Yesterday, in preparation for the upcoming Houston Icepocalypse, I cooked. I baked lemon poppyseed blueberry muffins and pumpkin chocolate chip muffins. I manned the waffle iron and turned out waffle after waffle. I sauteed onions, carrots, and garlic, and simmered them in chicken broth, with rotisserie chicken, rice, and heaps of fragrant herbs. And as I chopped and stirred and whisked, I contemplated the immense privilege I have to be in my kitchen, cooking an abundance of food, while our Minnesotan brothers and sisters are living an authoritarian nightmare.
Like many of you, I have followed the news coming out of Minnesota, jaw dropped in horror. Every monstrous act makes my stomach clench. But right now, I don’t want to talk about the atrocities. I want to focus on the beauty.
In our society of minimalism and efficiency, beauty is often seen as excessive, unnecessary, or even ostentatious. Why should we read literature, when reading non-fiction is more productive? Why should we invest money in the arts, when STEM is teaching kids to prepare for our current world? Why do churches spend money on gold tabernacles and intricate paintings, when people are going hungry?
Because in every age, in every time, beauty is there to shine a light in the darkness. Sometimes all we need is one quote, one painting, one sculpture, to pull us back from the brink of despair. Sometimes, one sunrise can give us the pause we need for a deep breath. Sometimes, all it takes is walking into a stunning church {or synagogue or mosque} to bring us to our knees, and then give us the courage to stand back up.
These last few weeks, I have seen beauty in the resistance in Minnesota. Faith organizations raising money for rent, hygiene products, groceries. Community members escorting children to and from school. Neighbors warning neighbors of approaching danger. Strangers marching together in the streets, protesting an occupying force in their beloved city. It reminded me how our incredible Houston community came together after Hurricane Harvey. I have cried multiple times from the sheer beauty of it all.
As I swirled blueberry jam in a lemon poppyseed batter, I thought, These muffins are a source of beauty. I don’t mean aesthetically, though the blueberry swirl looked lovely. I am nourishing myself, my family, to live and love another day. We, as mothers, as humans, can nourish each other. Through food and song and silly jokes and a perfectly layered matcha latte. And each act of nourishment, of love, is a form of resistance. Today, we will savor the pop of warm blueberry and tart lemon, and we will resist despair. Today, we will read a book together, and we will fulfill wishlists for those in need. Today, we will sit amongst our community in Mass, and we will pray for our democracy.
Earlier this week, I read a beautiful poem by a Minnesotan woman that stopped me in my tracks. It spoke of two people, falling in love for the first time, amidst the frigid cold and the background of whistles, unmarked cars, families hiding in attics. And I thought about how love prevails, even and especially on the battlefield, in concentration camps, and while resisting an occupying force. If Love itself can overcome sin, death, and despair, then this current moment of darkness does not stand a chance.
“In the end, the Shadow was only a small and passing thing: there was light and high beauty for ever beyond its reach.”
-J.R.R. Tolkien, Return of the King
