It's early Sunday evening, Hugh has returned to boarding school for the week, and I am consoling myself with a too-large tumbler of Jameson's. Not because he's gone. Because the two days he was home were just so truly awful.
Oh GAWD. It's all so mundane. Fights with the teenager. I'm not sure if it's the fights themselves that are so soul-destroying or the realization that your life is playing out according to some clichéd script that's been acted out on countless stages so very very many times before.
Somehow it seemed so different when I was watching in the stalls rather than acting on the stage.
And yet-- I remember watching my cousin and her parents. Sue was something of a terror; she dared things I didn't even dream of and she drove her parents around the bend, over the mountain, into the deep. There was shouting. Now decades later my Auntie Jean is dying, and Sue faces the loss of not only her mother but her best friend, the person she talks to every day, the buddy she shops with and giggles alongside and trusts absolutely. And I watch her grief and remember what that relationship once was, and I am in awe at what time and just holding on can do.
I don't aspire to be Hugh's best friend but I have to believe we'll be better than what we are right now. And I'm good at holding on. I am, in fact, a bit of a maniac when it comes to holding on. So, please God, give us time. I'll hold. There will be (more) shouting. But I'll hold.
Showing posts with label religious faith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label religious faith. Show all posts
Sunday, January 13, 2013
Monday, October 8, 2012
A Presidential Debate, and the Grace of God
Oh dear. Once again I've missed my self-imposed target of two blog posts per week. And this time I can't blame my vulva.
I blame Mitt Romney.
OK, I admit he probably didn't set out to sabotage my blog, but nevertheless that is what transpired. After That Debate, after Obama just stood there as Lie after Lie after Lie spewed forth from that horrid J. C. Penney-model-man's mouth. . . well, Things Got Difficult.
I am in a fragile state, dammit. Walking on the precipice of depression, just barely holding my own as I step gingerly through the minefield of professional failure, personal lacklusterdom, parental terror, and general middle-aged oh-dear-God-is-that-really me crisis. I do not need, I cannot cope with, a looming political apocalypse.
So I didn't. I withdrew into a total funk. But I am, slowly, bit by horrendous old-lady bit, emerging from my funk. And, weirdly, it is all due to Sunday's Communion (aka the Lord's Supper, Mass, Eucharist, Love Feast, that weird semi-cannibalistic thing Christians do). I'm still amazed. I mean, who really expects Grace to come washing in via something as standard, as orthodox, as a communion service?
Maybe the key thing is that it wasn't a very standard communion service, at least not by Presbyterian standards. My church is in the midst of massive renovations and so we are now meeting not in our sanctuary but in our "fellowship hall." We sit in stackable chairs in a multi-purpose room, devoid of all aesthetic beauty, acoustic utility, or liturgical symbolism. In this room, Communion Sunday presents some logistical challenges. See, the thing is, we Presbyterians, we usually do communion in one of two ways: We sit in our pews and pass around heavy trays laden with individual teeny-tiny cups of wine and torn-up little itty-bitty pieces of bread, or we process to the front for "intinction." (Intinction means you stand in line--kind of like you're a Catholic except you don't fold your hands in front of you, unless you're an ex-Catholic; born-and-bred Presbyterians keep their hands swinging by their sides to show their Protestant liberty from papist tyranny--and when you get to the front, you tear off a piece of bread from a common loaf and dip it in a common cup. You eat the intincted bread. You sit back down.)
But in our temporary fellowship hall accommodation, neither of our usual communion procedures would serve: No little circular cup holders in which to place our empty communion glasses, no wide aisles in which to process for "intinction." The powers-that-be, then, decided on a new format; a big loaf of bread, wrapped in towel, and a large common cup of wine, to be passed down each row. As you received the bread, you were to tear off a large hunk, dip it in the wine, and ingest. Then pass the bread and wine to the person sitting next to you and say "The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you." Okey dokey.
Except for a slight problem: If you stick a large hunk-o-wine-dipped-bread in your mouth, it is then very difficult to say, "The body of Christ" etc. So there we were, good Presbyterians all, trying desperately to mind our table manners and not talk with our mouths full, yet to be liturgically correct and not just sling along the bread and wine without the proper blessing as if it were just ordinary ol' white bread and screwtop red wine.
And as I watched this ridiculous scene repeated, pew by pew, Presbyterian by Presbyterian, all these wonderful souls endeavoring to negotiate between liturgy and etiquette, to chew and to swallow and to bless all at the same time, suddenly I saw God--God stuffed in the mouths of mannerly Presbyterians.
God of the drips and the crumbs and the choking coughs and the awkward giggles.
God of the white bread and screwtop wine.
God of the stackable chairs and multi-purpose rooms.
God of the professional failure, the lackluster personality, the terrified parent.
God of the middle-aged.
God of the politically weary.
God of the frightened and the funked.
God of me.
I blame Mitt Romney.
OK, I admit he probably didn't set out to sabotage my blog, but nevertheless that is what transpired. After That Debate, after Obama just stood there as Lie after Lie after Lie spewed forth from that horrid J. C. Penney-model-man's mouth. . . well, Things Got Difficult.
I am in a fragile state, dammit. Walking on the precipice of depression, just barely holding my own as I step gingerly through the minefield of professional failure, personal lacklusterdom, parental terror, and general middle-aged oh-dear-God-is-that-really me crisis. I do not need, I cannot cope with, a looming political apocalypse.
So I didn't. I withdrew into a total funk. But I am, slowly, bit by horrendous old-lady bit, emerging from my funk. And, weirdly, it is all due to Sunday's Communion (aka the Lord's Supper, Mass, Eucharist, Love Feast, that weird semi-cannibalistic thing Christians do). I'm still amazed. I mean, who really expects Grace to come washing in via something as standard, as orthodox, as a communion service?
Maybe the key thing is that it wasn't a very standard communion service, at least not by Presbyterian standards. My church is in the midst of massive renovations and so we are now meeting not in our sanctuary but in our "fellowship hall." We sit in stackable chairs in a multi-purpose room, devoid of all aesthetic beauty, acoustic utility, or liturgical symbolism. In this room, Communion Sunday presents some logistical challenges. See, the thing is, we Presbyterians, we usually do communion in one of two ways: We sit in our pews and pass around heavy trays laden with individual teeny-tiny cups of wine and torn-up little itty-bitty pieces of bread, or we process to the front for "intinction." (Intinction means you stand in line--kind of like you're a Catholic except you don't fold your hands in front of you, unless you're an ex-Catholic; born-and-bred Presbyterians keep their hands swinging by their sides to show their Protestant liberty from papist tyranny--and when you get to the front, you tear off a piece of bread from a common loaf and dip it in a common cup. You eat the intincted bread. You sit back down.)
But in our temporary fellowship hall accommodation, neither of our usual communion procedures would serve: No little circular cup holders in which to place our empty communion glasses, no wide aisles in which to process for "intinction." The powers-that-be, then, decided on a new format; a big loaf of bread, wrapped in towel, and a large common cup of wine, to be passed down each row. As you received the bread, you were to tear off a large hunk, dip it in the wine, and ingest. Then pass the bread and wine to the person sitting next to you and say "The body of Christ, broken for you. The blood of Christ, shed for you." Okey dokey.
Except for a slight problem: If you stick a large hunk-o-wine-dipped-bread in your mouth, it is then very difficult to say, "The body of Christ" etc. So there we were, good Presbyterians all, trying desperately to mind our table manners and not talk with our mouths full, yet to be liturgically correct and not just sling along the bread and wine without the proper blessing as if it were just ordinary ol' white bread and screwtop red wine.
And as I watched this ridiculous scene repeated, pew by pew, Presbyterian by Presbyterian, all these wonderful souls endeavoring to negotiate between liturgy and etiquette, to chew and to swallow and to bless all at the same time, suddenly I saw God--God stuffed in the mouths of mannerly Presbyterians.
God of the drips and the crumbs and the choking coughs and the awkward giggles.
God of the white bread and screwtop wine.
God of the stackable chairs and multi-purpose rooms.
God of the professional failure, the lackluster personality, the terrified parent.
God of the middle-aged.
God of the politically weary.
God of the frightened and the funked.
God of me.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The voice of the turtledove
We have a new assistant pastor. He's lovely--looks about 16 and like he should be riding a skateboard. He preached for the first time this morning and in an incredibly gutsy move, did so on the Song of Songs:
Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away,
for lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove
is heard in our land.
