Laurel Massé

A proppa cuppa - one woman's opinion

When I run for president - in my next life, of course - I will have a very short agenda. If you are serving black tea, use boiling water when you make it. Simple, yes?

Apparently not. Unless I go to a dedicated tea room, like the slice of sassy British heaven that is Tea and Sympathy here in Manhattan, the aromatic, magical potion that results from pouring boiling water into Yorkshire Gold and letting it steep for the proper amount of time is not what I am going to see coming toward me when I order tea at a restaurant.

I have been a drinker of the sacred beverage since I was ten, and I cut my tea-teeth in Solihull, England, at the daily afternoon break at St. Martin's School for Girls. It was a strong black brew, whitened with whole milk, and sweetened, if you liked it that way. "If you are cold, tea will warm you," said William Gladstone. "If you are too heated, it will cool you; if you are depressed, it will cheer you; if you are exhausted, it will calm you."  Tea at St. Martin's did all that, and set the imprint for what I expect from a cuppa: flavour, heat, energy, and something a little more intangible: gentling.

Let me make it clear that I am talking about tea made from the tea plant, camelia sinensis. Herb tea is made with herbs other than real tea. Confused? Not surprising. It's a simple failure of language. In French - and perhaps in other languages, but French is the one I know - thé is made with real tea, and herb teas (infusions made with herbs, not tea) are called tisanes. It makes sense to have two different words, because most of the time the two are not prepared in quite the same way.

Flavour starts with providing a good black tea to begin with. This tea will not say Lipton on the box. Nor will it say Bigelow, Stash, or the name of an American chain supermarket (I am talking about you, Key Foods!). I'm personally not all that fond of Twinings (as sold in the States) either, because it always seems so, oh, trying hard but too weak in the end to get the job done. My current favourite is Yorkshire Gold, a rich, malty blend that helps me sit a little straighter and think a little faster, and restores my optimism. If there is a good tea and coffee purveyor in your town, you'll be able to get beyond brand names into loose teas from all over the world, and will end up knowing more than I do about the stuff.

Now, dry tea tastes like sticks and leaves (a dry tea bag tastes like sticks, leaves, and paper). You need water, boiling water, to unlock the flavours of black tea. What this means, to the weary traveler, is that one can almost never get a good cup of tea in a restaurant south of the Canadian border, because most of the time the water used has been heated by running it through the coffee maker. Coffee makers are set to heat water to just below the boiling point, because coffee is appalled by boiling water. So it's never going to be hot enough. Then the water, hot-ish and smelling faintly of coffee filters, is poured into a too-small mug, and the mug, with a tea bag (Lipton, most likely) next to it, is brought to the table. Let me recap: it wasn't hot enough to begin with, it's less hot now, and the consummation devoutly to be wished, water and tea together in cup, still hasn't happened. 

One drops the tea bag into the cup and waits; the cold, weak brew that results is just plain discouraging. One may drink it, but why? In fact, why bother with anything? It's all so hopeless, really. Nothing matters.

One is hard-pressed to Get Up And Get On With It.

Furthermore, if it is a gentling of the buffeting winds of life that one was hoping for, and that same sense of being cherished that had extended from teacher Miss Waugh as she poured tea for this little newcomer to a school, a community, and a country... well, it just can't happen. None of the necessary ingredients are present: not the good tea, not the boiling water, not the trusting nature of childhood, and not Miss Waugh.

Therefore, I've resolved that henceforth I shall travel with a little electric kettle and a stash of good tea so that, when it's All Too Much, I can fill that kettle, boil the water, and, conjuring a sweet and personal past, brew some smashing tea, knowing that I wlll, no matter where I am, find therein the strength to Carry On.

All the news we choose

If I stand at my north-facing window and look out at the street, I see a particular slice of the city: the building across the street, the cars parked in front of the window, the passers-by who drift across my field of vision. If I move to another window in this same apartment, the view is different, even though the distance betwen the two windows is not very great. If I go to the cafe only a block away, and sit at a table by the cafe's window, I can't see my building, nor can I see the cars parked in front it. If I am at the Cathedral, a mere six miles away, I see a completely different slice of the city, and the Bronx might just as well not exist.

