The 2021 Olympics have come and gone. Like everything over the last months, they were not what anyone expected. No cheering audiences. Masks were worn by athletes as they walked to podiums to receive their medals. Testing for the virus became as daily an activity as stretching, jumping, running, and moving through water. Watching these mostly young people, my heart went out to them knowing their experience was so much different than most had imagined since they were children. 

The Olympics always has those of us who watch learning new words, words we never say any other time in a given four years. Triple Salchow comes to mind. “Will she land the triple salchow?”, we say, allowing it to trip off our tongues. Watch enough of ice skating and you can recognize one when you see it and to be able to flaunt the knowledge of what it is called seems appropriate.

This year’s word that seemed to be front and center was the ‘twisties’. We learned about the ‘twisties’ when Olympic champion Simone Biles sat out most of the events she was expected to win because she was suffering from this condition. Describing it as ‘the experience when a gymnast loses their ability to judge where they are in the air, made most of us quake in our armchairs. The fact that these young men and women can catapult themselves into all manner of heights and then land safely on their feet is always a marvel. To think that there might be a time mid-air when they lose the ability to know where they are is completely unnerving. Ms. Biles’ courage at sitting out of the events she has trained for over so many years provided a learning opportunity for all of us.

As I thought about ‘the twisties’, I couldn’t help but think this is a perfect new Olympic word to learn this particular year. Doesn’t it describe for many of us what we have felt over the last eighteen months? While we have not spun high in the air and done splits on a balance beam, we have tried to find a way to gauge how to hold our lives together in ways we have never done before. I know I have lost the ability to judge many things. What day it really is, for one. Which situations are safe and which are not. How to interact with others who see this pandemic much differently than we do. How to move forward from where we are into an uncertain future. All of these can throw us off balance, unable to judge, not only where we are, but also where it is best to land.

Perhaps we can all take a cue from Simone Biles. What did she do when ‘the twisties’ overtook her? Of course, I don’t know for sure what her process was when this happened but this is what I observed. She stopped. She sat still. She named the anxiety that was gripping her. She watched her friends doing the things they all love. She talked to those who support her even when she is not doing stupendous jumps in the air. Stillness. Naming. Being witness to others. Continuing to hold onto what you love. Surrounding oneself with love and support. 

In June, we thought this pandemic was on its way out the door. Things have changed and we are still in its grip. In the days and months to come, the ‘twisties’ may still visit us. But as the poet/saint Mary Oliver reminds us:”it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.” And so it is. So, I will continue to practice…stillness…naming…witnessing…loving…holding onto those who continue to circle round. All this may not keep the ‘twisties’ from altering my judgment. But at least, I know climbing back on the beam is a possibility. We can’t stay in the air forever.

“Then the singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s very heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food.” 

~Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies: Some Thoughts on Faith

This has been a summer of reunions for me. At the beginning of the summer, I headed to my hometown to look into the amazing faces of those I had known since early childhood. Last week, I was in the presence of people with whom I joined voices and created beautiful music for the Ohio State Fair, for people all over the state of Ohio and for audiences of strangers as we toured Europe together for three weeks. It was a memory held, laughed filled and poignant gathering as, with one another’s help, we stitched together memorable concerts, songs and relationships. 

Singing in a choir is one of the ways in which we get to experience what it means to be a small part of something larger…to bring our individual gift and team it with others to make something greater, more beautiful than one voice can ever do alone. One person sings a note, another joins in and yet another adds to it and, Voila!, music that lifts the human soul is created. For those who have sung in choirs, you know what I mean. Even as you carry your, perhaps, tentative voice into the space, you are lifted by the energy and power of those around you, joining you, making music.  The singers look out on an audience and know that they are communicating something to them that only sound and poetry can offer. Which is why these last months, without singing, has been so tragic. To think that the very thing that has the power to heal the hurting heart can also be the thing that spreads illness seems unbearable.

