Parsnip and Apple Soup - A Time of Stillness

by Amy

Dinner was served, starting with parsnip and apple soup, with a drizzle of walnut infused oil on top.
“Olivier gave me the recipe,” said Reine-Marie, turning down the light in the kitchen.
[…]
Gamache took a couple of spoonfuls of soup. It was smooth and earthy and just a touch sweet.
“Delicious,” he said to Reine-Marie, but his mind was elsewhere.

A meal that is a bit unusual (at least to me), served twice in one book, enticing enough that Reine-Marie asks Olivier for the recipe, AND gets complimented by a character? I had absolutely no trouble picking which THE NATURE OF THE BEAST recipe to start with!

Reine-Marie eats this soup at the Bistro earlier in the book during a memorable conversation with Gamache. She later serves it to Gamache, Agent Cohen, Chief Inspector Gamache and Jean-Guy Beauvoir during a cozy candlelit dinner.

I think Reine-Marie is a wise woman. In the Supporting Spouses and Peppermint Tisane Post we talked a bit about her relationship with Gamache and how she was aware of who and what he was and was willing to respect that. In THE LONG WAY HOME Gamache was still healing. He was in a place of reflection and reassessment, and he was still reeling from all that had come before. Now he’s begun to ask What next? So has everybody else. Including the readers.

I think that’s the big question for the next book. What’s next?

Sitting in the warm and cheerful bistro, with fresh warm bread and parsnip and apple soup in front of them…
[…]
“I was threatened yesterday by a young agent. […] Fresh out of the academy. He knew I was once a cop and he didn’t care. If he’d treat a former cop like that, how’s he going to treat citizens?”
“You look shaken.”
“I am. I’d hoped by getting rid of the corruption the worst was over, but now…” He shrugged and smiled thinly. “Is he alone, or is there a whole class of thugs entering the Sûreté? Armed with clubs and guns.”

I think Gamache knows the department is in good hands. He’s just told Reine-Marie what a good job Chief Inspector Lacoste has been doing. He might sometimes miss it, but it’s no longer his job and he seems to be okay with that.

“Not just a good job, a remarkable job. She’s completely taken control of the department. Made it her own.”
Reine-Marie watched him for signs of regret hiding beneath the obvious relief. But there was only admiration for his young protégé.

I think he’s wondering if maybe there’s another job that he is supposed to do. Another mission. Not the murders themselves, I don't think. Lacoste and Jean-Guy are perfectly capable of handling those and Lacoste is doing beautifully with the department. But maybe he’s to be involved in the shaping of a new “ideology” for the Sûreté? He’s outrooted corruption, but someone has to help ensure a new mentality is installed in its place. Maybe Gamache is feeling called to do that?

“I’m sorry, Armand.”
She reached across the table and placed her hand on his.
He looked down at her hand, then up into her eyes, and smiled.
“It’s a place I no longer recognize. To everything there is a season. I’m thinking of talking to Professor Rosenblatt about his job at McGill.”

He seems to be shying away from it, though. He’s been invited to take over as Superintendent. It’s a legitimate offer. He doesn’t answer anyone who questions him about it in this book. I don’t think he knows the answer himself. I think he’s still considering his options. Wondering. Trying to figure out what he wants to do. What he’s meant to do.

She knew he wasn’t considering studying science, but now she understood what he was considering.
If the big question facing both of them was, What next? could the answer be, University?
“Would that interest you?” he asked.
“Going back to school?”
She hadn’t really thought about it, but now that she did she realized there was a world of knowledge out there she’d love to dive into. History, archeology, languages, art.
And she could see Armand there. In fact, it was a far more natural fit than the Sûreté ever seemed. She could see him walking through the hallways, a student. Or a professor.
But either way, he belonged in the corridors of academe. And so did she. She wondered if the killing of young Laurent had finally, completely, put paid to any interest he had in the disgrace that was murder.
“You like the professor?” she asked, going back to her soup.
“I do, though there seems a strange disconnect between the man and what he did for a living. His field was trajectory and ballistics. The main people who’d benefit from his research would be weapons designers. And yet he seems so, so, gentle. Scholarly. It just doesn’t seem to fit.”
“Really?” she asked, trying not to smile. It was what she’d just been thinking about him. A scholarly man who pursued murderers. “I guess we’re not all what we seem.”

We aren’t all what we seem. We rarely are. And there's usually more to us (everyone) than meets the eye.

Some people seem to have been meant to do one thing. Or one type of thing. Or one line of work. Others are more flexible – or more versatile. Some people, by choice or circumstance, spend a lifetime doing the same things. Others seem to live many lives.

I think everyone thinks Armand Gamache still has much to give and much to contribute. No one – probably not even he – knows what that is, but everyone is asking What next?

She’d held his hand tightly. It was covered in his own blood and that of others. And it mingled with the blood on her hands. Her own, and others.
And now catching killers was in their blood.
Chief Inspector Gamache hadn’t died. And he’d continued to lead them for many investigations. Until the time had come to come here.
He’d done enough. It was someone else’s turn.
Hers.
“You and Madame Gamache seem happy here.”
“We are. Happier than I ever thought possible.”
“But are you content?” Isabelle probed.

Gamache smiled again. How different she was from Jean-Guy, who’d come right out and demanded, “Are you going to stay here doing nothing, or what, patron?”

He’d tried to explain to Jean-Guy that stillness wasn’t nothing. But the taut younger man just didn’t understand. And neither would he have, Gamache knew, in his thirties. But in his fifties Armand Gamache knew that sitting still was far more difficult, and frightening, than running around.

No, this wasn’t nothing. But the time was coming when this stillness would allow him to know what to do. Next.
What next?

And he’s right. Being still isn’t nothing. It may be the listening and meditating time necessary for further action.