When I was in Europe, the news I read and heard rose from a European perspective. In France, the news focuses on what is happening in France. The United States is seen from a distance, and believe me, It looks different. Seems obvious, yes? There are things going on in the States that I would not find out about from French or Belgian or British news sources, just as there are things happening elsewhere that I can't access from my various "windows" here. In fact, If there is a wildfire raging in Southern California, I have to turn to the Los Angeles Times to learn exactly where it is burning, because the media here on the east coast tend to say "wildfires in California hills". California is an immense slice of land, and "which hills?" is an urgently important question to me, because I have friends living in that state, in fire-prone canyons and hills.

As I write, as many as two million protesters fill Tahrir Square in Cairo, Egypt. The people intend to change their government. They are exercising one of the great privileges of democracy, and, so far, this demonstration is peaceful. I am watching a live stream on Al-Jazeera English. Egyptian state television is showing a very different picture - small pro-Mubarek demonstrations, largely empty streets -from what Al-Jazeera is showing.  I know this because I can access Al-Jazeera's website.  I am grateful for the Internet. It may or may not not take the place of newspapers in my hand, but it excells in breaking news that used to have to wait for the "extra" edition to hit the streets. I'm also grateful to be living in a place where the internet is neither government- nor single corporation-run, at least thus far.

But if I lived in Canada, I apparently could be watching Al-Jazeera's coverage of this event on TV. Here in the States, most of us can't, as the cable companies do not offer it. This denial of access has the appearance of corporate censorship. Huffington Post opines that the companies are afraid of losing subscribers, and that it's a money-based decision, not an idealogical one. It's a moot point, though, because the result is the same either way.

When I was a little girl, there was a lot of talk about the "domino theory". If communism took hold in one country, my teacher said, it would spread like a cold virus to every neighboring nation. At the time, I thought that might be true because grownups were saying it. But their dominoes could only fall one way, and that didn't make sense, because I had a box of dominoes and knew thay have two sides, and because I already learned in school something it seemed the grownups had forgotten. We already had the best virus-stopper ever: democracy. All we had to do, I reasoned, was to really be what we said we were: the Land of the Free. The one shining place where people could be free to live, work, dream, worship, create, be informed, and vote as they choose. If we really were that, the example would be irresistible, and everyone would want to live in a democracy like we did. The dominoes would fall the other way.  It was so simple.

These days, I would use the phrase "walk it like we talk it", and heaven help me, I still think it could be that simple.

At this writing, we are criticising the current (and probably outgoing) Egyptian government for attempting to shut down communication by instituting a fear-driven blockage of news media and the internet. At this same writing, most American cable stations do not allow access to Al-Jazeera's news coverage for what may be the fear of losing subscribers and revenue. 

Listening deeply, talking freely, exercising courtesy, reading widely and having many choices (which is only possible when one is informed that such choices exist), and the freedom to make them - these were what I thought important as a child. Haven't much changed my mind.

In Henry James' novel, The Portrait of a Lady, the lead character Isabel says, "I always want to know the things one shouldn't do." 

"So as to do them?" asked her aunt.

"So as to choose." said Isabel.

 

 

 

 

Doctor, my eyes

I was looking at clips on Youtube a few moments ago, and misread a label, or was misled by one, and saw something that upset me profoundly. It doesn't matter what it was. The clip made my temperature soar, my heart rate speed up, and my breathing become quick and shallow. Then I felt nauseated, and a little faint.

Something I saw for just a moment on my small screen, and heard, tiny and tinny through my laptop's speakers, affected my body that much, and that fast, even though I knew it to be just a manipulated image on a screen. My fine mind knew that very well. But my body and spirit were far more perceptive, and knew it was something to get away from, fast.

Suddenly, there is new meaning for me in the practice of "custody of the eyes". I always thought it meant not allowing the eyes to dwell on what might be "occasions of sin" (such an efficient, all-encompassing little phrase). Ladies, be not immodest with your glances. That kind of thing.

