lake woebegone, blue highways and enjoying the journey…(happy father’s day)

It’s been a quiet week in Lake Woebegone…

It was Saturday night, of course. About 7:30. There we were, at 336 Snug Harbor Road, seated around the breakfast room table, plates filled with flank steak, baked potatoes, and a green salad, gathered together as a family, my dad, my mom, me, and Garrison Keilor. It was a tradition, this Saturday night dinner together. There wasn’t much that went on in our family that was not a tradition, but that’s beside the point. With apologies to the ministers in the room, the sermons on Saturday nights, my dad often said, were often as poignant as those on Sunday mornings.

The thing about Lake Woebegone is, it never really was a quiet week…there was always something going on, whether it be the ‘exiles’ (those who had left Lake Woebegone) returning home at Christmas, a dry stewardship sermon by pastor Ingqvist that inspires a dramatic repentance, or the fourteen year old girl who, just before her confirmation at Lake Woebegone Lutheran Church, decides she may have lost her faith. But these are not the type of things one would notice, speeding past on the Interstate. No, these are the type of stories that only unfold if you travel the Blue Highways, the back roads that go through the small, forgotten towns, the Lake Woebegones…

This story from the Bible is so simple, you might almost be tempted to skip right over it, to get to what’s next, to get to the good part, to get to where the real action is…but Jesus was not in such a hurry to get to where he was going that he wasn’t able to stop along the way.

Pat Dunigan, my dad, liked to travel the Blue Highways…that, of course, is how I know about them. Left to my own devices I have a tendency to take the quickest route, a straight line, the shortest distance between two points. But not my dad. Though as an engineer he could calculate the shortest distance from point A to point B, he chose, instead, to meander, sure that there was as much to be enjoyed in the journey as in the final destination. Not that this meandering was aimless—oh no, these meanderings were thoroughly planned out beforehand, many months beforehand, on intricately detailed spreadsheet itineraries.

Martha had a sister named Mary, who sat at Jesus’ feet and listened to what he was saying. But Martha was distracted by her many tasks; so she came to Jesus and asked, “Lord, do you not care that my sister has left me to do all the work by myself? Tell her then to help me.

Now if you’ll remember, it was Martha who invited Jesus to her home. But upon inviting him in, she quickly went about her business, attending to the many things on her to do list. She had to get dinner ready, didn’t she? She was doing all this for him, by the way. Somebody had to get things done around here…

…..

It was a Saturday night, this time many years later. It was Saturday September 4, 2004, to be exact. Based on my request, we were to have flank steak for dinner, with corn on the cob this time, since it was summer, and of course, the requisite green salad. The address had changed, and this table was out on the patio, instead of inside that breakfast room. The radio had to be brought from inside, and plugged in out on the patio. But we were to gather, in the tradition of Saturday nights, eat dinner together and listen to the News from Lake Woebegone. It had been a busy evening—I had gone for a run, and then was trying to organize the garage so that all that needed to could fit into it. Almost by accident I wandered out on to the patio where my dad was sitting, in his wheelchair now, enjoying the waning evening, and just then I heard Garrison Keilor’s opening words…It was a quiet week in Lake Woebegone… I called to my mom, who came out and joined us, and thought to myself, I almost missed it.

DWIND is what he called it. Dad’s work is never done. It was always said in a sort of mock seriousness, as, truth be told, he loved to be involved in his many projects. In fact, I can’t remember a time when he was not involved in some sort of a project.

They were varied in nature, from the remodeling of our old house on Snug Harbor, to the building of a wooden kayak, needle pointing beautifully intricate Christmas stockings for Jack, Alison, and Tommy Hanle, baking bread with Carol Kerr, putting in a new stairway with my grandpa and uncle Fritz at the cottage on Lake Otsego, and ‘rushing’ the seats on the rocking chairs there this summer, when he was no longer able to walk down the stairway that he had helped to build. More recently he and I were in the garage together, working on the latest project, cherry wood salad serving utensils, which he had been intending to make for my mom and me.

