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tired hands

5/30/2015

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This afternoon I got an email from our property manager saying that one of our plants was growing over and through our fence. She asked if I wanted to take care of it or if I wanted the landscaper to do it. I said I would do it, because, frankly, it was a chance for me to get my hands dirty.

But when I went outside and looked at the plant, I realized a couple of things. One, it was a couple of plants that had grown together. And another thing was that they were deeply rooted on the outside of the fence, meaning that technically this problem was not mine. And finally, I really had no idea what I was doing.

I started cutting into the plants and pretty quickly my hair was full of leaves and dust and dirt and my hands got tired from cutting over and over again and my arms hurt from pulling at the vines. At one point I realized that the vines had grown into the tree branches and that I was literally fighting the tree.

As I kept cutting, I got angry. Why had I said I would do this? I almost gave up half way and went back into the house to send an email that said, “you know, you need to have the landscaper do this. The plants are outside the fence and I don’t know what I’m doing.” But then I smelled my hands and saw just how dirty my fingers were getting and I remembered a conversation I’d had earlier this week.

I’ve been working on divestment from fossil fuels for more than two years now—particularly in the church—and I’m frustrated by how many people make excuses for not divesting. Excuses like “well, does that mean I have to stop driving my car?” “do I have to stop eating meat?” “aren’t we hypocrites if we don’t divest our own selves if we ask the church to divest?” “shouldn’t we be keeping our money in fossil fuel companies so they can fund research into alternative energy?”

This conversation I had this week brought all those excuses (though if I’m honest, they’re important questions to ask) to the forefront and I totally lost it. I started yelling about how we have to do everything in our power to stop climate change. That we can’t somehow think that climate change is going to affect us sometime in the future because the people I serve on the South Coast are already screwed. That I’ve been a vegetarian for 13 years and live in a three room apartment and drive a Prius and I’m not invested in fossil fuels and don’t have children and I compost and make art out of garbage and NONE of that has yet saved the world. In fact, if everyone on the planet lived like I do, we’d still be screwed. 


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In that conversation, I was pissed. I didn’t make climate change start. I’m still pissed. I didn’t start the Industrial Revolution and I’m not on the board of fossil fuel companies. I’m pissed because the roots of this big problem are outside my fence and they’re intertwined with lots of other issues and I don’t know what I’m doing.

A little while after that conversation, I wrote an apology to my conversation partner. I apologized for yelling but not for getting mad. I’m still pissed. I want a world that is full of joy and I want a world where people do not have to fear. I want a world in which I can hope to have a child and a world in which my child can hope to pick apples from the trees her mother planted. I want to live with a hope that plants those trees. 

But for that world to exist, we have to do all we can, together. We have to work on these problems that we didn’t plant and that aren’t really our fault but, still, are our responsibility. 

I finished pulling up the plants. I didn’t do a perfect job, and there’s still more to work on, but it’s enough for today. And now, sitting in my apartment, my hands are dirty and my arms are tired and my skin has a layer of sweat and my heart is grateful.

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Compost 1

5/2/2015

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Every Sunday, two to four Tupperware containers appear (like magic) under my desk in my office. These containers are filled with rinds and coffee grounds and banana peels and apple cores.

Two members of my congregation used to sheepishly try to sneak this garbage into my office in paper bags and leftover lettuce bags, until I presented them with their very own reusable containers, and said for the millionth time that compost is wonderful.

I take these containers home to my compost pile, letting their contents join the weeds and worms, stems and stalks, pits and peels from meals ago.

This is real resurrection.

Turning the new earth and the earth-to-be—mixing past and present and future—soil invades my fingers nails.

The scent of earth fills my nostrils.

The heat of decomposition warms my skin.

O God, this earth is so good.

I could eat it.

These peels and rinds and pits—they are reminders of death and what has been.

They transform in the ground, resurrecting into dark earth—full of new life to give to the meal that has not yet been planted.

++

Every Monday, I rise before the sun and walk a block to the yoga studio to breathe deeply and let my body transform into new shapes.

Joining my class, we sit on our mats and set intentions for our practice. I always try to focus on how strong and wonderful this body of mine is.

Breathing in, I remember the breath of God.

Breathing out, I give thanks for the Spirit.

My fingers—still muddied from that new earth—spread across the mat and I push my hips up and back, my toes curling under. I give thanks for these muscles and this skin, stretching and moving.

And rising into mountain pose, I give thanks for the ground beneath me. That beautiful, eatable ground.

These are moments of God—of grace--incarnate.

I didn’t believe my body could be transformed into crow or warrior or eagle.

+++

Home again.

I wrap my hands around my mug filled with coffee. My mug from one of my budding composters.

Not grounds.

Not compost.

Just coffee.

Breathing in, I can smell the delicious earth.

+++
Originally posted for "Landscape of Powerful People," at Eye of the Sparrow by Ashley Goff. http://godofthesparrow.com/landscape-of-powerful-people-abby-mohaupt/



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    offerings:
    consulting with your church or leadership on religion and ecology: $150/hr (and sliding scale available)


    Responding to the climate crisis is an act of faith. If we are to survive, as humans and as Christians, that act of faith is necessary. What the story of the rich man coming to Jesus reminds us is that it is not enough to know the law or to know that we are called by faith to care for creation and for each other. We must act in love and in faith — even when that act feels like a sacrifice.

    Now is our moment—now is our time to give up the things that we people of wealth think we must have in order for all people, especially people without wealth, to have things that they really must have (arable land, breathable air, drinkable water). Our choices affect others because we are connected on this beautiful creation, planted here by our Loving Creator.



    originally posted at Unbound.
    


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