I am sure that folks who participate in a team sport experience a kind of bonding that may be similar. Never having done this, I don’t know for sure, but I have seen a camaraderie build among those on teams my sons have played on. So I know it is possible. And yet, I believe, there is something special about making music together. There is always the possibility that a song with erupt in the oddest of places! And I know for a fact that spending time basically living with other singers, traveling to places that challenge and excite you, changes you and creates a place in you that will be with you forever. This is what happened this past weekend when these singers gathered again. Stories were shared, life updates were told, memories were dredged up and the bond that had been forged so many years ago was again strengthened. Our lives had at one time been joined in such a way that, even though we have not seen one another in years, was renewed. 

Reunion. Re-Union. “The act or process of being brought together again as a unified whole.” Of course, in this reunion many were missing from our ranks. Not everyone could travel to the weekend get together so perhaps we were not completely ‘unified’. But those of us who were there remembered and celebrated for the whole that we once were. The music we once made. The adventures we once shared. The hearts we once stirred.

I believe we are all hungry for a re-union. As the pandemic lingers on, we are all aching for an experience of being ‘enveloped’ in something ‘furry and resonant, coming from everyone’s very heart.’ A re-union that has ‘no sense of performance or judgment.’ Something like music…which can be both ‘breath and food.’

“If music be the food of love, play on.” says Shakespeare. So here’s to more music…more love…more re-union. 

“The world is full of magic things, patiently waiting for our senses to grow sharper.”
~W.B. Yeats

Walking around the lake last week, I was taking in all the many wildflowers that just show up and strut their stuff in some of the most unsuspected places. These July days are filled to overflowing with a riot of color everywhere you look. And yet it wasn’t the color that drew my eye, but the simple, white elegance of the Queen Anne’s Lace that seemed to nestle in between the blooms of yellow and purple and pink. This wildflower can be found in fields and along bodies of water in both city and countryside providing the counterpoint to the colors of summer. It is a simple flower. Understated. Beautiful.

But Queen Anne’s Lace has always been a flower that is special to me and carries a wonderful memory of my Mother.. I can’t remember how old I was. It was definitely summer and we had been out walking in a field somewhere. As we walked, my Mother picked some of these flowers and we carried them back to our house. I likely thought she would put them in a jar for our kitchen table. But she instead proceeded to fill some kitchen glasses with a little bit of water. Into the water she dropped food coloring, the same tiny bottles with their teardrop tops that usually only came out at Christmas cookie baking time. She then placed a stem of Queen Anne’s Lace into each glass. “Watch this.” she said. 

I remember the feeling of staring as these flowers turned from white to blue or yellow or pink as the food coloring made its way up the stem and into the delicate petals. It was then that I knew that my Mother was magic. I knew I loved her and that she had always done amazing things to care for me and our family. But this was the moment she was lifted up to something much higher. My Mother was magic! I can’t remember how long those flowers remained in their glasses or how long I marveled at my Mother’s brilliance but, so many years later, I still have a nearly visceral experience of what happened in our kitchen that afternoon. 

Magic. The Irish poet, Yeats, reminds us that ‘the world is full of magic things’. And it is, of course, true. Sights and experiences that boggle our minds and cause us to see things in an entirely new and fresh way are around every corner. We rarely call those moments ‘magic’ but we might do well do so, don’t you think?. And after the year we have just experienced, couldn’t we all do with a little dose of magic? I tend to believe that children are more attuned to being witness to magic. It is what draws them to fairy tales and stories where what might seem impossible really does happen.Yeats reminds us that this ability to see magic is within all our reach as we hone our senses and allow our eyes, ears, fingertips, tongues and noses to be present to what is already there. 

It would be one of my deepest wishes to be so attuned that the magic of the everyday would make an appearance. How about you? What magic have you seen lately? What kind of magical moments have walked into your life? Summer…at least in Minnesota…is a time to be on the look out for that ever-present magic. Queen Anne’s Lace in its simple form carries its own magic. The birds in all their variety eating from the same feeder remind us of the magic of diversity and of co-existing. The tree or flower planted by a seed dropped from a winged or four legged creature that now has its own claim in the garden. Then there are fireflies, fields alight with the flickering of insects. All a kind of magic.