In his last days during one conversation I asked him about knowing that he didn’t have much time left—how did he feel about that? His response? Dunigan through and through… “I just wish that I had gotten a chance to finish the front patio.” Now, if the truth be known, that wish was based on the desire, I am sure, to finish the work that he had started and to leave it nice for my mom, but it was also based on the firm belief that if it was to be done right, he would need to do it himself!

…..

But the Lord answered her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her.

Often this story from the Bible is told as one in which Martha did something and Mary did nothing. But don’t be misled…the distinction between Martha and Mary is not one between doing something and doing nothing. For that would be the same fallacy that would lead us to believe that it really was a quiet week in Lake Woebegone. The distinction here is not one between activity and inactivity, but rather a distinction between living a life that is distracted and living a life that pays attention.

…..

It was a Thursday night this time. It was Thursday September 9, 2004, to be exact. After a rather pain-filled day and with some difficulty my mom and I got my dad out of bed, into his wheelchair and out onto the patio for dinner. This time it was a pesto pasta, as flank steak is Saturday night food. After dinner, and what had become a nightly tradition of dessert, my dad seemed quite tired so we asked him if he was ready to go to bed. “No,” he said, “just a little while longer. I want to keep enjoying it while I am enjoying it.”

It was this desire, this drive really, to enjoy life a while longer that carried my dad throughout his life and most especially through the past two and a half years. In that time his desire to live life took him on trips to Princeton for my graduation, Port Townsend to the Wooden Boat Festival, Cleveland Ohio for my grandmother’s 90th birthday, Lake Otsego to spend time with family, and even across the pond to Scotland where he fell in love with the small town of St. Andrews but more importantly, the sticky toffee pudding at the Russell Hotel!

Especially in the last weeks, his time was spent simply “being with”—whether it be working with Jack McClarty to build wooden wheel chair ramps for getting in and out of the house, breakfast with the Webbs at Wilma’s on Balboa Island, nightly martinis and game of rummy on the patio with my mom, or teaching me how to bake bread…I am sure it was all included on the spreadsheet itinerary of his life, attempting to enjoy as much of the journey as possible, before arriving at the final destination.

In the days before he passed away I asked my dad if he was afraid to die. I am not sure what I expected in asking that question, but I can tell you that his answer both startled me and yet struck me, for it was so him. Without hesitating he said, “No, I am not afraid to die. I never have been. I know where I am going and I know that it is a better place. I have always known.” And there he paused for a moment. “I’ve never needed toe crossings or altar calls or to put my hands up in the air when I sing songs in church. Some people do that, and that’s okay. But I don’t need that. It’s not for me. I just know, and I have always known.”

This is the life that God offers to us all, calling us to enjoy the journey along the way, and then welcoming us home when we reach the final destination.

And that’s the news from Lake Woebegone, where the women are strong, the men are good looking, and all the children are above average.

Amen.

**This is the sermon I preached at my dad’s memorial service almost 9 year ago – thank you, Dad.

on gophers, hate, and being sunflowers

sunflower                                                                               © erin dunigan 2013

The other day I went out into the garden, as I often do, to check on the progress of the vegetables. On this particular day I noticed that one of my tomato plants – the entire reason I became a gardener in the first place (have you ever tasted a tomato, fresh from the vine, ripened in the sun?! It might be the best thing ever) -  one of my tomato plants seemed to have leaves that did not look quite right – they were wilted. Excessively so. As if the plant had not gotten enough water, though it had.

Oh no. The feeling began slowly but quickly washed over me as the realization hit me, even while everything in me tried to resist it.

I walked over to the plant, about four feet tall, and tugged gently on it. Sure enough, it came right out of the ground, as though it had no roots with which to secure it.

No roots, because they had been eaten. By a gopher. I’ve had gopher encounters before – in fact, only days earlier I had performed the same act on an artichoke plant. But this time, it was serious. This time it was my tomatoes. And not only that, but in the protected area of the garden – the area in which I had laid chicken wire and bounded it by boards and rocks. This area was supposed to be safe!

