McCarty Musings

The Theology of Trees

I’ve never understood the story of Adam and Eve and the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Preachers always hit the point that Adam and Eve disobeyed a clear order from God in eating the fruit. Hello, obvious. But I’ve never heard anyone try to explain why the tree was named “the knowledge of good and evil”. Not the acts of Good and Evil…but the knowledge of those things. Growing up evangelical, it took me a while to realize that the word "innocence" means not only being free of guilt, but also the lack of knowledge of evil as well. Most children are innocent, not because they’ve never done anything wrong, but because they have no idea of how much evil humans are capable of committing. Perhaps the tree could have been named, “The Tree of Knowledge of the Holocaust”. Or “The Tree of Knowledge of Rape and Child Abuse”. Or “The Tree of the Knowledge of Murdering Your Neighbor for Having a Certain Skin Color or Sexual Orientation”. 

Even if that works, though, what about the whole “good” business? Why would that be something God wished to keep to Godself? Wouldn’t the knowledge of goodness be inspiring for humans? Wouldn’t this only raise the bar and give us all something to shoot for? Why keep the lives and work and ideas of Martin Luther King, Jr and Desmond Tutu and Mother Theresa to Godself? Maybe the contrast of goodness is nightmarish when put alongside absolute evil. Or perhaps, if there is no true altruism, or if it is just as incredibly rare as I think it might be, perhaps then there is no true (human) Good. And that knowledge might be just a little too devastating, too demoralizing, for us frail little humans to bear with our bleeding, guilty hearts. Perhaps that is why it should remain in the realm of things only God knows. 

But in the story, Adam and Eve did eat. And we do know. And the days we can’t ignore it or distract ourselves from it we must find a way to push on. We must find a way to do good even when we know that we are essentially selfish creatures- and hope that the good that we do is not always marred by our impure motivations and intentions. 

God help us.

Found: Farmer Notes

In Micah's notebook on his desk:

05/26/08: First squash-bug sighting

06/03/08: Squash-bug eggs found (May they die alone in captivity!!!)

VIVA MADFARMER!

Summer Days

Harper Hearts Portland

Thanks to the Courters for their hospitality this weekend. All three McCarty Musers had a blast.

The Three Amigos (Holly and Jonathan, Harper)

I Didn’t Mean to Watch It

Imagine a woman, lying on her living room floor eating a package of raw Ramen Noodles. She is humming a morbid melody that she has just made up called, “Don’t Kill Any More Ponies (With Your Steel-Toed Boots)”. The television is on, but muted, and you may notice that the program is a History Channel special about medical torture experiments done to Jews by Nazi doctors during the Holocaust. Whisper the woman’s name, softly. She will not answer; she will sing on. Leave her for a while to the comfort of her floor, her crispy noodles, and her creepy song. She is healing herself in the only way she knows how. Cover her with a blanket and walk away, slowly. You can brush the crumbs from her tangled hair later. She will come back to you in time.

A World Without Barbie

I knew it was going to happen. I did. I just thought we could protect her from it longer. I didn't know this was going to happen so soon.

After spending the day with one of her awesome grandmothers, Harper and I sat in the living room working on a farm animal puzzle. Suddenly, she looks up and says:

"I want to play with Bawbie Pincess."

I felt a part of me die inside. "What did you say, Harper?"

"Bawbie a Pincess. I want to play with Bawbie Pincess." (She is trying to say "Barbie Princess".)

"Did you play with a Barbie today at your Mimi's?"

She nodded slyly at me. I fell on the floor and rolled around melodramatically, screaming no. Then I collapsed into fake sobs. Harper laughed delightedly. For some reason, she thinks it's really funny when I'm melodramatic.

"Momma, I like Bawbie."

"NO!!! You can't like Barbie!"

Harper thinks we are playing a really fun new game, laughs, and says, "Yes. I like Bawbie. Bawbie a pincess."

"Barbie is a whore." I spat out, and immediately sensed that I had gone too far. Harp had a stricken look on her face, even though she's never heard the word "whore" before and has no idea what it means. My best guess is that the hatred and disdain in my voice startled her.

"I'm sorry, Harper. You can like Barbie. I shouldn't tell you not to like someone just because they are pretty. Never mind the countless eating disorders she has spawned, the broken self-image for all chubby brown-haired girls and little girls of any race other than Caucasian." She went back to her puzzle, but my evening was shot. I wanted so badly to give her a world without Barbie.