You don't get a lot of Presbyterian sermons on the Song, for fairly obvious reasons-- "his fruit was sweet to my taste"-- "your breasts are like twin fawns"-- "I had put off my garment, how could I put it on?"-- you can just hear the feet shuffling and bulletins rustling.
Skateboarder Pastor Guy talked about intimacy, about our having been created for intimacy with God and with each other. He referred to the Creation story, to Adam saying to Eve, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone," and he recalled a service in which the minister had had each member of the congregation turn to the other and say those words. Imagine, he said, if we did that, if we thought that, if we realized that on a daily basis: "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."
So I come home and 17-year-old Hugh is sitting at the kitchen counter. I walk over, give him a big hug, and say, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."
Hugh springs up and shouts, "Geez, Mom what the FUCK does that mean?!"
Still waiting to hear that turtledove.
Arise, my love, my fair one,
and come away,
for lo, the winter is past,
the rain is over and gone.
The flowers appear on the earth,
the time of singing has come,
and the voice of the turtle dove
is heard in our land.
You don't get a lot of Presbyterian sermons on the Song, for fairly obvious reasons-- "his fruit was sweet to my taste"-- "your breasts are like twin fawns"-- "I had put off my garment, how could I put it on?"-- you can just hear the feet shuffling and bulletins rustling.
Skateboarder Pastor Guy talked about intimacy, about our having been created for intimacy with God and with each other. He referred to the Creation story, to Adam saying to Eve, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone," and he recalled a service in which the minister had had each member of the congregation turn to the other and say those words. Imagine, he said, if we did that, if we thought that, if we realized that on a daily basis: "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."
So I come home and 17-year-old Hugh is sitting at the kitchen counter. I walk over, give him a big hug, and say, "You are flesh of my flesh and bone of my bone."
Hugh springs up and shouts, "Geez, Mom what the FUCK does that mean?!"
Still waiting to hear that turtledove.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
#2
I pooped in my pants today. Not a lot, but still. . . .
I'm checking my email and I'm aware suddenly that my tummy has gone all rumbly-tumbly topsy-turvy. "Whoa," I realize, "I need to go to the bathroom." And I head on down the hall and then I get distracted. I stop to pick up those shoes that I meant to put in the bedroom and there's Hugh's shirt on the floor and dang, thought I had stowed away that cat toy. . . and before I know it, well, fuck.
Is it blasphemous to think God might speak through bathroom accidents? Because as I sat there, humiliated, I could hear Her voice: "Stay focused on what matters, ya moron." She said it with a lot of love.
But She was laughing at me, no doubt about it.
I'm checking my email and I'm aware suddenly that my tummy has gone all rumbly-tumbly topsy-turvy. "Whoa," I realize, "I need to go to the bathroom." And I head on down the hall and then I get distracted. I stop to pick up those shoes that I meant to put in the bedroom and there's Hugh's shirt on the floor and dang, thought I had stowed away that cat toy. . . and before I know it, well, fuck.
Is it blasphemous to think God might speak through bathroom accidents? Because as I sat there, humiliated, I could hear Her voice: "Stay focused on what matters, ya moron." She said it with a lot of love.
But She was laughing at me, no doubt about it.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
Of Palms, and Processions, and Crown Roasts
Palm Sunday. Green branches waving. "All Glory, Laud, and Honor." Lots of Hosanna-ing.
But no children's procession. Sometimes my church does a children's procession. Sometimes it doesn't. We're the flexible, changeable sorts of Presbyterians. You know, mix it up. Keep things fresh. Surprise the punters in the pews. I imagine God approves, since He/She/They seems to enjoy surprises (earth-encompassing floods, the writing on the wall, Daniel and that lion, burning bushes, virgin births, the whole resurrection thing--this is clearly a God longing for a surprise party).
I might need a more predictable God. The thing is, I really really like the children's procession. I miss the children's procession. Palm Sunday just isn't Palm Sunday without it. I'd like to think it's for deep, spiritual reasons, not just the "awwwww" factor. See, those kids stumble down the center aisle, and they embody us, we questers of the Divine, in all our various stages and manifestations. You know, you've got the kid who races down the aisle, and there's always the kid the teacher has to carry, the little ham that charms the congregation, the totally serious one who is intent on waving that palm branch is just the proper, prescribed, Presbyterian way and who is visibly annoyed by all the non-conforming palm waving all around her (yes, yes, I do identify with that kid). . .
My all-time favorite Palm Sunday was years and years ago, a lifetime ago, back before marriage, before the Ph.D., before the move Down South--another time, another place, another life. A graduate student at Northwestern, I had joined the Presbyterian church in downtown Evanston. It was my first Presbyterian church, and my first (and only) experience of a distinctly swanky congregation. The kids in the Children's Choir, for example, were decked out in red choir robes, complete with the circular white frilled collars that always reminded me of those paper frills you put on a crown roast. (To contrast: in my current church, the kids in Children's Choir definitely gravitate to the Casual section of the Children's Department: shorts, tee-shirts, sweat pants, the occasional soccer uniform. . . ) As one would expect, the church had a fabulous adult choir, filled with paid professionals (which always struck me as cheating, somehow). So the choruses of "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" resonated throughout the faux-Gothic sanctuary with carefully articulated and beautifully modulated precision, as the robed and frilled children processed up the aisle waving their palm branches. They all then gracefully folded to the floor, to sit out the welcome and opening hymn, before singing their anthem. The minister, a young, good-looking charmer with a gorgeous wife and three lovely kids, stood up and began the Welcome portion of the liturgy, which centered on the theme of embracing the Prince of Peace. And at that point, the pastor's son--a sturdy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, four-year old--flipped his palm branch around so he was holding the stick-like end, and proceeded to transform it into a machine gun and massacre the congregation: BUHBUHBUHBUHBUH. So much for the Prince of Peace.
I was the only one laughing. Which is probably why I don't belong in a swanky congregation with children dressed up to look like Christmas dinner lamb chops.
All glory, laud, and honor
To thee Redeemer King;
To whom the lips of children
Made sweet hosannas ring.
But no children's procession. Sometimes my church does a children's procession. Sometimes it doesn't. We're the flexible, changeable sorts of Presbyterians. You know, mix it up. Keep things fresh. Surprise the punters in the pews. I imagine God approves, since He/She/They seems to enjoy surprises (earth-encompassing floods, the writing on the wall, Daniel and that lion, burning bushes, virgin births, the whole resurrection thing--this is clearly a God longing for a surprise party).
I might need a more predictable God. The thing is, I really really like the children's procession. I miss the children's procession. Palm Sunday just isn't Palm Sunday without it. I'd like to think it's for deep, spiritual reasons, not just the "awwwww" factor. See, those kids stumble down the center aisle, and they embody us, we questers of the Divine, in all our various stages and manifestations. You know, you've got the kid who races down the aisle, and there's always the kid the teacher has to carry, the little ham that charms the congregation, the totally serious one who is intent on waving that palm branch is just the proper, prescribed, Presbyterian way and who is visibly annoyed by all the non-conforming palm waving all around her (yes, yes, I do identify with that kid). . .
My all-time favorite Palm Sunday was years and years ago, a lifetime ago, back before marriage, before the Ph.D., before the move Down South--another time, another place, another life. A graduate student at Northwestern, I had joined the Presbyterian church in downtown Evanston. It was my first Presbyterian church, and my first (and only) experience of a distinctly swanky congregation. The kids in the Children's Choir, for example, were decked out in red choir robes, complete with the circular white frilled collars that always reminded me of those paper frills you put on a crown roast. (To contrast: in my current church, the kids in Children's Choir definitely gravitate to the Casual section of the Children's Department: shorts, tee-shirts, sweat pants, the occasional soccer uniform. . . ) As one would expect, the church had a fabulous adult choir, filled with paid professionals (which always struck me as cheating, somehow). So the choruses of "All Glory, Laud, and Honor" resonated throughout the faux-Gothic sanctuary with carefully articulated and beautifully modulated precision, as the robed and frilled children processed up the aisle waving their palm branches. They all then gracefully folded to the floor, to sit out the welcome and opening hymn, before singing their anthem. The minister, a young, good-looking charmer with a gorgeous wife and three lovely kids, stood up and began the Welcome portion of the liturgy, which centered on the theme of embracing the Prince of Peace. And at that point, the pastor's son--a sturdy, blonde-haired, blue-eyed, four-year old--flipped his palm branch around so he was holding the stick-like end, and proceeded to transform it into a machine gun and massacre the congregation: BUHBUHBUHBUHBUH. So much for the Prince of Peace.
