Wanna Cuppa?

The Straw Goddess

2012-01-20T17:24:00.000-05:00

I haven't written in awhile. I haven't posted in an even longer amount of time. Some of it was the holidays and the business of moving again and starting to homeschool the kids again. But mostly, it was that I have no heart to say anything.

I have many thoughts, and I sometimes put them on paper. My purse is full of old Target receipts with crayon cursive notes on the ideas that come to me when I'm supposed to be doing something else. But I rarely have the will to do anything with them, and if I even get that far I don't care enough to post it.

I know, waaaaahaaaaa. Life gets overwhelming and kids are hard to manage. Marriage is a full-time job, and the dishes don't wash their own sticky selves, though I have tried every spell listed in the fantasy books I so adore.

I fluctuate between feeling genuinely sorry for myself and hating the fact that I let my depression become so damn dramatic. But on either side of that coin, I cannot escape the reality that is now holding my family in an iron-clad (and just as cozy) embrace.

In short, and without being ugly (Southern for mean spirited) we have recently encountered the proverbial Last Straw.

I really love thinking about those old proverbs or wives' tales. I wonder where they came from, who first put the genius together and how it caught on. Did a camel's back really break because of straw? Who was dumb enough to do that science experiment?

But let's go with it. A camel, a lion, a bear, a person, can only take so much. We know this. But then again, we also think that just one more leeeettle thing can't possibly hurt, right? Just ONE more late night. Just ONE more meeting or some such importance. Just ONE more piece of teeny tiny insignificant virtually weightless straw.

I don't know if it is modern man or American values or what. But it seems as if we think that if we continue to add...very...very slowly...or just pretend that we are VERY strong, we can continue to add to the pile indefinitely. We have grown too proud of our abilities. There is a breaking point.

Enter my breaking point.

I've lived in the world of church my entire life. My ancestors on all sides have been involved in pastoring, shepherding, cleaning, counseling, teaching, serving and leading churches for centuries. To say that it is in my blood is an understatement. Even those of my family that have other jobs are so thoroughly steeped in church that they all need a good wringing out.

I don't remember a time when I didn't feel sarcastic or cautious toward most church goers. I don't recall the first time I was duped by someone who used prayer as a means of gossip. Having my dad suddenly leave a birthday party because someone was in the hospital? That's just life. It is a family business whether you like it or not, and I have liked it...and not.

As such, I consider myself pretty realistic. I don't expect people to be perfect, and rather prefer those who don't pretend to be. I know that everyone stinks, everyone lies, everyone struggles. This isn't being false, it is being normal. I've been on the sidelines watching as church leaders were caught in the webs of divorce, affairs with women, affairs with men, embezzling funds, taking illegal drugs, taking legal drugs illegally, and...the worst of all of them....been total shit heads. Excuse the language, if you will.

I think that anyone can be tempted to do something they would otherwise not do. I've definitely looked at the Percocet from my last baby delivery and thought that it would make life MUCH easier and nobody would have to know. But I think it is far worse to consistently be unkind to people, to forget the difficulties of youth, to disdain the poor or uneducated, or to believe yourself superior to those whom you serve. I forgive the Percocet takers easier than the ones who exclude you because of your last-season shoes.

And still....life goes on. My faith in life or people doesn't have to be seriously altered because someone had a bump in the road. Times are hard, but times move on.

I've dealt with mean kids who wanted to laugh at the fat girl. I've faced the horrors of junior high in a new state. I went through countless medical tests and procedures to deal with the fact that I had a horrible eating disorder. I started taking medication for anxiety and depression before I left high school. I was abused by someone in my church. I helped my mother relearn how to walk and eat and use the bathroom. I watched my husband's father die. I watched my house burn down. I've had life-or-death scares with each of my children. I've walked with friends through job loss, death of parents, death of spouse, death of children, loss of homes, loss of sanity.

I'm not trying to say anything other than I am not a weak person, and I know what hard times look like. No doubt you do as well. We can all name some really bad things that have happened to us and those we love.

The reason that this is pertinent is that I want you to understand how devastating the events of recent months have been. How bad has life been to be worse than all of this together?!

The straw. The proverbial straw.

My husband is a pastor. He is a good pastor, in my opinion. He loves people and wants them to know about the loving being who made them. He isn't condescending to those who don't share his views, is enthusiastically involved in relationships with people who are totally opposed to his ideas, and actively looks for ways to make people feel good about themselves. He is a genuinely nice person, which is one of the highest compliments I can pay anybody. I'm genuinely not, which is why I value such qualities in others. I'm mean, I think bad things about people, and I always expect for people to let me down.

Austin loves to read, to discuss, and to teach. If there was anything that drew me to him (aside from his ridiculous good looks) it was this. We like to be informed, to banter, to draw out the meaning behind the meaning. It is for us as good a time as can be had. Give us a book, a pint, and an argument, and we are truly happy. Add a light saber for good measure, and maybe a wand. We are nerds, but at least he is a handsome one. I'm the witty one.

In recent months, Austin's views on certain Biblical/Theological topics have come under fire by people in our community. However, instead of talking it out or discussing the differences, as adult people should, he was secretly put on a Radar of Doom. All things we said were suspect, all posts on Facebook were key. Pictures of my children at their baptism ceremony were proof that we were communist-papist-new age-*gasp*democrats. Does this sound ridiculous? It is.

Austin has been reading the Bible as historical literature for a long time. Yes, he is only 30, but yes he really did start at age 10. Like I said, he is a very smart, very amazingly pretty nerd. His conclusions and ongoing understanding of different aspects of this book are based on years of study including the learning of ancient languages. Is he right? No. Is he wrong? No.

Many parts of the Bible are confusing and unknown. It doesn't have to threaten your belief or disbelief in one way or another. It was written many years ago, in a different culture, language, and to a different people. This means that there are several keys to unlock. But ultimately, the believers of all times have come down to some basic beliefs. Believe these, and the rest is...the rest. We get to discuss and banter about salvation and grace, but in the end we one and all have to accept that we one and all don't know much about it. Faith is mysterious. God is mysterious. The whole lifestyle is often mysterious. If you aren't comfortable with things you don't understand, you need to look elsewhere. Just as in science, you deal with ideas and evidence and hypothesis until something causes you to conclude that you have a real answer. In the meantime, dream big and have fun trying to work out the mysterious of the cosmos, God, Big Bang Theory, and all.

This doesn't mean that I think, nor does anyone if they are honest, that all ideas are equal. Many ideas are, but not all. Sometimes it is based on personality, sometimes on fallacy. It is my job to work out what I think about life, about God, about politics and art. It is also my job to speak eloquently about such topics so that I might be a good example of what I believe. It is never my job to disdain, ignore, or belittle those ideas that differ from mine.

Disagreement is supposed to be an adult practice. I do not agree with some of my family members on alcohol consumption. I think I am right, and they think they are right. But I am an adult, and can recognize their ability to choose what they see fit. I would intervene if I saw that my cousin wanted to beat her child. This would no longer be her right, as a life would be in danger. My need to interfere in someone else's life to the point of law or restraint is limited to those situations in which life itself is at stake. But when my cousin wants to let her daughter eat McDonald's, it isn't my damn business. (Though some would argue McDonald's does indeed put your life in danger. )

This doesn't mean that every man is an island. With those whom I have relationship, I am able to ask for input and advice. I banter, I read, I discuss. I come to different conclusions based on the wisdom or folly of the advice. Through such healthy and respectful interactions, I come to know myself better. I know more about life, and how to be a better traveler through it.

If we want to take this to a very simple level, here's a great picture: I can ask my sister if I look fat in my bathing suit. I want her to answer, because she knows me. She remembers the days when I wouldn't eat and my doctor said I was harming my heart. She knows my fear of people starting at me. She knows my fear of bathing suits. But she also won't lie because she doesn't want me to look bad. She will tell me the truth, praising me in truth, and delivering sad reality in truth. HOWEVER....if I take that same bathing suit to a pool and some wicked beyotch tells me I look like a tub of marshmallow fluff stuffed into a nylon prison, I'm going to literally hit her. Because it isn't her place. It isn't her business. It isn't important to her, because I am not important to her.

I can liken it to the accusations applied to the President on the front of The Inquirer. There are so many more things to be concerned with in a leader than if you think he has alien tentacles or a penchant for Pinterest. When there is war and people are without homes, why should such things matter? Does it need to be explained that a pastor can wear pinstriped knickers if he wants? Sure, he looks odd. But it doesn't hinder his ability to fulfill his obligations.

I watched from the sidelines as my husband and my father addressed emails and phone calls and secret meetings. They did so with grace, and far more of it than is humanly possible to give. I watched as my husband sobbed his eyes raw because of fellow teachers and leaders who told him he was a nothing. He replied with dignity and kindness, and then came home to bury his head in my lap. Friendships of many years turned to be nothing more than traps. People lied, people gossiped, and people made my mother cry. My mother never cries.

The straw broke my back feels like it is stuck in my throat. (Don't think about the physiology of such a statement, as it will only cause O.C.D. thoughts to sprout like mold.)

The thing is, I can deal with real life problems. Tell me that you are struggling with an addiction, and I won't bat an eye. Everyone has problems, and we can only love one another through them and hope to get to a place of greater understanding. Tell me that you want to rid my spouse of his livelihood because we baptize our children and I am shocked with the pettiness. You are the girl at the pool and your cruelty is overwhelming.

I struggle with Southern American Evangelical Christianity. I am fortunate to have learned that it is a sub-sect, and not the whole animal. There are people around the world, and even in my own church, that believe in God aside from the politics, the American flag, the rush for riches and the protocol of Southern Plantations. Jesus doesn't care if you wear white after Labor Day. Jesus probably doesn't even care about Labor Day.

If we claim to be concerned with things that exist outside of time, yet only become passionate if an usher smokes, how can we be surprised with the world laughs?

I don't want anything to do with these vicious people, and we are supposed to be lumped together in that great grey category of Christian. I am, anger aside, embarrassed to be associated with people who act this way. Some of the best people I know do not fit in or abide by the ever-shifting rules according to Scarlett and Rhett Butler. But they care about the poor. They engage in the ongoing discussion of social justice around the world. They read the works of the world's religious and social leaders and look to find their place in the cosmos. I identify with them in everything except that I claim there is one particular God who has a hand in it.

I cannot abide the deep-fried god of the south who says I have to discount scientific discovery. I cannot drink a glass of sweetened lies.

I'm interested in the ancient Greek and Roman gods and goddesses. I love the stories and the drama and historical significance. Yet I've also always been intrigued as to how the ancient worshippers could delude themselves into believing that a grain goddess was angry with them. All facets of life had a god to answer to. The god either liked you or he didn't, and you could try to appease him or her with good behavior. It was exhausting and unending, and there was no safety. Question Zeus and you could be blasted. Fail to burn something to Apollo and the sun wouldn't rise. So much to keep track of, and so many ways to fail. There was only time and energy to try to rise higher than your neighbor. Make Hera like you more than your sister. Let the wrath fall on her, pathetic wretch. Keep climbing. Keep throwing people beneath you as you go. Restrict the carnage to anyone other than yourself.

The only thing that seems to have changed is that we now call it all God and when something goes unexpectedly right, we brightly say something about Grace or Favor.

I've never felt threatened by those who don't believe as I do. Instead, I feel threatened to the point of back-breaking proportions by those who say that my belief has to look like, smell like, talk and walk like theirs, and theirs isn't molded by anything other than preference.

My extended family, my husband's extended family, have expressed their outrage and hurt over the situation we find ourselves in. They know it, because they've been there. Pastors have always been there, always will be there. But let's call it what it is. Let's not say it has anything to do with Jesus. People need power and money, and the importance that they have oddly connected with the church. The Middle Ages are notorious for the actions of Popes who dabbled in the same vices. At least the Popes were usually honest about their needs. They rarely claimed that God told them to kill people. They just did it.

This sounds full of hurt, and I realize that it might sound over the top to you. I hope so, as that would probably indicate that this is a side of church world you aren't familiar with. I've waited months for the ability to separate my anger from the events, and write about just my frustration bewilderment. I do feel honestly that I am there, at least most days. I can move on without wanting to hurt someone or get revenge. But I do want it all to stop. It should stop.

The reason my husband's aunt teared up last week is because it didn't stop. The reason my mother cried is because it hasn't stopped. The reason my family finds itself with fewer friends is because it just won't stop. People are mean-spirited. They are ugly. They don't have the grace to say that they just want what they want, and they will do whatever it takes to get it. The collective years and tears of many a pastor's family could be saved if people would be more like the Popes of yore and just be honest about their treachery.

As it is, I don't want any of my children to go into church work. I want them to love people and do something that matters in the world. I want them to find joy, and when a college or boss treats them badly, I don't want it to be at the cost of their faith in humanity. I don't want them to struggle with the church ladies that tell them "God said" they are to stop wearing sleeveless dresses. Life is too short and too beautiful to deal with all this straw.

There is a verse in the Bible that says that God has made himself known through creation. There are so many beautiful things to be said about this passage, and one day I might say those things. For now I'm grateful that God is known in creation, because he is frequently unwelcome in his own church.

When he does show up, let's hope he doesn't wear white after Labor Day.

Well Fare

2011-10-21T17:11:00.000-04:00

The United States Welfare System has been on my mind recently. I've been collecting my thoughts, as opposed to just spewing them as I sometimes do, because I really care about the issues that this article represents.

Government assistance programs can include the areas of food, rent, health care, and cash monies. These programs have been in effect since our country's mother, England herself, sent people forth to tame the wild and wooly backwoods of The New World. England had laws regarding poverty and those experiencing it, and the colonists carried them over with their wigs and love of tea. However, the systems that are in place today are largely due to the Great Depression of last century. The leaders looked around and saw widespread poverty that was due to nothing more than the collapse of the economic system. Thus, aid for families, the elderly, the infants, and all those in-between, was seen as necessary. This wasn’t your grandfather’s welfare system. People with doctorates were sharing dirty bowls of beans with those who had no teeth.

The country experienced poverty in a new way. There wasn’t enough money or food or housing because there weren’t enough jobs because nobody could buy food or cars or shoes because….you know. The vicious cycle is as fragile as The Emperor’s New Clothes. Suddenly it wasn’t just the uneducated or unwilling who carried their belongings in a feed sack. It was your cousin, your best friend, your doctor. Bad things, wrong things, just happening to people on your street for no reason. It was shockingly unnerving, and there had to be a solution to care for those who wanted to pay their rent and butcher but couldn’t.

I hesitate to say that poverty leads to all manner of sins, because I've lived in poverty and haven't committed any crimes aside from dancing in a public fountain. The fountain wasn't because I was angry about being poor, as much as the whimsical fancy of a moment in which I realized that life often repeats itself over and again in such a nauseating deja vu, and the only way to cope was to slip off my shoes and laugh crazily while splashing through a fountain. The police officer who noticed me wasn't impressed with my life or its seemingly infinite ability to stump me at every turn, nor did he care that The Universe punished me by causing my thigh to meet an invisible piece of dirty metal in the fountain, resulting in a cinematographer's delight of blood spraying into coppery water. I found it ironic that this scratch developed a hideous barnacle-looking gangrenous fungous that didn't go away for a few weeks.

Still, though...poverty frequently leads to things that are not as tame as fountain dancing. If you don't know why, I would venture to say that you lack both heart and imagination, in which case you should lay down and die. Poverty indicates need. If you have a need for food, you will look for something to ease your hunger. If nothing can be found, you might wait it out and plan to eat more at a later hour. More likely, however, you will root around in your trunk until you find that bag of leftover Halloween candy that you hid last year while your kids were asleep. You will hate yourself, but you'll secretly be happy when you find a peanut butter cup amongst the Nerds. Hunger is temporarily abated, and you can resume your regular activities with full attention. But what if you don't have that Ugly Bag of Halloween Shame? Let's say that this uncomfortable feeling stretches for more than two meals. You suddenly have no qualms with walking through the grocery store looking for samples. You might look at your neighbor’s leftovers and wonder if tucking in would be gauche.

Let's say that your kids are part of the mix. Let's say they wake up at night because they are hungry. What might you do then? You've paid rent, you pay the sitter so you can go to work. There isn't any money for another four days. Just like the candy from the trunk,just like the samples at the store, suddenly your perception of what makes an acceptable meal changes. I'm going to be flat out honest and admit that if my kids hadn't eaten and I had no way to feed them, I would steal food. I wouldn't be proud of it but I also wouldn't feel like I was hated by God. I would feed my children, because letting them starve is a greater evil.

I have never been the recipient of government programs, though this is only because I didn't know that I could receive them. Instead, miraculously, I've been lucky enough to be helped along the way by friends or neighbors or straight up angels who handed me a box of noodles. The angels were still appreciated, despite the fact that I didn't have a pot with which to cook the noodle manna.

The subject of government assistance is touchy. Oddly enough, it seems to be more so within the American Evangelical churches. I've heard the same things that you have: He's too proud to take any handouts. She has too much character to ask someone else to work for her. They would rather starve than ask for help.