I can empathize. I am going through a transition time in my own life. Big changes are coming my way. Maybe a move. Maybe a sabbatical. Very likely a career shift. Right now I’m in a whirlwind much like the one Gamache was in during HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN. Lots of plans and preparations being set in place in readiness for a moment when it will all have to come together – fast.

After the whirlwind, I’ll have to deal with the “What next?” period. While it is tempting to already try to make decision, I know answers given now would be impetuous and precipitous.

Although I am not yet in my fifties and can certainly empathize with my contemporary, Jean-Guy, I agree with Gamache. Stillness is not nothing. It is hard. It means self-assessment. It demands answers to hard questions.

I am looking forward to stillness, though. I’m looking forward to a time between times. A time for listening to the silence and the space between the words. A time of reflection and questioning.

A butterfly landed on my foot the other day. It slowly climbed up my pant leg. It looked so pretty there that I took a picture. This was a few days ago. Since then, butterflies have been on my mind. I realized that I'm probably in the caterpillar stage. "A big fat caterpillar", (The Very Hungry Caterpillar).

Maybe I can become a butterfly. To do so, I have to be willing to face the cocoon stage. Stillness. A time between times. While outwardly nothing seems to be happening, metamorphosis is hard work. A caterpillar actually digests itself before sleeping cells are awakened in order to grow into a butterfly. What a metaphor!

I look forward to my time of stillness. To my own "cocoon".

I am preparing myself to reassess and "digest" who I am in order to awaken the person I can become. I'd like to cultivate stillness. Sometimes it is a big obvious moment - like the one I am soon to face. Other times it's a little epiphany. A few minutes or hours of introspection. We all have cocoons in our lives.

I look forward to trying to answer the questions I ask myself. Who am I? What do I enjoy? Why am I the way I am? What do I like to do? Why do I like to do it? What are the things that make me feel like a day was productive? What are the things I miss? What are the things that I could live without? What makes me feel useful? What kind of social interaction nurtures my soul? What makes me want to jump out of bed in the morning? What are some things I keep in the back drawer of dreams and plans, and that I should put on the top of the list?

I look forward to my time of stillness.

It is coming. Soon. It is just around the corner.

I know I need it because I, like Gamache, am not ready to answer when people ask me What next?

I didn’t really know what parsnips were. That’s not quite true. I knew, but I didn’t know they were called parsnips. To me they were only cenoura baroa or mandioquinha, Brazilian names for the vegetable. I don’t even know if they taste exactly the same (most fruits and vegetables are slightly different in taste in different parts of the world), but I’m sure they’re close enough. I was a bit skeptical of adding apples to the soup… but it was lovely! I’m so glad I made it. Even my son (who absolutely HATES any and all kinds of soup) ate his obligatory two spoons to taste with little complaint and said it was “okay” (very high praise for soup coming from this particular 8-year-old).

I made a version of this recipe: Creamy Parsnip and Apple Soup

Of course there were slight modifications because… well, I cannot seem to make things precisely as the recipe says. I like my soups a bit thicker, so I added less broth. Also, I added a wee bit of parsley to it. I thought it was a good addition. Other than that, I basically followed the recipe. Madame Gamache has great taste.

In fact, I had a soup party this week! It was so much fun! I invited some friends who like to cook – but aren’t snobs about it. The idea was that each person would bring a pan of soup or chowder. We had bread and croutons and grated cheese and cheeses and fresh parsley and nuts and wine… And we had to chance to share our own soup – and the recipe – and to taste other soups. So much fun. We spent hours nibbling and eating and tasting and trying to figure out what spices and tricks each person had up their sleeve. 

We took turns serving our soups, so everyone spent some time in the kitchen reheating and adding final touches. Everything was served in the pan it came in, so it was informal, not at all fancy, and felt like an impromptu improvised family meal. 

Then we split the leftovers between us. Perfect. I had enough for dinner the next day. Although dinner was a whole new version, since I did some mix and matching with my leftovers! 

Chocolate Cake & How the Light Gets In

by Amy

“I brought dessert.” Gabri pointed to a cardboard box on the counter. “Chocolate fudge cake.”

I love Gabri. Who wouldn't?

“Could you show me your studio?” Gamache asked Clara, hoping to get far enough away from the cake to overcome the temptation to put his finger in it. “I realize I’ve never seen your art.”

So far in the series, we hadn’t seen much of Clara’s art either. Not in this depth. And no, I wasn’t as controlled as Gamache. I’m writing while eating (yet another) slice of cake and some Earl Grey tea.  (Shhhh… don’t tell Libby. My tea came from a bag.)

Gamache stood in front of an image of three elderly women, arms entwined, cradling each other. It was an amazingly complex work, with layers of photographs and paintings and even some writing. Em, the woman in the middle, was leaning back precipitously, laughing with abandon, and the other two were supporting her and also laughing. It ached of intimacy, of a private moment caught in women’s lives. It captured their friendship and their dependence on each other. It sang of love and a caring that went beyond pleasant lunches and the remembrance of birthdays. Gamache felt as though he was looking into each of their souls, and the combination of the three was almost too much to bear.

This is the one painting – of all the art described in the books – that I would love to own. It wouldn’t even need to be the original. I’d be happy to own a copy. I’d probably settle for a shot taken with my phone, if I’m honest. I just wish I could see it. I wish I could have this image somewhere nearby.

“I call it The Three Graces,” said Clara.

“Perfect,” Gamache whispered.

“Mother is Faith, Em is Hope and Kaye is Charity. I was tired of seeing the Graces always depicted as beautiful young things. I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.”

This is one of my favorite Clara-quotes. “I think wisdom comes with age and life and pain. And knowing what matters.” Isn’t that brilliant?

“Is it finished? It looks as though there’s space for another.”

That’s very perceptive of you. It is finished, but in each of my works I try to leave a little space, a kind of crack.” 