My Mother was most known for the magic she created in the kitchen especially baking pies. Her hands and the recipes she held in her head allowed her to create magic with the simple ingredients of flour, fat, salt and water. Into these crusts she would pour fruit or fillings that were infused with sugary sweetness and, mostly, love. 

In a few weeks my Mother will have been gone from us for a year. I still find myself thinking I will call to tell her about something I saw or read during my day. The Magic Makers stay with us through all they helped us see, all the ways they helped us grow. For this, I am grateful.

He walks into the space and his limbs are already moving with the music. His shoulders jump up and down, keeping the beat. His arms fly and thrust into the air. And across his face, a smile grows from ear to ear, never seeming to stop. Within a few moments he is dancing…finding his spot on the dance floor…switching out partners with the change of each song. And all the while he is projecting… joy…joy in the music, joy in the moment, joy in the dance.

During summer evenings, I make my way to Como Park Pavilion to listen to the local musicians who offer their gifts during these precious Minnesota days of warmth and sun. Overlooking the sweet, little lake that creates the backdrop of this idyllic summer experience, I rest in the sound, the scenery and the beauty of a community that forms when multiple generations of strangers come together, held in the power of music.  And I revel in watching this one particular dancer who fills me to overflowing with deep happiness. Always clad in a University of Minnesota T-shirt and baseball cap, he is a walking…dancing…advertisement for the ‘U’. “If you go to this university, you, too, may be as happy an older person as I am.” This is what his movements bring to my mind.”You, too, can exhibit this ‘joie de vivre’! his movements seem to say.

Joie de vivre, a ‘keen or buoyant enjoyment of life’, say the French. And who among us would not want to be able to walk through the world with such a gait? Especially now, as we creep out of our homes and back into this different world where we are so cautious. The ability to embrace life with such zest seems particularly alluring. When I watch this man dancing, I am buoyed that the world is going to be okay. What he is bringing to those who watch, or those lucky enough to dance with him, costs nothing except a little energy and sweat. And while locked down and in our homes, didn’t we all learn over the last months how little we really need? While the joy may have been dampened in our individual and collective lives, his movements tell me that there is hope in recovering some spirit that declares a keen and buoyant enjoyment of life once again. 

Being witness to his movements, I have to admit that I wonder if this is how he has always been. I tend to believe it is. I can imagine him as a young boy gyrating around his kitchen in the mornings before school. Or trying to contain his body that wanted to bounce and kick while sitting in a desk at school. Likely the adults in his life have said more than once,”Stand still! Keep your feet quiet!” I can also imagine that he was a draw for all the young, high school women who wanted to move from the chairs that lined the gymnasium walls and onto the dance floor with a partner who could really dance.

One thing I know from watching this wiry gentleman: ‘joie de vivre’ cannot be contained. I, for one, am glad that his fit, lithe body still propels his limbs and feet into the world. My life is better for it. My spirit is lifted because of it. And from the smiles I see emanating from the faces around that concert space, I believe everyone is filled with an energy and a joy they, perhaps, thought had been lost.

Agnes de Mille, the great dancer said: “To dance is to be out of yourself. Larger, more beautiful, more powerful…This is power, it is glory on earth and it is yours for the taking.” 

Wherever you are reading this, the invitation is to breathe deeply, to lift your limbs in whatever way is available to you. To dance. To feel the glory on earth. Yours for the taking. Joie de vivre! A keen and buoyant enjoyment of life!

Everything that is made beautiful and fair and lovely is made for the eye of one who sees.

~Rumi

One of my favorite drives is down the Wisconsin side of the Mississippi River. Taking in the rolling, evolving farmland and noticing the different stages of the growing seasons always grounds me in some deep way. Observing eagles flying overhead while sheep and cattle graze below is a blessed sight. Along with a friend, I made this drive on a recent holiday Sunday as we observed our own kind of Independence Day. The weather was steamy and the sun intense but the scenery soothed us. 

