A Story or Two About a Community Supper and the Miraculousness of Life …

Given the sheer number of possible interactions one might have in a lifetime, I often wonder, how we don’t marvel more at the amazing miracle it is when two paths cross, the fact that somehow, someway, the two of us, both fighting the odds, even to be here in this moment, are now together, if even for this moment.

Like last week at a community supper, when I found myself sandwiched between two generations of women. On my right, octogenarians, peeling garden carrots, which too, are miracles, growing from the tiniest of seeds, sprinkled into the dirt and grown into “a carrot the size of a potato,” as one of the ladies shared. Hands spotted with age, veins showing, a purple hue, curled with the stories of time and age. Bent over the pail of peelings, laughing in delight and sharing memories and sadness of horses and partners now passed. And on my right, children, one of them my own. Laughing and giggling arms barely reaching over the counter, as they were tasked with peeling the turnips, a food they surely will never eat, yet too are miraculous, and even though just as many peels were landing on the floor than in the sink, they diligently did their job, part of the crew, young soft hands, too sharing stories of horses.

I looked around the kitchen, a familiar place for me to be, and I smiled. Generations, each knowing and seeing a different time. Stories of widowhood and empty nesting were shared, laughter at changing bodies, dancing bodies and tears too. It was but a moment, a fleeting one at that, but one I seem to be seeing with different eyes lately.

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"Beauty is as much about how and whether we look as what we see.  From the quark to the supernova, the wonders do not cease, it is our attentiveness that is in short supply, our ability and willingness to do the work awe requires." 
- John Green

Later, as I stood in line serving the food we so many in the community lovingly prepared together, I spooned perogies, a peasant food of my ancestors made of a flour dough and potatoes, survival foods then, that has now become luxurious, four on each plate. I met each person that came through the line. Hundreds of them. Wow. And as I looked up from my pan of perogies and butter and onions, a long line of waiting feasters curling around the edges of the room, my eyes met with my elementary school music teacher. I smiled. And she smiled back. A moment of recognition from years past. I told her how just two weeks earlier, I had been singing Halloween songs around the house, telling the girls how I had fantastic music teacher and how the songs still live inside of me, and I was pretty sure the girls would too pass along those songs. We reminisced about the Halloween assemblies that we’d all gather in the gym and the lights would go out, as we both sang the line of the song …. ” oooo went the wind and OUT went the lights.” We didn’t talk about the time she sent me to the Principal’s office and called my parents, but she did ask my girls’ names, and the lady she was with, an elder community member shared raving tales about our family, most which weren’t true, but she smiled and fawned over me, like only an old teacher can, as I continued to dish perogies on plates that passed by.

It wasn’t long before it went full circle … my students came through. The ones that were once eight in my classroom of colours, a young, brand new teacher, who are now twenty or more, young adults, nearly the age I was when I was their teacher. Using sweet names and asking questions and telling them how proud I am of them, now it was my turn, fawning as only your old teacher can, while dishing perogies onto your plate. (Maybe an extra one or two for those students).

Young and old came through that line. Those with shaking hands that struggled to hold their plates still, those with young hands who needed bigger ones to help them dish out … and everything in between. Refill after refill of perogies arrived as people gathered to share a meal, to eat a meal, each one a story, a marvel. The last to come were my own children. Diligently waiting until the very end to get their helping of this food they too know how to make, this food we call perogies and will now sit, each winter in front of a movie and make together.

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Last night at supper, we sat together sharing stories of my great grandfather, who immigrated from Eastern Europe, who shared this food tradition with us, and as the girls asked stories, I shared the folklore, that he lost the love of his life and so he married my great grandmother.

“Huh..” said one of the girls, mentally following the thread of people who interconnected in order for them to be sitting here this evening, “Imagine all of the small details of a life, each decision, each moment that had to happen just as it did in order for us to be here right now.”

Isn’t that astonishing?

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"Granted, in daily speech, where we don't stop to consider ever word, we all use phrases like "the ordinary world," "ordinary life," "the ordinary course of events," ... but in the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal.  Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it.  Not a single day and not a single night after it.  And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world." 
- Wisława Szymborska

Until Next Time …

N