This, in my opinion, is mostly stupid. There is always the village idiot who refuses to work and likes to bathe in his own vomit. But he is the exception, not the rule. We can't have a society of any kind based on exceptions. But let's take a look at the rule, as it has been on my mind for such a long time.

Most kids will tell you that they didn't know they were poor. They were blissfully unaware that Mom and Dad sold plasma and sperm in order to buy them new shoes or a bike for Christmas. (As an aside -- I am aware that large portions of the world live in abject poverty and saying that someone who owns a bike is poor sounds ridiculous. And really, it probably is. For the sake of argument, I'm coming from a strictly American viewpoint here, for better or worse.)

I, however, knew that my parent's household budget was held together with off-brand chewing gum and someone's dirty shoelace. I knew this because I heard the fights and the late nights of 'oh crap what are we going to DO?!' I know what my parents’ income was for certain years, and even accounting for inflation, I cannot for the life of me understand how they kept the water running. Some of it, don't tell Dave Ramsey, is due to credit cards. I know, I know. Nobody needs them. Except for when you already have 4 jobs and can't find a cheaper place to live and you don't have television or steak or birthday presents or medicines or other such luxury. And then, well. Dave, I still can’t work that out. But really, my family was kept afloat because people in our community still understood the rules of Christian charity and hospitality.

If you aren't familiar with the concept, I'll start by saying that it is not just inviting people over once a month for your turkey-surprise-a-la-cream-of-mushroom-king. This is not Martha Stewart’s guest cards and linen napkins. This is an ancient law of sorts that predates our country and our faith.

The 'rules of hospitality' isn't just a phrase. For more of history than not, there were codes that dictated the way people lived. The codes were spoken and unspoken, but they guided communities through the ages. They are the basis of ancient and modern law. This is where we get to the rules of hospitality. It isn’t about proper forks. There were specific rules for the host and the guest, depending on the time period. But in essence, it comes down to this: If someone comes to your home needing food, lodging, or both, you cannot refuse him. Be it stranger, friend, wealthy aristocrat, or filthy beggar, your casa is also his casa. Literally. If you only have a loaf of bread to feed your family, you are still to give a fair share to the guest. You don't have to treat them as a guest of honor or give them your own bed. You do, however, need to make them feel welcome by not withholding. Hospitality isn't grudging, even if the heart feels otherwise. A pallet on the floor under your roof is more generous than the wet ground outside, if this is what you have to share. However, if you have a bed or meal, so much the better!

Hospitality often meant that you couldn't tell your guests to leave. There wasn’t a limit of one meal or one night. You weren’t released from your duty based on how much you gave. On the flip side, there were rules for the guest. While in another's home, you couldn't act indecorously or with ill intent. It was understood that you would molest neither person nor object, and that when you were able to be on your way, you would take your leave with thanks for your host. If you were used to better food, you wouldn’t mock the generosity of those who took you in. If you were used to lesser fare you wouldn’t stay on just because life tasted better at the manor!

These hospitality rules, or later, rules of charity or Christian charity or so forth, are largely extinct. I say this because if it were not so, there would be no need of governmental assistance, or at least a greatly reduced need. In many aspects, I believe that the Church has failed, and the next organizational group had to pick up the slack. We no longer care for the sick in pretty much any capacity. I’m not saying I want Sister Crazy Eyes to give me shot, but I think the entire world suffered when church-supported hospitals and staff gave up or were pushed out.

As a country, we mostly shake our fist and demand to know if we are our brother's keeper. But what we mean is more like this:

"Hey, I understand tough times. I remember 30 years ago when I only had oatmeal to eat for six weeks. I made it out. I made something of myself, worked hard, put my nose to the grindstone, burned the midnight oil, and look at me now: I own a car that costs more than your house, I take my family skiing eight times a year, and I bathe in wine you've never heard of. Keep your chin up and one day you can be like me. But I don't want to enable you by giving you anything more than my sage advice. You won't die of hunger, most likely. If it gets THAT bad, come see me. I'll throw packets of oatmeal on the grass for you to pick up. Speaking of grass, do you want to cut mine for 50 cents? No? Well, beggars can't be choosers. You are obviously in this situation because you want to be."

Am I overdoing it? Of course. Otherwise it would be far less interesting to read. I'm compiling people into a few basic groups, and obviously we are more varied and subtle than I've allowed for. But again, I'm not making this stuff up. I've actually heard every one of those sentences, though if I hear them in immediate succession from one mouth, I will do something drastic involving a grindstone, midnight oil, and someone’s expensive car.

We are all at relative levels of prosperity. If you live in Malibu, you are most likely not dealing with the level of financial trouble that I am. Likewise, if you lost your job and have no health insurance, you are dealing with much more financial stress than me. We can always look at another tier on the ladder of socioeconomics and think that others have it easier. But then you can always look in the other direction and realize that things could be much, much worse.

The rules of hospitality were largely in place for those who were less fortunate. People of means were generally able to plan their travels or dealings, working out the ordeals of what to eat and where to sleep and how to pay for a healer if bad luck befell them. However, we must note that even the king could find himself separated from his group, in need of food and a place to rest his head.

The issue, then, is far less about money than need.

As I said, poverty indicates need. That does NOT, however, mean that the lack of poverty indicates a lack of need. The need might be harder to spot, but it is all the more important because it is likely to go unnoticed.

Those who can't figure out how to buy coats for the winter are in need of.....coats for the winter. Give them one, find them one, share yours, or tell them you see that they need the darn coat. People in need don't want to feel invisible. Just because you can't buy Sally a car doesn't mean you can't talk about it. Ask her what happened, sympathize with her needs, tell her you'll be there to talk if she needs someone. Address the problem, and then at least you share the problem and Sally doesn't feel quite so alone. In doing so, you'll be amazed to find how often you drive right by her house and can give her at least one more ride she doesn't have to stress about.

Those who lived in gilded palaces of This Designer Is The Best are in need of....what? Shockingly, sometimes they need a gift. You'd be surprised at how infrequently Prestonious Alston Rookworth VIII gets a present. After all, he has everything. How much would he scoff at a paper box full of homemade cookies? His wife would tell all her friends how low-class I am if I gave them seasonal hand towels. And yet, people in need don't want their need to go unnoticed. Perhaps you are guilty of thinking that those with buckets of money are immune to heartache or loneliness or even their own money troubles. How shallow of me, and how wrong. How very wrong. Maybe you can't be their best friend, or otherwise fill their need. But just like with the car, you can share the knowledge that someone sees their need. Burdens are shared, if not alleviated. You might be amazed to find how often you can wave at them from across the YMCA and share the disgust of those who take more than 30 minutes on the treadmill.

I've been on both sides of the giving. I've never lived in a cardboard box or a mansion, so I'm lucky to be in the middle of giving and receiving. I've never been on government assistance, and it wasn't because there wasn't a need. Instead, my need was noticed by someone who shared in the human experience. I was their brother, and time after time after gracious time, I had a coat for the winter or a meal for my family. I've also been in need of more than the basics. To say that we need bread and water to survive is to equate living with survival. How many times did I get a pedicure, a new book, a concert ticket...just because someone was loving enough to notice my needs and my wants? I cannot count the times my plumber paid my bill, the friend passed on baby clothes, the grandmother sent a cake. My family and I are products of a small society that embraces the rules of hospitality.

I'm afraid that the system is failing. Too many people don't understand what needs are, or look down on those that have them. Weakness is attributed to those who have lost their jobs, ignorance to those who never made it through school. God forgive us of the things we say about people on the street, especially in the name of God.

You might remind me that the Bible (if you read it) and Puritan laws (which are frequently the basis of American thoughts on this topic) say that if someone doesn't work, that someone shouldn't eat.

If you know of someone who has no job or function, who refuses to work for any type of payment, who delights in their state of poverty and wants no life beyond the welfare check, I would say that you could probably let them skip a meal or two. Why? Well, the old codes had this in place because a day without food is often sufficient for character change. Suddenly, someone who doesn't want to work finds that they might want to paint a wall or wash a car. A hungry belly has a way of cutting through formerly stalwart positions.

However, the Bible does NOT tell you to let someone perish in their ignorance. We are all fallen and do stupid things Don't let someone starve, and don't let his children starve and don't tell them it is because they don't really want to get out of their situation. When someone acts totally stupid, it is indeed your job to try and try and try again to help. Is it irritating? Yes. Is it unfair? Yes! Are you any better just because you are past that particular struggle? Uh….

I was recently reminded of the verse in which Jesus says that if we feed or clothe someone, we do it to him. When we pass someone up who needed something, we are passing up on Jesus as well. Sounds pretty straightforward to me. While you don't have to sell all your goods and share it equally among the masses, you DO have to take care of the needs that you are able to care for. If you have a family, God commands you to care for their body and soul. They come first. But if you have an extra blanket, hamburger, or ten-dollar bill, you need to consider the possibility that it meets a need.

I’ll leave you with this thought:

The innkeeper in the Nativity story gets totally screwed over. He might have been a total jerk, or he might have been just a normal guy who already had a full house. Let’s not assume just because an angel told shepherds and wise men that a messiah was coming, that we would have been in the loop. It wasn’t a big entrance, and we might consider the possibility that the innkeeper wasn’t told to prepare The Atlantis Suite because God had other plans. We jeer at the evil innkeeper for making sweet baby Jesus be born in the hay with cows. Chances are we would have told Joseph to get a better job or call the church down the street or at least have the decency not to beg. The innkeeper followed the ancient rules of hospitality. He gave them a roof and place to be under his protection. He didn’t turn them away. He didn’t lament the lack of systems in place for Mary and Joseph and then respond by telling all his other guests to kick in some cash to buy a baby cradle. But he did do what he could, and it was accepted by a divine being who was watching his incarnate self be born from a human, wandering the road in pain, looking for a place to rest.

If Mary had to wait for government housing to open up, or food stamps or red tape and signatures, the story would be so different. But it was an act of grace, an acceptance of humility and yet also of pride. Joseph and Mary were humble enough to come into a barn, but had enough pride to ask for shelter.

If you are still reading, I can only say thanks. You’ve filled a need for me, be it healthy or not, for others to read what I have to say. I don’t know if it provoked any thoughts or made you angry. If so, I am sorry. The things that we are passionate about are the hardest to explain and communicate.

Thanks for being my support system, and never turning me away. Would that I could repay you, but until then I have only awe and tears of gratitude to remind me not to dance in a dirty fountain.

Moms Don't Say Frick

2011-10-13T10:40:00.000-04:00

Dear My Child's Teacher:

I was thrilled to receive a note from you yesterday.

I really liked your use of red and blue pens, though I would warn you not to use red in the future, as it brings back old memories of Naughtiness and Failure.

I was especially delighted to have yet another reminder that Today is Field Trip Money Due Day. You see, I'm completely and utterly bamboozled by a calendar. The field trip permission slip from three weeks ago wasn't clear enough. I mean, there were all those lines and symbols, and I wasn't sure when the money was due.

Because my intellect is base at best, I only sent the permission slip back because you decided to have a sweet little drawing for the kids who brought their signed waivers of 'I Won't Sue The School but If You Hurt My Kid While At The Pumpkin Farm I'll Find A Loophole and You Will Die Alone' back the next day.

I'm sure you wanted my money to accompany the signed form, as it would make your life easier, and hey...I'm ALL for easier. Might I suggest not having a separate Permission Slip Due and Field Trip Money Due dates? I'm thinking if you combine those, say, into the SAME day, your troubles would be less and you wouldn't feel the need to break out a red pen.

As I noted earlier, I'm slow and didn't catch on when you sent home the first three reminder papers with cute little pumpkin graphics that you probably don't have the right to copy. I won't turn you in, because I'm just not that kind of person. I was still quite hazy on when you wanted that money turned in. Due on Thursday probably means next Monday, right? Because *wink wink* I know you aren't going to keep my kid from going to the first field trip of the year.

I suspect you were aware that some parents do indeed operate this way, which is why you surprised me with a call yesterday. I'm so glad you called from the nurse's office, because when I see her name on my phone, I get really excited and want to answer the phone straightaway and ask what horrors have now befallen me.

You might not remember our conversation, and I probably don't have all the particulars, but here's the gist:

"Hello? (slight whimpering)"

"Mrs. Blount? Are you there? This is Ms. I Literally Just Graduated and feel the need to call myself Ms. My Last Name all the time."

"Oh, hi Ms. You Are Young but Age Doesn't Matter As Much As Enthusiasm and Dedication and I Totally Trust You to Unlock the Learning Potential of My Sweet Quirky Child and I Don't Ever Stay Awake at Night Wondering if She'll Work at Sears Portraits Because Ms. Just Graduated Didn't Know How to Harness the Brilliance of My Baby."

"Mrs. Blount, I notice that you haven't sent in your field trip money."

"Right. It's due Thursday...so..."

"You do recall that you were selected as a parent chaperon for this field trip, and under the terms of Secret Parent Agreement #666, you must turn in your money....listen carefully...by the due date, or your status as parent chaperon is forfeit."

"Right. It's due Thursday...so..."

"Are you planning on coming as a parent chaperon, Mrs. Blount?"

"Yes! I'm totally thrilled that you picked me, because My Child probably REALLY needs me to be there for the first field trip. She can be...exuberant. I've seen some of the Other Parents out and about in Smyrna, and I don't think I'd trust them with my imaginary friend. I'm not saying her I.Q. is higher per say, but she would never go to school in her house shoes, without her teeth, and smoking a cigar the size of a Yule Log."

"What's a Yule Log?"

"I'll pretend you didn't say that. Good grief. When did you graduate? No, don't tell me. It will only make me despair that someone born in 1990 has their degree while I look forward to field trip chaperon opportunities."

"You know, you can send in a check made out to the school. Do you know how to spell it?"

"Bloody hell, I'm not a total fool. Let's see, are there two m's in I Only Sent My Kid Here Because It Is Free and I Had No Other Choice? Oh, and about the checks...you see, I ran out of checks a couple of months ago. Oddly enough, our check usage went up to pay for my OCD therapist, and then when the checks ran out I couldn't muster enough anti-OCD courage to call and order more checks. Phones freak me out and if you want a peek at my life, I can't even call for another appointment because it requires a phone call AND a check and that thought makes me look at Oprah's picture and weep because I feel that she understands my shortcomings. (Slight giggle because shortcomings is a truly funny word.)

"So the money..."

"Will be in by the due date. The date it is due. On the day of dueness, the money will arrive."

"Um, ok. Well...some Other Parents are using black magic and voodoo dolls in order to become Parent Chaperons and they are starting to foam at the mouth. They sense that you haven't turned in your money, and they are starting to squeal with evil delight."

"Creepy. Who knew the people of Smyrna could be anything but Southern Baptist?"

"Oh no, they're still Southern Baptist. You can tell by the hair."

"Ms. Your Last Name, I will have that money in. Do not fear. I will not fail you on this, my Important Mission of the Month."

"Until then."

*click*

THIS SECTION HAS BEEN DELETED DUE TO INAPPROPRIATE USE OF THE WORDS FRICK, WEASEL, AND PUBLIC EDUCATION SYSTEM.

You can imagine my delight this morning to find a sticky note in my daughter's folder. I know, I know. I was supposed to see it yesterday, because all good mothers check the school folders as soon as they walk through the door. I, however, was busy yesterday attempting to determine if I should get groceries or bathe the children. I opted for cleanliness and then we all ate cereal at my parents' house before embarking on The Joyous Journey of Wednesday Night at Church.

As I pulled up in the drop-off line, I saw the red and blue pens admonishing me to send in my money. It was really helpful, because otherwise it would have totally slipped my mind that the world would fall apart if our $14.25 wasn't submitted. It made me laugh with unbridled glee that you told me my place was going to be forfeit. I only wish you had given me the exact hour and minute, so I could have slipped it under your door at the last possible second. You know, just to ensure that you remain easygoing.

It took all of my adult maturity and realization that you might retaliate on mine innocent child to not write my own note in invisible ink:

Dear Ms. Stick In Your Hiney,
If you choose a due date, this is the day that the money is due. Stop harassing me, because the elves harass me enough with their wee little pointy shoes. HERE is your FRIGGING MONEY. I hope you appreciate the fact that I gave you a surplus of .75 cents. I'm going to send you notes every day until you return it to me. Also, if my child tells you that I instructed her to repeat here'syourmoneyhere'syourmoneyhere'syourmoneyhere'syourmoney until you take it out of her folder, it is a lie. I told her to yell it.

Yours In Educational Partnership,
Mrs. I'm Not Above Baking Ex Lax Into Your Christmas Present.

When You Wish Upon a Eunuch

2011-10-06T00:13:00.000-04:00

I've totally skimped out on writing lately. I've written some things for the holidays, an esssay submission, a few bits and pieces of The Novel That Won't Work, but I haven't posted anything aside from an occasional Facebook status about the weather or Who Is Stupid In My World.

Everyone has the occasional funk, no? Life gets full of back-to-school, laundry folding, ragweed allergies and looking longingly at one's passport. Things like reading the newspaper to see who is running for office kind of falls to the side. One day passes, and then another. Soon you realize that you haven't said or done anything that smacks of individuality.