I was the only one laughing. Which is probably why I don't belong in a swanky congregation with children dressed up to look like Christmas dinner lamb chops.
All glory, laud, and honor
To thee Redeemer King;
To whom the lips of children
Made sweet hosannas ring.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Excitement
My Epiphany gift is Excitement.
Explanation: Several years ago, we started what has become a tradition at my church. During the offering on Epiphany Sunday, the ushers not only collect our gifts, they also hand out stars--simple stars cut out of construction paper by the members of the Mission-and-Peacemaking Committee on a chili-and-beer-filled evening the week before. [Note to those of you outside the Christian liturgical tradition: Epiphany throughout the Christian world marks the day the Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child. But both the Mission and Peacemaking Committee and the beer-and-chili nights are rather peculiar to my particular church. . .] On each star is written a simple noun naming a "spiritual gift"--things like steadfastness or hospitality or charity or simplicity or generosity or discernment. Each member of the congregation receives a star, and is supposed to spend the next year thinking about, reflecting on, trying to develop, giving thanks for that gift. Most years I receive Patience. I had begun to think it was a plot: that the Peacemaking Committee members and the ushers sat there in the back of the sanctuary and stacked the deck against me, that they huddled in the back pews and cackled at the thought of me with Patience.
This year, tho', I think the Peacemaking folks downed a few too many beers, as the stars bore "spiritual gifts" not found in any version of the New Testament: gifts like "moxie," "introspection," and yes, "excitement." Keith got Creativity. He leaned over during the choir anthem and whispered, "With some creativity, we could generate a lot of excitement"--nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I ignored him. Geez louise. We were sitting in a friggin' pew, for pete's sake.
OK. For marriage, yes, excitement is clearly a good thing. But --a spiritual gift?
Trying not to reject what was given, I decided my star must be a gentle divine smack for my lack of, yes, excitement, at the fact that right now, even as I type, the LSU Tigers are playing The Most Important Game Ever against Alabama. Except that that game was actually last month, so this time around it's The Mostest Importantest Game Ever And We Really Mean It. The prestigious Catholic boys' schoool in town cancelled classes today and tomorrow morning "to maintain academic integrity." I kid you not.
In the midst of all this, ahem, excitement, I am, I hasten to assert, not entirely unmoved. I mean, push comes to shove, yeah, I do hope LSU wins. Mostly because I'm a nice person and do not want my husband, sons, and family to be depressed. Also because, in general, I am not fond of anything to do with Alabama, which ranks right up there with Mississippi as a place that Time and Good Sense and Right Thinking passed on by.
But here's the thing, normally on a night featuring yet another LSU Most Importantestest Game Ever For Sure For Sure, I'd send on my guys with a wave and a smile and then I'd smugly and snugly settle into blissful solitude with a good book. This time, however, a dopey paper star bearing "Excitement" inscribed in Magic Marker tossed me into orbit, launched me into dizzying spirals of anxiety: what'swrongwithme whycan'tI joinin otherpeopledoit justgoalong whyaren'tyou whydon'tyou whyhaven'tyou . . . And so, despite my utter lack of any real interest, the end result of my Epiphany-wrought neurosis was that I actually did intend to attend the Game Party tonight with Keith. Out of this sense that, well, given the star and all, maybe God was saying hey you dull person, you boring soul, get excited, join in, be a sport, BE SOMEONE ELSE.
And then I came home this afternoon and my heart was racing and I felt like the mere act of breathing took a certain amount of intentionality, if that makes any sense.
It probably doesn't. But neither did not breathing. So I decided to skip The Game. Watch some British tv. Drink some white wine. Watch the rain. Pet the dog. Calm the kitty.
I'm breathing just fine now. I ripped up my star. Damn Excitement anyway. Even Patience seems preferable.
Explanation: Several years ago, we started what has become a tradition at my church. During the offering on Epiphany Sunday, the ushers not only collect our gifts, they also hand out stars--simple stars cut out of construction paper by the members of the Mission-and-Peacemaking Committee on a chili-and-beer-filled evening the week before. [Note to those of you outside the Christian liturgical tradition: Epiphany throughout the Christian world marks the day the Wise Men arrived bearing gifts for the Christ Child. But both the Mission and Peacemaking Committee and the beer-and-chili nights are rather peculiar to my particular church. . .] On each star is written a simple noun naming a "spiritual gift"--things like steadfastness or hospitality or charity or simplicity or generosity or discernment. Each member of the congregation receives a star, and is supposed to spend the next year thinking about, reflecting on, trying to develop, giving thanks for that gift. Most years I receive Patience. I had begun to think it was a plot: that the Peacemaking Committee members and the ushers sat there in the back of the sanctuary and stacked the deck against me, that they huddled in the back pews and cackled at the thought of me with Patience.
This year, tho', I think the Peacemaking folks downed a few too many beers, as the stars bore "spiritual gifts" not found in any version of the New Testament: gifts like "moxie," "introspection," and yes, "excitement." Keith got Creativity. He leaned over during the choir anthem and whispered, "With some creativity, we could generate a lot of excitement"--nudge, nudge, wink, wink. I ignored him. Geez louise. We were sitting in a friggin' pew, for pete's sake.
OK. For marriage, yes, excitement is clearly a good thing. But --a spiritual gift?
Trying not to reject what was given, I decided my star must be a gentle divine smack for my lack of, yes, excitement, at the fact that right now, even as I type, the LSU Tigers are playing The Most Important Game Ever against Alabama. Except that that game was actually last month, so this time around it's The Mostest Importantest Game Ever And We Really Mean It. The prestigious Catholic boys' schoool in town cancelled classes today and tomorrow morning "to maintain academic integrity." I kid you not.
In the midst of all this, ahem, excitement, I am, I hasten to assert, not entirely unmoved. I mean, push comes to shove, yeah, I do hope LSU wins. Mostly because I'm a nice person and do not want my husband, sons, and family to be depressed. Also because, in general, I am not fond of anything to do with Alabama, which ranks right up there with Mississippi as a place that Time and Good Sense and Right Thinking passed on by.
But here's the thing, normally on a night featuring yet another LSU Most Importantestest Game Ever For Sure For Sure, I'd send on my guys with a wave and a smile and then I'd smugly and snugly settle into blissful solitude with a good book. This time, however, a dopey paper star bearing "Excitement" inscribed in Magic Marker tossed me into orbit, launched me into dizzying spirals of anxiety: what'swrongwithme whycan'tI joinin otherpeopledoit justgoalong whyaren'tyou whydon'tyou whyhaven'tyou . . . And so, despite my utter lack of any real interest, the end result of my Epiphany-wrought neurosis was that I actually did intend to attend the Game Party tonight with Keith. Out of this sense that, well, given the star and all, maybe God was saying hey you dull person, you boring soul, get excited, join in, be a sport, BE SOMEONE ELSE.
And then I came home this afternoon and my heart was racing and I felt like the mere act of breathing took a certain amount of intentionality, if that makes any sense.
It probably doesn't. But neither did not breathing. So I decided to skip The Game. Watch some British tv. Drink some white wine. Watch the rain. Pet the dog. Calm the kitty.
I'm breathing just fine now. I ripped up my star. Damn Excitement anyway. Even Patience seems preferable.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
A Headache Day
A Headache Day.
A day spent on auto-pilot, waiting til the absolutely-must-do stuff is done, so one can go home, take drugs, and vegetate in a darkened, quiet room. A day punctuated by deep breathing sessions and self-massage and failed efforts at self-distraction.
If I were a more spiritual person, I would use these days to deepen my journey toward God. I would use these days to remind myself what life is like apart from God and how every pain-free minute is a moment of grace. I would use these days to develop empathy toward the suffering. At the very least, I would use these days to cultivate a grateful spirit, to be thankful that I have a job that allows me to go home in the middle of the day and crash.
I aspire to be that person. But I'm not there yet. Instead, I am grumpy and pissed off. I have Plans, goddammit! Things to do. People to impress. Books to write.Plus, I hate hurting. I really do.