Telling Micah the story later, he gently said, "Kristen, I don't think we should try to teach abstinence from Barbie. I don't think that will work. Maybe we should try to teach redemption of Barbie." Seeing my sceptical glare, he continued, "Our Barbie will do karate. Our Barbie will love to read."

A light slowly dawned in my eyes. "Our Barbie can be a college literature professor?" Micah nodded encouragingly. "Our Barbie can teach women's self-defense classes? Our Barbie will cure AIDS? Still, isn't that teaching Harper that to truly be a success, she has to be smart and really hot?"

"This isn't perfect, but maybe we can help instill in her a desire to look beneath the surface, whether someone is beautiful or not."

"And there's always Dora."

"Yes. And you know it's just a matter of time before someone in one of our families gets her a Barbie."

"No. No, they won't. And if they do it will soon be in the trash. We can redeem Barbie, but she is still not a welcome guest in our home. Period. Unless, of course, she's missing a leg and all her hair's been burned off from her nursing stint in Darfur with the Red Cross. Then she can stay. But Dora will always be welcome."

To make myself feel a little better, I taught Harper to growl, "I'm a girl! Hiii-ya!" and hit a karate stance. Just something you have to do to make it through the day when you live in a world with Barbies.

Arrrghhh

Harper has a fascination with pirates right now. We have some books about pirates that she loves (including stories about ships of all-girl pirates), and I’m pretty excited to start telling her all about her (pretend) Uncle Robert the pirate. She has made a funny association with bandanas- anyone with one on their head she has decided must be a pirate. “Pirate!” she screams in utter glee when she sees a man on a motorcycle with a bandana on his head. Monday, Micah was working on our roof with some guys, one of whom had his shirt off and the other wearing a bandana. “Look, daddy- naked pirates on our roof!” She was delighted, thrilled, and kept smiling and batting her eyes at them (from a safe distance) during lunch. We are in so much trouble.

This Pirate-Obsession has lead to spirited debates among the adult Musers on what is the best pirate song- Kristen voting passionately for the VeggieTales “The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything” (never bathed in yogurt, never licked a sparkplug- come on), and Micah vehemently defending the Backyardigans “A Pirate Says Arrghhh”, which even Kristen has to admit has a sweeter dance groove.

Writer in Residence

End of the Road Farm now has a writer in residence, a lovely though shy Black Widow spider. She has made herself at home in our mailbox. Due to frequent viewings of Charlotte's Web, we will not be requiring her to move, but ask that all mail be sent to us via internet, as we are currently respecting each other's lives, and space.

The Pursuit of...Things Other Than Happiness

Perhaps we've all been screwed from the writing of the Constitution (and more importantly for this post, the Declaration of Independence). Why do we feel that we must be happy? That we deserve to be happy? That we will be happy, dammit, no matter what it takes? Our pastor says that the Native Americans had a very different outlook on life. They viewed life as essentially tragic, and so expected heartache. If we viewed life in this way, would less of us be on anti-depressants?

Maybe the point is not to avoid heartache and sadness, but to be able to accept it and breathe through it. To be able to live in love and kindness despite the closing darkness. To be thankful for what you can in the face of hurt. I was happy for so long, and maybe that was partly my innocence from evil and the knowledge of evil, and maybe partly my temperament. Maybe that kind of happiness does not return once it has left.

Today, I think I view another path. Uphill in heavy boots I walk. God forgive me for those days I have to rest- the days I consider packing it in early. There are days I wrestle with something inhuman for the will to live. But most days, uphill I climb. God, see how hard I try.

Loving My Enemy

The lady at work who hates me is growing on me. Her hatred causes her to whittle down her language to the absolutely essential when speaking to me, which is interesting to both my inner writer and my inner anthropologist. For example, she might walk up to me and hand me a stack of papers, saying, “The dates are wrong.” She displays an admirable restraint in the way she chooses her words. No common banalities such as “hello” escape her lips. Her very terseness sets her apart from our friendly, loquacious coworkers, putting her on another plain of being altogether. Do we talk to keep people from thinking we are strange, unfriendly, unlikable? She has reached a Zen state in which she is free from whoring herself out to the good opinions of others, that old, unhappy Buddha of the office, my hater and my liberator from small and meaningless chat.