In Alma, Wisconsin we drove to the highest point in this little river town, a park named Buena Vista. It brought an inner chuckle to think of this area, likely settled by Germans and Scandinavians, choosing this name for such an amazing overlook of the valley below. Sometimes we need to cross a bridge into other languages to have the perfect descriptor for a scene, an experience. 

Buena Vista…literally meaning ‘good view’. When I see these words, I often think what the namer meant was really ‘beautiful view’. Good is fine yet beautiful is something larger, more expansive, worthy of flowing words like ‘buena vista’. This was certainly true of the view that met our eyes on this hot, July day. We stood with others who had directed their cars along the winding, rising ordinary road to reach this extraordinary feast for the eye. Standing, looking out over the river, islands, and backwaters I thought of what it must have meant for those who witnessed its beauty long ago. For some it had always been home. Their eyes likely took in the view in a way different from later arrivals. For these it perhaps spelled adventure. Or freedom. Or opportunity. Yet, all…buena vista.

I have been blessed to be witness to countless buena vistas in both this country and others. Oceans, mountains, lakes, cities, countryside, all have placed their bounty before my grateful eyes. Architecture dreamed and built, art that flowed through the artist’s hand, have joined forests and fields planted by both human and the precipitious gift of wind. All have provided extraordinary experiences that served to lift my spirit and nourish my heart.

And, of course, there are the buena vistas that are not housed in the landscape of the natural world. Gazing into the fresh faces of my newborn sons…buena vista. The comforting smile of a friend. The unknowing kindness of a stranger. A perfectly executed table laden with food prepared for celebration. A newborn baby’s eyelashes. My mother’s hands. All…buena vista.

The experience of ‘buena vista’ is in many ways dependent on the viewer. As the wise one Rumi says: “Everything that is made beautiful and fair and lovely is made for the eye of one who sees.” We see, we notice, we wonder, we marvel and we name. May these burgeoning summer days find us having more and more moments of throwing our arms in the air and declaring with joy…”BUENA VISTA!”

Dear Friends: I am sending this note to let you know that The Practicing Life: Simple Acts, Sacred Living has gone into a second printing. This book, written a few years ago, seems to be hitting a nerve with folks as we traverse these often chaotic times. For this I am grateful. I have announced this on Facebook already so if this is a repeat message, I apologize. In addition to the book, it is also available for Kindle. Both can be ordered through Amazon or Kirk House Publishers. If you know someone who might find it helpful, would you please pass on the information to them?

I thank you for subscribing to these occasional writings. I feel blessed by your reading.

Blessings,

Sally

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made.  Ask me whether
what I have done is my life.  Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.
I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait.  We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.
~William Stafford

It is not lost on me that I have the privilege, the deep and awesome privilege of living near the Mississippi River. Every day, sometimes many times a day, I cross its waters and once again marvel that this is truth in my life. I look out over the skyline of St. Paul and wonder at the many events and experiences this river has witnessed. I have stood by its flowing at all seasons and seen any manner of things being dragged in the current as it makes its way to the ocean. In these summer months, it is a joy to watch the various kinds of boats that make their way up and down…small kayaks, motorboats, large cabin cruisers and canoes. Most for pleasure but some for the important work of carrying cargo to various ports along the way. This mythic river feeds our country in unseen ways.

Over the years I have learned much from the river. It has calmed me. It has received my tears. It has inspired me. It has been a source of awe and perhaps even fear as I stare at its force from the top of one of the bridges it flows under and I stand above. There is strength and a constancy about the river that cannot be rivaled. It is flowing…going somewhere…at its own, sweet pace. Of course there are times when it carries ice from the north, large chunks that started someplace else and got taken along for the ride. The same is true for the small and large limbs and trunks from trees dislodged from another shore. All of this grounds me in some primal way. And when the winers are severe and the waters rise, it can be a source of destruction and devastation. You can learn much from observing a river. 