I've always struggled with the idea of individuals versus the family unit. First of all, I don't like the word 'unit' in and of itself. It sounds like 'eunuch', and this makes me think of Mel Brooks' History of the World Part 1 and I feel funny and then I giggle.

A family unit is made of whatever bits and pieces are in your family, all smushed together to form a squishy molded blob of unitness. It generally refers to your current family situation, be it family of origin, domestic partnership of bliss, or modern piecemealed singles living in harmony. My family unit (eunuch! euuunuch!) currently includes the following: Moi, mon spouse, and our three daughters. At times we have included a grandparent or cousin or dog (though that was short-lived as he continued to run away and one day we didn't bother to remedy the situation).

A family unit (are you thinking of eunuchs? they carry little fans if you need help with the visual) is important. We are things together that we aren't separately, and we exist together interdependently. This is why a parent or sibling will say in total honesty that they cannot imagine life without ____. We remember what life was like before X was born, but we didn't know we were missing a big piece of our unit. Unit. Unit. It is actually getting worse as I go on. I see a gaping hole underneath the little fan. It looks like the big scary eyeball in the Lord of The Rings movies.

Living in partnership with others is essential to good character development. Very few people are called to live a life of seclusion, and we could posit that those who do still participate in relationship with community. Their role is that of an un-role, which admittedly is as easy to describe as a black hole. Most of us are the social butterflies that require flitting in and out of meadows, stopping here and there to enjoy a still private moment.

How does one uphold the necessary structures of a family unit while maintaining the freedom to exercise individuality? For more centuries than not, individuality was not celebrated or encouraged. Sometimes it was scorned, as the needs of one man versus that of the village were to be ignored. Strength and survival came through unit-y and to live outside this haven was to accept defeat and death.

However, even through those times we are dazzled and inspired by the lives of those who claimed their life as something outside of a unit, outside of time, outside and apart from understanding. Life in spite of the safety of the family, or church, or village unit.

My go-to guy for inspiration is Galileo. I wrote on him a few years ago, marveling at his dedication to his discoveries despite what it cost his personal life. He was pained that the Church didn't recognize him as a faithful son anymore, and he had no wish to leave that family unit. Yet, he knew that he belonged to a time outside of time and was to practice his knowledge in the belief that some things are greater than family, greater than self. Unity in the whole of humanity, if you will.

I'm no Galileo. Many days I wish I could be like him, having a Real Ernest Truth and Purpose that Shines Forth through the Dark Bowels of History! Instead I'm forced to contemplate if my Purpose is to hold up that achingly heavy infrastructure that allows my family unit to continue in peace, to find their own Purpose.

I've often wondered about the nameless faces throughout history. I see the sweaty faces of plump women, working over their pots of laundry and swatting at flies. I wonder if they felt frustrated when their kids didn't pick up their cloaks. Did they wash the dishes, all the while imagining their life on an alternate path? Did they daydream? I fancy I can see their aspirations to write or act or paint or sell, carried on wisps of tallow smoke to greet me here in my modern home.

Is individuality a luxury of the present, or an age-old delimma? Is it, like solitude, something that few are supposed to flirt with? Perhaps it is just for those special, tortured, select, wonderful, tragic few. Would I want to join their ranks?

Some days, undoubtedly so. I feel tortured and tragic enough as it is without having any importance or sparkle. Why not just pull a Galileo and say something extraordinary, like the Earth might indeed be billions of years old? Why be content to say something extraordinary to my family unit, like tonight's dinner might indeed be the worst thing I've ever made?

In most things, the answer lies somewhere in the middle. Embrace who you are, but know that who you are is part of Who You Are as a wife, as a mother, as a friend. In theory I get it, I know that I can act in both aspects and find happiness some of the time, and at least comfort in responsibility during the rest.

But in my heart, I'm always wrangling with the void, and usually while I'm making dinner. My black casseroles are a sign of my individuality.

Perhaps I'll start a revolution of family unit-individuals. They hyphenate just like me to show that everyone has another side.

Even eunuchs.

Kindergarten is Krap

2011-08-25T13:33:00.000-04:00

My 5 year old has been struggling a bit with the transition into Kindergarten.

It isn't that she needs more sleep or a better breakfast or extra love. She is as stubborn as a pig-headed mule hybrid, and is just like me.

When I was introduced into the joy of structured education, I went along with the plan for a few days. And then, when I encountered a teacher who wanted me to do something that I didn't care to do, I decided that it was time to end my Kindergarten career.

I have vivid memories beginning at age three, and some that are spotty but still there from even earlier. I know, you doubt. But fate gave me the ability to remember things, because fate placed me in a family that can be...spacey.

I remember lying in bed one morning when my parents attempted to rouse me from my den of comfort. I politely declined.

They threatened and scolded, but something in me had clicked. I realized that they couldn't make me go.

My poor parents dressed my limp form and brushed my hair. I was then placed in the station wagon and driven to the Montessori Centre on Granny White Pike.

The car door was opened, and I was plunked down onto the sidewalk. I can still see the way my dad's jaw jutted to the side and his hair stuck up a bit as if he had pulled it in frustration.

"Go to class."

"Nah."

"Tiffany, you WILL go to school today. I am your father and I am telling you to get your behind INSIDE THE SCHOOL."

"Mmmm. I don't wanna."

It was at this point that my dad got back in the car and drove off. The teachers who had the bad luck of car duty that morning found me lying prone on the sidewalk, still refusing to move. Somehow (this part of the memory is a bit patchy) they escorted me inside. It might have been a nerve gas found inside some natural herb compound that was growing at the Centre. It sounds like them.

The next thing I remember is sneaking out of class and going to the office. I told the Powerful Office Lady that I was supposed to call my parents to pick me up, as I was sick. Maybe she was engrossed in a romance novel or something, because this was pre-Internet, but she actually let me call. I dialed the number and my mom answered. I told her my story of illness and woe, and waited in the office reading a grungy Highlights magazine.

I remember driving off I-65 onto the Old Hickory Blvd. curly ramp when I informed my mother that I was not now, not ever going back to school. Never.Ever.YouCANNOTMAKEME.

Through my determination/stubborn hellishness, I succeeded in not going back to school that year. Instead, I went home and ate cream of mushroom soup with Saltine crackers on a tray in front of the television. My mom and I watched every Andy Griffith episode (pre-color, as the color ones were Communist) and I read and colored and slept in.

I had to go back the next year, and I cried and pouted and complained. My assigned teacher gave me to another teacher who didn't need to take pills in order to teach me. It all worked out in the end.

But I wasn't easy to teach, and I know that I was often my teachers' least favorite student until I became hideously shy and stopped talking in school altogether.

Why am I recounting this tale?

Sabra is now the stubborn one who refuses to get out of the car. She insists on making me get out of the car in the drop-off line despite the fact that I'm not wearing a bra and still have pajamas on. I have to pull her screaming little body out of the carseat and smile because the Car Helper Ladies are looking at me because we are holding up the line. I tell her to have a great day and PLEASE remember to not spit on kids or roll around on the carpet while the teacher is talking. She wails and moans and drags her backpack behind her like a ball and chain.

We've been trying to reward her in small ways if she has a 'good' (not in trouble) day. She gets to have popcorn after school or choose the nighttime movie or something else that is immediate and yet...free. Today's lunchtime visit from Austin and I was one such reward. I made spaghetti (her favorite) and we showed up for some Special Sabra Time.

*Sigh*

I have my head in my hands at this point. It was so bad. It was, in fact, terrible. I'm waiting on call from Sabra to tell me she snuck out of class and is in the office reading a magazine.

It started out fine, just us at the parent table with some food and encouraging smiles that hopefully said 'Hey! School is FUN! You can DO THIS! You will be successful and intelligent and a good citizen all because you went to Kindergarten and learned how to not roll on the carpet like a deranged dog.'

All was well until Austin walked away to ask the Cafeteria ladies if they were peanut and tree nut free so I can stop trying to send the same lunch packaged different ways. (Oh what joy is mine, my kids can now eat in the cafeteria!)

It was at this inopportune moment that Sabra choked magnificently on her spaghetti. It was under control. I mean, kids choke. Austin chokes ALL THE TIME. Have you ever heard of eosinophillic esophagitis? Nobody has. But Austin has it and it means 'whoops I choke whenever I eat, drink or breathe and may at any time fall on the floor and turn blue". I'm ok with the choking thing. You tell them to raise the roof, stop eating, relax and go with the cough. But then if the kid starts to retch, you do what any good parent does: Throw your kid at the passing school nurse and scream for your husband over the noise of 150 Kindergarten students eating pudding. Then you realize that your remaining kid is sitting at a table with spaghetti....unsupervised....in a light blue frock that is begging to be soiled.

You run back and forth between Spaghetti Kid and Retching Kid and yell again at your spouse who is wondering if this is The Day when he needs to take you to the special hospital for people who cannot cope.

Did I mention that I have Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and that illness, crowds that have germs, and vomit are among my biggest issues? It really was amazing that I didn't run from the building.
Lucky for me, I stuck it out and Sabra was just choking on a noodle that went down her windpipe. (So sayeth the school nurse who looked at me like I was yelling and running around.)

We all went back to the table to finish the rest of our peaceful lunch. Sabra spilled a carton of chocolate milk on Austin's pants, Isla dropped popsicle on his shirt, and I couldn't stop my 'I just lived through an obsession made into reality' bouncing of my legs that made it impossible to carry on a conversation with anyone except the Tiny Therapist who sits on my shoulder.

Thankfully, lunch was now over and I walked Sabra back to the line of sticky germy 5 year olds who probably didn't wash their hands after they ate peanut butter sandwiches and would then touch my baby and send her to the hospital. Sabra screamed and yelled and sobbed and held onto my legs. I pried her off, apologized to the teacher for 'helping' by coming in for lunch, and quickly walked away.

I celebrated by dumping yogurt on Austin's arm and getting a Most Reproving Look.

So I sat down to write out my thoughts and hopefully get some clarity. Instead, I was interrupted by my phone reminding me to go have lunch with Moira. Why did I agree to do this twice in one day?! I spilled my can of seltzer water all over the table, winning me Most Reproving Look #2 from spouse AND Hateful Lunch Lady that I swear has to be a physical cover for an evil spirit.

I'm going to just refuse to participate anymore, I think. Just like that first year of Kindergarten that I got out of, I think I'd like to get out of Sabra's year as well.

Don't tell my dad. He'll tell my Tiny Shoulder Therapist and she'll make me be a lunch lady. Lunch ladies scare me and make me bounce. Bouncing leads to more spills, which leads to more Reproving Looks. Reproving looks lead to running from the building, which is how I got here to finish this blog.

This just might be The Day.

Facebook: Main Street, USA

2011-08-22T09:19:00.000-04:00

Most of the world is on Facebook. If they aren't it is usually a conscious decision to be gauche or non-conformist or because they don't like computers. I haven't met anyone that is not on Facebook because they don't know it is there.

We like Facebook because we can see old friends, frequently chat with those we wouldn't normally, and stalk people we hated in high school and watch delightedly as their pictures show an increasing girth.

My main purpose on Facebook is the quick check-in. I can, with a few minutes time, see how my Great Uncle is feeling, see what is on sale at Target, and see my niece's school pictures. It is a fast way to get information, and it is so satisfying/addicting that I have to tell myself NOT to check it every time I walk past the computer.

I'm sure that you, like me, have heard many a bitter conversation on the evils of social networking and how they take the personal touch out of communication. Where are the lengthy phone conversations of yesteryear? When was the last time you wrote a real letter that contained throwaway thoughts like "I think I will lose my mind if I have to find a healthy/fun/inexpensive/exciting school lunch that requires no heating/refrigeration/assembly and contains no fresh fruit/veg/peanut/tree nut/questionable meat."

We've heard the disdain from those who feel above the world of social networking. No, they proudly proclaim, of the Facebooking world for communication purposes, we will have none! Give me a quill and sealing wax and I will spit upon the hooligans of this century.

I get it. I really do. I think it is quite sad that we say Happy Birthday to our Grandmother on Facebook and then forget to call her, because mentally it has already been done. We should call, with a phone, the Grandmother who loves us. Add it on Facebook, send an e-card, whatever else. But you should opt for the most personal form of communication that is available to you.

I live in the same town as my parents. I should visit them in person when possible, phone when it isn't, text or email for little last minute notes when I know they are asleep or otherwise engaged. A phone call wouldn't be appropriate for all of our communication. I have the ability to see them in the flesh, and so I should take that opportunity. I don't live near my sister, however, and the phone is the best we can do on most days. I use it whenever possible, as it is the most personal I can be at such a distance. I do email her and send her Facebook comments such as 'you look really old and insane in that picture'. But I like to hear her voice, listen for the notes of strain or the familiar laugh.

Social networking is both a plus and a negative in the form of commuication. However, I am pro-Facebook because it provides something that is otherwise not available to the average American in 2011.

In times past, gossip was shared on Main Street. Maybe in your town it was called Maple Street or Lee Circle. Regardless of the name, it was the center of business and leisure, and the natural meeting place. On Main Street, you can watch as the lady who cuts your hair meets her fiancee as he steps off the bus. When they walk to the cafe, she with tears in her eyes and no longer wearing a ring, you know Something is Going On. On the other side of the street, three boys are planting a toad in their grandmother's purse while she talks to the produce man about squash. When they can't walk normally tomorrow, you'll already know why. Your Great Aunt Effie walks by, smooshes you with her gigantic bosom and smacks a kiss on your face as she nearly kills you with her noxious perfume. She tells you to come see the roses that just bloomed in her back yard and please return her iced tea pitcher.

Little things, insignificant things. But are they?

Main Street, and the idea that it represents, is lost to our spread-out, worn-thin, isolated culture. We are often proud of the fact that we know a lot about a little, instead of a little about a lot.

Doctors are more specific in their studies: they know every cell of your colon but have no idea how your eyes work. This means greater care for your colon, but overall you take up the slack by visiting 100 doctors just to ensure that your body is working normally. Each doctor represents a different part of the body, and few seem to know how the other parts work in harmony. Again, it overall represents a huge step forward for medicine that I applaud. But it says something about the way we all work.

We are isolated. We became isolated in order to become more efficient. I'd say we are a mostly efficient people, in that we like to do things as quickly as possible with the most successful outcome available. But we have created a huge gap of knowledge that is only starting to become apparent.

Do I need to know what Uncle Ollie thinks about the election. No? Yes? Do I care that he went on vacation with his family and had a great time? Should it matter that he reads some of my favorite books?

I would say that no, it doesn't really matter if I know that my niece made cookies with her mom. It doesn't cause a ripple in the universe if I am unaware that my cousin took a really cool picture of a railroad track. My life will continue regardless. Does it matter to me that it is raining in Atascadero? Should I be interested in what my high school best friend is doing or who he is in love with this week?

No, it doesn't matter. But yes, it really does.

I can continue in my isolation, which includes friends and entertainment, education and experience. But without Main Street, my life is limited to the ideas and opinions of those whom I have chosen to spend time with. My life is far less rich, subtle, and gratifying. I feel more alone, even amongst the friends who give me the personal commuication that is essential to a good life.

If you have Main Street, or Facebook, you have a greater framework. I wouldn't have counted my dad's sisters as my friends before. I love them, they are part of my family and heritage, but I see them once in awhile and my life doesn't really include them. Now I can tell Neva that her son's wedding was beautiful, and Debbie that her grandkids are getting big. We didn't have this relationship before, and now that I have it, I wouldn't want to give it up.

I've realized just how large a group of people stand behind, beside, and with me. I am not a 'self-made (wo)man' who is untouched or unaltered by the people in my life. This framework is important, because it supports us. We don't have to work on it all the time to keep it in good working order. Just a check-in once in a while, a bit of rust there that needs some tending. Without a good healthy framework, your collapse is ever so much greater. We need to know we aren't alone and that we are supported by many hands that mostly remain unseen. Nobody wants to stand on Main Street alone.

It really isn't of great importance if I know what Someone ate for breakfast. Sometimes, Someone needs to lay off the persistent updates. But knowing that Someone had a coffee at Starbucks on Camelback reminds you that the Someone is still part of your life. This might be the most personal communication you get from them, at least during this season. But you shouldn't forget the people in your life, no matter how small their influence. It reminds you that Starbucks on Camelback is still there, where you sat in high school and learned to love overstuffed cafe chairs. It reminds you that life goes on there without you, which is oddly comforting. It reminds you, and me, that life is bigger than ourselves and our experiences. It is the collective exchange of thoughts and tears, cups of coffee, engagements that are now back on, and all those mundane details we can't seem to get enough of.

So, what's on your mind? : Weather on Main Street is warm and sunny, and a very nice place to be. I hope to catch you there.

Naked Hippies Don't Wear Panties

2011-08-19T10:49:00.000-04:00

A few days ago, I updated my status on Facebook to say something like this: Everyone I know is having money problems. We should live in a commune. I'll be the writer/cupcake maker/historian.

I expected a few people to 'like' it, mostly just the Serial Likers who push that button all.day.long. But I was surprised to have quite a few comments, especially from those whom I don't normally hear from, like my spouse.

I decided that the subject of communal living, with all the stigmas and craziness, was something worth talking about.