But today, in the wake of this incident, I am thinking more deeply about the word custody, which is defined as guardianship and protective care. The eyes are the windows of the soul, it's said. Light and dark travel through windows in both directions. I should take greater care of these windows.

I don't mean I can shut my eyes to what is going on in the world. That would be irresponsible. I do not choose to bow out of our shared troubles and joys. Nor am I certain that what I saw would upset everybody (though I think it should). But I am going to exercise a little more protective care when choosing to be entertained by Youtube, films, with what I read, and what I dwell on. I want to keep the glass in my windows clear of crud, so that I can see true light and true dark.

And always know the difference.

 

 

Miles to go before we sleep

                                 photo by John C. Goodwin - Dr. MLK at Riverside Church 4/4/1967

Just about anyone reading this blog can access audio or print of Dr. Martin Luther King's I Have a Dream speech on the internet. Many media outlets are reprinting, or streaming that speech today, on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day. Rightly so. It is extraordinary on so many levels: ideas, passion, preaching, theology, and rhetorical skill. I think even those who disagree with its content can appreciate its delivery.

Of course, Dr. King made many other speeches in his brief but intense lifetime that are not as well known. It is saddening to think this may be simply because they are longer. Of these, Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence is one of my favorites, for it shows the broadening of King's definition of the term "civil rights", and of his overall vision. For this he was heavily criticized even by those in the civil rights movement. The speech is both critical and hopeful.

Even more compelling, in my eyes and heart, is the sermon King preached at The National Cathedral on March 31, 1968, four days before his assassination. I listen to Staying Awake Through a Great Revolution with a measure of personal sorrow, not only because the man speaking was silenced so soon after speaking these words, but because they are still true, and because I am aware of how often I fall asleep.

By clicking on the links for each speech, you will be able to hear and read them. These are not soundbites. They are speeches. They are long. They are worth your time.

An ever more perfect union

From President Obama's speech last night:

I believe we can be better. Those who died here, those who saved lives here - they help me believe. We may not be able to stop all evil in the world, but I know that how we treat one another is entirely up to us. I believe that for all our imperfections, we are full of decency and goodness, and that the forces that divide us are not as strong as those that unite us.

I have been reading comments in the press and blogosphere this morning about the president's speech, and have come to a new resolve: I am not going to read comments on political stories anymore. In truth, I have thought this in the past, but always drift back for one more look, like touching wet paint to see just how wet it is. But no more. I know that there are women and men of bright goodness in this country, millions of them, and I don't want my ability to see that light obscured anymore by the smoke of burning hostilities.

It's pretty easy for me to feel, not unamerican exactly, but not-very-American. I lived overseas from the ages of ten to sixteen. These are very formative years, and I had a lot of trouble adjusting to being Stateside again for the start of my senior year in high school. Some of my sense of being a foreigner here never quite fell away. That is probably why I feel comfortable living in a big east-coast city even though I love the wilderness.

I look at newspapers from Britain, Canada, and France fairly regularly, to stay aware of the different perspective that was the only one I had in those years away. This country looks different from a distance, scarier to be sure, but also - often - more wondrous strange and beautiful.

I think what President Obama was able to do in his speech yesterday was to give us a different perspective, to show us to ourselves from a different distance, from a place where the divisions between us melt into insignificance. Where all one sees is that which binds us. Grief. Joy. Loss. Love. And a dream: a vision of how much better we can be than the often-pretty-fine-once-you-get-the-smoke-out-of-the-way that we are.