“Why?” 

“Can you make out the writing on the wall behind them?” She nodded toward her painting. 

Gamache leaned in and put on his reading glasses.‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

And this is why this is the one piece of art I’d love to have. I’m pretty much illiterate when it comes to visual arts. Whatever it is that moves people and speaks to them in color and shape and design has limited impact on me. It’s not that I don’t see it, but I’ve come to realize that I’m probably visually challenged. It makes more sense once I know the history behind it, the goal of the artist, the stories of those who have felt its impact… I suppose that means I need words to go with the images before their full impact is felt. Clara made this painting for people like me. She added the words! She explained it. That’s how the light gets in.

He read it out loud. “Beautiful. Madame Zardo?” he asked.“ 

No, Leonard Cohen. All my works have vessels of some sort. Containers. Sometimes it’s in the negative space, sometimes it’s more obvious. In The Three Graces it’s more obvious.” 

It wasn’t obvious to Gamache. He stepped back from the work, then he saw what she meant. The vessel, like a vase, was formed by their bodies, and the space he’d noticed was the crack, to let the light in. 

“I do it for Peter,” she said quietly. At first Gamache thought he might have misheard, but she continued as though speaking to herself. “He’s like a dog, like Lucy. He’s very loyal. He puts everything he has into one thing. One interest, one hobby, one friend, one love. I’m his love and it scares the shit out of me.” She turned now to look in Gamache’s thoughtful brown eyes. “He’s poured all his love into me. I’m his vessel. But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die? What would he do?”

I think there are many people who feel like this. The weight of being someone’s everything or even of being their one-something can be crippling in a sense. Early parenthood is a temporary foray into that kind of relationship. Every parent knows the feeling. In other relationships, an emotionally stunted person (like Peter) lays all their hopes and dreams and trust on another. In some cases, there is a palpable physical or emotional impairment. Sometimes it has to do with a relationship dynamic where one person loses some of their autonomy and relies too heavily on another. Parents of children with disabilities come to mind. A mother of a non-verbal autistic child once said that the foremost thought on her mind on bad days is his dependency. Suppose I die? What would he do?

No one is irreplaceable. Or everyone is irreplaceable, depending on how you look at it. While we are all unique and no one can quite fill your shoes, in your absence things will shift and somehow life will go on without you – whether it’s for a few days or for life. The movie My Life Without Me comes to mind.

But suppose I crack? Suppose I break? Suppose I die?

I’ve thought it, too. More than once. I still do. I probably always will. I have better answers to the questions than I used to, though. Whenever I ask myself these questions, I know what to tell myself.

Life will go on. It’s too big a burden to carry. It’s an impossible task. You have to be allowed to have cracks. To break. To be the one who needs help and support and care.

When we are in a position where we seem irreplaceable and it feels like those around us would not survive without us, maybe it’s time to step back. Reassess. In parenthood it’s a transitory process. You know your job is to make sure your children grow into their autonomy and independence. Your job is to teach them how to walk on their own two feet. Hopefully you can do that and end up with grown children who still enjoy your company. But, ultimately, the goal is to know that you can crack or break or die – and they’ll be okay.

Apparently, in my family, four years of age is the magical moment in which the child realizes that a parent could possibly crack or break or die. My mom tells the story that, at four, I asked her to promise not to die until I was married (which was my definition of being a grown-up).  The same promise was demanded by my own son when he turned four. “Mommy, you won’t die before I’m a grown-up, will you?” How do you answer that? Who can make that kind of a promise? Then again, why would I leave him with the insecurity of possibly becoming a motherless child? I wound up inviting him to talk to God and asking Him to make sure to remember not to let me die before he was ready to be on his own. He was satisfied with that solution.

Our job, as parents, is to make sure we raise him so someday he can know, deep down, that he’ll be okay. His parents can (probably more frequently than he imagines) crack or break and even die. He may hurt and grieve and feel gaps and cracks in his own life if that happens, but he’ll be okay.

I feel for those who have people in their lives that may never become fully independent. Some parents raise children who will forever depend on someone to change them, feed them or care for them. Some caretakers deal with emotional or psychological needs that can be draining. Some have spouses or family members that depend on them for so much. Maybe too much sometimes. Some have few resources to delegate or share the responsibility. My heart goes out to those caretakers, too.  It’s still their job to ensure autonomy, to the extent that it is possible, as well as a network of help. Some help. Even if it’s minimal.

“So all your art is exploring that theme?” 

“Mostly it’s about imperfection and impermanence. There’s a crack in everything.”

And that’s part of Clara’s genius. It is because she is willing to see her own fragility and the cracks and imperfection in her own person that she is brilliant, radiant, and filled with the light that gets in through the crack.

While it can be intimidating and daunting to care for those who are (seemingly) less capable than we are, including the children, the sick, and those with emotional or physical impairments, it can be a brilliant opportunity for growth. Those who have read Becoming Human, by Jean Vanier (the inspiration behind the idea of the fictional book BEING) will recognize the thought that interaction with those who are weaker (apparently) than ourselves may help us learn to see and acknowledge our own vulnerability and our common humanity and worthiness, despite our brokenness.

We are worthy. Our worth is not diminished because of our cracks. That’s how the light gets in.

“That’s how the light gets in, said Gamache. He thought of CC who’d written so much about light and enlightenment and illumination, and thought it came from perfection. But she couldn’t hold a candle to this bright woman beside him. 

“Peter doesn’t get it. Probably never will.” 

“Have you ever painted Ruth?” 

“Why do you ask?” 

“Well, frankly, if anyone’s cracked…” He laughed and Clara joined him. 

“No, and you know why? I’m afraid to. I think she could be my masterpiece and I’m afraid to try.” 

“In case you can’t do it?” 

“Got it in one. There’s also something scary about Ruth. I’m not sure I want to look that deeply into her.” 