A couple of years ago, I actually took almost an entire semester's sick leave, in an effort to solve the Headache Problem once and for all. I spent the months on a futile quest to convince my insurance company to pay for my treatment at a headache clinic ("We can only pay for treatment within the network area." But there are no headache clinics here and my doctor says-- "We can only pay for treatment within the network area."), waiting on hold for various lab techs and doctors' secretaries (not, by and large, happy individuals, I discovered), and keeping a headache diary (basically a fulltime occupation, as you have to log everything you eat, every shift in the weather, every activity you undertake, and every little twinge of pain with details RE the locus of the pain, the type of pain, what you were doing when the pain ensued. . . You become completely self-obsessed. You spend all your time watching and documenting yourself. It is Not Good for You. Jesus, I am sure, would never keep a headache diary.) I spent obscene amounts of money on massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropracty, various types of yoga, hormone testing, neurologists' visits, vitamins, and herbal supplements, Gregorian chant cds, and massive quantities of drugs. I alternated ice packs and heating pads. I watched "What Not to Wear" and discovered I was wearing it. I still had headaches.
So I try something now and then--a round of acupuncture here, a set of stretching exercises there, an occasional consultation with a new doctor--and none of it makes a difference and I muddle through. It's just that days like today seem very muddley, not a lot of through, you know? Except at the end there's this gentle guy who rubs my neck and makes me dinner and lets me go to bed at 8:00 without laughing at me and seems to be ok with muddle. And that helps me through. Which seems enough, for now.
A day spent on auto-pilot, waiting til the absolutely-must-do stuff is done, so one can go home, take drugs, and vegetate in a darkened, quiet room. A day punctuated by deep breathing sessions and self-massage and failed efforts at self-distraction.
If I were a more spiritual person, I would use these days to deepen my journey toward God. I would use these days to remind myself what life is like apart from God and how every pain-free minute is a moment of grace. I would use these days to develop empathy toward the suffering. At the very least, I would use these days to cultivate a grateful spirit, to be thankful that I have a job that allows me to go home in the middle of the day and crash.
I aspire to be that person. But I'm not there yet. Instead, I am grumpy and pissed off. I have Plans, goddammit! Things to do. People to impress. Books to write.Plus, I hate hurting. I really do.
A couple of years ago, I actually took almost an entire semester's sick leave, in an effort to solve the Headache Problem once and for all. I spent the months on a futile quest to convince my insurance company to pay for my treatment at a headache clinic ("We can only pay for treatment within the network area." But there are no headache clinics here and my doctor says-- "We can only pay for treatment within the network area."), waiting on hold for various lab techs and doctors' secretaries (not, by and large, happy individuals, I discovered), and keeping a headache diary (basically a fulltime occupation, as you have to log everything you eat, every shift in the weather, every activity you undertake, and every little twinge of pain with details RE the locus of the pain, the type of pain, what you were doing when the pain ensued. . . You become completely self-obsessed. You spend all your time watching and documenting yourself. It is Not Good for You. Jesus, I am sure, would never keep a headache diary.) I spent obscene amounts of money on massage therapy, physical therapy, chiropracty, various types of yoga, hormone testing, neurologists' visits, vitamins, and herbal supplements, Gregorian chant cds, and massive quantities of drugs. I alternated ice packs and heating pads. I watched "What Not to Wear" and discovered I was wearing it. I still had headaches.
So I try something now and then--a round of acupuncture here, a set of stretching exercises there, an occasional consultation with a new doctor--and none of it makes a difference and I muddle through. It's just that days like today seem very muddley, not a lot of through, you know? Except at the end there's this gentle guy who rubs my neck and makes me dinner and lets me go to bed at 8:00 without laughing at me and seems to be ok with muddle. And that helps me through. Which seems enough, for now.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Ordinary People
September 11, 2011. Listening to the memorial service at Ground Zero. Former President Bush reads from a letter Abraham Lincoln wrote to a woman whose several sons died in the Union army: he has no words to comfort her in her loss but he hopes she will accept the gratitude of the Republic that her sons died trying to save.
Bush reads this letter to an audience consisting of the family members of individuals who died in the Twin Towers on 9/11. Presumably they are to infer their loved ones died to save the Republic.
But, umm, is that what they were doing? Saving the Republic? I thought they were getting coffee, settling down to another day at the desk, riding the elevator, leaving the train, reading the paper, making a phone call, checking their email. . . just doing the ordinary things that ordinary people do in their ordinary lives.
Not the Republic's Saviors. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary business on what they assumed would be an ordinary day. Isn't that the tragedy? the horror? the crime? That they weren't soldiers on a tour of duty, let alone knights on a quest? They were just Jean and Bill and Pablo and Irina and Melissa and Miguel and Tony and Noreen. Just folks. Secretaries and janitors and clerks and salesmen and brokers.
Maybe one, maybe several, maybe several hundreds of those that died that strange, horrible morning died thinking of the Republic. But I doubt it. I'll bet the last thing every one of those folks in the Towers thought of was incredibly ordinary--maybe a husband of average looks, intelligence, and prospects; a child not destined for greatness; a mom who looks just like countless other old ladies; a set of memories of a life filled with the mundane. But the mundane is where we, the ordinary people, live. Add up the mundane and it's our lives. And by God, dear God, please God, in all the mundane there is so much that matters. Why, then, reach for rhetorical abstractions, why disguise ordinary people as willing warriors in some kind of national crusade?
I haven't a clue what "the Republic" means. But an ordinary day in an ordinary place with an ordinary family and ordinary and friends? Oh, yes, I know what that means. It's worth all the world.
Bush reads this letter to an audience consisting of the family members of individuals who died in the Twin Towers on 9/11. Presumably they are to infer their loved ones died to save the Republic.
But, umm, is that what they were doing? Saving the Republic? I thought they were getting coffee, settling down to another day at the desk, riding the elevator, leaving the train, reading the paper, making a phone call, checking their email. . . just doing the ordinary things that ordinary people do in their ordinary lives.
Not the Republic's Saviors. Just ordinary people going about their ordinary business on what they assumed would be an ordinary day. Isn't that the tragedy? the horror? the crime? That they weren't soldiers on a tour of duty, let alone knights on a quest? They were just Jean and Bill and Pablo and Irina and Melissa and Miguel and Tony and Noreen. Just folks. Secretaries and janitors and clerks and salesmen and brokers.
Maybe one, maybe several, maybe several hundreds of those that died that strange, horrible morning died thinking of the Republic. But I doubt it. I'll bet the last thing every one of those folks in the Towers thought of was incredibly ordinary--maybe a husband of average looks, intelligence, and prospects; a child not destined for greatness; a mom who looks just like countless other old ladies; a set of memories of a life filled with the mundane. But the mundane is where we, the ordinary people, live. Add up the mundane and it's our lives. And by God, dear God, please God, in all the mundane there is so much that matters. Why, then, reach for rhetorical abstractions, why disguise ordinary people as willing warriors in some kind of national crusade?
I haven't a clue what "the Republic" means. But an ordinary day in an ordinary place with an ordinary family and ordinary and friends? Oh, yes, I know what that means. It's worth all the world.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
With apologies to Martin Luther
So Hugh is now in boarding school. Catholic boys' boarding school. The Brothers of the Sacred Heart, to be precise. Hugh's "prefect" is one such Brother. In his first year at the school, Brother T is a 60-ish, homely, gentle, other-worldly kind of guy who fatally admitted to Hugh during check-in at the residence hall that he had purchased his very first cell phone just a few days earlier. Oh dear. Do Catholics still believe in Purgatory? If so, then I imagine Brother T will have shaved a considerable amount off his purgatorial allotment by living in close quarters with a group of 16-year-olds for a year.
Hugh reported the following rather bizarre cross-cultural/generational encounter: In the middle of one of the introductory hall meetings with Brother T, one of the boys farted very loudly and of course all the other boys began to snicker and moan and generally descend to being, well, boys. Brother T responded with indignation. Such a public display of a private need was, he informed his little flock, the sign of gross ignorance. A boy who farted out loud would end up "flipping burgers" for a living, the brother warned, if he didn't shape up and rein himself in. Brother T then shifted into confessional mode: "Take me. I haven't farted out loud since 1972. Now I admit, it probably has caused me some trouble with my digestive tract, but it's been worth it."