As the emotion washed over me I began immediately to dig out the area – soon exposing two holes, tunnels, leading in opposite directions but intersecting under what had been my tomato plant. Almost without thinking I went into house and got the package labeled ’gopher destroyer’ – cylinders that look like fire crackers. When the fuse is lit, they begin releasing a noxious gas – light them, put them down the hole, cover it up, and, the package claims, your gopher problems are no more.

We’ll see if you eat any more of my tomato plants, I thought as I quickly lit, dropped and burried the gopher destroyer.

Sure, normally I would consider myself to be someone who believes in nonviolence. I am for peace, not war. I even flirt with vegetarianism. But this was different. These were my prized tomatoes…this was justified.

One has only to look at the subsequent holes throughout my garden, or picture the movie Caddyshack, to get a sense of how successful this anti-gopher measure was…

……….

Last month, as many of you know, I was with a delegation from the Presbyterian Church, USA to Lebanon and Egypt. It was a ‘solidarity visit’ – to our partner churches in the region. Our sister church in Lebanon is the Synod of Lebanon and Syria – two countries, but one church. A church that is struggling to care for both its own members who are the victims of violence, bombings, and strife, while also seeking ways to reach out beyond their own boundaries to the multitude of Syrian refugees that have fled the violence, only to find themselves displaced in Lebanon.

In one village we visited the total population, prior to the conflict, was 11,000. They are now also hosting 11,000 Syrian refugees. It is stretching resources and local officials almost to the breaking point.

We visited one of the refugee camps there – 40 tents, housing 45 families. Tents about the size of that which my parents and I used when we would go camping as I was growing up. Children came out to greet us, intrigued by visitors as children often are. Teenagers stopped to talk with us – wondering where we had come from, and what we were doing.

One woman motioned to me from within her tent. I approached, and she opened the tent to let me in. I had no idea what was going on, since my Arabic is limited to about 7 words, but I entered the tent and sat down. All the while she was speaking – rapidly, emotionally, with passion. Thankfully one in my group who is bilingual came in and joined me and so was able to translate.

All I want is to return to my country. I do not want aid. I just want to return to my country. I have a masters in English. My sons are engineers. My daughter is a teacher. I have a granddaughter.

My heart broke for her. And my eyes were opened.

This woman was a Palestinian. The country that she longed to return to was not Syria, but Palestine. Her parents had been the first refugees – fleeing Palestine in 1948. She herself had never been there – she was born in Syria. Her children were born in Syria. Her grandchildren had been born in Syria. But they are not Syrian. They are Palestinian. Displaced first in 1948, and now again. Generations of refugees.

Her family’s displacement had come, of course, as a result of the creation of the State of Israel. The creation of a state that was to be good news for Jews who had been nearly exterminated by the hate that drove the machine of Nazi Germany.

Last week I was in Florida and happened to have a bit of extra time. Some friends and I rented bicycles and were riding around the South Beach in Miami when we came upon a startling sculpture, rising up out of a reflecting pond. It was an arm, from the elbow up. It was grasping. Reaching. As though it was coming out of the very earth itself. A the base of the arm, where it met the water, were hundreds of figures – they looked to be scaling their way up, fleeing the depths below. That was when I saw the number. The number etched onto the inside of the wrist.  The sculpture, I realized, was at the entrance of the Holocaust Memorial. A museum that stands as a memorial for a hate as palpable as those figures scrambling to escape the pit.

……

The Buddha says that holding on to anger is like holding a hot coal that you intend to throw at someone else – but you are the one who gets burned.

Jesus says to love your enemy and pray for those who persecute you. When someone strikes you on the cheek, to turn and give them the other cheek as well.

Tell that to the Palestinian woman living in a tent. Tell that to those whose arms hold the numbers that bear witness to hate.

…………

A friend of mine, a woman and a pastor, who happens to be married to someone who is also a woman, told me this about the hate she has experienced – “It kept me afraid. Sure, it was the direct comments that people would make when they saw me walking down the street with another woman – and we were not even touching – but it was also the more subtle hate. The hate that would come from people when they were talking about ‘the gays’ and didn’t realize that they were also talking about me. It made me afraid. It kept me silent. It kept me from coming out for years, this fear.”