Yet, it is not just the river itself that is a teacher. Often I am blessed to watch the barges lined along the rivers’ edge. I wonder at what they hold. And then along comes the lowly tugboat to push them on their way. Just last week I watched as the small, white boat made its way upstream and came to rest behind the long, flat, inelegant metal barges. I don’t know what the barges carried…sand, rock, grain perhaps. All I know is that the tiny, toy-like boat gave the huge barges a shove and there they went. Down the river! Watching the graceful way the tugboat propelled the barges into motion, I thought of all the ways we humans often feel unable to move, held captive by mistakes we think we’ve made and countless other things. We are stuck on the shore like a waiting barge, carrying a load that seems impossible to dislodge. And then along comes the smallest thing…a kind word, a smile, a look of love…and something shifts. The movement may not be as strong or as powerful as what moves the barge but it creates a change that gives courage and hope and the current of it carries us to a new place. 

Like the river, the tugboat is quiet. The river is moved by currents unseen to us and yet we know wisdom hovers near, is present, is true. The tugboat is built in and moves with humility. There is gift in that for both boat and human. Standing on the shore, if we wait and watch, we can be held in something that goes deeper than what appears on the surface. Both river and boat ‘hold the stillness exactly before us’.

As the poet writes: ’What the river says, I say.’

Recently, I attended my high school reunion. It was a big one…with a zero. I drove across four states to get there and looked forward to meeting up with people, some who had driven only a few miles, those who had made their life not far from home. It was great to see people, to catch up with their lives, their children’s lives. It was also wonderful to remember stories of the antics of high school, things we did and things we should not have done. Words like: “You haven’t changed a bit!” were bandied about but we all knew better. Life had been kinder to some. Many resembled a parent I had known and loved as a child. We had all seen some hardship and also great joy. It showed on all our faces. And we were happy to be in one another’s presence for a short time again. 

At one point, one of my classmates expressed the depth of feeling he had for the others present, a depth of feeling that seemed to surprise him. Looking out at the gathered group, I said: “Well, this is where we started.” This group of people had been in our classes from kindergarten on…for twelve years. Our parents knew one another and their parents knew many who had traveled far back in our family trees. It was a chain that led back a few generations and then forward to us. Some of us may have traveled farther afoot than others but some part of us always comes back to where we started. The people, the place, the soil and air of where our story began. 

Thinking of this reminded me of this poem by George Ella Lyon. It made its rounds a few years ago and never fails to cause me to stop and think of what I would write if given the task of describing Where I’m From:

I am from clothespins,
from Clorox and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch. (Black, glistening
it tasted like beets.)
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I am from fudge and eyeglasses, from Imogene and Alafair.
I’m from the know-it-alls and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down. I’m from He restoreth my soul
with cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I’m from Artemus and Billie’s Branch, fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight. Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures.
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments —
snapped before I budded —
leaf-fall from the family tree.

Perhaps it was the zero in the reunion year that caused me to want to attend so fiercely. But mostly I think it was the deep need in all of us to connect to that place where we started. Though some may remember it more fondly than others, it is still a reminder of the beginning of a story we are all still writing, still living out…if we are lucky, if we are blessed to do so. We can see the seeds of what was planted in that early soil. We may want to rearrange the garden plot a bit, change the nature of how things have grown, weed out some of the less than lovely parts, give sun and water to others we still have hope will flourish. But our original soil still holds us. We are each leaves fallen from trees planted with the evolving history of who we are and of where we started.

How would you write a poem entitled “Where I’m From”? Whose names are tied forever with yours whose ‘faces drift beneath your dreams’? It is something to think about. It is something to cherish.

“I thank you God for most this amazing day, for the leaping greenly spirits of trees, and for the blue dream of sky and for everything which is natural, which is infinite, which is ‘yes’.”
– e.e. cummings

We are beings grounded by our bodies upon the Earth. We walk upright looking out toward the landscape that holds our attention, that holds our lives. We move here, live here, make relationship here, create here. And when we allow our eyes to travel upward, we are confronted with the blue expanse of sky, of what we think of as ‘the beyond’. This ‘beyond’ calls to our imagination in ways that is often shaped by those winged ones, the birds, that seem to live between landing on the Earth and lifting above it. 