“You will,” he said, and she believed him.

Fear is a crack. It’s a weakness. It can paralyze us. It almost kept Clara from attempting what was her masterpiece. She was probably right to be afraid. Ruth is scary. I am totally intimidated by her. I can sympathize with Beauvoir. I love her, but... She grows on us. I’m hoping the next book will look a little bit deeper into her, too. She still scares me a little bit. I'm pretty sure I'd be completely tongue-tied if I had to meet her face to face (and there we go again, treating these characters as real people).

Louise Penny frequently writes that Gamache’s power as an investigator lies in his willingness to go into those hidden depths and locked chambers of people’s souls. She writes that he is only able to do so because he has faced his own. I think Clara is on a similar journey. She is a great artist because she looks deeply. Into the darkness. She forays into the cracks and finds the light.

“They’re marvelous, Clara. They radiate.” He turned to look at her in astonishment, as though meeting the woman for the first time. He’d known she was insightful, and courageous and compassionate. But he hadn’t appreciated that she was this gifted.

I have written before that I am jealous of Clara’s ability to paint souls. The scene I was posting about then was the one where she unveils her masterpiece: Ruth. Hope.

I love this scene. I love this conversation between Gamache and Clara. I love the concept of cracks being an opportunity for light to come in. I think it’s a beacon of hope.

‘Ring the bells that still can ring//Forget your perfect offering,//There’s a crack in everything,//That’s how the light gets in.’

Chocolate Cake

I didn’t make fudge cake. I followed a new recipe (for me, anyway). I wanted a moist simple cake that was heavy on the chocolate, not on the sugar. This one was perfect. My only tweak to the original recipe (I cannot seem to follow any recipe with precision) is that I only put in 2/3 cup of sugar instead of 1 full cup. Here’s the link to Nigella's Olive Oil Chocolate Cake. I made the version with regular flour and it was absolutely delicious!

Porrige, Forgiveness & Reconciliation

by Amy

A bowl of porridge with raisins, cream and brown sugar was placed in front of the Chief. When they’d finished breakfast Beauvoir and Lacoste went back to the Incident Room. But Gamache had something he still needed to do in the bistro.

Pushing open the swinging door to the kitchen he found Olivier standing by the counter, chopping strawberries and cantaloupe.

“Olivier?”

Olivier startled and dropped the knife. “For God’s sake, don’t you know enough not to do that to someone with a sharp knife?”

“I came to talk to you.”

All through BURY YOUR DEAD and most of A TRICK OF THE LIGHT Gamache has kept a respectful distance from Olivier. He understands that Olivier is still hurt, still blames him, and still isn’t ready to talk, much less forgive him. He doesn’t press, doesn’t crowd, and isn’t overly solicitous.

He’s decided it’s time to move on to the next step.

The Chief Inspector closed the door behind him.“I’m busy.”“So am I, Olivier. But we still need to talk.”The knife sliced through the strawberries, leaving thin wafers of fruit and a small stain of red juice on the chopping block.“I know you’re angry at me, and I know you have every right to be. What happened was unforgivable, and my only defense is that it wasn’t malicious, it wasn’t done to harm you –“

Asking for forgiveness is never easy. It doesn’t get any easier. Especially when you’re expecting the answer to be “no”. It’s not about being forgiven, though. It’s about being prepared to admit your fault, your regret, and your understanding of the other person’s right to be angry and upset.

“But it did.” Olivier slammed the knife down. “Do you think prison is less horrible because you didn’t do it maliciously? Do you think, when those men surrounded me in the yard that I thought, Oh, well, this’ll be OK because that nice Chief Inspector Gamache didn’t wish me harm? Olivier’s hands shook so badly he had to grip the edges of the counter.“You have no idea what it feels like to know the truth will come out. To trust the lawyers, the judges. You. That I’ll be let go. And then to hear the verdict. Guilty.”For a moment Olivier’s rage disappeared, to be replaced by wonder, shock. That single word, that judgement. “I was guilty, of course, of many things. I know that. I’ve tried to make it up to people. But-“

Olivier knew. He was guilty of many things. I think it is because he still feels guilty and judged and unredeemed – albeit not from murder – that he is also unforgiving. He hasn’t forgiven himself. He isn’t yet comfortable in his own skin. He understands himself. He is realizing people still love him despite his faults… He admits to trying to make it up to people, but penance is not the same thing as requesting and being granted forgiveness. He’s doing self-imposed penance. He’s making sure Gamache does his – to the extent that he is able to inflict it.

“Give them time,” said Gamache quietly. He stood across the counter from Olivier, his shoulders square, his back straight. But he too grasped the wooden counter. His knuckles were white. “They love you. It would be a shame not to see that.”“Don’t lecture me about shame, Chief Inspector,” snarled Olivier. Gamache stared at Olivier, then nodded. “I am sorry. I just wanted you to know that.”“So that I could forgive you? Let you off the hook? Well maybe this is your prison, Chief Inspector. Your punishment.”Gamache considered. “Perhaps.”“Is that it?” Olivier asked. “Are you finished?”

Gamache is reminding Olivier that he is loved. That his friends need time. He might be reminding himself, too. Olivier still needs time. Gamache has given him time. It wasn’t yet enough.

 “Do you think, maybe, we’ve ended up in the same cell?” asked Gamache. When Olivier didn’t respond, Gamache walked toward the door then hesitated. “But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key." Gamache watched him for a moment, then left.

I think Olivier is wrong. Forgiveness doesn’t let the other person off the hook. Regret, remorse, reparation, and reconciliation might. What forgiveness does is free the victim.

Forgiveness doesn’t imply forgetting, pardoning consequences, covering up for mistakes, or ignoring past hurts. It is being aware without being wary, merciful without being inconsequential. It means understanding why you are hurt, but not becoming bitter.