Another friend, a man who happens to have a husband, expressed it in this way – Dealing with the hate has actually changed who I am, who we are. We never touch in public – we don’t even touch in front of people in our own home. It has sunk into my very being and changed the way I act, change the way I am in the world.”

He did not use these words, but I thought, upon hearing his story – this hate has left wounds. Scars. The burden of this hate, the heaviness of it, has, in a manner of speaking, bent him – of course he is not ‘straight.’

………….

One of my favorite authors, a Catholic priest named Henri Nouwen, described this as being a ‘wounded healer.’ It is a phrase that Carl Jung used as well – that it is in going through our woundedness, not becoming trapped by the hate, but somehow metabolizing it, that we find within in it the seed that leads us toward new life.  It is not an easy process and it is not a quick one.

Dealing with the hate that has been inflicted upon us, the hate we have internalized, the hate we know to be inside us and the hate we see around us in the world can be overwhelming. It can seem impossible – like trying to catch a gopher by digging more and more holes in the yard.

But it can be done. It has been done. It is being done.

After the Fukishima nuclear disaster in Japan two years ago the question was left of what to do, how to begin to heal the land that had been so decimated, wounded by the radiation.

The most common method is to dig up all of the impacted topsoil, remove it, and find another location in which to bury it. This is an expensive process and of course just moves the problem somewhere else, burying it. In someone else’s backyard.

They decided to plant sunflowers.

Sunflowers?! It can seem as naive as the suggestion to turn the other cheek. What good are sunflowers, in the face of such a severe situation?

Sunflowers, it seems, may have the ability to absorb that which is toxic in the soil, pulling it out of the soil. Not only that, but when people would see the fields of sunflowers, bright yellow thought those who began to organize this sunflower project, it would be a symbol of both beauty and hope.

Pain that is not transformed is transferred. Hate that is not transformed ends up being passed along. Sometimes for generations.

How do we plant sunflowers in the midst of such overwhelming odds?

It is why we practice meditation – centering, mindfulness, grounding ourselves in who God is and who we are. It is why we practice gratitude. It is why we share meals together and why we seek ways to be in service to our friends, our brothers and sisters when they are in times of need. It is why we seek to go deeper in our spiritual journey though that is not always an easy path.

Nelson Mandela, a man who, it seems to me, would have so much justification for being angry, for holding onto his hatred – says this:

‘I had never lost hope that this great transformation would occur, because I always knew that down deep in every human heart there is mercy and generosity. No one is born hating another person because of the colour of his skin or his background or his religion. If people can learn to hate they can be taught to love. For love comes more naturally to the human heart than its opposite.’

May it be so.  And may we be a people of sunflowers.

who is my… leper?

st. francis                                                                                    © erin dunigan 2011

For quite a while now I’ve been captivated by the life of Francis of Assisi, primarily as I have learned of it through the teachings of Franciscan (and Catholic priest) Richard Rohr. Francis is perhaps most known for his love of animals (he is said to have preached to birds) and of the created world (he acknowledged brother sun and sister moon) or even his conversion-related streak through town (really!). 

But what has captivated me even more than those aspects of his life, which I deeply admire, is his sense that God was calling him to ‘rebuild my church, for it is in ruins.’

Francis initially heard this as a literal calling – to rebuild the crumbling San Damiano church in which he was praying when he received the vision, and he did work to physically rebuild that church building and transform it from the ruins which it had become. But eventually Francis realized that this call from God was something larger still – to rebuild the Church (in the big, broad, wide sense) which had fallen into ruins in a spiritual sense. 

It is also said of Francis that, rather than take on the institutional church structures of the day, which perhaps may have embroiled him within the conflict that would come of that ‘fight’ he simply opted to model a different way of being in the world, of relating to Christ, and of relating to those around him. Instead of fighting against what wasn’t working, he stepped to the side and lived the life he was called to live – while still remaining within the bounds of the church, but finding a new and fresh way of incarnating that reality. He lived what he was preaching – giving rise to the quote most often attributed to him, “To preach the gospel at all times – if necessary, use words.” 