What would it be like to be able to rise above our planted feet and soar over the ground that anchors us? I used to have a recurring dream of being able to fly…like the birds I watched and wondered over. It was not an anxiety driven dream. Instead, I would simply begin to move my arms as if I was swimming and before I knew it, there I was, rising above the Earth. Flying! It was exhilarating and carried an overwhelming feeling of freedom that stayed with me for a few moments upon waking.

Over the last days I had the joy of simply being able to watch the sky as I sat by one of Minnesota’s lakes. Once again, I was drawn to the magic and mystery of the sky. The expanse of it. The beauty of it. The colors being painted by light, weather and other elements I don’t claim to understand. Watching the changing shape of clouds and hues was mesmerizing. Standing on the shore with my feet firmly planted, watching the Sun slowly sink into the horizon of water, I was reminded of another time I stood with total strangers watching the sunset on Lake Michigan. All ages of people lined a bluff, mostly silent or speaking only in whispers, eyes trained on the sky. When the Sun seemed to dip into the stretch of water, everyone spontaneously applauded. I remember the joy that flooded me at this affirmation of Creation doing what it does everyday. Yet with these witnesses it became applause worthy. Observing the sunset show as I did this week, I applauded in my heart.

Sky. Clouds. Sunsets. Sunrises. We are poorer if we do not pay attention to their movement, their beauty, their magic, their mystery, their constancy. As land bound beings, it is wise to let our eyes wander upward and take a moment… or two… to give thanks for the blue that is our canopy. Ralph Waldo Emerson said: “The sky is the daily bread of the eyes.” Indeed. And there are many ways to be nourished.

May we gaze upward this day to see how the Sky is offering bread for our eyes and, in turn, our souls.

“The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.
The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.
We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.
It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women…”
~Joy Harjo, US Poet Laureate

I would venture a guess that most people have engaged in the conversation of ‘what will you do when this ends?’ What will be rushed to first when this pandemic no longer holds us in its time warp? This question is likely tied to the other question that has been asked frequently: What have you missed most? I know that I have asked and been asked both of these queries. It has been easy for me to answer both as they have the same answer. As the pandemic lingered on, what I have missed is sitting around a table with other people, eating, talking, over something as simple as a bowl of soup, a glass of wine, a cup of coffee. Looking into the faces of friends, family, those I love, whose lives have traveled a similar trajectory as mine. This is what I longed to do.

This is why I was so drawn to this poem by US poet laureate, Joy Harjo. She says in words more beautiful and deep than anything I could ever conjure, what I’ve missed, what I want to run toward when the time is right. Sitting at a table. Eating. With other people. And I am so pleased to say that over the last weeks, I have had the opportunity to do just that. Twice I have been blessed to sit and look into the welcoming, beautiful faces of others as we shared a meal. The experience carried with it all the gifts of the past haloed with the golden glow of how precious this time is. Full of memory. Full of understanding of what we had lost, what we hoped to regain as we sat together. 

“…At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.
Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table…”

The act of eating together is one of the great levelers of being human. As the poet says ‘ we must eat to live.’ Over the last year we have been aware of many of the levelers…illness, death, fear, grief, uncertainty.  We have also seen the fractures in so many of the systems that are meant to help create a workable and livable society. Healthcare, technology, food sources and work all favored those of us with privilege. The tables have not been equal and the pain of the last months have once again been carried inequitably on the backs of the poor. It is something with which we must grapple.

“…This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.
Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. 
We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.
At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.
Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.” 

Our tables have been empty. Our tables have longed to welcome us and challenge us. More and more, we are emerging from our homes to find our way toward living in ways for which we never knew we would yearn.  I hope I have learned to never take the act of sitting down at the table to eat with others for granted. I hope these months have helped us all to watch out for those who live on the margins and to reach out with care when we can, to work to change the systems that keep others at arms length, in shadows we don’t want to notice. We all have our own story of what it has been like to live through our varied experiences of COVID. May we look and listen with grace to everyone’s story, perhaps becoming that table that is ‘a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. May all our tables help us be birthers of a new world which is kinder, gentler, more compassionate and full of love for each ‘sweet bite.’