Forgiveness allows to victim to become more than a victim. It empowers them.

You can forgive without being asked. You can forgive even if the guilty party is not remorseful or even trying to make amends. Jean Vanier said it better than I ever could in his book BECOMING HUMAN:

“Forgiveness is unilateral. It begins as the victim, with new found strength, refuses to seek revenge, or, as in the case of the woman in prison, prays that the oppressor may change, refind truth, and admit his evil ways. Forgiveness is then to have hope for the oppressors, to believe in their humanity hidden under all their brokenness. It becomes reconciliation and a moment of communion of hearts if and when they seek forgiveness.”

In answer to Gamache’s question, it is Olivier who holds the key to the prison. It does imprison them both, but Olivier is the one with the power. He doesn’t need Gamache to get out of the prison that is an unforgiving desire for revenge – even if the revenge is limited to withholding forgiveness and friendship. He doesn’t need Gamache’s willingness to make amends or admit his guilt in order to choose to free his own heart from the burden that is hate and rage.

Forgiveness is not the same thing as atonement. It doesn’t necessarily mean that you are ready (or willing) to trust the person who hurt you. It doesn't mean there is no price to be paid. It does mean you’re ready to shift from the place you’re in.

While guilt and remorse can be devastating, hatred and blame-placing can be just as difficult to bear. 

Both are useful. Without consciousness of guilt and true regret, there can be no change and no growth. It is essential to recognize when you’re wrong and be willing to do something about it or, if that isn’t possible, to at least express your regret and willingly chose to tread a different path in order to not repeat your mistakes. But that’s not the victim’s job.

Anger and accusation have their place. It is not uncommon for people to blame themselves and feel ashamed for things that are not their fault. It is important to recognize and understand justified anger. It is healthy to feel it. But at some point, it is necessary to let it go. Holding on to anger and casting blame might hurt the oppressor – if they’re conscientious enough to recognize and regret their behavior (as was Gamache) - but, ultimately, the one who is most hurt is the one who is withholding forgiveness. Olivier held the key to his own freedom from this prison.

Forgiveness is not reconciliation. It is not a willingness to submit to further hurt. It is not naïve or blind placement of trust. It is not ignoring what happened. Forgiveness is willingness to believe that while there is evil in the world, there is also grace. Forgiveness is choosing to believe that maybe, just maybe, the person who hurt you may learn their lesson. They may change. They may do better next time. Forgiveness is letting yourself know that while it hurt (and, depending on the hurt it may leave a scar) it doesn’t have to remain a gaping wound. Or, as a friend said in an email, “while it will mark you, it doesn’t have to define you”.

And, again, I will quote Vanier. He says there are steps to forgiveness. He describes them as: “(1) refusal to seek revenge; (2) genuine, heartfelt hope that the oppressor be liberated; (3) the desire to understand the oppressors: how and why their indifference or hardness of heart has developed, and how they might be liberated; (4) recognition of our own darkness. We, too, have hurt people and perhaps have contributed to the hardness of the oppressors; (5) patience.”

It sounds hard.

It is hard.

Forgiving isn’t easy.

It isn’t easy to forgive ourselves. It’s not easy to forgive those who ask for forgiveness. It’s even harder to forgive those who don’t.

“But I wonder who the guards are. And who has the key.”

Olivier had the keys to forgiveness. It was his to give. But the key for reconciliation was in Gamache's hands.

“Reconciliation is a bilateral affair; it is the completion of the forgiveness process, the coming together of the oppressed and the oppressor, each one accepting the other, each acknowledging their fears and hatreds, each accepting that the pact of mutual love is the only way out of a world of conflict.” (Becoming Human – Jean Vanier)

If Gamache hadn’t been humble enough to acknowledge that he may have made a mistake. If he hadn’t been willing to try to repair his mistake (by asking Beauvoir to reopen the investigation). If he hadn’t tried to make amends. If he hadn’t recognized Olivier’s right to anger and apologized for his part in contributing to his pain. If... Reconciliation was only possible because Gamache was willing to do his part.

In this story, things end up working out well. Gamache forgives himself – although he does have relapses and will probably forever be haunted, to some extent, by his perceived mistakes (some of which no one else blames him but himself). Olivier forgives Gamache and, in doing so, opens the way for reconciliation. A slow, careful, tentative approach, but reconciliation nonetheless.

And, as Olivier slowly forgives himself, he allows others to forgive him, too. He is enfolded back into the community. Changed. Scarred. Different. While I do not wish his pain on anyone, I think he is ultimately better for having overcome it. I think he is stronger, more empathetic, and a better friend afterwards.  I do know, as he does, how painful it is to come to terms with the parts of yourself you wish weren't you. Forgiving yourself can be a painful process of self discovery.

I do not know your pain. I only know my own. But I doubt anyone has lived any amount of time without something to forgive. I don’t know who hurt you, how much, or how close the hurt is to you right now. I do not know if those who hurt you are repentant or even willing to nominally ask for forgiveness. I do not know if reconciliation is even a possibility.

There’s a little bit of Tinker-Bell in all of us, isn’t there? I cannot find the quote, but in the original Peter Pan, Barrie wrote that Tinker was so small that only one emotion fit her at a time. Kind of like a toddler. If she felt anger, it took over her entire self. She couldn’t fit anything else.  Or, as Frankl put it in MAN’S SEARCH FOR MEANING:

“To draw an analogy: a man’s suffering is similar to the behavior of gas. If a certain quantity of gas is pumped into an empty chamber, it will fill the chamber completely and evenly, no matter how big the chamber. Thus suffering completely fills the human soul and conscious mind, no matter whether the suffering is great or little. Therefore the “size” of human suffering is absolutely relative.”

I pray that any hurt or pain we have doesn't become the entirety of our soul. I pray that we allow ourselves to feel, to hurt, to rage, to grieve... and we manage to let go, eventually, and regain other emotions.

