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I recently read a scholarly argument about the writings of the pre-Socratic Greek philosopher Heraclitus, dissecting in detail whether or not Plutarch, and later Plato, captured the true meaning of his words in their paraphrase of the concept, “You can’t step into the same river twice.” After several in-depth pages about Greek dialects, lyrical forms, comparable works, and meanings obscured by literary puns and translation, I was tempted to throw the whole thing out and conclude that Heraclitus was just someone who really didn’t enjoy swimming.

I have reflected on the topic of change before, and I’m especially prone to be hooked by paraphrases of Heraclitus’s famous quote because of our proximity to the Willamette River.  The surface meaning is obvious – everything in life changes. Reflecting deeper on the concept, though, I think there is also some subtle, contrasting expectation of permanence, or at least consistency. It’s true that a river would not be a river without constant change – we have fancy names for bodies of water that don’t change like lake, pond, and puddle. But what would we call a changing flow of water that has no consistent boundaries? A flood maybe? The water in a river is constantly flowing, but we can have a reasonable expectation that we can find it flowing in the same place whether it is the second, third, or hundredth time we’re dipping our toes into it.

Homewoods is going to go through a lot of change in 2019. We’re already showing signs of it. After all of the work we put into our looks last year – flooring, paint, furniture, art – we’re looking into what we can do to upgrade some vital building systems, our vehicles, and our grounds. It also feels like we’re constantly mourning the moving on of friends, staff, and neighbors. Despite all of this, Homewoods will remain Homewoods. We will honor our traditions and treasure the culture of our community. We will stay anchored in the values and memories that make us who we are.

I’m looking forward to what we have in store for the next year, and it’s my sincere hope that you will all love it too. Even if you don’t, I promise to uphold who we are as a community. The river will flow, but we’ll stay above it on the solid ground.

The rituals of the Christmas season inspire dueling senses of comfort and excitement in me, and I never get weary of pulling the same dusty boxes of ornaments and lights out of the attic on the day after Thanksgiving. This year, our early Thanksgiving holiday gave us a week’s reprieve from our hasty holiday bedecking of the halls, for which we are all truly grateful. Despite the work, though, I imagine that seeing the tree go up in the lobby and the lights hung around the building will bring back that same sense of comfort and excitement in me. We at Homewoods have always done Christmas in a grand style, and for those who delight in the splendors of the season, our calendar is sure to keep you busy this month.

From the time we are very young we are led to expect that the holidays will be a magical time to be spent with loved ones, but they can also be a painful and isolating time if reality differs from those expectations. For some, the trappings and festivities of the holiday season may evoke memories of grief and loss, or frustrations about materialism, traffic jams, and bad weather.

We do our best to offer enjoyable occasions for those who like to celebrate the season, but underneath all of the trimmings there is genuine warmth, friendship, and light to be had during this darkest month of the year. In this we do our best to live out the good news of Christmas that has remained unchanged since the very first: There is love here, and all are welcome.

Merry Christmas!

A story of the Very First American Thanksgiving: 

The very first Thanksgiving ever happened when the pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock, and the American Natives and the Pilgrims came together for a feast of Turkeys and corn and weird, semi-edible objects floating in green Jell-O. Afterwards, the young pilgrims and natives played a game where they mostly just stood around, but would occasionally run or tackle each other for an oblong ball, while the older people slept off the meal on sofas or argued with one another about long-standing, unresolved family drama. Finally, the pilgrims packed up their leftover-laden tupperware containers and went back to their colony – both parties feeling bittersweet about not seeing one another until the next year’s colonization, and wondering why they worked all day to prepare a meal that only took about a half hour to eat. The day after, the pilgrims and natives cast off the togetherness of the day before, and waged bloody battle to get big-screen TVs, socks, and sacred tribal homelands at discounted prices.

