Over Afternoon Tea

Tea is not only a drink but a ritual over which people have been relaxing, talking, and catching up on each other's lives for centuries. This blog is intended to serve as a virtual cup of tea, helping me keep in touch with friends and family in my physical absence.

Cheese Wax! Coming soon to a grocery store near you!

Eureka! I have found the solution to an age-old problem: how to listen in boring classes without completely losing my mind! (A common problem in this insitution *Sigh*)

The last time we went shopping, my husband and I picked up a little bag of tiny, individually wrapped cheeses, each with its own little layer of red wax. I don't know what kind of cheese it is, since the package refuses to say anything but 'Babybel,' but it's pretty tasty. Accordingly, on Tuesday I threw several wheels in my backpack for snacks during my Tuesday/Thursday 9:15-1:30 class marathon. During my last class, which is pleasant but moves terribly slowly, I amused myself by molding the wax out of its original shape and into something roughly resembling ill-favored pancakes. I followed this up by making a seal in the wax with my engagement ring, and observing that while this worked satisfactorily, it failed to take the impression of a dime very well. This Thursday I repeated the cheese-throwing procedure with a few extra wheels tossed in for my husband, resulting in even more wax. This time I decided to move in the direction of sculpture. I produced a rather convincing rose (complete with leaves and thorns), and Anthony created another (which he proceeded to give to me in a very touching moment on which I will not elaborate so as not to produce gags). I was so not bored that I retained the wax and intend to take it to class tomorrow. Maybe I'll work on a tulip. Or even a tree. Next week I could move on to human figures; maybe I'll use my profs as models. By the time I get out of here I'll have earned a degree in art.

One more excuse to love cheese. :-)

Mine, Mine, All Mine...

Today, my husband bought me my very own can of Republic of Tea's white tea--jasmine flavored. Woohoo! Mine mine mine. But I'll be happy to share...come by if you want some.

Oh the Irony...

I live on a campus with men who wear black dresses. The ordained ones and seniors wear black capes over their black dresses, and the serving priests are clothed in apparel that went out of fashion some 1500 years ago.

But I get looked at funny just because I wear a cloak.

They must be jealous of my hood.

Another great quote from Schmemman...I couldn't resist.

[In post-patristic theology] the causality linking the institution [of the sacrament by Christ] to "signum" to "res" is viewed as extrinsic and formal, not as intrinsic and revealing. Rather than revealing through fulfillment, it guarantees the reality of the sign's effect. Even if, as in the case of the Eucharist, the sign is completely identified with reality, it is experienced in terms of the sign's annihilation raher than in those of fulfillment. In this sense the doctrine of transubstantiation, in its Tridentine form, is truly the collapse, or rather the suicide, of sacramental theology.

My Sister Rocks

We stood by the side of the road, the sun beating down on our heads and the asphalt. Before us a silent sea of humanity surged forward in wave after wave of runners. I was surprised at how little noise they made--only the sounds of their feet beating the pavement, the rough panting of their breath, and the tinkling and squashing of plastic cups from the water-station being kicked aside or stepped on. The scene was far from silent, but the noise was coming from the sides of the road, where people were lined up along all 26 miles, 385 yards to cheer the runners on in sporadic whoops, yells and applause.

We had been standing there about half an hour, scanning the crowd anxiously for a bright blue shirt and lime green biking shorts. The pat-pat-pat of feet came on and on, and the plastic cups rolled off the road while the people behind us randomly hollered or broke into a short chant of "Oh, Canada!" whenever an appropriately attired runner came by.

"There she is! Tiffany! Whoohoo! Go Tiffany!"

I spotted her on the far side of the road, almost abreast with us already. Her face was tired, warmed into a gentle smile by our cheers. She managed a wave to let us know she appreciated the encouragement. And I nearly started crying. My baby sister, with the stubborn streak that made her sit down on a soccer-ball to keep the other team from getting it away in her elementary years, was running a marathon.