We all live in some form of community, at least in the general sense. Some experience the community of neighbors, even just in the 'nod and wave' way that seems to be the Unspoken Rule on my street. Others have work or church or gym communities, or all three. Considering that this is a blog post, you should recognize that you are participating in an online community.

The importance of community is recognized. Humans are meant to live in communicative proximity of other humans. It is ever so much richer when we like those other humans, but it isn't a necessity. When all else fails, we just need to know that someone is near. We don't have to talk to, acknowledge or even understand the other person. But we need them, just the same. You probably already know this, though. You are reading The World's Finest Blog, which is a sign of your good taste and wisdom. We have decided that community is essential to life. What comes next?

Real community, hopefully.

While I can wave at my neighbors and swear under my breath that they need to burn all their tacky lawn ornaments, I am in desperate need of interaction at a deeper level. The neighbors won't notice if my daughter gets a haircut, remember my birthday, or record a new Dora the Explorer for when my kids visit.

Again, you probably already know this. You know that we just don't do well without personal interaction that pushes us to grow and change and question and appreciate. I need you to watch my kids when my mom is in the hospital, and you need me to....to...*stares into space*...help you justify another Philosophy shower gel purchase, endless cupcake indulgence, and internet-stalking your ex. We need one another. I'm actually going to write about this in another post. Today, however, we move in another direction.

It is my impression that all the comments were in relation to the mention of money. Here's the truth: recession is a Mean Lady and she is whoopin' up on all our tails. I don't know a single person who is untouched by the financial changes in our country. Even those that are doing well, even really well, are losing money in their billion dollar stocks. I feel really sad for them. Really, really, sad. So sad I can't sleep at night for thinking of their billion dollar problems.

In Times Before, when financial problems showed up for dinner, families and communities pulled together. No food in the pantry? Walk down to Aunt Bessie's house. You'll have to help set the table and listen to her talk about her new sewing circle. But Aunt Bessie isn't going to let you go to bed hungry.

My great-great-grandfather owned a general store during the Great Depression. When people came in without money, needing laundry soap or bread, he let them get what they needed. Was he out money? Yes, but he had things that people needed, and that was the bottom line. Some people call that a handout, but some people have never needed such a thing. There are times in life when, despite working or looking for work or offering to work for very little, you still don't have what you need. There are times when you find yourself without food, a place to sleep, or shoes to fit your kid. These are the times when community puts its stamp of approval on your life.

I know, it says. You've done a good job and life isn't fair. We'll take up some slack for you. It won't be fixed, and it might not be the way you've dreamed it would. But we won't let you go, and we won't let you down.

During such times, the community gets communal. And now we are at communal living. It doesn't have to mean naked people eating mushrooms, though those kinds of communes are indeed available. I totally want to visit one, in case you care to join.

Even when our ancestors lived in separate homes, they generally still had a commune mentality. Every single person didn't have to own a truck, as long as someone did. You could borrow it, others could use it, it was part of the communal stock. If someone needed your scissors, your ladder, your paintbrush, they could use it. Belongings were less personal than they are now, and those items that were truly personal were few and precious.

We know without being told that we have too much stuff. Some of it is because we are greedy and like pretty shiny things. Some of it, however, is because we are a less communal people. I have scissors and a ladder and a paintbrush, and so do you, and so does everyone you know. You generally don't ask to borrow things besides DVDs or cocktail dresses (Note to self: return both these things to various friends).

Really though, how many of you would be comfortable calling a friend and asking (without shame or awkwardness) if you could borrow 6 extra bowls because you were having 6 extra people over for dinner? Most of us would go buy some or not have the friends over. There is an embarrassing stigma associated with not having enough, and we go to extremes to avoid being discovered.

I think that people are finding out that this kind of lifestyle is stupid. Sure, we need to not borrow panties (though if living in nudist commune, is a moot point) and there is nothing wicked about having a special necklace or book or teacup. Special treasures give great joy, and it should be celebrated. But I take no joy from having a hammer. I have one because once a year when I find a spider in my house and can't locate a shoe that I want to have spiderdeath on it, I use the hammer to send the nasty arachnid into the hell from whence it came. I don't need my own hammer. Someone who does hammer-type things should have their own, but that someone doesn't live at my house.

Do you see what I'm getting at?

Everybody has something to offer, even if that something isn't immediately apparent. You don't think much of the talents of the general store owner until he lets your kids get a bottle of milk without paying. This isn't to point fingers, as we all overlook the abilities of others. Even if I know someone who fixes toilets, I might not care all that much until I don't have a place to put my...stuff. Suddenly their knowledge is essential to life, and I am reminded how I cannot live without other people and the companionship, expertise, and insight they have to share.

It seems as if I'm not the only one that feels that way, which I found pretty interesting. I was surprised to hear that I am already surrounded by people who want to live in such a way as to cut down on things we don't need, offer help we have to give, and appreciate and take care of one another. Either that, or my friends just want me to make cupcakes and talk about my excessively thorough knowledge of England circa 1600.

(Props: These thoughts were devloped over a conversation 6 years ago with Austin Cagle. He had just finished reading Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenace: An Inquiry into Values by Robert M. Pirsig and we found the ideas pretty inspiring.)

Eating Your Words: A Guide

2011-08-17T12:08:00.000-04:00

"I hate definitions"

Benjamin Disraeli (1804-1881)

Benjamin Disraeli was, among other things, the Prime Minister of England for a number of years under the rule of Queen Victoria. Everything I've read about him has been in relation to her, which obviously colored my judgement both for and against his favor.

There are quotes attributed to Disraeli that have left me with my mouth hanging open (not in a good way). Sometimes we can agree that a person spoke from the knowledge/ignorance of their time period. We can't judge the past by the rules of the present, can we? Usually, no. However, there are some things that cannot be excused.

Though I do love myself some British history, and particularly enjoy the royal family, I don't pretend that it is all dresses and scones. Oh, that it could be.

Between Disraeli and Queen Victoria (and many, many others) there was a great deal of wickedness and sorrow that came to the people of the British Isles and even the world. There was much good, yes, and I tend to remember those things that were exemplary and interesting. But I have friends who descend from those affected by faulty governing, and for their sake I cannot forget that there was good and bad.

It is perhaps because of this that I find Disraeli's comment so interesting. Politicians by their nature have to define things and people and situations and classes. There is no way to govern at all if there are no definitions of who or what to govern!

Another reason I found this quote to be almost funny is that Benjamin Disraeli was also an author! As a Very Distinguished Writer myself, I found his distaste of definitions to be a bit contrary.

I love words. I love what they represent, I love how they look on paper and how they feel in your mouth. When I find a word I like, I let it roll around in my mouth, melting and softening on my tongue like chocolate.

I recently saw a post on Facebook by my friend Daniel Bell. He posted a question about what one's grasp of grammar and language said about a person. There were of course the token 'har-de-har-har' type comments in which dull-witted people tried to poke fun at their ignorance:

"Imma redneck and muh daddy was a redneck and we don't need no fancy schooling."

So funny. Wallow in idiocy and watch it crust underneath your nails.

I can take a joke, and I know that some people were indeed being jocular. However, there was an overall lack of respect or understanding in most people's posts.

My zealous love of words bubbled forth, and I posted a few short sentences about the importance of words, language, and even grammar. I then said that I would write a blog to give my whole answer.

I answer in response to Daniel's post as well as Disraeli's quote.

Why are words important? Does the mastery, or at least respect of words indicate any sort of superior intellect? For that matter, what is a word?

Defining the word, 'word' is a bit obtuse. My husband once bragged that he had been able to provide the definition of the word 'is' in a school setting, earning him awkward looks and apparently bragging rights for the rest of his intellectually stimulating life.

I'm not great with definitions. I find the process of explaining an idea in as concise a manner as possible almost distasteful. Why should we insult words by limiting them? But then, at some point, we have to delve into the ideas that words represent and not just the chocolaty words themselves.

If you come from a Christian background, you've no doubt heard the verse that says 'In the beginning was the Word.'

Aside from spiritual context, this is a mind-altering statement. You don't have to ascribe to the religious life to see the importance.

A word is a way to define. To define something, you use words. Thus, the ever present cyclical nature of all true complexities. But don't get hung up. Jump off the hamster wheel and just go down one avenue for today.

Without words, without definitions, we have no way to experience, express, categorize, understand, share, or create. Words are the building block of every.single.thing.

The easiest way to use words, arguably, is through speaking. People that can neither hear nor talk have a harder time communicating their mastery of a word. But it is still there. A word represents a concept. Even concrete, physical items are conceptualized. I hear the word 'cake' and think of cake. I create one in my mind, and the cake isn't real. I can make the cake (not really, as I always dream of wedding cakes the size of my car) and bring the concept into my reality. But I'm still working from an idea that we have labeled with the word, cake.

For a majority of words, we agree upon a general idea. We can all say with great faith in humanity and karma that the word 'cake' means a baked good that usually contains flour, sugar, eggs, and is topped with decadent pumpkin buttercream or something else that makes life worth living. We also know without saying that a cake might be flourless or sugarless or deviate in some way from the generalized concept. But, we know with just as much faith that 'cake' is not the same as 'car' or 'fireplace'. The agreed deviance does not deviate so far as to allow a complete alternate definition.

If we know that a word defines and gives life to an idea, and that we agree on these ideas for the purpose of communication, we can then talk about why this matters.

Without communication, without the ability to express ideas that define our world both inside and out, we are completely alone. If I cannot use words to ask for water, I will go thirsty. When words are not physically spoken, we still communicate the ideas of those words, which transcends all languages.

If you wake up in a foreign country in which you know nothing of the people or language, you will be able to communicate your need for water, food, a place to pee, and a place to rest. You will be limited in your ability to wax eloquent on who Kafka was and how you feel about Shrek on Broadway. But your needs can be known and addressed, all because of the power of words. You might not say 'water', but you will be thinking of the word as you mime drinking from a glass or from a stream. Your friend will see the mime, understand the concept, and think of the word 'water' in his language that you do not know. You will communicate.

With this being miraculous, it still isn't enough for a satisfying life. We may have water, but we need so much more to really survive. Who would want to live in a world where poetry wasn't celebrated? What civilization is worth surviving if it merits not the beauty of the written and spoken word?

Words are the way to understand who we are and what we do. But words are also our playthings, our brightly colored paints and swelling scores. When we define and create anew the ideas that we encounter, we enter a world that is altogether miraculous.

Benjamin Disraeli was probably exhausted and discouraged when he spoke of definitions. As a politician, he was probably becoming hemmed in by all sides' uses of definitions. I am not the prime minister, which is a shame. I should dearly love to sit in Parliament and listen to the lovely accents all day and be remembered with the likes of Winston Churchill. However, I can echo Disraeli's sentiment when applied against the overuse or perhaps misuse or words.

Think of it in terms of American politics. Are you a Republican or a Democrat? Some people are happy to report they are one or the other. However, there is a growing populous that disdains the definition of either. The ideas the define the difference between those parties have become more complex, personal, and difficult to uphold. It isn't enough to want a certain type of government. You also have to agree with the party or candidate's lifestyle, choice of dress, and favorite breed of dog. If you cannot adhere to these definitions, you should look elsewhere.

Are you Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu, Pagan, Agnostic? It isn't just the deity you put your faith in, but now includes what kind of car you drive, how you vote (which makes the previous paragraph more complicated) and what school your children should attend.

Are you male, female, questioning, undecided or undeclared? The ideas to define what makes a man or a woman have become so vague that we might end up with one gender or many or perhaps none at all.

Sometimes, as Disraeli felt one day when he could satisfy neither wife nor queen nor average tavern-loving citizen, we just need an escape from the definitions. We don't have to describe and label all aspects of life all the time. Sometimes, a man is just a man...whatever that means to him or you or me.

When such times occur, we rest easy in the words of the poets. They define our ideas outside of knowledge, in the magic realm of feeling that cannot be described, but experienced.

"Man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion."

William Shakespeare - Much Ado About Nothing

Off With Her Head!

2011-08-09T22:49:00.000-04:00

If you peruse my bookshelves (large plastic tubs usually without a lid) you will quickly notice that I have a thoroughly eager appreciation of things surrounding kings and courts. I don't really worry about the whys of my fascination. I just indulge it, as it is fat-free, not considered a sin or moral dilemma, and the only addiction involved is reading. History fascinates me at almost every turn -aside from the pioneer era in America, which makes me want to beat my head against a butter churn. I assume that it is just the rich brocade of history's tale that catches my eye. The hues of history are varied and complex, but always rich if you can view it at least somewhat within context.

I've read many a textbook, journal, and novel about European court life. This is a broad subject, more so than you might imagine. Each reign of each monarch within each land saw distinctions from the preceding and following monarchs. And yet, there is enough within the grand scope for me to battle my thought for tonight.

I was once thinking of the ridiculous rules of court etiquette. Some courts required your hair to be smeared in pomade and then dusted with white powder. Other courts dictated how long the tips of your shoes could be. If you were a servant in the royal household, you would be honored beyond measure to be in the room while your Sovereign sat on the 'other' royal throne. This is just the fun stuff.

Obviously you know that courtiers, and indeed all people, were subject to the intricate subtleties of class distinction. This wasn't just King, Ye Olde Middle Class Knight, and Peasant. The titles and lands and bloodlines and fealties created hierarchies within hierarchies, loyalties that led to success and then once again into treason. This was not an easy world to live in, at almost any level. To raise the fortunes of your family, one had to work for generations, taking small steps towards a better life for the Family, as an idea rather than a personal gain.

Well, as I pondered the craziness that was court life (at least during the eras I read about) I thought these exact thoughts: Wow. You had to know how to dress for multiple events every day. Not only did you have to be in fashion, but you had to be appropriately modest and appropriately garish, as the situation and company demanded. You had to know the ins and outs of familial alliance. One false or unguarded step, and the work begun by your ancestors could be ultimately demolished. Power struggles were important, and you had to stay on top of who held it. Not just the obvious Princes and Bishops, but the servants or chaplains or children that might have the ear of the Prince and Bishop. There was never a safe room or moment where one could let down their guard and just speak freely. To do so could quickly turn to death, exile, or at least a good stripping of titles and lands. What a crazy world to live in.

And then, my next thought: Sounds like church.

It was kind of a funny thought at first, and really the comparison is a bit humorous. However, it isn't funny because it is outrageous. It is funny because it is so freaking obvious.

I can fill the pages with stories about what you cannot wear to church, what you cannot wear on the 'stage' at church, what you cannot wear if you are in the choir or want to sing a solo, if it is Christmas Eve, if it is Easter, if it is a Wednesday night in July or a Sunday morning in January. Each occasion calls for the knowledge of What Not To Wear, or you risk your position and standing and then you *gasp* might be talked about by the vicious and dreaded Church Ladies. If you walk in to any Evangelical church in America, you will be totally judged for each piercing, tattoo, and lipstick color that is perceived to be too gauche of the accepted code. They accept you, of course. But then they expect you to know better and not be so different, yada yada, please remember not to wear white after Labor Day. Jesus doesn't like it.

I'm sure that you, like me, have stories about power. It goes so far beyond Senior Pastor, Random Church Goer, and Peasant (Nursery Worker). If it were only that easy! No, one must know the subtleties of alliance. Little Miss Jones might seem sweet in her little white gloves, but ask her to make a pot of coffee and she'll have your job for not respecting your elders. Upbeat Urban Couple are happy to help in anything you need, but if you don't nominate them to be Sunday School Party Committee you'll have a knock-down-drag-out and it will probably be on Facebook so that you are made an example for all the other hopeless normal people who dare to have an opinion.

The family element exists in church as well. Your family can make or break you. Make sure your teenage daughter doesn't wear black nail polish or LORD HELP US you are NOT going to get that oh-so-coveted board position. On the flip side, if your cousin leads worship, you can expect the Gold Treatment. You get invited to sit at The Cool Table at the All-Church Potluck.

Of course, I'm kiiiiiiind of exaggerating. But am I?

Obviously I know that different events in our life call for different clothes. I wouldn't want to do a television interview in my pajamas, nor would I wear a wedding dress to the park. But I also know the story of a little girl and her tears at not being allowed in a church pageant because her dress wasn't pretty enough. I know. You know.

There isn't a conclusion here, or at least not a philosophical conclusion. I have thought about this parallel for a few years, and my thoughts go so much deeper than I do here. I don't think it is necessary to draw it out, just to note that if you aren't familiar with some of the stuff I talked about, do a Google or Wikipedia search and see if you find Little Miss Jones staring back at you through the pages of history. She's there, and when she sees you, her words are the same: Bless your heart and bow before me.

American Christians in 2011 are somewhat obsessed with the idea of church and state. We want these things, or at least the narrow way in which we view them, to be mixed. I think it is interesting to note that the 'state' of today is more akin to the 'church' of yore, and vice versa.

Modern church usually fits into one of two categories: King/Senior Pastor has absolute power and everyone else can only hope to wipe his butt. Or, more frequently, he is the head of a constitutional monarchy in which he has power by influence, and the Sacred Board really tells everyone what to do and where to go. The people think they vote for stuff but their concerns are only addressed if they are going to riot and take their money to another King.