Oh. Wow. Suddenly I realize how totally not a Catholic I am. Since Hugh told me this story, I've been farting loudly and with great gusto. Never before have I linked passing gas to Protestant principle, but now with every public butt burp, I feel I'm striking a blow against asceticism and the damage it has done to Christians for centuries.
Here I fart; I cannot do otherwise.
Hugh reported the following rather bizarre cross-cultural/generational encounter: In the middle of one of the introductory hall meetings with Brother T, one of the boys farted very loudly and of course all the other boys began to snicker and moan and generally descend to being, well, boys. Brother T responded with indignation. Such a public display of a private need was, he informed his little flock, the sign of gross ignorance. A boy who farted out loud would end up "flipping burgers" for a living, the brother warned, if he didn't shape up and rein himself in. Brother T then shifted into confessional mode: "Take me. I haven't farted out loud since 1972. Now I admit, it probably has caused me some trouble with my digestive tract, but it's been worth it."
Oh. Wow. Suddenly I realize how totally not a Catholic I am. Since Hugh told me this story, I've been farting loudly and with great gusto. Never before have I linked passing gas to Protestant principle, but now with every public butt burp, I feel I'm striking a blow against asceticism and the damage it has done to Christians for centuries.
Here I fart; I cannot do otherwise.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Mom, the Microwave, and God
My mom believes God spoke to her via her microwave.
This was awhile back. My cousin and his wife had put their house on the market and my mom, unbeknownst to her children, had been thinking about moving (i.e. selling our Home, the one we grew up in, the place invested with all the memories, you know, that place). So Mom shows up at my cousin's house and when she discovers that her microwave will fit in their specially built microwave cabinet, she discerns a divine sign: This is the house God wants her to buy. And she does. And she's happy.
Does God speak through ordinary events, if not ordinary household appliances? Two days ago I received an email informing me that the publishing firm with which I've signed two book contracts has now cancelled its entire history list. Is this a sign? Is God talking? Is He/She/They saying (cue James Earl Jones voice, except maybe with some strong feminine/feminist undertones), "Oh, Facing-50, 'tis time to rethink your career?"
Or maybe 'tis time for a new microwave.
This was awhile back. My cousin and his wife had put their house on the market and my mom, unbeknownst to her children, had been thinking about moving (i.e. selling our Home, the one we grew up in, the place invested with all the memories, you know, that place). So Mom shows up at my cousin's house and when she discovers that her microwave will fit in their specially built microwave cabinet, she discerns a divine sign: This is the house God wants her to buy. And she does. And she's happy.
Does God speak through ordinary events, if not ordinary household appliances? Two days ago I received an email informing me that the publishing firm with which I've signed two book contracts has now cancelled its entire history list. Is this a sign? Is God talking? Is He/She/They saying (cue James Earl Jones voice, except maybe with some strong feminine/feminist undertones), "Oh, Facing-50, 'tis time to rethink your career?"
Or maybe 'tis time for a new microwave.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Beatrice's Hat
Grace comes showering down in the strangest of ways, at the weirdest of times, in the most unexpected places. This week I've felt so world-weary and woebegone, beaten down and beaten up, tired out and stretched thin. And then along comes Beatrice's hat, and all is made new. How can I not love a world that produces such marvels, how can I not revel in a life that allows such delight? A curtsey to you, Princess Beatrice. You go, girl.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
At the Beach
Am at the beach. Blogging at the beach. Is that cool? Or is that pitiful? I'm ambivalent.
The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.
Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.
My, but we are an ugly people.
Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.
Easter weekend. All things made new.
The Beach, in this case, in all cases concerning me and my family, is Gulf Shores, Alabama. One doesn't have real beaches in Louisiana--just bayous and marshes, teeming with leeches and alligators and such like. Then comes Mississippi, but its beaches pre-Katrina were rocky and dirty, and post-Katrina, well, let's say they remain a work in progress. One could bypass Alabama and continue down the interstate to Pensacola, but as soon as the car crosses the state line into Florida the prices rise, as does the socio-economic status and the physical fitness of the beach-goers, and the quality of the goods in the shops and restaurants.
Since we don't like to go out when we're at the beach, we prefer Gulf Shores. Decent prices. White sand. The appropriately uber-tacky souvenirs. And, the absolute essential of any beach break, lots of obese Americans in all their glory--the guy with the gigantic beer belly curling over his belt like a generous scoop of ice cream on a cone, his buddy with the tattooed eagle proclaiming "Liberty or Death," his amply proportioned girlfriend who sports a string bikini all the same.
My, but we are an ugly people.
Yet the sun is shining and the breeze is fresh and the laughter, like the waves, rolls up and peaks and diminishes and crescendoes again; the beer belly guy leans over and gives his girl's broad shoulder a gentle kiss; the tattooed friend walks over and offers us a beer and a chicken wing.
Easter weekend. All things made new.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Have mercy on me, a sinner.
Goddammit. Bloody hell. Bugger all.
In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?
The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).
Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.
Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?
One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.
Except:
Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.
And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .
Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.
Have mercy.
In the past few weeks I've signed contracts to write two books. Let me be clear: I want to write these books. One might actually be read by ordinary folks and even make me a wee bit of money: It's about Margaret Thatcher; I mean, who's not interested in Margaret Thatcher, total she-devil and anti-feminist persona?
The problem with signing book contracts is that then you actually have to write the damn book(s).
Which means: one must not lose entire work days because one has a headache. Even if it's a nonstop motherfucking killer I'm gonna die headache.
Sooooo, what does one do, when one loses several entire work days because one has said nonstop etc. headache?
One gets depressed. One gets tired and cranky and bitchy. And one feels really really sorry for one's self.
Except:
Ordinary men and women and (God help us all) children are fighting for their freedom and their lives in Libya. And oh dear God, those beautiful Bahrainis are being mowed down by Saudi troops. And Jesus Jesus Jesus, entire cities destroyed and hundreds of thousands on the move and a nuclear holocaust impending. . . and one's heart and one's soul and one's spirit reaches across continents and oceans to Japan. . . . and I bet not a one of those Libyans or Bahrainis or Japanese cares about their literary legacy or their professional careers right now. I bet "Damn, my head hurts" is not a phrase of much meaning out there, on the edge of cosmic significance, right at this moment.
And yet, there's the Lucipherian ego, the Satanic self, the demonic part of me that screams, "Excuuuuse me!!!! I'm having a rough time here! My head really hurts! I don't wanna think about you people." And I feel so guilty for such horrible, self-obsessed, oh-so-trivial thoughts, and then, in the ultimate confirmation of Original Sin, I find myself utterly absolutely furious at the Libyans and the Bahrainis and the Japanese for making me feel so goddamned guilty. . . .
Jesus Christ. Oh dear God.
Have mercy.
Friday, March 11, 2011
Sabbath
When I remember, I tune into WGN at 9:00 pm. The wonders of cable tv: I sit in my south Louisiana living room and watch the local Chicago news. It tickles me every time. (I'm a simple soul, obviously.)
This past Wednesday, Keith was on the couch as well, so we both had a good chuckle when one of Chicagoland's ace reporters told us that because Easter is late this year, Lent is longer than usual: 46 rather than 40 days. Ummm. If Easter is late, so is Ash Wednesday and there are always 46 days between: 40 days of Lenten observance and the six Sundays which are Feast Days, and therefore not part of Lent. But you knew that already.
Sundays are Feast Days.
Gosh. Not quite the way I was raised. Certainly the Christian Reformed Church regarded Sundays as special but its interpretation and enforcement of that specialness translated not into festivity but rather into tedium: two lengthy somber church services (no children's sermons or any such levity), compulsory afternoon naps (required for everyone, adult and child; we took "Day of Rest" literally), and a variety of bizarre prohibitions. These prohibitions varied by family. My family was on the liberal end--unlike many in our church, we could watch tv and do homework on Sundays. But the list of what we could not do was still lengthy. Most importantly, we could not earn money (I still remember the face of the "Hickory Farms" manager at the mall when she asked my 15-year-old self if I could work on Sunday in an emergency and I replied, in utter and absolute sincerity, "Well, yes, but I couldn't accept payment for it."). But we could also not spend money (no shopping, no movie-going, no dining out), do housework or laundry or yardwork (not a much resented prohibition, actually), or join in any neighborhood activities (definitely no Little League or any kind of organized sports). More confusingly, we could not play catch or ride bikes or jump rope but it was ok to play inside with paper dolls or stuffed animals or board games or even consumerist secular fashion-obsessed Barbie and Ken. In other families, the prohibitions were similarly odd: one friend could not use scissors.
