cheers for telling

The bakery opened, and as far as I know (I am now very, very far away), is doing okay. As in, so far, looks like we may survive, financially.

Funny though, how the last anyone on this side of the pacific had heard about the bakery was that it was in need of prayers because only friends were buying things. A reminder that "doing" is not always enough. How it's the telling that really shapes reality.

At church on Sunday they're talking about "story" and so is NPR this morning. Humans, turns out, like to tell stories. The show promised that good story-tellers have an edge in evolution, too.

Here's one: I come back to Harrisonburg to find that most of the little coffeeshops scattered along it's streets a year ago (The Daily Grind wasn't a spectacular coffee shop, but at least it was locally owned, and trying) have disappeared. I drove all over the south side of town searching (so far I've managed to avoid Eastern Harrisonburg Hell) for wi-fi, until I finally remembered Greenberry's, a great little place that originates in Charlottesville, and has giant, oat-y cookies. It's freezing inside, but they don't give me dirty looks when I buy a coffee and stay all day.

So here I am. Admiring toned female legs and eavesdropping on conversations. A few tables away the two middle-aged yuppie women owners are sitting with the SYSCO guy, ordering next week's pesto. It reminds me of the sign Justin saw when we visited Mondragon (vegan-anarchist cafe-bookstore) in Winnipeg. In the window by the sidewalk, it said something like, 'It has come to our attention that a SYSCO van occasionally parks in front of Mondragon when delivering to [nearby business]. We would like to assure our customers that we DO NOT buy from SYSCO.'

See, that's principle, and not easy. The tiny bit of information that makes all the difference in the world. That makes me prefer that place to this place (though I'll come here when I don't have a choice). And somebody's gotta tell the story, or it won't make a damn bit of difference where they're not buying from. Don't forget.

what makes it real

I read during my break at work. My green apron beside me, toasted blueberry bagel, raspberry cream cheese from the expired samples, and this morning, tears. I am hiding back in the wi-fi user's cove, lost in the cruel world where Maryam will not have Ali, no matter how strong her spirit or beautiful her eyes. In a time and place women best marry and then develop their cunning, she suffers the for the dreams her father will not have her pursue, and the man. And he for her.

Then at night Laila and Mariam are brought back to Rasheed. I lay the book face down on the sheet and sob like a child - like a protest against all that is not just in the world - knowing that my emotion does nothing save build awareness in me, and resolve for change. The roller coaster of hope and terror, then we come to terms - both they and I - with the reality of the horror they cannot escape.

There is a third story, this one told, over the dinner table on Sunday. Another woman, another mother, another person who falls on the hard side of power and choices. Law in this country can protect her, but cannot force respect from a son, or the man who has taught him that women don't deserve it. This story, the most real of the three, somehow seems the least; there is no emotion on which we ache our way in. We hear and consider the practicalities - money, housing, where the children will live - and only thinking about it later do I detachedly remember how she must suffer. So unlike the fiction, where the colors and smells and the touch of true love torn apart grabs our hearts by both hands and shakes, saying, "This is her, this is you, this is every woman in every town on every continent. Pay attention." I do.