A central component of this dedication to living differently, to preaching the gospel at all times through the actual living of his life, was to embrace all of God’s creation – bird, sun, moon and stars, but also to embrace of the outcast, the marginalized, the forgotten and the ostracized. Nothing, and no one, was outside of God’s love and God’s care. 

“One day, Francis met a leper on the road. Something impelled him to dismount his horse and not only to place coins in the leper’s hand, but to embrace the leper. In so doing, he was filled with indescribable sweetness.

When he withdrew and turned to wave, he saw no one on the road. In that instant he knew he had embraced Jesus Christ. He knew then what he was to do with his life: to embrace Jesus in the poor and rejected, in those who previously had repulsed him.”

from St. Francis of Assisi: The Practical Mystic By Murray Bodo, OFM

This vision was apparently compelling to others – and Francis not only attracted a following, but was able to convince the Pope at the time (Pope Innocent III) to authorize this ‘Order of Friars Minor’ as they had come to be called. 

Rebuild my church, for it is in ruins. 

What might that look like, today? 

I can’t help but wonder if it might not look something like the life of Francis of Assisi…

 

 

subways, hospitality and risk

I had been warned about Cairo subways. I love to travel, to try new things, meet new people, experience things so different from my daily life. But it’s also been somewhat beaten into me – as a woman, you must be careful. As a woman, things are different.

cairo at night                                                                                       © erin dunigan 2013

I’ve ridden plenty of crowded subways in my life − in New York City, in Osaka Japan, in Mexico City amongst them. Subways where one has to push ones way just to board the train. Subways where women are warned to stay close to their male companions, lest the pushing from strangers become a bit too directed.

So as we descended into the station for the Cairo subway I was prepared with such stories. There was even a car just for women, I had been told, to help mitigate some of these issues. I chose instead to remain with my male colleagues, not wanting to get separated in the journey.

We stepped onto the car. It was rather full, but not so full that we had to push our way on. But standing room only full. As I looked around I saw that I was the only woman in the car.

And then it happened.

A man next to me, seated, got up and stood next to me. As he did so he motioned something to me. I quickly realized what he was suggesting. Was this really happening?

He was offering me his seat. I smiled, and thanked him, using one of my five Arabic words – Shukran. As I settled into my seat the man next to me leaned over and spoke something in my direction. “Welcome to Egypt,” he said and smiled.

I am not doubting that there are harrowing experiences for women on Cairo subways. I’m not doubting that it is wise to keep aware and watchful when traveling in new places, navigating other cultures. I have myself experienced such harrowing subway situations in other parts of the world, as have friends of mine. Caution and entering situations with eyes wide open seem to be wise ways of being.

But what I was struck by that spring evening leaving Tahrir Square, was that I had been taught to fear, to approach the situation with skepticism, with a bit of distance, while my experience had been so entirely opposite – one of welcoming, hospitality, and graciousness.  How often are we taught to fear ‘the other’ rather than to be open to him or her? I wonder if that fear of the other doesn’t keep us from the encounters, like my own, that would so completely disprove that generalized sense of disease? For there are some who, I am sure, would have avoided the subway entirely, having heard the stories, and in so avoiding, would have also barricaded themselves from the encounter to disprove those very stories.

This theme made its way to the surface again in a passage from Esther de Waal’s Living on the Border where she discusses white South Africa during the time of apartheid:

“The white proponents of that regime were so completely and utterly confident of the righness of their stance that they shut the door totally on the other. Metaphorically, they barricaded themselves into their laagers, those circles of upturned wagons that the Afrikaners traditionally used to protect themselves on their long marches. Two worlds had now become polarized, without contact, without sympathy or understanding.”

As I pondered her words it was not long before these stories began to overlap – mine on the Cairo subway, de Waal’s about borders and exclusion of the other, and, of course, current debates within my own society and culture about inclusion, exclusion, of whom to fear and what places and people to avoid.