Monday was just the tip of the iceberg for Tiffany. Over the last 5 months she's run the marathon twenty times over in her daily training runs. Even in the winter cold, she was out there every day. The day of the race, the weather jumped to 85--about twenty degrees hotter, she said, than anything she'd trained in. Runners were dropping out left and right from the heat. Tiffany told us later that she was constantly on the verge of heat stroke for about 20 miles of the race. She was deeply disappointed at having to walk part of the way to keep from overheating and blacking out. She made it in roughly 5 1/2 hours. 26 miles in the heat and sun. I felt a bit faint after just standing in the sun for an hour and a half waiting to see her come through. When I saw her, she was tired, but the look on her face told me what I'd known since she said she was going to run the race--she was going to finish.


Yet suddeenly the stubborn streak of my kid sister has been transformed by a wisdom and strength and humility that seem to have popped up overnight in her--sometime when I wasn't looking. She has a quiet strength. She was hot and tired and discouraged, but she was running, and smiling gently. I've never been the athletic type, and I don't really envy her ability to run. But her strength and gentleness inspire me. She won her race on Monday. And I couldn't be prouder.

This Guy Reminds Me Why I'm Christian

Here's a nifty little quote from Fr. Alexander Schmemman's "For the Life of the World":

The "original sin" of post-patristic theology consists therefore in the reduction of the concept of knowledge to rational or discursive knowledge or, in other terms, in the separation of knowledge from "mysterion". This theology does not reject the "symbolical world view" of the earlier tradition: the sentence quoted above--"omnes...sensibiles creaturae sunt signa rerum sacrum"--is from St. Thomas. But it radically changes the understanding of that "signum." In the early tradition, and this if of paramount importance, the relationship between the sign in the symbol (A) and that which it "signifies" (B) is neither a merely sematnic one (A means B), nor causal (A is the cause of B), nor representative (A represents B). We called this relationship an epiphany. "A is B" means that the whole of A expresses, communicates, reveals, manifests the "reality" of B (although not necessarily the whole of it) without, however, losing its own ontological reality, without being dissolved in another "res."
But it was precisely this relationship between the A and the B, between the sign and the signified, that was changed. Because of the reduction of knowledge to rational or discursive knowledge there appears between A and B a hiatus. The symbol may stll be means of knowledge but, as all knowledge, it is knowledge about and not knowledge of. It can be a revelation about the "res," but not the epiphany of the "res" itself. A can mean B, or represent it, or even, in certain instances, be the "cause" of its presence; but A is no longer viewed as the very means of participation in B. Knowledge and participation are now two different realities, two different orders.

It's all in Plotinus, bless me. What do they teach them at these schools?

Palm Crosses

This last Sunday, according to Orthodox usage, palms were distributed and blessed in the Chapel in honor of the day. Before carrying on with the service, Fr. Gerasimos told us that they were given out to be held as symbols of victory. So I stood holding my palm in my hand.

As is usual for the Greek Orthodox Church, the palms were not handed out in their natural state. Thanks to the efforts of the first-year class here at the school, they'd been folded into little crosses, creating a product reminiscent of stiff and simplified oregami. The faithful will take them home and wedge them behind icons hung on the wall. They will dry naturally there and remain throughout the Paschal period or the whole year (or until whenever somebody finally remembers to take them out and burn them) as visible reminders of victory.

And yet, I thought, looking at the little palm cross in my hand, the symbol of victory has been twisted into a symbol of defeat and a horrible death. And that is where, so often, I leave things. I am a child of the post-modern age. I smile at beams of sunlight but they are somehow polluted by my only-too-intimate knowledge of long cloudy winters. I am entranced by the first green leaves of spring but the fact that they will fall away and die only too soon taints their life. I am all too aware of the death and darkness in this world, poisoning all the good and beauty. Phrases like "where's the catch?" and "it won't last" are an engrained part of my vocabulary. It's so much more safe, so much more suave, to be cynical. To deny that there can be any happiness in the world because somewhere, I am sure, someone is suffering. John D. Caputo, in his book On Religion, comments that wearing gold crosses around our necks is as strange as wearing little gold electric-chair earrings. The sophisticated world laughs and rages at us. How could we, how dare we be joyful? Our own God has died! And by our own admission, the palm of victory, which the Hebrew children offered crying "Hosanna," has become a cross.