There were several scripture readings at the memorial yesterday, and the president referenced a few more. Had I a hand in the planning of the event, this is a reading I would have chosen:

One Body with Many Members

Indeed, the body does not consist of one member but of many. If the foot were to say, ‘Because I am not a hand, I do not belong to the body’, that would not make it any less a part of the body. And if the ear were to say, ‘Because I am not an eye, I do not belong to the body’, that would not make it any less a part of the body. If the whole body were an eye, where would the hearing be? If the whole body were hearing, where would the sense of smell be? But as it is, God arranged the members in the body, each one of them, as he chose. If all were a single member, where would the body be? As it is, there are many members, yet one body. The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you’, nor again the head to the feet, ‘I have no need of you.’ On the contrary, the members of the body that seem to be weaker are indispensable, and those members of the body that we think less honourable we clothe with greater honour, and our less respectable members are treated with greater respect; whereas our more respectable members do not need this. But God has so arranged the body, giving the greater honour to the inferior member, that there may be no dissension within the body, but the members may have the same care for one another. If one member suffers, all suffer together with it; if one member is honoured, all rejoice together with it. (1 Corinthians 12:14-26, NRSV)

"Our hearts are broken," President Obama said last night. "And yet, our hearts also have reason for fullness."

I pray to remember to see from that fullness. To be in that fullness. And to carry that fullness out into the world every day.

God bless America.

 

Who is to blame?

That is the question that has been racing around the country today. Who is to blame for the attempted murder of Congresswoman Giffords, and for the senseless slaughter of six people yesterday? Yes, there was a shooter, but what inspired him to shoot? The Tea Party, say some. The gun lobby.  A widely-publicized map marked with targets. Obama's policies. Republicans. Democrats. The disintegration of civility. Gay marriage. Muslims. Right-wing Christians. Left=wing socialists.

We want a scapegoat.

And we want that scapegoat to be someone else. Not our tribe. Not us.

We want to lay our sins on that goat (as in Leviticus 16), shove it out into the desert, and go on with our lives, unchanged. And we could do that. Read the comments section of any newspaper or blog to see a web of raging blame and counter-blame.

If we let this go, doing nothing but blaming someone else, we will all but guarantee it will happen again.

it is true that people across the political spectrum have been saying and writing recklessly hateful things, feeding the fear and frustration of others. People have wished misfortune and pain on those they disagree with, and celebrated when that wishing bore foul fruit. It is true that such speech is dangerous.

But equally dangerous - and perhaps more so -  is the silence of people of good will, the reluctance to get involved, and the willingness to be distracted. 

We are all responsible for the discord of these times. Until we recognize that, nothing can change.

 

 

 

 

Kyrie eleison

Today a young man walked into a public meeting at a Safeway supermarket in Tucson, Arizona, and shot Congressswoman Gabrielle Gifford through the head with a semi-automatic pistol. She is in critical condition  after surgery, but is expected to survive.

He shot seventeen other people, six of whom have died. One was a federal judge, John Roll. Another was a Gifford staff member.

One was a nine-year old girl. Her name has not been released.

The New York Times reports that Judge Roll had received death threats in 2009 during an immigration case when he had allowed a lawsuit filed by illegal immigrants against a rancher to go forward. Rep. Gifford's office was vandalized after she voted for the health care bill. According to The Washington Post, she had been "targeted" by some Republican activists who wanted her voted out of office in 2010. Her district was one of several in the country depicted in the crosshairs of a gunsight on a widely-distributed map. That same paper reports that "Arizona tea party activists voice shock at shooting".

I believe that to be true. I believe that there is genuine shock and dismay across the entire political spectrum this day. But I also believe that, among the many positive attributes of our culture, we are a careless culture. Like a small child, we seem to have little or no sense of the consequences of our speech and actions. We embrace a rhetoric of violence.

And then are are shocked when the violence leaps beyond rhetoric.

I do not have an answer. But I am thinking tonight of the rarely-sung second verse of America the Beautiful, the song I believe should be the American national anthem:

O beautiful for heroes proved in liberating strife,

who more than self their country loved, and mercy more than life!

America, America! God mend thy every flaw,

confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law.

(as printed in The Hymnal 1982 of the Episcopal Church)

Love.

Mercy.

Self-control.   

 

 

 

 

 

On the tenth day of Christmas...

My true love sent me ten Lords a-leaping, but as I am suddenly felled by another cold, I've asked them to take their leaping elsewhere for a while so I can get some rest.

They have graciously honored my request, and promise to pop round again another time.

 

 

 

 

 

Wired for joy

We are wired for joy. When the conditions are right, we remember that we are.

 

 

What's wrong with the music business, simplified