I find that more than any other emotion, I am thankful for that nighttime subway ride in Cairo. Something that could be seen as inconsequential, or even as reckless or unwise. Perhaps it was more of a risk that I realized. But I wonder, if we barricade ourselves off from the other, if we keep ourselves ‘safe’ from encountering those we perceive as different or strange or alien, if we are not, in actuality, putting ourselves at a far greater risk.

“Across the border then, whether it’s a human border or the strange frontier with God, is something or someone who is more hospitable than we dreamed; and we learn this by taking the risk of hospitality ourselves.”                 -Ester de Waal

unexpected hope

It’s my first visit to Beirut, and though I’ve been in the region before, it’s my first time returning since the conflict in Syria. Hearing stories of displacement, violence, fear and destruction made for a good but heavy day. I was full of such thoughts, wondering how one could possibly offer any word of hope, encouragement, or life in the midst of so much that reeks of death and despair, when a bit of something resembling hope came from an unlikely encounter.

I had returned to the restaurant where we ate the night before – wanting to try the artichoke salad that I had turned down in favor of wild mushroom risotto (yes, I love my food). The same waiter was there – the same waiter I had asked the night before for his recommendation between the two. “I had to come back to try the artichoke salad,” I explained. “I knew you would,” was his response.

As I ate, I tried to sort through the many difficult stories we had heard during the day – stories much more complicated than what we seem to hear on American media sources. I wasn’t surprised by this, but I was troubled with all that we had learned in such a short time.

As I asked for the check I couldn’t help it – I needed to know. So, I asked my waiter what he thought of the situation in Syria. “Well, I’m not a political person,” he began – and then shared one of the more beautiful explanations I had heard yet.

“We Lebanese, we just want to dance and to love and to live our lives,” he began. “We don’t want war – we’ve had enough of that already,” he continued.

He explained to me that, though he was a Muslim, those people who were resorting to violence, hatred, and destruction did not speak for him. In fact, he wondered if they really were Muslims at all, since their actions and their stands are so counter to the Islam that he knows and follows. I knew what he meant immediately, as I realized how often I, a Christian, want to distance myself from those who call themselves Christians but whose actions of hatred, killing, and violence do not represent the Christ whose love I aim to bear witness to in the world.

But he also admitted that peace, in his estimation, would not come easily or quickly. Though he and those he knows prefer to live in peace – even with the state of Israel – a state which will not allow Lebanese to enter, and a state whose citizens cannot enter Lebanon – he realizes that not all Lebanese are ready to accept such a view.

I wish now I had recorded our conversation – his responses were beautiful and life giving in the midst of so much conflict, so much violence, so much fear and mistrust.

“We know that peace will not come soon,” he continued. “Maybe not for ten years or even ten years more – but there will be peace. And, in the meantime, we are the ones to work to build the peace in this world.”

Amen. May it be so. And thanks be to God for the gift of this chance conversation – a bit of unexpected grace.

 

ebikes and wine tasting in Baja’s Guadalupe Valley

I turned onto the dirt road from the paved highway, having seen the small ‘ebike’ sign with an arrow pointing left. Billed as something akin to a cross between a pop-up restaurant and an outdoor adventure, I was intrigued and anticipating the day’s journey – while also a bit concerned about the combination of wine tasting and bike riding. I decided a helmet would be a good option, just in case.

That thought was confirmed as I took my first test drive of the ebike, electric bike, and felt the acceleration far beyond my capacity as I began to peddle. This is going to be a blast, I thought to myself, a smile like a child’s plastered across my face, making the u-turn along that dirt road and accelerating my way back to the rest of the group. Seven of us, newbies to the ebike scene, had signed up for this maiden voyage of ebike wine touring, the brainchild of Allen Jones and Agnes Cameleyre.

Part of what drew me to the adventure was the extensive knowledge of the wine valley I knew Agnes to hold – and her generosity in sharing those stories, histories, and fun facts of an area of the world that is rapidly becoming known as a destination not just for wine aficionados, but foodies and students of ‘local and sustainable’ as well.