Eh? I don't know that I totally agree with what I'm saying, but I think it is interesting enough to talk about. Let's keep going.

The modern state is as complicated as the church of yesteryear. There are specific codes and regulations for carrying out various duties, and there are even certain dress requirements! Power and responsibility is countrywide, regional, and then specific down to the small hamlets of suburbia. Each member has an 'upline', someone else to look to for help or to be their scapegoat.

My husband, who is more intelligent than IQ tests can determine, would no doubt tell me that there are certain Truths in life that will resurface if ever they are covered. If Art were outlawed tomorrow and all the brushes and paints burned, we would tell the tale of Beauty using dirt and clay and blood. If the Church, in her haste to rid her house of idolatry and sin, cleaned out the good with the bad, then perhaps we could surmise that the State adopted the Truths of how to to organize a vast operation that takes care of people.

Or, more likely, as the hearts of men and women have turned collectively away from a religion, they have in turn embraced a kind of belief in which they can all share: Nationalism. In centuries past, a country would be called a 'Jewish nation' or 'God's country' or 'Buddha's followers'. Instead, we now look to Mother Nation to lead and guide us. We ascribe to her ideals, and look for her to provide our food and our work and our life.

Through the wise and flawless lens of history, we can look back and see that the rules of court became more exaggerated when the power of the court was threatened. When the people began to question and grow restless against the wicked abuse of power, the rules became pronounced. This was a way of blinding the courtiers from seeing that the entire system was collapsing. It took many years, but it was still crumbling. The people, the collective people who didn't care about hair pomade, were hungry and didn't have time or breath to waste on the length of their shoe tips.

What does this say, if you carry it over to today's church? As I said, I'm not trying to make an iron-clad parallel. But just for fun, let's go there.

The people, the collective people who don't care about wearing white after Labor Day, are hungry and don't have time or breath to waste on who wants This Sunday School Room. The people are moving against the systems that don't work. The ones that are True will stay. All the others, I hope, will crumble enough for the rest of us to see what was real and needed, as opposed to what was comfortable and convenient.

When that day comes, I'm going to find Little Miss Jones and tell her that she is a Royal Beyotch.

OFF WITH HER HEAD!

Lesser Things

2011-08-05T01:24:00.000-04:00

You might be wondering where I've been. Am I in some exciting locale, pondering the mysteries of culture and commonality? Am I pontificating on the vastness of love and falling head over heels for sparkly eyeshadow?

Alas, no.

I've told some of you, upon email or conversation In Real Life that I haven't had time to write lately. I've been busy! I have kids that need quality time with their ever-so-amazing mother. I've had lots of cleaning, many appointments, and too little sleep.

I realized tonight that I've been running away from the idea of sitting with my own thoughts. I can talk about sparkly eyeshadow and why it isn't fair that it looks stupid on white girls older than 22, but I still manage to come out with a greater understanding about who I am, what I believe, and what I want out of life. I can lie to your face with no problem. This computer, this blog, these words...they are my mirror and I have a much harder time lying to myself.

Too sad for Beatrice? Well, it is almost midnight and I dare you to not be introspective when the night morphs into the next dawn. Plod on if you will, though I dare say we will leave the eyeshadow behind and talk only of the raven. (Midnight and Poe go quite hand in hand, don't you think?)

I was diagnosed a couple months ago with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Aside from the giggles at my truly odd thoughts (When I see knees, I feel like I am biting into a bowlful of crunchy mini-knees. I know, you don't understand. OCD is nothing if not odd.) I have been reassessing my life in light of this realization.

Nobody is a label anymore. It isn't ok to say that someone is black or a Jew. Ask me if my friend is middle-class and I'll wonder why you are low-class enough to ask. Nobody wants to be boxed in, which is good and fair. On the other hand, a label helps. If you are addressing a group of people, it might be good for you to know that they all have Japanese ancestry, and won't take kindly to little jokes about the war. If you are buying a gift for a family member, you might want to know their size. You don't want to be rude, of course....but you also don't want the gift to be completely useless.

Labels exist for good and ill, and can be taken for both. With that being said, I know that I am more than Someone With OCD. And yet, I have it.

What does this mean?

Mostly, as I said, I've had many a laugh or aha! moment as I recall the various memories of my existence. Pillows facing out, all stuffed animals lined up in the precise order, sheets tucked in a certain way near my feet, on the side of the bed further from the door, all correct 'anti devil' prayers being said, or TERROR WOULD ERUPT UPON THE EARTH! All this and I was only 6.

We all have quirky traits, and not all indicate compulsions in the true sense. I'm still figuring out the difference. My face looks like a Picasso, really and truly. This is OCD talking. I hate bugs. This is my personality. Not all idiosyncrasies are indicative of a problem, which is kind of sad because the problems at least give you somewhat of an excuse. (Sorry I didn't wash the dishes, honey...damn old OCD strikes again.)

My struggle isn't that I am facing this issue. It has actually been a relief to know that the odd mental pictures or feelings of DOOM have been caused by a little brain hiccup that I can learn to live with and mostly overcome.

I'm about to get as honest as I can be without posting nekkid pictures. Just love me through the thoughts, mmmkay?

Some of my compulsions (a reaction/response against a thought/feeling) are very much centered around spiritual things. This is normal, even for someone who has zero spiritual beliefs or background. My therapist extraordinaire says that OCD loves violence, religion, sex, and straight up grossness. If you can combine them at the same time, so much the better! Those with OCD struggle with unwanted ideas, thoughts, and pictures that they haven't conjured up or created. In order to negate or forget those ideas, they do things like wash their hands, check the lock on the door, or count syllables in a sentence. I'm a syllable counter, in case you are wondering.

So as I unravel this thread that has woven in and out of my life since time unremembered, I am further distressed to discover that my compulsions have tried to assuage my guilt that I have a huge problem believing what most people around me accept as truth.

I believe in a deity, and call it God.

Right now, that's all I've got. The rest seems a bit hazy, especially in the foggy humidity of the South.

You'd have to be a total liar to say that all the stuff in Christianity doesn't sound completely insane. This doesn't indicate its veracity or lack thereof, of course. Talking about my love for my kids sounds insane and completely impossible, and yet it is true. But still...'we' are supposed to believe in things that are so otherworldly it isn't comprehensible except in small snatches. A miracle is just that because it is unexplainable and unexpected. To say that belief in a dead man/god who kicks demon ass and wants to 'know and love you personally' is totally acceptable and normal and good truly does sound crazy.

It is normal for compulsions to center around religious practices. It is not normal, however, to have those compulsions. Imagine my horror, shame and disappointment in myself when I discovered that so many prayers were offered as a ward against my own anxiety and brain malfunction. Does this make me a liar? No, I don't think so. Does this prove anything about the existence of a God? No, I don't think so.

And yet, my place in the world feels so altered, I cannot seem to find a foothold. I spend my life centered around a building in which many wonderful people (and a few buttholes) congregate and talk about their collective belief in someone and something that I now don't identify with in the way that I did before. Whether or not Jesus was a real person who did the things the Bible claims is not what I'm trying to discover.

But as for discovery, mine is that when I thought I was looking at or talking to one god, I was really interacting with a disorder that has proved time and again to trick me into thinking that reality wasn't real, and vice versa.

I don't feel that I'm expressing myself well. All I hear from my own words is something like "Waaaahhhh I stubbed my toe, Jesus isn't real." Or, the more common, "I'm just tired of hypocrisy so therefore can't be real myself."

In my heart, however, it feels so disconcerting and excruciating and embarrassing. I can live with this thing, and make fun of it, and move on with my life. This week, however, I'm stuck with crunchy knee cereal boxes and the horrible realization that I engaged my religious beliefs in a mental disorder that lies all the time. Sometimes, I've seen angels. Other times, it was serotonin. How then do I ever trust myself in either circumstance again?

I'm going to post this before I lose my nerve and think of all the people who read this and will judge me because I'm not gifted enough to pull these thoughts from my troubled little Prozac-coated heart.

Next time I might just post the nekked pictures. I won't show you my knees.

He's Got the Whole World

2011-06-29T05:24:00.000-04:00

A few months ago, I was surprised to learn that the people Japan have a huge love of Gospel music. Even more surprising, once you think about it, is that most people don't know enough English to understand the words of Gospel songs. Take this half a step further and you'll realize that the Japanese, regardless of religious orientation, love Gospel music.

How weird is that?

I was shocked, quite honestly. Not life-changing shock, but puzzled and slightly amused. You might as well have told me that they liked wearing poodle skirts or some other nod to U.S. history.

A Japanese pastor, now a great friend to Christ Church Nashville and her choir, explained that the music simply makes them feel happy. Feelings transcend language, and joy can be expressed outside the limitations of cultural difference. His church choir is full of non-believers who love to sing. Surprised? It goes against what most American church members believe, but I think it is pretty darn cool.

Our church, therefore, is partnering with our Japanese friends to bring Gospel music to Japan. We have it, they want it, and now just the logistics of money and schedules remain.

I am now in Marseille, in the Provence region of France. If your geography fails you, it is close to Monaco, the Italian border, Spain, North Africa, and of course a smattering of other European countries that are just a train ride away.

I am here with the Luis Palau Ministry group, as they are doing a festival on the beach in Marseille. I'm familiar enough with their organization to know that they are culturally aware, community minded, and full of love for the peoples of the world. As many Christian organizations are cheesey, irrelevant, caustic and downright embarrassing, I am happy to know that this group is the real deal. The leaders are exemplary, normal, kind people who genuinely care about others. Refreshing, n'est-pas?

I was shocked once again to find that the people of France, and Provence in particular, love Gospel music. Not life-changingly shocked, but again surprised and somewhat amused.

Why, you might ask, do I find this amusing?

You could say that I cut my teeth on Gospel music. The good, the bad, and the big-haired. I have a strong appreciation for the genre, as it is part of my culture. It is in my blood, no matter my feelings, and to eschew it would be like saying I hate fried chicken. I don't have to eat fried chicken every day or even every year. But I must hold it in high esteem, because it is a symbol of who I am and where I come from.

When you visit other countries, you are delighted and confused to see what parts of your own culture have hopped the pond. I am indifferent to Starbucks' presence in Marseille, it is neither bad nor exciting. McDonalds, however, makes me cringe. I cannot imagine why anyone would willingly import such a blister of humanity. I drove past Kentucky Fried Chicken last night and similarly winced. Oh, if only they could taste the real thing! Jackie Stanfield should be imported, not KFC!

I've been viewing Gospel music in much the same light. Why would someone import such a cultural niche? They can't possibly understand some of the references. Americans outside of the Bible Belt don't even understand some of the idiomatic expressions that pepper the pot of Gospel music.

The answer is as plain as Japanese.

They don't understand the words. They DO, however, understand the emotion.

Music is a language unto itself. I don't demonize music, though I know it can be a seductive art. I listen to all kinds of music, not with equal appreciation but with equality nonetheless. Just as we all have favorite colors and scents, we have music that speaks to us individually, and culturally.

Gospel music, I am realizing, appeals culturally to more than my hometown. The world, it seems, has developed a taste for a genre that has been quickly losing steam in The United States.

Many people find the idea of 'reaching the world for Christ' an abstract idea that includes mud huts and toothless old women. If you mention going on a missions trip to France, you will recieve raised eyebrows and an elbow nudge. "Ah! Going to preach at the vineyards, are you? Going to suffer for Jesus in an air-conditioned hotel room?"

Well, yes. And yet, not exactly.

When we want to effectively communicate the love of Christ to a third-world country, we take the things that will speak to their heart. They are steeped in poverty and often have been forced into begging, stealing, prostitution, or plain old despair. We give them love through food, clean water, medicine, and shoes for their beautiful children. They don't have to understand why the medicine helps. They don't need to comprehend why a new shirt makes them feel loved in a profound way that is deeper than just an article of clothing.

What, then, could we have to give to those in Marseille? What do we hand out on the streets of Kyoto, Japan?

Gospel music speaks to their hearts. We have it, in abundance! Why shouldn't we send that which we have, and aren't using to great effectiveness in our own country? Just because it isn't speaking largely to the hearts of our own people does not negate the effectiveness in other places! The people who receive the music we bring don't have to understand anything. It moves them, and is therefore profoundly effective.

Christ opens the hearts through many keys, and sometimes we get to help turn the lock. What a privelege! Some locks require relationship and philosophy, others medicine and new sandals. The locks in Marseille and Japan are shaped like Gospel music. Who knows where else has the same lock?

The people of the world are hurting. Some know Jesus, many do not. All of them need the love of Christ and the care of his flock.

Give what you have, be it a clean shirt or an old song.

French Women Don't Shave Their....

2011-06-25T13:21:00.001-04:00

Hello again from the beautiful city of Marseille!

After a long, long, very long sleep, I joined the Palau team at a ladies' tea in Vieux Port. My time orientation is so far off now that I struggle to remember what day it is, but that is no matter. They eat dinner here when most Americans are going to bed, so I'll just believe that I am acclimating myself to the local culture.

The beautiful Old Port part of town is the picture you see when you close your eyes. Mediterranean sparkling blue water, sailboats crammed together, men in very small bathing suits, women...not in bathing suits, and of course the smells and sounds of a thousand people on holiday. It would strain the considerable talent of this writer to adequately describe the relaxed, majestic, exhilarating beauty of this ancient port.

I attended today's community event because...well, it was the only thing else planned for the day that I didn't sleep through. Also, they said there would be tea and women and I didn't have to walk there. I'm embarrassed to admit that I've been such a lazy traveler today but I have flip-flop blisters and Luis Palau (The Traveler Himself) said I'm just catching up on missing sleep because of my 3 kids. I'll take it.

When I stepped off the elevator into a room full of French Christian estrogen, I realized the following: I have little French and they have Good French and also Fast French. No translation and a room full of hand-waving women in scarves that smelled of every flower imaginable meant that I was in a side room, having tea and a one-on-one conversation with a fellow English speaker. (I know! Beatrice is being terribly American on this trip.)

We talked of the beautiful cathedral on the hill and the lady who was horrified that we were drinking breakfast tea in the afternoon. And then, obviously, we drifted towards that which we have in common: church work.

Having traveled a bit, I am always interested in the contrast between that which binds all people together, and that which is different and distinct. We eat different food, but we all have to eat food. We all like the water, but we wear drastically different things to the beach. And for those of us that believe in Jesus, we do so as humans but also as citizens of our country.

I laughed inwardly when many of the church ladies went outside for a smoke. They chatted while they did so, swapping stories of their kids and spouses, talking about what they would make for dinner. They are very like the women I see every Sunday. That is, except for the cigarette between their French fingers. In the American South, any respectable church lady would be horrified at someone smoking. A Christian doesn't smoke, under any circumstances, and any hint that a Christian woman would smoke at a church gathering is probably in the Bible somewhere as a truly unforgiveable sin. I'm jesting, but really...am I?

It caught me offguard, and aside from the fact that cigarette smoke is bad for your health, I don't judge the women for their choice. Truly, I don't. And yet, I am still product of my culture enough that I found it odd and humorous that these women prayed, drank tea, and smoked in community.

Smoking isn't good for your lungs, your heart, your skin. We know this. But we all participate in behaviors that are bad for us. Some are accepted and others frowned upon, depending on the circles you run in. In Nashville, I'm going to say that gossip and sugar are the downfalls of Christian women. (ouch!) We would never, ever smoke. Smoking is bad for the body! Let's have red velvet cake instead, and talk about how much we love God. Dixie Whatsherface isn't here today. Lord love her, she and her husband are going through it. I'll tell you exactly what they are going through...just so you know how to pray, though.

Perhaps if these women from Marseille visited my church, they would be surprised to find that we talk so freely about other people. We definitely don't do so in order for prayers to be more specific. We talk about each other simply because we have a grotesque hunger for dirt, and we want to feel better about our own place in the universe.

We are different, but also still alike.

All around the world, people who love God are trying to find the key to unlocking the doors to the massive amounts of people that aren't coming to church. We try festivals, we try relationships. We wear different clothes, we speak every lingo. We provide coffee, or beer, or even smoking. We are alike in that we want others to know who God is and that He genuinely loves them.

The problem is, we end up arguing amongst ourselves about the coffee or the beer or the smoking. We don't think suits work, we don't think shorts work. We don't have time for relationships, we don't have money for the lights and bells that draw crowds. In the end, the answer to our problem is quite universal.

Love, amour, or whatever you might call it, is the simple way to explain what is missing.

I'm not trying to claim that all the combined efforts of the world's Christian people haven't included love. Quite the opposite, really. But I think that amidst the necessary evils of planning and plotting and strategically creating, we forget to be sincere.

Charity, called love, includes sincerity. If I never spend time with my kids but then buy them a rainbow flying pony, I am showing insincerity. Gifts are a valid expression of love, but without sincerity they are a clanging cymbal. Sincerity isn't easy, though some would disagree. I find it far easier to put on the best version of myself and perpetuate a lie. A sincere picture of myself would be to say that I love God, but I'm often lost in the world of church. I find it difficult to track with people who don't seem to have any problems or lack of faith. I swear when I trip over my kids' toys. I would rather read a novel than the Bible on most occasions. Those things are sincere, but they don't make for polite conversation.