Things got really bizarre, however, during summer vacations. There we'd be, at the cottage--no air conditioning, sweltering heat, the lake glistening before us. But swimming on Sunday was forbidden. Unless, that is, the temperatures rose above 90 degrees. Then we could swim; evidently heat wiped out the sin. So we'd cluster, sweaty and forlorn, around the outside thermometer, desperately willing the mercury to climb. My friend Cindy had a different Sunday swimming rule. No matter what the temperature, they could swim out to the floating deck and lie down there. But no splashing or jumping or overt enjoyment. Just, you know, sober reverent holy swimming.
Slowly, gradually, the prohibitions lifted. My mom began buying the Sunday paper at the White Hen Pantry (but not from the White Hen just down the block from the church, in case a church member saw her). We stopped going to the cottage and started taking hotel vacations that required us to use restaurants on Sundays. I went off to college and--even tho' it was Calvin College, where the library was closed on Sundays and where we all got up and went to church, even without our parents' presence, and then went back to the dorms and took naps--we quickly grew used to Sunday laundry stints and pancake suppers out at the IHOP. By the time I graduated, even my grandmother was ok with buying a nice dinner out at a nice restaurant after church. God seemed ok with it too.
But, you know, it's a slippery slope. We're a church-going family, but the rest of Sunday is just like the rest of the week: hectic, disheveled, crammed with the detritus of daily living. No rest, nothing special, nothing sacred.
Still no Feast.
This past Wednesday, Keith was on the couch as well, so we both had a good chuckle when one of Chicagoland's ace reporters told us that because Easter is late this year, Lent is longer than usual: 46 rather than 40 days. Ummm. If Easter is late, so is Ash Wednesday and there are always 46 days between: 40 days of Lenten observance and the six Sundays which are Feast Days, and therefore not part of Lent. But you knew that already.
Sundays are Feast Days.
Gosh. Not quite the way I was raised. Certainly the Christian Reformed Church regarded Sundays as special but its interpretation and enforcement of that specialness translated not into festivity but rather into tedium: two lengthy somber church services (no children's sermons or any such levity), compulsory afternoon naps (required for everyone, adult and child; we took "Day of Rest" literally), and a variety of bizarre prohibitions. These prohibitions varied by family. My family was on the liberal end--unlike many in our church, we could watch tv and do homework on Sundays. But the list of what we could not do was still lengthy. Most importantly, we could not earn money (I still remember the face of the "Hickory Farms" manager at the mall when she asked my 15-year-old self if I could work on Sunday in an emergency and I replied, in utter and absolute sincerity, "Well, yes, but I couldn't accept payment for it."). But we could also not spend money (no shopping, no movie-going, no dining out), do housework or laundry or yardwork (not a much resented prohibition, actually), or join in any neighborhood activities (definitely no Little League or any kind of organized sports). More confusingly, we could not play catch or ride bikes or jump rope but it was ok to play inside with paper dolls or stuffed animals or board games or even consumerist secular fashion-obsessed Barbie and Ken. In other families, the prohibitions were similarly odd: one friend could not use scissors.
Things got really bizarre, however, during summer vacations. There we'd be, at the cottage--no air conditioning, sweltering heat, the lake glistening before us. But swimming on Sunday was forbidden. Unless, that is, the temperatures rose above 90 degrees. Then we could swim; evidently heat wiped out the sin. So we'd cluster, sweaty and forlorn, around the outside thermometer, desperately willing the mercury to climb. My friend Cindy had a different Sunday swimming rule. No matter what the temperature, they could swim out to the floating deck and lie down there. But no splashing or jumping or overt enjoyment. Just, you know, sober reverent holy swimming.
Slowly, gradually, the prohibitions lifted. My mom began buying the Sunday paper at the White Hen Pantry (but not from the White Hen just down the block from the church, in case a church member saw her). We stopped going to the cottage and started taking hotel vacations that required us to use restaurants on Sundays. I went off to college and--even tho' it was Calvin College, where the library was closed on Sundays and where we all got up and went to church, even without our parents' presence, and then went back to the dorms and took naps--we quickly grew used to Sunday laundry stints and pancake suppers out at the IHOP. By the time I graduated, even my grandmother was ok with buying a nice dinner out at a nice restaurant after church. God seemed ok with it too.
But, you know, it's a slippery slope. We're a church-going family, but the rest of Sunday is just like the rest of the week: hectic, disheveled, crammed with the detritus of daily living. No rest, nothing special, nothing sacred.
Still no Feast.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Calvinettes
On Wednesday I colored my roots. On Thursday a box of clothes and a new pair of boots from J.Jill arrived by FedEx. On Friday I got a manicure,today a hair cut. On Monday I am having my teeth whitened.
Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that I can't get the Calvinette motto out of my head:
Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain,
but a woman that feareth Jehovah,
she shall be praised. (Proverbs something: something)
Yes, Calvinette. I was a Calvinette. In the Dutch Calvinist immigrant sub-culture in which I was raised, one could not be a Brownie or Girl Scout or Indian Princess. One might get tainted by the secular world. So instead we had our own uniformed sex-segregated child movements: Cadets and Calvinettes. It seemed so normal then. It was only when I grew up and realized there were no Lutherettes or Loyolaettes or Wesleyettes that I first thought maybe we were all a bit odd.
One progressed up the Calvinette ranks from Gleaner to Reaper to Something to Sower (what would come between sowing and reaping--Waterer? Weeder? Fertilizerer?) by earning badges in skills and achievements ranging from Bicycle Repair or Water Safety to Reformation Heroes and (my personal favorite) Old Testament Women.
Apart from the Bicycle Repair badge, little that could be described as "feminist" appeared in Calvinettes. Certainly conformity rather than competition structured our troop. There was no sense, really, in mimicking my brothers' quest for as many Cadet badges as possible. In Calvinettes, our counselors (mothers dragooned into service for a year) made sure we all earned enough points to move up the ranks in step with our age group. We learned to sew and to embroider (or at least we were supposed to. . . I failed miserably but got promoted to Reaper all the same); we had lessons in how to sit down properly after singing the hymn in church (you smooth your skirt as you are sitting; you do not sit and then half-hop up and pull out the wrinkles); and best of all, once we hit 8th grade, we no longer had crafts and Bible study under the watchful eyes of the mothers but instead "Charm Course," in which two single women in their late teens taught us such important life skills as how to perk up limp hair with a lemon rinse and where to sit in the front seat when on a first date (in the middle). Even at 13 I thought it somewhat ironic to recite "Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain" and then to spend the next two hours learning how to apply blush and lip stick. (Yes, I was the sort of 13-year-old who knew what "ironic" meant.) Still, anything was an improvement over embroidery; moreover, by age 13, a regular-church-going child is already an expert in negotiating ambiguities, inconsistencies, and contradictions. The Bible was full of them; the adults at church, even more so.
Here I am, an aged Calvinette, with my painted nails, my new clothes, my about-to-be-white teeth, and my freshly colored and cut hair (not in the least bit limp or in need of a lemon rinse). Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain. They do, however, make life a bit more livable. I don't think Jehovah minds, really.
Perhaps it's not surprising, then, that I can't get the Calvinette motto out of my head:
Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain,
but a woman that feareth Jehovah,
she shall be praised. (Proverbs something: something)
Yes, Calvinette. I was a Calvinette. In the Dutch Calvinist immigrant sub-culture in which I was raised, one could not be a Brownie or Girl Scout or Indian Princess. One might get tainted by the secular world. So instead we had our own uniformed sex-segregated child movements: Cadets and Calvinettes. It seemed so normal then. It was only when I grew up and realized there were no Lutherettes or Loyolaettes or Wesleyettes that I first thought maybe we were all a bit odd.
One progressed up the Calvinette ranks from Gleaner to Reaper to Something to Sower (what would come between sowing and reaping--Waterer? Weeder? Fertilizerer?) by earning badges in skills and achievements ranging from Bicycle Repair or Water Safety to Reformation Heroes and (my personal favorite) Old Testament Women.