This anticipation was not disappointed as we made our way, a bit wobbly at first as our very eclectic group acclimated to the ebike and dirt road combination,  across the valley floor to its north side and up a gentle incline to one of the valley’s newer wineries, Las Nubes.  “This is an example of what a new generation is doing in wine-making,” explained Agnes, as we sat down at the long rectangular table in a tasting room whose floor to ceiling windows offer expansive views of the valley below. Las Nubes, from winemaker Victor Segura of Mexico City, is a large scale operation – an example, Agnes suggested, of what the ‘big business’ of wine making looks like as it comes into its own in the Guadalupe Valley.

Thankfully as the dusty and somewhat sweaty group of us sat down for our tasting the first pour was water – to quench a thirst we had already worked up in our short 20 minute ride, and final ascent into ‘the clouds’ in the 80 degree heat of midday. We opted for the 5 wine pour – as opposed to the 7 – knowing that we had another bike ride, wine tasting, and still more riding before we’d encounter anything resembling a meal. The pouring began – with a somewhat rare to the valley savignon blanc chardonnay blend. Up until the past few years, and the blossoming of so many new wineries in the region, it was said that the best white wine in the valley was red.

From Las Nubes we headed down the hill – electric bike power turned off, so as not to unintentionally accelerate while speeding down the curved dirt road – and across the valley floor, first on a bit of the narrow (and shoulder-less) paved road until we came upon another dirt road and our turn into JC Bravo winery – the opposite, in many ways, of Las Nubes.

JC Bravo is small, hidden almost. Rather than nestled on a hillside in the clouds, it is smack dab in the middle of the small pueblo of El Porvenir, just across the street from a taco stand, and down the road from Casa de Paz, an orphanage trying to be sustainable by growing some of its own food. At JC Bravo it was a two wine pour – a white, Palomino, and a red, Carignan, both local valley blends, grapes grown by the owner and winemaker, Juan Carlos (JC) Bravo.

Agnes again shared a bit of the history with us.  JC (pronounced in Spanish as ‘hoe-ta say’) is one of the valley’s few wine makers who is, himself, local to the valley. His family had been growing grapes for more than four decades – selling those grapes to other wineries. The family’s grapes were among the finest the valley had to offer, but they had never taken advantage of their own production to make wine. That changed a decade ago, and now JC Bravo, though small, produces not only wine, but also a cold pressed (by hand) olive oil that is rich and with such depth that you practically want to drink it as well. Small cubes of bread provided the ideal vehicle for soaking up as much as possible of the earthy yet sweet aceite – alive with its freshness.

As often happens in Baja, our day began to run a bit behind schedule, which meant that we could not linger long at JC Bravo but got back on the bikes and headed still further south to our final destination, one of the valley’s hidden gems, 3 Mujeres winery.

The thirty minute ride (though for most of us it was less of a ‘ride’ and more of an ‘acceleration’ as we gained confidence with the power of the electric bike, and the ease of simply twisting the throttle, versus exerting oneself unnecessarily by actually pedaling) wound its way down that dirt road, past ranches, olive groves, and grape vines. I found myself longing for a helmet mounted camera, so that I could take it all in photographically as well as experientially. A few times I tried to take video with my iPhone, but realized that, on bumpy dirt roads, riding one handed after two wine tastings might not be the best of ideas.

When we arrived through the gate onto the property of 3 Mujeres we were greeted by two small round tables set up under the trees. Their table cloths rustled in the breeze that brought some refreshment to the day’s heat. A simple centerpiece added an elegant beauty. The flower arrangement came from a vine growing on the adobe home of Ivette Vaillard, one of the three women, who lives there on the property  This was a pop-up restaurant just for us – the menu put together by Ensenada Chef Ismene Venegas.  To call the spontaneous eatery an oasis would not do it justice.

3 Mujeres, meaning 3 Women in Spanish, is one of the valley’s only wineries run entirely by women. Ivette Vaillard, Eva Cotero, and Laura McGregor joined together more than a decade ago to nurture their common passion for wine making. The three had all been students at the local ‘escolita’ (wine school) run by Hugo D’acosta. They began to realize that though none of them could take on the task of wine making on their own, together they could. In the words of our ever knowledgeable guide and storyteller Agnes, destiny put them together – destiny, and the adventure of making wine.