I think that sincere love for people, and who they currently are, is essential to spreading any news about God. We break down our own arguments if we say that God loves them but we do not. God accepts them, but we would prefer if they would please take out the eyebrow ring before coming to church.

It is one thing to accept someone, and another to lead and teach. We don't have to gossip and smoke our whole lives, nor should we. But if that is where we are now, then that is where we start. If God cannot take smoking and gossip, the rest of our messy lives aren't going to pan out. Just so, if church people cannot take the surface issues of who drinks what or who wears what, we shouldn't claim that we can love others through the sins of the heart.

Welcome to the family. We'll find you a seat at the table because we want you to be here, even if you still eat too much sugar.

Merlin: Lost In Marseille

2011-06-24T17:39:00.000-04:00

My first order of the day was...well, nothing.

I lazily woke from my jetlagged stupor and remembered that I told my dad to go to breakfast without me. Only sleep will keep me from pastries, and even then I regret my decision. I made myself a cup of tea, and was grateful to be in a country where Lipton wouldn't be served.

I finished my book, which was both a great and a sad thing. Austin has always been interested in Arthurian legends, while I have found them less than compelling. I suppose I was wrongly remembering my freshman encounter with Le Morte d'Arthur. However, as we have recently been watching the Merlin mini-series on Netflix, I decided to give some Arthur books a go. (FYI, the mini-series is beyond cheesy and yet we return to it again and again.)

I started my non-televised Arthur education with The Crystal Cave by Mary Stewart. As you know, the Arthurian legends are very different from one another. History adds her own updates and twists with every generation and it is seemingly impossible to keep them all straight.

This book is the first in a series that focuses on Merlin. I'm only going to bring up one particular piece in the story, and then we'll walk the beautiful streets of Marseille. And, like Merlin, I'll magically weave them together before your wondering eyes.

As a boy, Merlin was told by his mentor to make sure that he attended a short trip with the king. His destiny, he was told, included this trip and he had to put himself in the way of destiny. Merlin obliged, and found himself on a wholly forgetful trip in which he acted as a servant and spent the rest of his time eavesdropping. He was quite sure that he must be there to overhear some important political intrigue. The only memorable thing about his trip was that he saw a bird fly into a small copse and he felt compelled to follow it. The bird gave him some personal insight on how to conduct himself around certain parties who were not thrilled that Merlin continued to live. He tried to be like the bird by attacking at times, flying away at times.

Anyways, the only significance for many many pages is that Merlin was a big fan of this bird. This must have been a lesson he was supposed to learn, and his journey wouldn't have been the same without the bird lesson. Not a memorable moment for Merlin.

As a man, he is forced to assist a king with a building project (paraphrasing like crazy) and will find his death if he is unable to provide the king with necessary answers. Suddenly he remembers the bird, and notices that the building is in the exact location he was when he followed the animal into the trees. He follows the path, unseen by everyone else due to overgrowth and whatnot, and finds the answers he needs to save both his life and fulfill his destiny.

I was thinking about Merlin today while I was walking through Marseille. I found myself the proud owner of several unplanned hours, and took an ambling walk down the street. I turned one corner, and then the next. I crossed a street, walked up a hill, and found myself surrounded by beauty. The streets here are somewhat haphazard, like a child'sSometimes the tracks make sense, and at other times there is no order discernable to the adult eye. You get the impression that a small avenue looked up one day and was surprised to find himself attached to the rest of the world.

Marseille is not the most beautiful city I've ever been to. And yet, I struggle to name a city that is like it. The beach culture is prevalent, meaning that the people are generally more laid back and casual. The French culture is obviously prevalent, so green cafe awnings and cigarette smoke fill the streets while women wear scarves with impossibly short shorts. There is a provencial element that I stumbled upon today that I am still trying to understand. Perhaps the avenue still retains his allegiance to the countryside where old men wear brown hats and kiss everyone on both cheeks. Some streets, it would seem, still belong to the world in which purple flowers creep slowly along stones and lean outward to watch passersby.

I was enjoying such streets today, wilting in the heat and exulting in the marvelous ocean breezes. A street would suddenly end and a San Francisco style hill would present itself, and I climbed higher and higher and ambled my way to...somewhere.

It occured to me that although I could retrace my steps to the hotel, I actually had no idea where I was. Strangely enough, I just kept walking. I had no idea if this was a 'good' or 'bad' part of town. The graffiti clashed with the small stores that sold baby shoes for 220 Euro. I had no notions of where I was, or what that place should be. It was quite marvelous.

It hit me that I might be experiencing a Merlin moment. I didn't conjur a dove, I'm sorry to report. But I might have watched a bird fly into a wooded path.

I realized today that there is a distinct difference between being lost and not knowing where you are. Today I walked the streets of a city I know very little, had no map of, and had never visited before. But I wasn't lost.

I came to the conclusion that you aren't lost until you have somewhere you are supposed to be. You aren't lost unless the lack of location awareness upsets or unnerves you.

The reason this mattered to me is that I feel a bit like Merlin on this trip. I'm happy to be here, and I am happy to go along with what seemed like the right thing to do in coming. But, as I told you yesterday, I've struggled with the point of my being here. In this trip, and really with life in general, I've felt quite lost.

I'm nearly 30 years old. I never finished my college studies, I don't have a job, and I feel quite unaccomplished. I feel very much like I trail in the shadow of other bright stars whom I love and am honored to know. Still, on most days I wonder what I am doing with my life and why I am where I am.

I stopped today on the streets of Marseille and breathed in the cozy herbal perfume of purple flowers. And, I realized that I might not be lost. I might not know where I am, it is true. But there isn't anything wrong with exploring steep hills and short avenus that hold no immediate significance.

Perhaps Marseille isn't my Merlin moment. I might never find any connection with this trip and the rest of my life But, maybe it doesn't matter. It is a reminder that exploring what is around you is part of life, and that these many moments lead to and define The Moments that define you.

I got lost today in Marseille. But really, I didn't. It smelled of purple flowers and sea salt. It was kind of like magic.

Mozzarella Mayhem

2011-06-23T16:11:00.000-04:00

Today is Thursday, June the 23rd. It feels like July 8th of 1987 or perhaps March 2nd of 2092. I'm quite jetlagged, which took me by surprise. I boarded a plane yesterday in Nashville, flew to Philadelphia, then Frankfurt, then Marseilles. I left on Wednesday at 9 in the morning and landed in France on Thursday at lunch time. I.Am.So.Exhausted.

Due to my dad's excitement at looking out the window every twenty minutes, I got very little sleep. I jest. It was probably every thirty minutes. You wouldn't know that he has flown to all parts of the world, as he is little boy-excited each and every time to be on an airplane. Good for him. I talked to my therapist the day before departure and she left me with a simple "Good luck!" and completely ignored my fear that I was flying on the 22nd, which is a Day of Great Peril. Nevertheless, I bit my nails and tried not to visualize the plane bursting into flames and plummeting to the grave of water below.

I'm just now starting to relax, so I thought it would be a good time to record my initial thoughts.

Truthfully, I have no idea what I'm doing here. I am very excited to be here, and I am honored more than I can say. But...I still don't know what purpose I serve, aside from reminding my dad to get his room key ere we go to dinner.

My dad is speaking with Luis Palau's organization this week, and he is able to do so in various languages, speaking messages of overt Christianity or just hope and heritage, depending on the venue. It isn't legal to publically preach the Gospel here. Weird, isn't it?

Despite being a Highly Enlightened American (which is NOT an oxymoron) I still think of Europe as she was in her younger years. I think of the flying buttresses (actually don't know what those are) and the music and the stained glass and heaven help us all...the baked goods. Europe has the pope, and the cathedrals, and the history. They have modernized, as all countries do, but Europeans are religious...right? I mean, maybe not Christian but certainly...something.

Alors. Non!

Mix Roman Catholocism with some Pagan fun, sprinkle with a dash of mystic awareness, and you get the mishmash that is the Euro religious climate. Obivously this is very general, and I am not in any way qualified to make such statements aside from My Superior Intellect and Discernment.

Being in such an environment is odd. Third world countries are the ones that need love and Jesus and free hot dogs while some punk kids skate to the sound of Whatever Band Passes As Cool But Are Still Christian...right? What do we have to bring them? Surely all the people in this gorgeous, history soaked land have all the information they need to make an informed choice as to their religious adherence? It appears that maybe they do not.

Here's some blatant honesty from this pastor's wife: I hate evangelising. I'm not proud of such a statement, but there it is. I really detest pamphlets, it makes me itch when random strangers want to talk about their faith choices, and I become a dark shade of red if you ask me to hand out candy bars to strangers on the streets of Ireland. I hate this about myself, but I also can't shake it. I mean, if someone wants to ask me what I believe, I'm cool with that. Hugging strangers and passing out balloons that say WWJD makes me want to rip my clothes and don sackcloth.

I love any excuse to travel, but I also can't forget the reason that we are here. Marseille, and France, should at least hear the truth about Jesus. Information is liberating, and if accurate information is all they get, then this will have been a succesful trip. Luis Palau does something that, in my mind, shouldn't work. Yet, it does. He obviously knows what he is doing, and I think he is a great man with a fantastic organization. I am just really, really hoping that I'm not asked to join the Balloon Guild. Latex makes my mouth feel weird. But what will I do? Write, take pictures, hope nobody asks me to testify, and...

My next unorganized thoughts are about food. I know, you are jealous. Yes, yes you are.

Tonight we ambled into an Italian restaurant just down from our hotel. It wasn't quite a hole in the wall, but almost. It was sandiwched between two buildings , with a tarp for a roof and gaps that would have allowed rain to drop onto our table. Alas, no rain. Taste, however, was abundant.

The little French woman brought the chef out to talk about the night's offerings. He spoke of amazingly wonderful things in French, and I could have unwittingly ordered garbage with sauteed poo nuggets. Luckily, he repeated himself enough and I orderd some simple spaghetti bolognese. This Italian man was adament that all things were either grown/caught in Provence or exported from Italy. He told us repeatedly that all things were Italian. All things. His message was clear: all things in his restaurant were Italian, which obviously is the best. He convinced us to try what he called the 'Ferrari of Mozzarella', and we literally couldn't say no. He told us that he would weep if we didn't try it. Bring on the molded Italian car cheese.

A soft sphere of creamy white was set before us, sprinkled with spices, and served with crostini, pesto, dried tomatoes and olives. I spread some of the Creme de Mozzarella on bread, added some pesto and...SHUT.UP. It was amazing. Dad and I were quickly downing the luxurious cheese that, as he assured us, cannot be found in the U.S. EVEN IN NEW YORK! (Apparently this was a big indicator for a chef.) The sweet lovely French lady came over and told us to slow down our eating so we could enjoy it better. Tres amusee at her show of courage.

The meal was amazing, but I said to my dad that even though this amazing Ferrari Cheese of the Gods wasn't available in the U.S., I still quite preferred Mama Palma's spaghetti.

And that, folks, ain't no lie. I'll swear on a stack of pamphlets.

Mo Reese

2011-06-08T18:39:00.000-04:00

I started this blog two years ago, with a different title and a different story. The subject, however, remains the same. Nearly two years ago, I began to write my thoughts and feelings about a story in my community. A teenage girl had somehow met with the E.Coli bacteria, and struggled in that place between life and death for many days.

This girl was part of my church, and I nodded and smiled to her or her parents as we passed in the hallways. My church is so big that to stop and talk to each person would mean that nobody ever got to the sanctuary. We try to move in various circles that allow our family to interact with as many others as possible, but there aren't enough hours in the day or days in the week to give us time with everyone. Also, not everyone is clambering to know us, so....there you go.

Because of our quasi-relationship with this family, I was shocked to discover how strong my feelings were when their daughter fell ill. I woke at all hours of the night, worried sick about how she felt. I prayed in snippets and paragraphs, at the most unexpected times. I prayed for her weary parents and younger brother, her big sister and friends. The thought that this girl's life would end was staggering. It couldn't happen. It simply couldn't.

Luckily, her story ended with life and restoration of health. The joy was as overwhelming as the fear.

As I said, I started to write an article during the time she was in the hospital. I wrote it almost in its entirety and then felt foolish and presumptuous. Who was I to talk so passionately about a girl I barely knew? How could I have claimed anguish for someone who probably didn't know my name?

I deleted the article, which I had tentatively called Katy's Community. I'm now going to tell you a different story, and this time I won't delete it, no matter how emotional or sheepish I feel.

Last weekend, a friend sent out texts saying that Maurice's family was looking for him and had we seen him?

Maurice Carter has been a staple of the church we attend. His voice is unlike anything you have heard (obviously we know from this statement that the brother has dark skin) and he was always recording backup vocals for one famous person or another who wasn't half as good as he. Maurice was also a professional friend. I'm joking, of course. But if you know Maurice, it makes sense! At his favorite haunt, Nippers Corner Starbucks, he could be seen holding court with a guy who needed counsel about his job, a couple who were trying to work on their relationship, a woman who wanted to write songs.

As the weekend went on and Facebook blew up with pictures of Maurice and pleas from his family, the horrible news came that he had (most likely) suffered a heart attack and died. For reasons I don't understand yet, the family hadn't been contacted in a way that made sense. Thus, the two nights with no news and an expectant community.

The news of Maurice's death remains shocking. Several days have passed, and as with all sudden deaths of young people, it seems more unreal with each passing hour. I stared at his funeral arrangements and it really seemed as if I had forgotten how to read. Surely this was wrong? Maurice would soon pull up for choir rehearsal in his garish yellow school bus-looking car. He would sing, and give words of comfort. I know there has been a glitch in the Matrix.

Though I knew Maurice ever so much more than Katy, I'm still amazed at the depth of my grief. I didn't meet with him weekly, like my husband. I didn't sing with him, like Lici. I never had him round for dinner, like Denise. I didn't buy him Christmas presents, like Lanee and Robert. But he was my friend, and he was part of something that I also am part of.

Christians frequently use the parallel of the physical body to understand how the church body, either local or universal, works. It has become cliche and passe and other French words. But it is the best I've got today, as my vocabulary has been eaten by my feelings of loss. We know that if even the tiniest toe is broken, the whole body focuses on that pain until the wrong has been righted. Likewise, we know that if the hand becomes lame, the whole body must work overtime to compensate for something previously worked without any thought. But when a part of the body is actually gone...the pain is so unbearable the body cannot recover for the shock.

Phantom pain, the pain experienced by those who have lost a limb, is what I am talking about. Part of our body is gone. We aren't expecting to find a replacement or even work out how to compensate for our loss. We simply hurt, and the pain is indescribable.

Like with Katy, I have been engulfed with the idea that this cannot be happening. I've attended multiple funerals of friends and family over the last few years, and it is one thing that gets progressively harder with practice.

Unlike some, I'm going to say that it doesn't make sense. I see no plan or reason, and I certainly don't want anybody to say that my friend is in a better place. If you believe in Heaven, as I do, you know that he is indeed in a better place. But it is only better for him. It isn't better for us.

I can believe that an All-Knowing God has a better idea of what is going on, and I can understand that I don't understand. I'm not mad at God. I'm mad at the world that 'became subject to evil and to death' and the knowledge that nothing will get any easier. Life goes on, and we can revel in the balmy evenings with friends, eating ice cream and watching our kids torture cicadas. But then another glitch, another hiccup in the delicate pattern of life, and we once again find ourselves clinging to those we call friend. We realize how fragile are these threads we weave.

I've taken enormous comfort in the friends I have this week. I've also bumped up the outward emotions and communications to those whom I might normally just nod and smile. We are all hurting, even those who aren't really sure why they hurt. If you are one of those, just feel the grief. Maybe you didn't lose your best friend, but you did lose part of yourself. Each person is valuable to the community in which they have been placed. We notice if you are gone, or even if you aren't pulling your weight. Don't tell yourself that you don't matter, or that someone else doesn't matter.

In closing, I want to include the last conversation I had with Maurice. He told me how glad he was to see that I joined choir, and that I had a great voice. (Told you he was nice. Compared with Maurice and his ilk, I sound like an angry cat eating a scared cicada) He then told me that he wanted me to write for him. "I'm going back to school!" he said. "I'm going to be a life coach."

I expressed my excitement at his offer, because I love to write, because I loved him, and because I was honored that someone who had access to The Best Writers Out There would want me. He told me that he didn't want his business to be overtly Christian, and then he started apologizing and back pedaling.

After laughing at him, I told him that I thought it was a great idea. The world doesn't really need more Christian Businesses as much as businesses that act the way Christ said to. "After all," I told him, "nobody has to be looking for Christ in their life coach. If they get you, they'll get Christ anyways."

At this point, Maurice teared up. I had hit a nerve. "Thank you," he said, "I've been doubting myself and feeling like I was going back on my beliefs or hiding myself."

"Ha! You can't hide your beliefs, Maurice. You just love people and coach them in whatever they want coaching in. Your faith in Christ comes through even when you don't say anything."

We left the choir room, with him promising to call me soon to set up a meeting. We'd talk about what to write, we'd brainstorm, and we'd probably meet at Starbucks.