Apart from the Bicycle Repair badge, little that could be described as "feminist" appeared in Calvinettes. Certainly conformity rather than competition structured our troop. There was no sense, really, in mimicking my brothers' quest for as many Cadet badges as possible. In Calvinettes, our counselors (mothers dragooned into service for a year) made sure we all earned enough points to move up the ranks in step with our age group. We learned to sew and to embroider (or at least we were supposed to. . . I failed miserably but got promoted to Reaper all the same); we had lessons in how to sit down properly after singing the hymn in church (you smooth your skirt as you are sitting; you do not sit and then half-hop up and pull out the wrinkles); and best of all, once we hit 8th grade, we no longer had crafts and Bible study under the watchful eyes of the mothers but instead "Charm Course," in which two single women in their late teens taught us such important life skills as how to perk up limp hair with a lemon rinse and where to sit in the front seat when on a first date (in the middle). Even at 13 I thought it somewhat ironic to recite "Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain" and then to spend the next two hours learning how to apply blush and lip stick. (Yes, I was the sort of 13-year-old who knew what "ironic" meant.) Still, anything was an improvement over embroidery; moreover, by age 13, a regular-church-going child is already an expert in negotiating ambiguities, inconsistencies, and contradictions. The Bible was full of them; the adults at church, even more so.
Here I am, an aged Calvinette, with my painted nails, my new clothes, my about-to-be-white teeth, and my freshly colored and cut hair (not in the least bit limp or in need of a lemon rinse). Grace is deceitful and beauty is vain. They do, however, make life a bit more livable. I don't think Jehovah minds, really.
Monday, January 17, 2011
I Don't Speak American
Like every other at least semi-sentient person in the United States this past week, I've been thinking a lot about guns. Once again a horrific mass shooting. Once again the debate over guns and "gun rights" heats up. It's a debate I opted out of long ago. I can't remember ever struggling with this issue. I came to political consciousness at age 13 and I was then and I have always remained a strong supporter of the strict regulation of hunting and sporting weapons, as well as a complete ban on private handguns and all assault-style weapons and ammunition. Clearly I am a European soul trapped in an American body--and so I've stopped participating in this ongoing American conversation. I just don't speak the language. And I don't want to.
I know that I am wrong. I know that in his superb address last week President Obama called on us to "broaden our moral imaginations"--and I think that means he's asking us to imagine ourselves on the other side, to try to see the world through another's eyes, and so to find common ground. He's right, I know that. And I know that's what my Christian faith demands as well. Jesus, I think it's safe to say, had a very broad moral imagination. But I do not want even to try to imagine being a person who would hear the news from Tucson and then would rush out to buy magazine clips that can fire 30 shots in a few seconds, the type the shooter used, just in case a miracle happens and the NRA allows them to be banned.
So, don't bother sending me phrase books or suggesting I try one of those immersion courses. Don't send me translations. I don't understand you. And I don't want to try to talk to you. I'll just go my way now. Sorry, no, no, I'm sorry. I can't help you. I don't speak American.
I know that I am wrong. I know that in his superb address last week President Obama called on us to "broaden our moral imaginations"--and I think that means he's asking us to imagine ourselves on the other side, to try to see the world through another's eyes, and so to find common ground. He's right, I know that. And I know that's what my Christian faith demands as well. Jesus, I think it's safe to say, had a very broad moral imagination. But I do not want even to try to imagine being a person who would hear the news from Tucson and then would rush out to buy magazine clips that can fire 30 shots in a few seconds, the type the shooter used, just in case a miracle happens and the NRA allows them to be banned.
So, don't bother sending me phrase books or suggesting I try one of those immersion courses. Don't send me translations. I don't understand you. And I don't want to try to talk to you. I'll just go my way now. Sorry, no, no, I'm sorry. I can't help you. I don't speak American.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
A Prayer; Occasioned by Three Days at Home with My Mom and My Mother-In-Law
Dear God,
Dear God,
As I move into the Aging Decades, please:
Let Yes outweigh No in my vocabulary;
Let me ask questions that do not demand certain answers;
Let the words "That's not the way I like it" never pass my lips;
Let "I've never done that" lead to "Show me how."
Pull me into the new.
Shower me with strangeness.
Pour change down upon me.
Forever and ever,
Amen
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
"And there were in the same country. . . "
So, we've become Gleeks. ("Gleeks," oh unknowing folks, are followers of "Glee," the stylized humorous-satirical-musical drama about a totally unreal, utterly mesmerizing high school.) You know you're a Gleek when you choose the Christmas episode of "Glee" over "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
I do feel guilty though. I'm not sure one can actually truly really deeply celebrate Christmas without "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
Yes, yes, I do know one can purchase the dvd and watch it any ol' time, even in July, but that's no good whatsoever. One must watch it on tv at the proper time, as determined by The Network. It's like, well, not really, but just sort of, a bit, kind of like (I'm not trying to be blasphemous here, just you know, metaphorical), one doesn't just eat a cracker and drink some grape juice in the kitchen and declare it Holy Communion.
"A Charlie Brown Christmas" debuted in 1965, when I was 5. I watched it. I've watched it almost every December since. My mom hated tv, but even she loved "A Charlie Brown Christmas." After all, it gets Christmas right: Linus quotes Luke 2; there's no Kris Kringle or puppet elves or animated red-nosed reindeer accompanied by damaged toys. And there's that fantastic jazz score and there's Snoopy, truly one of the 20th century's most brilliant fictional characters.
Oh damn. Fuck "Glee." I should have watched "A Charlie Brown Christmas." One should never mess with Truth. Or Snoopy.
I do feel guilty though. I'm not sure one can actually truly really deeply celebrate Christmas without "A Charlie Brown Christmas."
Yes, yes, I do know one can purchase the dvd and watch it any ol' time, even in July, but that's no good whatsoever. One must watch it on tv at the proper time, as determined by The Network. It's like, well, not really, but just sort of, a bit, kind of like (I'm not trying to be blasphemous here, just you know, metaphorical), one doesn't just eat a cracker and drink some grape juice in the kitchen and declare it Holy Communion.
"A Charlie Brown Christmas" debuted in 1965, when I was 5. I watched it. I've watched it almost every December since. My mom hated tv, but even she loved "A Charlie Brown Christmas." After all, it gets Christmas right: Linus quotes Luke 2; there's no Kris Kringle or puppet elves or animated red-nosed reindeer accompanied by damaged toys. And there's that fantastic jazz score and there's Snoopy, truly one of the 20th century's most brilliant fictional characters.
Oh damn. Fuck "Glee." I should have watched "A Charlie Brown Christmas." One should never mess with Truth. Or Snoopy.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
The Potter and the Clay
I'm about to become a pot-smoking cat-killer.
The pot-smoking is fairly straightforward. My headaches get ever worse, which I really didn't think was possible, as they seemed pretty damned bad before. I have exhausted all the legal options and I have depleted my admittedly fairly scanty emotional and spiritual resources. That leaves medicinal marijuana.
Of course, it's not actually all that straightforward. I live in Louisiana, where pot in all its forms, medicinal or not, is illegal. And I've never smoked pot. I've never smoked anything, in fact (the result of growing up in a household of cigarette smokers--it was truly vile: one of my most vivid childhood memories is my disgust at having to wash dishes because my dad and brothers would stub out their dinnertime cigarettes on the plates. . . those crumpled butts, squished down into leftover puddles of ketchup and meatloaf grease. . . and then there was the horror of car rides in the winter, all the windows rolled up, the cigarette smoke swirling around my head like a thick woolen scarf). So, I don't know how to smoke. And I don't know how to get pot, other than to ask certain of my sons' friends, which of course I cannot do. Good lord. Can you imagine: "Hey dude, tell your mom I got a new supply in and it's really sweet"--??
But I will surmount these problems and I will score some medicinal marijuana and I will, at last, find relief from the pain. And I will live a happy and successful and productive life.
Except for the cat-killing.
I wrote in a previous post about our peeing cat. All cats pee, of course, but this one pees on the sofas and beds. Constantly. And I just can't take it anymore. I have tried everything. Really. Truly. I'm a historian. I research for a living. I have researched peeing cats. I do not believe in discarding animals because they are inconvenient, but. . . this is beyond "convenience." As Laurie, my very wise nail lady said to me on Saturday morning as she clipped away at my cuticles, "We're talking about your home here." And my home reeks of cat piss. But the cat has no claws and couldn't survive outside and is not exactly adoptable. Who wants an incontinent indoor kitty?