The first of three pours began – each of the 3 mujeres makes her own unique wine – as a tartar of curiel (yellow tail), avocado and cucumber arrived on our plates. The second pour led us into the main course of the meal – three different salads of nopales, couscous, and local greens, followed by a garlic potato puree to die for, and the tri tip that had been on the outdoor grill as we arrived. Bread, flat bread and chimichurri sauce rounded out the meal as we enjoyed the third and final pour.

Already past the time that we supposed we would return to our cars in the field, the conversation was as delightful as the ambiance, and no one seemed to mind. It was then that a new spoon was placed in front of each of us, and we realized that the adventure was not yet over. Valley fresh strawberries in a rosemary-infused heavy cream was to be the final taste on the pallet. It did not disappoint.

As we said our goodbyes to our chef and our gracious hosts the sun had begun to lower in the sky, casting that magical golden light on the vineyards as we wound our way back toward the north side of the valley and our awaiting vehicles. The magic hour, is what that time of day is called – that time of perfect light. More than that, it had been a magical day.

To set up a a winery ebike tour, contact Allen and Agnes at allen@innerreef.com

all photos © erin dunigan 2013

 

Yx3 (on things hidden)

Recently at our monthly Not Church gathering our theme was the parable of the jewel hidden in the robe. If you have not read or heard the parable, you really should before proceeding and you can find a link to it here.

labyrinth    ~    © erin dunigan 2013

During the gathering that particular Sunday, the parable was read three different times, by three different readers, each reading spread throughout the rest of the morning’s activities.

There was quite a stir after – why three times? Was the big question. Why did we read it three times?

Some assumed that each of the three readings would have a different telling of the story. But, alas, all three readings were the same story, the parable of the jewel hidden in the robe.

The topic came up again last night, more than a week after our gathering, at a dinner with some friends. “Why was the parable read three times?” again was the entry point into the conversation, which unfolded from there.

For though we read the parable three times in our gathering, there was never any direct teaching from it, upon it, about it, or regarding it. The rest of the ‘sermon’ for the day came from a re-telling of the movie version of the Life of Pi, woven together with a discussion of the recently confirmed discovery of the Higgs Boson particle. The written version of the sermon can be found here, for those who were not present to hear it.

“I believe that the parable means that God is planted within all of us (the jewel) and we have only to look within, rather than to search so many outward paths, to find that, to realize that, to experience that,” the conversation continued as I listened. “So why didn’t you just say that?” was the question begged.

Why not tell people this amazing, beautiful and life changing truth – that what you are seeking out there is to be found in here, that that which is inside of you doing the seeking, is, in a very real sense, already that which is sought. The answer is to go within, to awaken to this ‘jewel’ that already is.  “So why didn’t you just say that?” hung in the air as the conversation unfolded. I listened.

It is a good question. A valid question. A worthwhile question.

Which, in response, brings me to a question of my own -  Why didn’t the rich man in the parable tell his friend he was leaving him with the jewel?

“Because the friend was inebriated, passed out,” you answer. The rich man could not tell him – it was impossible.

Okay then – why did he not leave a note? “Hey, by the way, when you wake up, check your hem – I left something for you.” Or, better yet, why didn’t he just put the jewel in the man’s hand, so that when he woke up he would find it right there? Why ‘bury’ it within his hem?

It would have been so much easier! It would have saved the man so much undue suffering – he would not have found himself in such want, in such need. In fact, it seems almost wrong that he did not leave the gift in a more obvious way – what is the point of such a precious gift, if the receiver doesn’t even know that he has it? It is a waste, isn’t it? Would it have been so hard to leave a simple note?

But there was no note. The inebriated man woke up, found his friend gone, and went on his way, blind to that which he had, clueless to the reality of the precious gift which he now carried with him – unaware of the seed that had been planted.

It was now up to him to look within and discover that it was there all along.