Instead, I'm writing an article about how horrible it is to lose someone, even someone you didn't realize you loved quite this much.

Maurice, I kept my end of the deal. I wrote for you. Now keep yours, and meet me one day.

Until then, my friend.

The Tower of London - Part One

2011-06-03T18:30:00.000-04:00

I recently had the immense privilege to spend a week in London. The one in England, if you were in any doubt.

I have struggled with how to talk about the trip. Where to begin? What should I include, or really what should I exclude? The haze of whirlwind activity, tea and scones, walking until my feet cried, Pimm's at a pub, beholding sights that have stood through many centuries...it was all so jam packed that I can't separate one event from the next.

When asked how my trip was, or what I saw and did, I get a glazed look. It isn't that I can't remember it as much as I don't know where to start and when to stop. With that being said, none of you would read the hundreds of pages I could fill with London musings. So, for starters, I'll feed you with this delicious crumb. Feed on it and be nourished with knowledge, with passion, and hopefully if you have a local pub, with fish and chips.

I first went to London several years ago with my sister, cousin, and friend. We saw as many of the sights as we possibly could cram into our time there. By far, my favorite place was The Tower of London. It is physically painful for me to refrain from giving a history lesson on why this is such a significant place, the many things that happened here, and how it gives us a small peek into the life of a country using a ruler that is hundreds of years long.

I told you that I've been to the Tower of London. I couldn't be in the city without going back. What could be expected from a history obsessed Anglophile? Luckily, my spouse shares the love of history. He generally prefers Rome to my London, but who would complain about either? We realized on this trip that though we differ EVER SO MUCH in the particulars, we share the same odd obsession with history, churches, and pubs. Thus, we went happily to the ToL.

I expected to thoroughly enjoy my repeat trip, and to watch Austin be amazed at all the fascinating stories contained in the very stones of this ancient palace. Instead, I was blown away by the joy of discovering aspects that had passed me by last time. I shouldn't have been so surprised. Like all lovely things, we can enjoy them differently every time and still be comforted at the familiarity.

The ToL has two chapels. One is inside the White Tower, but we aren't going to go there today. Instead, we visit Chapel Royal of St. Peter ad Vincula. This chapel is a still-functioning church for the Yeoman Warders and their families, and anyone else who fancies going to church where Anne Boleyn is buried under the altar.

I remembered from my previous visit that many famous executed persons were buried in the church. I was excited to see that flowers had been placed on Queen Anne's grave, as the previous day was the anniversary of her execution. The guards noted that they honor her thus every year, and other prisoners, and they seem to do so with real conviction. What was new, however, is today's blog topic. I know that I'm going to muddle some of the facts, and I really could go check them before I write. For now, however, let's assume that I'm correct and I'll notify you if the dates or names are incorrect. Have faith in Lady Beatrice, for she loves well even when she knows not the correct dates.

This isn't my photo, as pictures aren't allowed in the chapel anymore. But this is how it looks and you can see that it is a small chapel. The the left you see a black iron fence, which contains the final resting place of a couple who you've probably never heard of - Sir Richard Cholmondeley and his wife. It is prominently placed in the chapel, and most people wrongly assume upon entering that Someone Very Famous lies within.

Our Yeoman Warder Beefeater Guide Extraordinaire told us a lovely story. During the time of Queen Victoria, the paving stones of the chapel were beginning to sag and crumble. Not wanting this ancient and lovely chapel to fall into ruin, the Queen ordered that the structure be supported and saved. Up came the paving stones, and to the astonishment of the builders, over 200 bodies were found! Each body was exhumed, and every effort made to identify and rebury these surprise persons in the crypt. During this time, they decided to check on the identities of the bodies inside the above ground tomb located inside the black iron fence. Once again, to their great astonishment, the men found not hundreds of bodies or indeed any bodies at all! Instead, this tomb contained a baptismal font.

Cut into four pieces, this font was from the 1500's and had been hidden by a priest (it is believed) during the Commonwealth. If your history fails you, this was between Charles I and Charles II. Charles I, son of James I (of King James Version fame) was beheaded by Oliver Cromwell and Co. and they attempted to restore the government to REAL work, etc. Basically, history repeats itself and we always think we can do better than those before us. Can you tell I'm not a huge fan of this regicidal Puritan? Anyways, whatever your feelings on Old Ironsides, you should know that he was indeed a strict Puritan and was strongly against court gaiety (which did indeed get out of hand...yikes) and pageantry and such. His ilk didn't like Jesus or his disciples depicted visually, and so they sought to rid the land of 'popish showcases'. They raided churches and tore town gilded altars, stained glass, and other lavish trappings.

This brings us back to the priest, whoever he was, at St. Peter ad Vincula.

When I think about this story, I am so moved. I can see him pacing up and down the floor of the church, trying to decide what to do. He can hear the sounds of change: yelling, weapons, cries of triumph and shouts of defeat. Change is coming, and it will infiltrate his small chapel. He knows they will tear down his altar cloths and ransack the church for ornamented chalices. And then, he has an idea. He cuts the baptismal font into four pieces and hauls it into the tombs of those who have gone before him. This font has baptised countless babes, and it will now go into hiding.

Can't you just see it? I can't stop thinking about this nameless man.

I keep thinking about his conviction. It was so important to him to save this piece of his church, his faith, his life, that it was alright if it didn't see the light of day for hundreds of years. And indeed, it didn't. He had to have tremendous faith that one day, someone would open this tomb and find his secret. One day, the gift of a wooden font would be given to the people of the Tower of London, and they would give thanks for a priest who lived long ago.

Few people are willing to be part of something that includes those yet to be born. In centuries past, people were well acquainted with their place in history. Death came quickly, and was part of life. Likewise, buildings took decades and would be completed for the enjoyment of those who were not yet in their mother's womb. It is one thing to look to the past and learn from ancestors, their mistakes and triumphs. It is quite another, and much more difficult, to do things unselfishly for those whom we'll never meet. I can build my estate for my children because I love them. I don't know that I've thought very much about my descendants two hundred years from now. What can I do for them? How can I serve them in the way my ancestors have served me?

The story of this font, once in four pieces and now displayed at the back of the chapel, really made me think. Preservation and restoration are life-long tasks, and sometimes even lives-long.

I have thoughts about London, and even the Tower of London, that are much more exciting and fun to read about. But I had to start here, because it if anything embodies my trip. London is quite full to the brim with history, and to walk through a place with such history leaves you changed. I touched a wooden font that baptized children during the 1500's. It touched me, and I had to stop and think about it. I owe it to myself, to the priest who heard change, and to those who aren't yet born.

No man is an island, and no generation is either. How lucky I am to have realized it! Now go I into the world to find my own font, and how to preserve such beauty for the future.

Shoes for Mothers

2011-05-03T16:04:00.000-04:00

Mother's Day is soon to arrive.

This will be my 9th Mother's Day, and I have decided that I rather enjoy this holiday.

Unlike my birthday, this day has a rather direct purpose. Mother's Day is all about the Very Hard Work that makes up 95% of my life lately. Birthdays are all about being glad that you are here, and that is well and good. But, it isn't very specific and often is just a day of happiness. I like the specific aspect of it, the honing in of the day's purpose. A day to honor, celebrate, appreciate, and recognize mothers.

I'm in that time of life where I am honored and I must honor. I have children, but I also have a mother and grandmothers and a mother-in-law. There is quite a bit of recognition to be remembered. But what, exactly, are we recognizing?

Birthing a child is no small endeavor, and if a mother does nothing else for you, you are still indebted for this Very Big Sacrifice. If you never knew your Birth Mother, you can honor her for the gift of life. If you do know yours, you can squeamishly look her in the eye and apologize for the pain you gave her unmentionable parts.

Mothering, or being mothered, is so much more than just birth, however. While we are thankful for our physical life, we need ever so much more than this in order to grow. We use the word 'nurture' to describe the work of a mother, because it is a shifty, opaque word. Sometimes it means wipe their noses, other times give in and eat extra chocolate, and still others to spank their grubby hand. It is a good word to use, but a much harder word to put into practice. Mothering doesn't come with a handbook, so they say, and even if it did...well, it doesn't apply to my child.

I've heard many times that God or The Universe or Karma or whatever you believe in is responsible for placing you with a family that is just right for you. Codswallop and hogwash, in my opinion. How many people are in the family that is just right for them?! I've met few people that feel they are understood by those in their bloodline. If we were in our perfect environment, there would be fewer runaways, fewer beatings, and much more love. History is filled to bursting with families that didn't understand one another. Workaday fathers disapproved of artsy sons, who then disapproved of their political sons, who then disapproved of their intelligent daughters. Overall, mothers and daughters who have the same calling in life are a rare breed. Fathers and sons that have similar temperament aren't the norm.

I've always found it interesting that fairy tales often portray a motherless daughter. We watch the poor child grow and learn and look for love. She falls by the wayside, she becomes ever so beautiful, and at some point emerges strong and assured and ready (usually) for her adventure to end in true love.

Aside from your feelings on 16 year old fairy tale brides, what do you think of the motherless aspect? Why would so many stories take the nurturing love of a mother out of the picture?

In a practical sense, we can note that women have not enjoyed long lives until fairly recently. The business of keeping humanity alive has drained woman of her own heartbeat. The saying 'gift of life' no doubt hails from such a time, when a mother would often give her life in exchange for that of her newborn child.

I don't think this was the case, however. Fairy tales set many rules aside, and I don't think that the omission of a mother is a nod to reality. Why, then?

I do not disrespect my mother in saying that she and I are not perfectly matched. In fact, I'm quite sure we aren't polar opposites as much as planetary opposites. Our differences are marked and staggering. She is interested in the things that I find dull to the point of hair-pulling desperation. Our sense of fashion and taste follow suit, and we speak very different versions of the same language. We often need a translator, else we end up in a heated argument.

Nevertheless, my mother she is and God and The Universe and Karma saw fit for humor or horror to put us together.

As my three girls grow, I'm astounded to learn that the differences between us are growing. On a recent trip to Justice (clothing store for girls) my 8 year old was utterly perplexed at my taste in fashion. I kept holding up things that the 4 year old Moira would have loved. 8 year old Moira, however, wasn't quite as keen. She continued to surprise me with the things she wanted. She didn't pick out prostitot fashion, she wasn't going for a 'new look'...she just wasn't who I thought she was. She wasn't who she used to be. She has grown, and I hadn't noticed.

This trip, funny though it was, really made me reevaluate my mother-daughter relationship with both generations. Perhaps there was a time when my mother did know what I like to eat. Maybe she did know my favorite color, stuffed animal, movie. Maybe she is just being herself, and urging me through her stalwart views on life to choose my own path. I didn't want Moira to buy clothes she hated. I was trying to help her find something she would enjoy. Luckily she just thought my taste was bad, and not the fact that I was suggesting something. There is a difference, and an important one at that.

I can't keep up with the changes in my daughters' lives. Sabra wants with all her heart to be an architect. But then she will die if she can't be a singer. Teacher? Wait...fashion designer! Do I quietly roll my eyes and wait for her to discover the 'real' dream? No!

I'm finding that the best way to know my kids is to go along with each of their dreams, however long it lasts. I can't do them the disservice of acting as if they will 'grow out of it'. If Isla wants to restore art at The Louvre (keeping my fingers crossed) then she should keep that dream. If she wants to own a flower shop, she should keep that dream! They are finding their purpose and preference through this process, and my job is to encourage and listen, instruct and inspire. I'm surprised to find that it isn't hard to believe that my daughter is good enough to be a doctor/astronaut/governor. The hard part is believing that the office of governor is good enough for my daughter.

For the first, very short phase of life, mothering is all-consuming. The involvement almost kills you, sometimes physically and sometimes emotionally. And then, before they can tie their own shoes, mothering is often about staying away. Yes, you need to be there to help. But the shoes can't always be tied by the mother's hands. Mothers have to teach by showing through example and then stepping away.

The stepping away part, I'm finding, is just as hard. Watching a toddling child fall breaks your heart, but you are teaching her how to carry herself. Watching a preschooler struggle with books kills your nerves, but you are teaching her how to learn. Watching a 2nd grader buy a garish sundress makes you grit your teeth, but you are teaching her about individuality and how to find her own taste.

I like to think that fairy tales lack mothers because they are too complex to pen. History, for so long told almost exclusively through the eyes of men, doesn't know the secret thoughts of a mother's heart. If Cinderella's mother was present, she wouldn't have had an unhealthy friendship with mice. She also might not have married the first man she ever danced with, but as he was a prince, well...no mother is perfect.

I don't mean to imply that fathers are less important or complex. (Well...maybe just complex) Fathers bring an entirely different set of gifts to their children, and one is simply their presence. A mother's work stands in the shadows not because the mother does, but because that's how her work is done. A mother grows her child within her, sometimes in body and others in heart. Almost always, for good or bad, with tears.

Cinderella, like many fairy tale daughters, has a mother that we don't see. She also has mother figures that come to her rescue when her own mother could not. I've had many a fairy godmother to dress me (literally, as I don't dig the western wear my mother would choose). I've cried in the garden for them when someone broke my heart, and they always answer. I hate to think of the times when I might not be the best choice for my kids, but I'm also glad to know they are surrounded by crazy women with magic wands.

Mothers, I believe, do try their best. Sometimes they fall very, very far from the mark. I do not ever want a jacket with fringe, but I also recognize the love of a mother who wants to give me something. My daughters might do better with a set schedule, but hopefully they are learning how to go with the flow. The present isn't the same as the offering, and we have to remember to look with the eyes of love. And, when we still are dressed for the ball in cowboy boots, fairy godmothers are there to find better shoes.

Happy Mother's Day to the team of wonderful women that have taught me, and teach me, to be who I am.

The Prism of the Mind

2011-04-18T13:43:00.006-04:00

" The intelligent man finds almost everything ridiculous, the sensible man hardly anything."

Goethe 1749-1832

Goethe was a major player in German literature. I'm sorry to say I haven't read much (any) of his work, but I really liked this quote. We are always faced with the danger of dissecting a quote without intimate knowledge of the work from which it came. This could have been said in jest or sarcasm, by a character who was insane, or out of a deep conviction flowing straight from the heart of our German friend.

In reading a few snippets about the life of Goethe, I was struck by a few minor details. He seems to be a fascinating chap that filled every minute with some discovery or book. But in the mass of all that history has to tell, I was interested to discover the following:

1. Goethe was a descendant of Lucas Cranach the Elder.
If you aren't familiar with this name, you would be with his work. Lucas Cranach the Elder was a German Renaissance artist who painted many a German royal, as well as various family members of Martin Luther. Cranach the Elder was an intimate friend of Luther, and wanted to convey religious themes in his work that would appeal to and help spread Lutheran beliefs. Luther even used Cranach's printing press on occasion!

At first I just thought it was cool that two well-known German artists were related. But their art is so unrelated, right? Aside from working with 'the arts', Goethe and Cranach worked with very different mediums. I read that Cranach, though very talented, didn't have incredible success in the way of color and light. Apparently it was cooler at the time to focus on woodcarvings and etchings and such. Cranach looked more at outlines and the play of black on white as opposed to shading and subtlety of color. This is interesting because Goethe, though a writer, believed that he would be most remebered for his work on colors. Approaching from a scientific point of view, Gothe concluded that light affects color, and color and light can bend. In layman terms, I think, he was working with prisms and enjoying the discovery of science in the field of art.

The ancestor drew the outlines, and the descendant filled them in! I like to see similarities in family trees. Some people are literally made to work in medicine, even when it isn't posh - think of the medicine men of yore- and they innately know things that haven't been taught. We aren't all cut from the same cloth, for sure, but often enough we are made into the same shape.

2. Goethe was a political conservative.
Now, I'm going to assume that you have a modest brain in your head and are aware that 'conservative' is a term that is quite relative to the group that employs its use. Goethe wasn't all too sure that the general public was able to govern themselves. He probably liked the idea in theory, but knew that in reality, men are given to passion and ignorance and cannot always be trusted to work for the good of others.

I'm going to shock you now. On the surface, at least in this one thing, I quite agree with Goethe's apprehension. I love the idea of educated, well-meaning men and women being in charge of their own lives. It seems only right and fair. However, when I look around at the vast amount of people that are uneducated, I don't understand why it is a safe idea for everyone to vote.

Let me just interject that I don't think that receiving a degree necessarily constitutes 'an education'. It should, but we all know someone that graduated with a degree that cannot read. I cite them specifically because they won't be able to understand this dig and thus be angry with me. Education, the bettering of the mind, has to come from a deep desire in the soul. Self-education is indeed possible, and many of our grandparents are perfect examples.

I bristle at people who want to bomb countries that they cannot find on a map. I am filled with shame for my fellow Americans who want to elect officials based on their hairstyle or how their name sounds. I'm afraid the whole Tea Party is filled with people who don't know why the original Boston Tea Party went down. Also, I very much resent the negative representation of tea.

It makes me feel somewhat better that, in politics, there is 'nothing new under the sun'. Goethe was scared by the ignorami that surrounded him, and so am I. Goethe created books about color, and I created a plural word for ignoramus. We are meant to be grouped together.

