jack is his name. Lovely fellow. Jack had stories about the house, its original layout and some of the changes they made to improve the place. ("Did you know the main floor had a full bathroom, but the door was right off the kitchen?" and "The back entryway used to be so narrow, you had to pass through sideways." and "They converted it from radiator to forced air heat and put in these vents." and "Let me show you how to get furniture up the third floor staircase." These were stories and information we wouldn't necessarily have ever been privy to without this chance meeting, eh?)

One of the frustrations around the renovation work that was completed was the realization that the original door to the basement was thrown away. We were informed, during the inspection phase of this process, that this door was long gone. As the new owners, with a small crawling child, we were put on a path to finding a new "salvaged door" or having one made especially to fit this unique space. (Menards estimated this cost initially between $300 and $400 - without the mill work completed.) We were set to ordering a custom made one - again for our daughter's safety, when I met Jack, today.

I asked him, "Hey, by any chance, do you know what happened to this door off the kitchen?"

He hemmed and hawed a bit, and then said, "Well, I think it might be in a dumpster on Burlington Street."

Of course!

Forty five minutes later, belly deep in renovation debris, (house siding, pink carpeting, kitchen cupboards, mountain dew cans, a fire place rack) someplace over in East St. Paul, Jack put his hands on the missing door! We wiped it down, put it in my car, and returned it to the porch of the property.

Had the house closed on time, would I ever have met this person? Would I have learned of the previous layouts? Would I have discovered the plumbing changes and trim "tricks" that this carpenter employed? Gleaned his sense of craftsmanship and pride in his work? No.

It was a gift! A "door" on many levels, don't you think?

****

For the record: I think this process of closing on a home is stressful for every single person involved. Everyone. From the loan officers to title people, agents, the underwriters, to say nothing of the seller and buyers, friends, family, people standing by to help. But in the midst of it all -- circumstances that feel jarring, violent at times with the anger, anxiety, frustration, uncertainty -- there's something awesome at work...

Do you agree?

Stay tuned for scenes from the next instillation of this Easter saga!

Contemplatively yours,
Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde

Love: The Biological Directive

My friend Pat Black posted these words on my facebook page this morning. I have to share them with more people. I plan to return and comment later. After I shower. And tend to household chores.

Humberto Maturano is a biologist. I love this guy's mind and what he brings to the understanding of the living. He describes love as a biological directive. He describes love as separate entities charged with their own self maintenance and life as joining and tying their individual maintenance with that of anothers. He suggests that in the evolution of complex beings, anything that is more than one cell, that love is the force that joined them. One can not move forward in life without the other's well being and maintenance also moving forward. Our edges of self are no longer an intact barrier to other. So I now think of failed love affairs as ones that could not bring this third being into life. This place where they overlap and become one. This new place that brings sustenance and the maintenance of being to two instead of one.

Maturano views this as a physiological relationship. He is not viewing it through a emotional lens since it is basic to life not just mammals.

Thoughts? Responses? I welcome them!

Teeth

Ms. Kiemde is cutting teeth -- four to be specific. Her top front teeth are coming in, followed by two tiny pearly whites flanking each side. Are they incisors? Eye teeth? I'm not certain of the proper names for these cuspids, but I am certain of what they are inspiring in my almost eleven-month old baby girl. I am observing new behaviors in this child. A new level of cranky. Fiesty. Furious. Feeling her power. Do you remember what your gums cracking open felt like? Having our insides split a bit to make way for new growth: it's difficult. The surface itches, aches, throbs. We bleed when we get new teeth.

I think the same might be said for most developmental processes in all humans. Teething is akin to growing, to adopting new ways of being; it's learning. Just as it is difficult to literally "birth" new teeth, I believe it is as hard for us to make way for any new thing to come forward in our lives. We itch. Ache. Throb. Maybe bleed a bit, too, in some regard.

Today, my prayers are for any and all who are teething - literally and figuratively. I am praying for babies, adults, teens, elders. I am holding images of new cuspids and precious gums in my child's mouth along with the way I am learning to practice being calm when I'm angry; a smile and deep breath are often just as difficult to come forward as these teeth.

I hope this finds you with patience for all that is trying to break the surface; I send good thoughts for all that is trying to emerge and become a helpful, visible new part of your being.

Happy Contemplating!
Melissa Borgmann-Kiemde,
Visitation Companion,
Mom, Wife, Lover, Writer, Contemplative at Work

Marguerite's Speech

Your baby's ability to vocalize is improving, and he may say his first word any time now. - BabyCenter

Ms. Kiemde is ten and a half months old and knocking our socks off!

In the past week, she has started to repeat the word "Daddy" -- incessantly. These consonants come easily to her, compared with the "M's" in say, her name, my name, and MOMMA!! It's all good, and highly entertaining. She has uttered audibly and distinctly the word "momma" on two occasions. Two, count them:

1. Whilst trying to teach Marguerite not to throw her food or utensils all on the floor when she's done, or bored, I instead invited her to "hand me nicely" the object in question. Last Sunday, during our first attempt at this behavior guidance, following Mag's 2nd tossing of her spoon, I picked up the object, placed it back on her high chair tray and said, "Can you give it to momma?" Jody Tigges was sitting next to us. Maggie took her spoon and with a big smile, put it sweetly in my hand and said, "Momma!" I about died. Ms. Tigges was a witness. I tried not to respond in an overly dramatic way, but said, "Thank you." and smiled. I believe Maggie and I were both grinning ear to ear.

It was our first request/ response "dialogue" or "conversation" - where it seemed she understood clearly my query and I got clearly - on two levels- her comprehension through spoken and physical gestures.

PARTY TIME!

2. Last night in the car, coming home from a visit to our new home, Maggie was practicing her daddy speech. As a way to let her know I heard her, and as a way to participate in the conversation, I was repeating back her syllables, this time, pronouncing "daddy" with various emphasis and alternatively, singing it. In turn, Marguerite played with her pronunciations, even becoming melodic in her expression, following my soprano song of "daaaadddy". Following a pause in the middle of the "daddy" litany, she then said clearly, "MOMMA." Our friend Ann Shallbetter was in the car and I think was nearly as excited as I was by this surprise in the conversation. It's so great to have a witness!

By the way, Marguerite has been repeating proudly this game of "can you give it to momma?" at almost every play interaction/ meal. She has been so proud of herself, beaming at the interaction, and then enthusiastic to repeat the gesture.

We are in love.

For those of you who haven't seen our little pumpkin lately, (or on Facebook) I hope you enjoy these recent snapshots posted. One is with her godmother, Marianna, (above right) and then a few are from last weekend's play date with Geert Bennaars-Mawanda. Smile!

Mealtime!

Who doesn't covet a sippy cup?

Toys!