I pray that we all find a way to use the keys we hold. May we learn to forgive – even if we do not forget. May we find grace so bitterness doesn’t take over our hearts.

And I pray that when we have hurt another, we face our own darkness. I pray that we find the humility needed to admit our fault and try to make amends. I pray we forgive ourselves and don't let those mistakes become the sum total of our lives.

As I wrote this, there were incidences piling up in my mind. Mistakes of my own that I have been granted forgiveness for. Hurts inflicted on me that I have learned to forgive. Helping my son journey through school bullying and even minor, unintentional hurts. Teaching (and learning) compassion and understanding.

I was also thinking of people I have never seen. People with hurts that are more far-reaching than mine. People whose lives, like Olivier's, changed much more drastically and publicly than mine ever has. People who might be stuck in this kind of prison. People who are role models.

I've been contemplating this post for awhile. I didn't think I was ready to write it. Maybe I was. One of the things that triggered writing it was finalizing my son's book (more below). He managed to explain forgiveness and boundaries. Another was a series of sexual assault stories that have come to my attention the past couple of weeks. Some of these stories are closer to me, personally. Some happened geographically close and have been all over the news with devastating ripple effects. One has been very public in North America. As I read the victim's statement, I was awed by her strength and by her grace. After reading her words, I have a hard time thinking of her as "victim". She's a survivor. She's a warrior. She's incredible. Admirable. I'm not denying her strength. I'm applauding her bravery. In her own words:

Right now your name is tainted, so I challenge you to make a new name for yourself, to do something so good for the world, it blows everyone away. You have the brain and a voice and a heart. Use them wisely. You possess immense love from your family. That alone can pull you out of anything. Mine has held me up through all of this. Yours will hold you and you will go on. 

I believe, that one day, you will understand all of this better. I hope you will become a better more honest person who can properly use this story to prevent another story like this from ever happening again. I fully support your journey to healing, to rebuilding your life, because that is the only way you'll begin to help others. 

Link to full statement 

Her words are powerful. I pray I have her grace and wisdom when facing those who hurt me. I pray I take these words to heart whenever I hurt someone else. If the hurts are apparently smaller and less significant, they can be lessons. Stepping stones. A chance to be faithful in little.

Porridge

It might be fitting that porridge is the meal that precedes this conversation between Gamache and Olivier. When I started reading about porridge I was SHOCKED! Apparently porridge is a “thing” now and there’s even a porridge club! Who knew? The internet is full of gourmet porridge options as well as people saying “true” porridge is made with water, oats and salt.

Porridge is a forgiving dish. It accepts plenty of different ideas and options and modes of preparation. I made a very “basic” (although not purist as in water, oats, and salt) recipe of oats and skim milk (1:2 ratio) with a tiny tiny sprinkle of salt halfway into cooking it (I had NEVER added salt to my porridge, but after reading about it and realizing almost everyone did – with many variations regarding when and how and how much salt was added – I decided to try it. I realize the Gamache’s porridge had raisins. I like raisins while they’re dry. I can’t stand "re-hydrated" raisins. I added some grated apple and some sliced raw almonds to mine. I hope I won’t be condemned for adding a bit of cinnamon and a sprinkle of brown sugar as well.

Now that I know there are almost as many recipes of porridge as there are people in the world, how do you make YOUR porridge?

And… for those of you who aren’t on Facebook and aren’t aware of my not at all subtle mentioning of my son’s first book, I’ll add the link to the end of this post. His book is about feelings, about being hurt, about forgiveness… but also about boundaries and standing up for yourself. I’ve said before in this blog that being his mom has taught me a lot. The wisdom in his little book awes me.

Link to the book, in case anyone is interested: Heart & Brain

All quotes – unless stated otherwise – are from A Trick of The Light.

A Leek Casserole & The Arts of Silence and Conversation

by Amy

“When the first casserole, a fragrant cheese and leek dish with a crunchy crumble top, came by he paused, looking at the modest amounts everyone else had taken. Then he took the biggest scoop he could manage and plopped it onto his plate. Bite me, he thought. And the monks looked like they might.”

I love leeks. I love cheese. I love casseroles. What could go wrong? I actually followed a recipe for this dish. I usually change recipes to adjust to my tastes. This time I followed it, but I decided that if (when) I make it again, I’ll add other vegetables (about three or four times the amount called for in the recipe) and will experiment with different cheeses. Cheddar wouldn’t be my first choice. I think I’d like to use Parmesan – or maybe a blend of cheeses.

On a side note, cheddar is not only hard to find, but also fairly expensive in Brazil. I have an American friend here that has cheddar cheese high on the list of things she most misses from home. I’ve read comments by American expats in Europe complaining that they can’t find cheddar easily.

The mustard in the sauce was a new idea for me. I’d never done that and I absolutely loved it. I love mustard, though, so I’m biased. I’m used to nutmeg in white sauce, but had never considered mustard. What do you put in your white sauce?

“Near the end of the meal, the Chief folded his cloth napkin and rose. Frère Simon, across from him, motioned, at first subtly then with more vigor, for the Chief to sit back down. Gamache met the man’s eyes, and also motioned. That he’d received the message, but was going to do what he needed to do anyway.”

I love this silent exchange.

It reminds me of exchanges between spouses, parents and their children (of all ages), partners, colleagues, and good friends. I’m sure you’ve been there and seen the look, felt the elbow nudge or the kick in the shins and silently answered that you acknowledged the warning, but you chose to go ahead and do things the hard way, the unconventional way, the potentially dangerous way.

A couple of weeks ago, when I posted about the Haida and fresh bread, we talked about how Gamache and the Haida were good at silence. The Chief Inspector knows how to use silence to think, to ponder, to listen, and to understand. Silence is a tool. It can be a strength.