A Moment of Silence

There is a moment each year, no matter where I am celebrating Thanksgiving, where everyone has filled their plates and the room grows quiet aside from the occasional sounds of forks clinking on china. Conversation slows, then breaks. People comment on the food or the weather, but there isn’t enough momentum for it to flow into a sustained discussion. I inevitably forget to grab enough napkins or a butter knife, and feel strangely clumsy and loud crossing the room to get them. Eventually the quiet eases as people begin their wider orbits around the room, gathering a few more bites of sweet potatoes or a final roll to sop up some extra cranberries. Finally, full bodies recoil back into chairs away from the empty dishes on the table, and newly uplifted eyes spark conversation back to life. 

There are several reasons to look skeptically at the story-book account of early American Thanksgivings taught to school children, as there are several reasons to believe that our modern Thanksgiving practices have diverged from the true meaning of the holiday. In the quiet moment, though, there are powerful forces at work. People are together – people from different walks of life, different origins, even different universes (Republicans and Democrats?). And not only are they together, they are sharing food. For a society that has distanced ourselves from the connection of food with survival, this might not seem like a big deal. But feasts mean so much! They are a symbol of wealth and security, they are an acknowledgement of the equality of our basic human needs, and probably most of all, feasts are an acknowledgement that our prosperity is dependent on others. A seat at the table means that your hunger matters as much as mine, that what you contribute is important, and that we have faith together that our needs will continue to be met. 

As the director, I sometimes get the privilege of speaking for the entire staff. This is from all of us, and I’ll say it now, just in case my mouth happens to be too full of mashed potatoes on Thanksgiving Day to tell you in person: I am grateful for our commonalities, for our interdependence, and for our shared vision of the future. Thank you for making a seat for us at the table.

Happy Thanksgiving! 

There will be a morning each year when I step into my garden and notice that everything has changed. The corn stalks have seeded and browned, the sunflowers are stooping dangerously downwards, and I can start to see bare patches through the once-dense jungle of beans, zucchinis, and brassicas. The usual din of buzzing bees is suddenly silent, and fog lingers around the corners of areas that used to be bathed in morning sun. Maybe my favorite is seeing the lush green carpet of the winter squash vines fold up to reveal warty, bulbous shapes that compete with the colors of the changing leaves on the trees. 

A single glance is enough to evoke senses and feelings that had been buried beneath the explosive growth of spring and splendor of summer. I suddenly feel exposed without a sweater, and find myself wondering why I didn’t bother to put socks on. I wonder about when I last had soup, or when I even wanted it, and instinctively pour water into the kettle in the evening instead of the pitcher of ice. 

With changing feelings, patterns of life begin to change as well. The garden produce used to come straight to the kitchen – for eating, processing, canning, and giving away. Now it gets redirected to the basement, where the empty shelves await apples, squash, tubers, and onions. The chickens, who once sang so proudly to announce the arrival of an egg, now try to go unnoticed in the embarrassment of molting feathers. Paths that used to be hedged in by vegetation are now guarded by rows of dewy spider webs and flanked by miniature villages of mushrooms, and the rush-hour traffic of ants is replaced by lumbering rough-skinned newts winding their way through oak groats and pine cones. 

The patterns of life begin to change at Homewoods too. I notice that we tend to go through a little more coffee each day, and the fair-weather fans of the chairs by the river start to roost more often in the library or puzzle room. We see a few more sweaters in the lost and found, put on to fight off the chill of the morning then abandoned in chairs and along paths during the warmth of the day. And Steve and Arthur, among others, now play host to the fall migration of air conditioners and fans back to the storage room.

Among all of the sweeping changes of the season, I find it interesting that the result is to feel calm and settled. It’s as if nature is pushing us inside, telling us to relax and enjoy the show. I think we should take her up on the offer. When it comes to watching the splendor of the season in the comfort of home, we’ve got one of the best seats in the house. For those who want a little more action and adventure, take a look through the calendar for new and exciting outings, and be sure to join us at the Harvest Festival!