But if I have my cat "put down," aka killed, I will also become a liar of the worst kind. Because Cleaning Sarah, who has cleaned our house, babysat our kids, petsit our dogs and cats, and basically been a solid part of our family life for 20 years, will never speak to me again if she knows what I've done. So I will have to lie. A really Big Lie. One I will have to think about, concoct and then sustain for years to come. It will be like a Victorian novel. It will go on and on and on.
So the Scripture text in church this morning was the famous passage from Jeremiah about God sending the prophet to watch the potter at the wheel and saying, "Look, go tell Israel [or is it Judah?], you've all really fucked up and I'm going to throw you back on the wheel and start all over." (Yes, the "fucked up" is in the original Hebrew. . . OK, not really, but you know it's what God wanted to say except He/She/They knew there'd be all those kids listening in.) And I'm sitting there in the pew and I'm thinking, "Oh geez. I'm 50 and I've got a headache and do I really need to be reminded that I more and more resemble a lumpy, squishy, lopsided pile of clay?" And then there's this continual reshaping, this constantly-on-the-wheel thing, round and round and round and round. . . . I mean, no wonder I have headaches. But I gotta say, the shapes this funky cosmic Potter comes up with--well, they are surprising, to say the least. I truly never expected to be a middle-aged, weed-toking, cat-killing, cleaning-woman-deceiver. I mean, couldn't I be a nice, graceful salad bowl? Or perhaps a butter dish with pleasing lines? Or even a gravy boat?
The pot-smoking is fairly straightforward. My headaches get ever worse, which I really didn't think was possible, as they seemed pretty damned bad before. I have exhausted all the legal options and I have depleted my admittedly fairly scanty emotional and spiritual resources. That leaves medicinal marijuana.
Of course, it's not actually all that straightforward. I live in Louisiana, where pot in all its forms, medicinal or not, is illegal. And I've never smoked pot. I've never smoked anything, in fact (the result of growing up in a household of cigarette smokers--it was truly vile: one of my most vivid childhood memories is my disgust at having to wash dishes because my dad and brothers would stub out their dinnertime cigarettes on the plates. . . those crumpled butts, squished down into leftover puddles of ketchup and meatloaf grease. . . and then there was the horror of car rides in the winter, all the windows rolled up, the cigarette smoke swirling around my head like a thick woolen scarf). So, I don't know how to smoke. And I don't know how to get pot, other than to ask certain of my sons' friends, which of course I cannot do. Good lord. Can you imagine: "Hey dude, tell your mom I got a new supply in and it's really sweet"--??
But I will surmount these problems and I will score some medicinal marijuana and I will, at last, find relief from the pain. And I will live a happy and successful and productive life.
Except for the cat-killing.
I wrote in a previous post about our peeing cat. All cats pee, of course, but this one pees on the sofas and beds. Constantly. And I just can't take it anymore. I have tried everything. Really. Truly. I'm a historian. I research for a living. I have researched peeing cats. I do not believe in discarding animals because they are inconvenient, but. . . this is beyond "convenience." As Laurie, my very wise nail lady said to me on Saturday morning as she clipped away at my cuticles, "We're talking about your home here." And my home reeks of cat piss. But the cat has no claws and couldn't survive outside and is not exactly adoptable. Who wants an incontinent indoor kitty?
But if I have my cat "put down," aka killed, I will also become a liar of the worst kind. Because Cleaning Sarah, who has cleaned our house, babysat our kids, petsit our dogs and cats, and basically been a solid part of our family life for 20 years, will never speak to me again if she knows what I've done. So I will have to lie. A really Big Lie. One I will have to think about, concoct and then sustain for years to come. It will be like a Victorian novel. It will go on and on and on.
So the Scripture text in church this morning was the famous passage from Jeremiah about God sending the prophet to watch the potter at the wheel and saying, "Look, go tell Israel [or is it Judah?], you've all really fucked up and I'm going to throw you back on the wheel and start all over." (Yes, the "fucked up" is in the original Hebrew. . . OK, not really, but you know it's what God wanted to say except He/She/They knew there'd be all those kids listening in.) And I'm sitting there in the pew and I'm thinking, "Oh geez. I'm 50 and I've got a headache and do I really need to be reminded that I more and more resemble a lumpy, squishy, lopsided pile of clay?" And then there's this continual reshaping, this constantly-on-the-wheel thing, round and round and round and round. . . . I mean, no wonder I have headaches. But I gotta say, the shapes this funky cosmic Potter comes up with--well, they are surprising, to say the least. I truly never expected to be a middle-aged, weed-toking, cat-killing, cleaning-woman-deceiver. I mean, couldn't I be a nice, graceful salad bowl? Or perhaps a butter dish with pleasing lines? Or even a gravy boat?
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Individually wrapped packages
Am in the car, nearing the end of three days of a pretty much non-stop, searing, make-you-vomit headache. Not driving, thank God. Fifteen-year-old Hugh has his driver's permit; he's at the wheel and I am grateful. Really. He's a good driver, alert, careful, already probably better than me on a good day, let alone a Headache Day. We have been to the mall and I have bought him clothes so he's in a good mood. Me, I'm just barely hanging on.
And then I lose my grip and plummet downward. Don't know why--it all just adds up, I guess. Hugh is chatting pleasantly and I want so hard to listen, to respond well, to be a Good Mother. So many of our interactions are hostile, hurtful, fraught, and I long to appreciate this moment, to enjoy his company and the fact that we are Getting Along. But I can't. I just want to be home, in bed, alone, without light or sound or heat or expectations. And then, God help me, I start to cry.
Hugh's a cheerful, live-in-the-moment, it's-all-about-now sort of soul. He doesn't believe in planning or consequences or regret or apologies or any emotions, really, other than enjoyment and a fierce loyalty to friends. And I am sitting in the passenger's seat next to him, crying.
I blurt out, "It must be crummy, having a mom who always has headaches and feels rotten."
Silence.
Then, Hugh, quietly: "It's not so bad."
Me, through the tears: "Geez. It's gotta be. I mean, I don't like being with me, and I'm me."
Hugh: "Well, I think you should smoke pot."
I'm astounded. So he's been paying attention to my discussions with Keith about medicinal marijuana? Lurching into Unknown Territory--conversation with a sympathetic Hugh--I regress into total self-pity: "I don't even know how to smoke!" I wail.
"You can try a pipe," he suggests, helpfully. "I guess I could bake pot into brownies," I admit, and Hugh is exultant "Yeah! In Colorado, you can buy weed cookies! In individually wrapped packages!"
And suddenly, the pain recedes, just for a moment, and I am in a place of grace. "This is My body," in the form of individually wrapped packages of Colorado-produced cannabis cookies offered by my teenaged son.
And then I lose my grip and plummet downward. Don't know why--it all just adds up, I guess. Hugh is chatting pleasantly and I want so hard to listen, to respond well, to be a Good Mother. So many of our interactions are hostile, hurtful, fraught, and I long to appreciate this moment, to enjoy his company and the fact that we are Getting Along. But I can't. I just want to be home, in bed, alone, without light or sound or heat or expectations. And then, God help me, I start to cry.
Hugh's a cheerful, live-in-the-moment, it's-all-about-now sort of soul. He doesn't believe in planning or consequences or regret or apologies or any emotions, really, other than enjoyment and a fierce loyalty to friends. And I am sitting in the passenger's seat next to him, crying.
I blurt out, "It must be crummy, having a mom who always has headaches and feels rotten."
Silence.
Then, Hugh, quietly: "It's not so bad."
Me, through the tears: "Geez. It's gotta be. I mean, I don't like being with me, and I'm me."
Hugh: "Well, I think you should smoke pot."
I'm astounded. So he's been paying attention to my discussions with Keith about medicinal marijuana? Lurching into Unknown Territory--conversation with a sympathetic Hugh--I regress into total self-pity: "I don't even know how to smoke!" I wail.
"You can try a pipe," he suggests, helpfully. "I guess I could bake pot into brownies," I admit, and Hugh is exultant "Yeah! In Colorado, you can buy weed cookies! In individually wrapped packages!"
And suddenly, the pain recedes, just for a moment, and I am in a place of grace. "This is My body," in the form of individually wrapped packages of Colorado-produced cannabis cookies offered by my teenaged son.
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