There is an art to silence. It can heighten nonverbal communication, increase awareness of nuances, and give both speaker and listener more time to ponder. Those who master the art know when to speak and when to hold their peace. They know how to use silence in order to listen respectfully and prepare a better response.

“Our order has been tested over the centuries. And this is another test. Do we really believe in God? Do we believe all the things we say and sing? Or has it become a faith of convenience? Has it, in splendid isolation, grown weak? When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up. We must not protect the killer.”

Silence can be a strong tool. It can be a useful strategy. I can also be complacence. It can be laziness. It can be cowardice. It can be a mark of oppression.

I recently spent some time with a person who tends to choose silence. This is a person with incredible knowledge and experience and so much to offer. She sometimes comes across as blunt, unfeeling, and uninterested. She is, in fact, none of these things. She fails to engage. I sometimes get the impression that the effort of contributing thoughts and risking controversy or even slight discord seems to be too much. She is not only silent, she also not very responsive, even non-verbally. Once you draw her out, she is a wealth of knowledge and her ideas are interesting and, yes, frequently controversial. She`s sometimes telegraphic in her communication, though. You have to get to know her well in order to have an inkling of her thoughts. Absolutely worth it. Such an interesting mind.

Silence, here, may have been misused. While it is safe for her, keeping up a dialogue in her own mind, she (intentionally or not) deprives many of the depth of her thoughts. It’s easy, in this scenario, to become or be perceived as judgmental and distant. This is uncomfortable and disengaged silence.

“The monks looked anxious. And angry. At him. Gamache was used to this transference. They couldn’t yet blame the killer, so they blamed the police for turning their lives upside down. He felt a rush of sympathy.If only they knew how bad it would get.”

The monks in this book had taken a vow of silence. They weren’t uncommunicative, though. A wealth of information and interaction was exchanged without the use of words.

I have a good friend who, like me, was told she talked too much as a child. We both spent many years of our lives biting our tongues (or trying to, in my case). I frequently end my day replaying conversations, wondering if I said too much and listened too little. I judge my words. This friend and I both learned (the hard way) the art of silence and listening. She’s much, much better at it than I am. She’s one of my favorite people to talk to.

She, too, frequently chooses silence. I can sometimes look at her and see, in her eyes, that there’s a cascade of words tumbling in her mind. Many of them do not make it out. She’s learned concision and editing. She, like Gamache, uses silence. She isn’t silenced. There’s a difference.

I think we all have a story to tell. Having a voice is a powerful thing. While learning to rein in our words and master silence is a challenge, the next step is finding our voice and learning how to use it well.

The monks have mastered the art of science. They have reached a level I’m pretty sure I’ll never attain (especially since I am not called to live in a monastery and I tend to be the kind of person who uses words to engage with the world). They have now been challenged to go beyond silence. To find their voice. To tell their version of events.

I’ve been planning to try this recipe for some time. For one reason or another I postponed it. I thought I was going to write about something else when I first planned to cook this dish. It’s funny that I ended up making it today. I’d been thinking about the art of silence and conversation – and balance. 

When I reread the scene, I realized that was what I was supposed to write about.

I spent most of the week reassessing. I was talking to 12 year old me and remembering how painful it was to feel silenced. I tried to evaluate how far I’ve come and whether or not I have learned to listen. I had been aiming towards mastering silence. I spent most of the week discovering that while silence is a part of it, it is only half of the art. In order to truly be a master of silence, you have to have a voice that is willing to make itself heard when needed.

“When challenged we simply do whatever is easiest. Do we sin by silence? If we have real faith then we must have the courage to speak up.”

Therein lays the challenge. My first impulse is to speak. Not necessarily to “speak up”. I sometimes use words to pacify and smooth over. It’s an important tool. With so much polarization in the world, people who easily see both sides of an issue and try to find common ground are needed. That’s not hard for me to do. A friend recently told me, though, that not everything is relative and sometimes you have to make a choice. Sometimes the choice isn’t ideal.

I am reminded of a song by Emeli Sande (listen here).

I spent some time alone, in silence, the past week and have discovered that a greater challenge awaits me. If I wish to master the art of conversation, I have to learn to hold my tongue and master silence, to acquire the wisdom to ponder and choose my words, and also to have the courage to speak up.

Quotes are from The Beautiful Mystery – page 95 in the paperback edition.

More Muffins, promise, potential, and mistakes

by Amy

 “The next morning dawned bright and fresh. There was some warmth in the sun again and Gamache soon took off his sweater as he walked around the village green before breakfast. A few children, up before parents and grandparents, did some last-minute frog hunting in the pond. They ignored him and he was happy to watch them from a distance then continue his solitary and peaceful stroll. He waved at Myrna, cresting the hill on her own solitary walk.

This was the last day of summer vacation, and while it had been decades since he’d gone to school, he still felt the tug. The mix of sadness at the end of summer, and excitement to see his chums again. The new clothes, bought after a summer’s growth. The new pencils, sharpened over and over, and the smell of the shavings. And the new notebooks. Always strangely thrilling. Unmarred. No mistakes yet. All they held was promise and potential.”

This paragraph from the Three Pines books is reminiscent of Anne of Green Gables and her conversation with her beloved teacher when they say that tomorrow is always fresh, with no mistakes in it – yet.

Do you feel it, too? The tug when it’s the time for a new school year? Or is it New Year’s Day that makes you feel like it’s time to start anew? Or spring? Or maybe it’s birthdays? Or Mondays? Or a new book? Are there other things that mark beginnings for you?

I love the idea of promise and potential. And the fact that there are no mistakes yet.

“A new murder investigation felt much the same. Had they marred their books yet? Made any mistakes?”

Isn’t that true for so many other things?