But it doesn't stop there. Death itself becomes the means of destroying death. The instrument of the Romans' most feared torture is used to break the unbreakable gates of Hell and becomes a symbol of victory over death, adorning tombs of the faithful in a tacit vow: this is not over yet; He'll be back for you. Pain and death and darkness are entered and exploded by the Light and Life. And this is the hushed, brooding joy of Holy Saturday that will explode uncontainably in the Resurrection Service of Pascha. This is why we have an Icon of Christ crucified and we adorn it with roses. Not because pain is 'OK' or because we will somehow be remunerated for it in the next world, but because 'through the Cross joy has come into all the world.' By embracing the Cross, our own pains and sorrows, and turning them over to God, they are filled with, transfigured by joy, and life is not about trying to avoid pain, but transforming it. This is why we twist palms into crosses and attach them to icons of the Resurrection. This is why I'm standing in the chilly Church early on Sunday morning when a significant part of me would like to be in bed. Because somewhere inside I remember that that joy exists, and it is only found here. May God grant us all the strength and courage to live that joy.

Happy Easter.

You Might Be A Nerd If...

You're the author of a book entitled "Studies in Indoeuropean Personal Pronouns."

Tea Makes the World Go Round

In the first floor of one of those ubiquitous old buildings Boston provides, polished wooden floors clash with furniture of various decades. A few icons are scattered here and there about the walls of this social hall; the actual Church is upstairs. At the moment the social hall is being used as a soup kitchen called Open Door. Boston's hungry--mostly, judging by their baggage or lack thereof, not the homeless, but those who are having a hard time making ends meet--crowd as many 10-foot tables as the Church can muster and a few more card tables put side by side to try to accommodate them all. They're downing their dinners with enjoyment and friendly conversation. Most are regulars; they know each other, and they generally sit at the same spot at the same table.

In the middle of all the havoc and bustle of guests making their way to the front to pick up donated clothes or loaves of bread and servers making their way to the back to deliver dishes and coffee, I venture out with the hot water and tea bags. Most people prefer coffee but I feel it's my duty to keep the tea going. The last thing people really need in the cold is dehydration, and tea (especially the decaf we have on hand) has much less caffeine than coffee, while still being a hot beverage--what most people seem to be really looking for.

I approach the table where a tall, thin man sits. He would have an impressively refined and intelligent look about him if he were wearing something more formal than khakis, red shirt and a baseball cap, but even so he manages to look neat and tidy as few people here do. I don't know his name, but I know he'll want a cup of tea. Nearly every week I set out with the tea pot I get warned about him: make sure to put the tea-bag in the cup first and pour the hot water over it, not pour the water first and then put the tea-bag in it. I always smile and nod. It's too busy, too crowded, and too loud to explain that I do that with every person because it makes a better cup of tea.

Most weeks, he reminds me as well, but this week he either observes that I serve one of his table-mates in the proper manner, or is too busy grumbling that we should make a pot of tea, but don't because coffee and tea bags are the American way. I've been waiting for this opportunity.

"True, but I think a pot would get cold," I say. "I like loose-leaf tea better, too, but you gotta do what you can."

This seems to impress him. Presented with the interesting topic of loose-leaf tea, he tells me that he just found a tea-for-one pot with a strainer to catch loose-leaf tea in the spout. I express my admiration for the clever idea, and now he's sure he's found a kindred spirit. He informs me that the lid is nicely weighted so that it won't fall off when you pour the tea. It's 25% off at such-and-such a museum gift store, he tells me. I respond with the discovery that a local liquor store sells whole-leaf tea, which I've never seen before, and describe the name of the store and its location. And suddenly, in the middle of all the bustle and poverty, I've made a friend. You never know what you're gonna learn.