We begin – a year, a month, a class, an exercise program, a diet, a schedule, a course, a marriage, a family… - with the best of intentions. We have promise and potential. We aim for perfection. No mistakes have been made and we’re still looking at a blank page. Unmarred. No mistakes. Yet.

We make mistakes.

Many mistakes are catalysts for learning. Any good teacher will tell you that. It isn’t the kids who get all the answers right that learn the most. It’s usually the ones who know how to ask the right questions. It’s the ones who wonder at the mistakes and question the accuracy of any answer. (Sometimes, in an educational setting, that means they seem to be asking the “wrong” questions and not answering much of anything). Sometimes we need the mistakes to better grasp the process.

Promise and potential are wonderful things.

Accomplishment and achievement are even better.

Promise and potential are like blank new notebooks. I love new notebooks. They’re so pretty and clean and unscribbled on. They smell nice. They’re neat. A just bought a new one online – my cousin is an artist and some of her work is being marketed on T-shirts and sketchbooks. It’s gorgeous. 

Absolutely unneeded, but I succumbed to temptation.

I always have a notebook in my bag. I take notes, scribble information, add “to do” lists, copy out quotes, make more lists, and keep little summaries of important information. At least it seems important at the time. It isn’t always important later. By the time a couple of pages have been filled in, I’ve already forgotten to use my best handwriting (all first pages of notebooks merit best handwriting).

Old notebooks are evidence of accomplishment and achievement. They rarely look pretty once they’ve really been used. I’m sure some people manage to keep things neat all the way through, but my own notebooks – and planners – are usually full of doodles and little hearts and crossed out items on to do lists. I have sketches by my son (done in moments of boredom when we’re in places that lack entertainment), grocery lists (that seem to always have the same items on them), and reminders and phone numbers and one word reminders that make no sense a few weeks (or days) after being jotted down.

I will always love new notebooks. I recognize that used ones, while less pleasing to the eye, actually have better stories to tell.

Some mistakes should be fixed.

Some mistakes are opportunities.

Some mistakes are serendipity.

Some mistakes are charged with regret.

Some are inevitable.

Some are growing pains.

Some are relative – depending on who you ask, they’re not even mistakes at all.

 “As he slowly circled the village green, his hands clasped behind his back and his gaze far off, he thought about that. After a few leisurely circuits he went inside to breakfast.

Beauvoir and Lacoste were already down, with frothy café au lait in front of them. They stood up as he entered the room, and he motioned them down. The aroma of maple-cured back bacon and eggs and coffee came from the kitchen. He’d barely sat down when Gabri swept out of the kitchen with plates of eggs Benedict, fruit and muffins.”

Gabri once ate his sorrow in muffins (this post: eating my pain). Lacoste is contemplating the power of muffins to fill emotional gaps in this scene. I wonder if anyone else considers muffins to be a sort of comfort food.

“Muffin?”

“S’il vous plait,” said Isabelle Lacoste, taking one. They looked like nuclear explosions. Isabelle Lacoste missed her children and her husband. But it amazed her how this small village seemed able to heal even that hole. Of course, if you stuff in enough muffins even the largest hole is healed, for a while. She was willing to try.”

I rarely make muffins in my home. I love them. I like muffins that are fresh out of the oven and smoking hot. My favorite is a recipe of apple muffins that I first ate in Sweden. The Swedish friend who gave me that recipe called it “apple bread” (although that’s the translation, I don’t know what she called it in Swedish). Maybe it’s because muffins are kind of like bread. Right?

Maybe the only reason they’re my favorite is because it was such a fun and friendly meal. My friend and I talked and baked and then sat down and enjoyed an ENTIRE batch of muffins before going out sightseeing. I was in my late teens, on a “gap semester” and having some time alone, away from home and family and the boyfriend (who I eventually married) and listening to my own heart and mind for a couple of months. Apple muffins remind me of that time.

My son won’t touch them. The little slivers of apple are too gooey for him. My husband tolerates them. Or, I should say, he used to tolerate them. At this point in our lives he quite freely grimaces and says, “Isn’t there anything else to eat?”

I am no longer in my late teens, but I would happily eat an entire batch of apple muffins all by myself. So I don’t really make them. Why risk it?

Since the pistachio muffins were a hit when I made them for the earlier post, I decided to try some chocolate muffins and call them brownies to see if my son would eat them. It almost worked. He ate one. After that, he looked at the muffin plate and said, “Can I have an apple next?”. My husband ate half of one and started rummaging in the refrigerator. Yet another muffin recipe that was not approved by the males in the house.

Me? I ate the entire rest of the batch. I thought they were yummy. Sigh. I really shouldn’t make muffins. The good news is I had no emotional holes or homesickness or regretted mistakes to fill up with muffins, so I managed to make them last enough that I don’t feel guilty. They freeze really well and worked great as a snack to bake, freeze, and pull out one at a time to enjoy with coffee or cappuccino or tea. The best part (my son disagrees) was having hazelnuts in them.

Recipe:

Ingredients:

·         1 cup of sugar (I used white sugar, but since I was the only one who ate it anyway, I’ll use brown next time)

·         ½ cup of vegetable oil

·         3 eggs – I beat them slightly before adding them

Mix these three ingredients until you have a creamy blend.

·         1 ½ cups flour

·         1 teaspoon baking powder

·         1 teaspoon baking soda

·         1 pinch of salt

      Mix these in, but not too smooth. Unbaked muffin batter is supposed to be a bit lumpy, right? Just mix the dry and wet ingredients enough.

·         ½ cup of chopped hazelnuts

·         ½ cup of cacao powder or unsweetened chocolate powder

·         1 pinch of salt

·         100g of semi-sweet chocolate chips

Add those last ingredients, then spoon about two spoonfuls into each muffin tin. Bake for about 20 minutes.

All quotes – unless stated otherwise – are from The Brutal Telling: page 69 and 70 in the paperback edition.