3. Goethe was NOT a fan of the Roman Catholic church.
Not all that odd, considering he was in Luther country. But, he was also by his own admission 'decidedly non-Christian, though not anti-Christian'. He looked into various religions and sects of the same to find one that married his beliefs with his calling. It would be quite difficult for a scientific brain to belong to a church that denied the existence of the sun. Likewise, it is difficult for one of artistic temperment to belong to a religious group that denies the existence of the soul and its need for expression.

As I look through the characters in the great dramatic play of history, I always find those that wanted to identify with Christian faith but couldn't bring themselves to do so. They didn't lack faith, but they did have reason. I'm saddened at those who have been turned away because they couldn't make the two agree. They do, in my opinion. Just not during a Tea Party.

What do we make of Goethe's quote?

I love it! When one sees the world as it is, there is nothing to do but marvel at the complete ridiculousness of it all. The sun stays in the sky every day. Light bends and creates colors. Men have brains but choose not to use them. Everything is a bit insane! None of it makes sense unless you take for granted the fact that you don't understand. When you grow used to colors, they are no longer miraculous.

Let's not ever be sensible. We should always be intelligent. After all, intelligence doesn't come from college.

Intelligence comes from wonder.

Queen Victoria Meets Paula Deen

2011-04-15T16:41:00.000-04:00

I was talking to my husband this week about the pitfalls of living in the American South. He was born in Tennessee but didn't grow up here. I was born in Canada but spent my childhood here. Between us we are born and raised in the sticky sweet confines of The South.

But really, we are outsiders. I never considered myself to be an outsider until this week. I was aware at a young age that I didn't quite understand the Nashvillians with whom I shared parks, church pews, and Mason jars of iced tea. But why shouldn't I feel at home here? My parents, grandparents, ancestors and kin have haunted the hills of nearby areas for centuries. And then, it hit me. I am of Appalachian descent, not Southern. They are close in geography but ever so far apart in nearly every other way.

Presently, I'm not going to detail the myriad differences between those living in the South and those in Appalachia. Perhaps another day.

When the realization hit me that I am NOT Southern but Appalachian, I searched for a way to describe the subtlety.

"Living in the South," I exclaimed "is like living in Victorian England!"

"Mmmhmmm...." Austin mused.

"Because...because...you have to know where the lines of power are and who leads whom without addressing anything deeper than your mint julep! And it is assumed that you know what to say on what occasion with the proper hat and gloves already in place. There are no lessons, just trials. You pass or you fail, and you are rarely given another chance should you be so unlucky as to don the wrong head accessory."

"Sounds like a blog to me!" Austin said. "Perhaps a controversial one, but as it isn't about me, go for it!"

If you have read my work for any amount of time, you are aware that I love, adore, am passionate about and border on obsessive in the area of history. European history, so much the better. History of England? I would have the Union Jack tattooed somewhere if my somewhere didn't have stretchmarks.

I have no pretense about the sordid history of England. She has been a raper, a pillager, a snooty upper crust perpetuator of a false class system. However, she has also been the mother of Shakespeare, the bearer of Jane Austen, and the cornerstone of some of history's greatest achievements. She is, like us, to be taken with her faults and her gifts.

Victorian England is a subject of much interest. Some love the speech and the restrained, refined social interactions. Some simply love the decor, and we must remember that it isn't proper to point out the bad tastes of others.

I have read quite a number of books about Queen Victoria, after whom this period is named. The longest reigning monarch to date, she was quite a formidable woman. And yet, she was quite uncharacteristic of any English monarchs before her, king or queen.

I quite respect Queen Victoria in many ways, as I feel that she rose to greatness because it was thrust upon her. She acted for her country, and her life was given in service the country. I've written sufficient praise about her, which you can read to know that I am not gossopmongering about her personally.
http://beatriceblount.blogspot.com/2008/08/victoria.html

Queen Victoria reigned over an England that was changing. Unlike her reigning uncles before her, Victoria followed a rather strict moral code that went far and beyond things that I would think are moral. It seems that she fairly well exuded strictness, and expected those around her to comply. Even on happy occasions, she wanted solemnity to be observed as the point rather than the byproduct.

Hear her thoughts on marriage: "A marriage is no amusement but a solemn act, and generally a sad one.” Ah yes, Queen Victoria, the great lover of love.

But enough about the lady. She was, I believe, simply leading and yet reflecting the shifting culture in her realm. Those living in Victorian England were hyper aware of their class, your class, your brother-in-law's class, and the class from which your equerry hailed. It wasn't a point of polite interest, but of essential understanding of your person.

It was assumed that everyone was aware to which class they belonged, and that they wouldn't dare operate outside the system Handed Down By God to Govern The Masses. It is somewhat amazing to the modern American that such a system was not only recognized, but followed by members of upper AND lower classes! It is no stretch to determine why the peasant revolts eventually broke out in various countries in various centuries when such a system was present. For the most part, however, the general population ratified through their actions and adherence that the wiser and stronger were born to look after the coarser, weaker-minded peoples. More importantly, these wiser and stronger came not by character but by birthright. If my mother was a scullery maid, I could hope to rise not much higher than scullery maid. I might make it to a higher class of servant, but there would be no pretense of my becoming Lady or Duchess of Nameyourshire.

What does this have to do with Junior League? I'm glad you asked!

Though the South is decidedly part of the new millennium, it acts as though it has bodily memory of the past. Racism isn't tolerated except when it is, sexism is actually encouraged, and religious beliefs are judged by a rule book that I can't seem to find in any library.

Everyone is welcome, but not all opinions are. You are to know your place even when all outward appearances point to equality.

Are you on a panel to judge curriculum for your kid's school? Unless your mother wears pearls and high heels to meet friends over cocktail hour at the country club, your opinion doesn't actually matter. You get to say your peace they way your child gets to say what they want for dinner. You will be listened to and chucked under the chin, but your thoughts are no more than a way to comply with the modern need for diversity.

Believe that you can wear what you want to church? Remember when to wear your whites! Are your shoulders showing? What would Jesus think? What would Queen Victoria?! You can wear exactly what The Cool Debutante is wearing and still be flat-out wrong because you polished your nails with pink instead of blushing rose.

Things that stink aren't to be acknowledged. One would rather run naked through Piccadilly Circus than notice an unpleasant odor in the room. God and Queen forbid that anyone be asked if they need to use the loo.

Money is vulgar and common. This is true not because money is actually vulgar, but because one is to have so much of it that to mention or inquire the cost of anything is viewed as base and terribly low-class.

Though I love the history of Victorian England, I find that I am increasingly uncomfortable in the society that embraces her least appealing aspects. I would rather we ask for intellect and greater understanding of science than the protocol for when a lower ranking royal sits next to you at tea. I don't care so much for the white gloves unless they are in a history book, and I truly don't care from which class you hail.

Don't beat me, but there are few things I enjoy about living in the U.S. One of these is the idea that you can become what you want to be, what you think you are called to. I could be a doctor if I felt that fate was blowing me that way. I could be a chef. I could stay at home with my kids. But it is up to me. I have a choice, even when I really don't have a choice. I stay at home with my kids, but I don't have to because that's the only thing acceptable for a woman of my age and understanding.

Freedom of thought lies behind the freedom of choice. Sometimes we act on it, at other times we don't. But the ability to choose to act is the important aspect.

It is said that the Founding Fathers were fighting for this idea because it was the pinnacle of their grievances. Whether or not this is true is a moot point. The country embraces the idea, and it is one of the few things left to America that make her a great nation.

Hopefully the South will catch on and participate sometime soon. It takes awhile for news and history to waft into the sultry decks of the Plantation bourgeoisie. Their air is still thick with honeysuckle and the songs of Negro women in the fields. They might be shocked to discover that the world went on without them, and they are clinging to a dying mentality.

It was the severity of the Victorian age that gave way to the short hair, short skirts, and short tempers of the next generation. The children of white gloved ladies threw off their nets and went out into the wide world to discover who they were. It had little to do with class, and it won't have anything to do with mint juleps.

Queen Victoria, meet Paula Deen. Y'all have lots to talk about.

Parenting: A Circus Act

2011-03-02T20:16:00.008-05:00

I had a conversation with my grandmother last year that really stuck with me.

Austin had just left the room to change Isla's diaper, and MawMaw commented that it was really amazing that he was willing to do such a dirty job.

I looked incredulously at her and said that he should indeed change the diaper, and make the bottles, and coo and crawl with the baby because it is his baby!

MawMaw informed me that my sainted PawPaw hadn't changed a single diaper in his life, and that life was just that way once upon a time.

I told her that if I had been alive during the 1950's, I would have been a nun or a lesbian.

Luckily for me, she understands my sense of humor or at least has learned to ignore my comments.

She went on and said that moms now have it easy because our formula can be bought at the store, men are willing to help in the house without it threatening their masculinity, and perhaps most important: a drug-filled hospital labor where the man is expected to stay and feel very very bad for his part in the whole ordeal.

I've chastised myself several times since that talk. MawMaw wasn't telling me to shut up and quit whining, she was just telling me that some of the 'little' things aren't so little when you can't count on them. But in my head I told myself to shut up and quit whining, because at least I could buy formula. Austin mostly knows how to feed the kids and give them baths. I have television that I OF COURSE only use in a pinch to be the baby-sitter.

But as I've gauged my mothering stress levels, I think that I've arrived at a conclusion. Parenting is harder in 2011 than it was in 1950, 1960, 1970, and maybe even neon 1980.

I'm not qualified to make such an assumption, as I wasn't alive in any of those years, and only became a parent in 2003. I only have the stories of family and television to paint the picture of what life looked like waaaaaay back then. I assume that the reality lies somewhere between The Andy Griffith Show and my mother's insistence that she really did have to walk several miles to school every day.

(MawMaw, before you quit reading and call me, just hear me out)

Most mothers of young children that I know are fairly well united in one thing: we want our kids to have a good life. We define it in many different ways, and the path doesn't always look the same. But we want our offspring to be healthy, well-adjusted, and equipped to be intelligent contributing members of society.

This used to mean that the kids would eat an apple a day, go to the local school, and perhaps play baseball or dolls in their spare time. There would be homework, chores, playing with the dog. Family dinners would include things like 'A Roast' (ubiquitous term that means hunk of meat swimming in vat of juice) and end with apple pie or *gasp* something from the ice cream truck.

A child brought up in the 'American Way' could hope to spend his summers eating hot dogs and turning on the water hose to cool off the neighborhood kids. He could walk to his grandmother's house and know the mailman's name.

The picture of childhood, and so parenting, has changed drastically in the last few decades. We no longer have mailmen, hot dogs are full of hair and nitrates, and A Roast is now made of tempeh.

Does this matter? Gender equality is great, healthier eating is a mark in the favor of progress. But there are underlying consequences that have grown their tumor-like tentacles into the lives of modern mothering. The effect has left us all feeling unqualified and unable to manage one more report card or birthday party.

In mothering, as in any job, it is important to keep up to date on all the latest research concerning your field of employment. The latest finds in the field of parenting are far-reaching and complex.

We know that we are supposed to play classical music while the baby is still in utero. We are encouraged to read to our unborn child, exercise enough to be healthy but also not enough that we forget to relax. We are to eat THIS not THAT unless we want our baby to be an ignoramus. We are to not breathe near sugar lest the child be obese, and we are to give the child a Birth Experience that includes chanting, water, and a doula.

The latest Mommy You Suck magazine has articles letting us know that children need structure and the ability to choose their own adventure. They need time to be creative, time to be outside, time to play with manipulative materials, time with animals, time with mom, time with dad, time with friends, time to experience other cultures, time for scientific exploration, time to write and read, time for responsibilities, time to eat THIS not THAT, and time to sit and enjoy life. Also, please remember to expose your children to Japanese and German by the time they are 14 months, otherwise they'll never stand a chance in tomorrow's job market.

Websites such as Polished Parenting tell us that we have to sit in the floor with the baby and do puzzles, it isn't enough just to give the baby the puzzle. We have to let the kids help make the cookies for school, because they need to feel included and that they contributed. Kids should never watch television, because it is a waste of brain cells and time. Kids that watch television are dumber, fatter, and more likely to kill people or worse...be on welfare. Parents are encouraged to fill every second of every day with something academic, creative, or cultural.

Moms should have a job but always be home, thus strengthening her daughter's perception that a woman can rule her own world and still a domestic dynamo. Moms should be thin enough to promote health but athletic enough to promote healthy body image. Moms should never say no to deserts, but moms should never eat junk, thus showing the kids that junk is ok. Moms should be cool like a friend, but moms shouldn't be the friend. Moms should check on their kids text messages, phone messages, Facebook account, Twitter, and heaven help us if her kid has a MySpace. BUT moms should trust their kids enough to let them learn and grow.

All of this we are supposed to do EVERY DAY and still remember to wear a bra. Some days it is all I can do to change out of my pajamas before lunchtime (I'm lying, I mean dinner). I cannot focus all this energy on my kids and still maintain any semblance of a home that doesn't look like an episode of Hoarders. I can't read with my little lovelies, play with them, nurture them, and still make dinner that doesn't include something from a box or a can. I can't keep the clothes clean, the sheets washed, the table cleared. I don't own a duster, and using a toilet brush makes me dry heave.

Every day I feel as if I'm being forced to choose between my kids and myself. Will I be an exemplary mother today? Will I be an effective housekeeper? Will I be a 29 year old would-be author who is obsessed with British history? Will I be a friend, a wife, a daughter, a sister?

Like putting on clothes each day, I have to put on one, and ONLY one role. I can't wear them at the same time because they won't fit and I'll get all sweaty.

THIS is why I think it is harder to be a parent in 2011. We have been given so much 'information' that we are guilted into never being able to stop. We can never ever do enough to ensure that our children will be the well-adjusted individuals we envision.

I cannot send my children down the street to their aunts' homes because all their aunts live in a different state. I can't let them walk down the street to a neighbors' house because we don't know them. I can't even turn them into the backyard unless I go with them. The umbilical cord was cut, but it was replaced with a superglue that is damn near impossible to break.

I want to be Super Mom Extraordinaire, or even a Partially Pathetic Parent who can make their own kids' birthday cakes without bringing them shame. But if I take the time to tend to issues such as Cake Making 101, I will then forget to return the library books. If I ignore the dishes and clothes and try to get caught up with homeschooling stuff, we soon find that we have to use alternative arrangements for eating. This morning, for example, I spread butter on my toast using a scooping tool from the kids' jack-o-lantern making kit.

Trying to keep all those proverbial balls in the air is rather difficult for any juggler after hours and days and weeks without a break. For us non-coordinated folk, it is something akin to torture and a cruel one at that.

I know that it wasn't easy for MawMaw to raise kids, even if she could send them down the street to play with kids and family members. I know that she still probably worried about if they were reading enough, playing enough, getting enough vegetables. There were other concerns, to be sure. In my mind, however, I just see the sun dappled sidewalks and girls playing dolls while the Main Street Store owner came outside and gave them ice cream. Fast forward that scene to 2011 and it is transformed to giving your kids skin cancer, contributing to sexist behavior, and having to call the police because STRANGER=DANGER. Also, does that ice cream have any soy or nuts in it?

What I'm trying to convey is that we are now so aware of every decision and every second and how it will manifest in the life of our kids for good or ill, we are too overwhelmed to properly function. Most moms I know (except for the ones that I judge...yes, I do) are too overworked to take on one.more.blasted.thing. But how can you say no? Who wants to raise a crazed maniacal killer that will tell the press that he would have been a lawyer except his mother didn't bring enough Rice Krispy treats to class?! We want to stop the juggling and take a rest and just enjoy the little brutes before they leave home and ask us to watch their own offspring. But to stop means that the kids will lose inspiration or creativity or soccer practice or something. We will be judged by ourselves, and what a harsh critic to answer to.

I like being a parent, even if I don't like it in the day-to-day. I like being with them and playing with them and especially making them go to bed. But...I really don't think I can take another article on how to better parent my kids. I need the advice. Oh, how I need the advice. But I don't want more research or studies or pediatrician recommended vitamins.

I don't need them to tell me how to fit more classical music into my kids' day. I need them to teach me how to juggle. And, if cake decorating can be squeezed into the same lesson, I'm game.

Crack the Code

2011-02-24T13:25:00.008-05:00

I was sick this week, and terrified of the children that could at any moment puke on or near me. So, I did what any good mother would do. I told Austin I was going upstairs for a bath.

I love baths, but I'm going to admit that it is really a cover-up to read a good book without being disturbed. Even when I want to hug the toilet and cry for Phenergen, I still have to read whilst soaking in a tub of scalding hot water.

I had already read my library books (secretly grossing out that I never know who was sick and touching the library books right before I had them) and I seriously cannot get in the tub without a book. I might read five pages and then continue to wallow like a mini-hippopotamus. But I have to have a book, magazine, cereal box or SOMETHING within reach.

I didn't want to go back downstairs where the boxes of books live. We are still trying to afford/find/purchase/repaint some bookshelves. Until then, we have plastic buckets that line the walls. Pottery Barn would be ashamed, but they didn't let me win their contest so they can stuff it into a bucket.

I found a stack of books lining the wall by my bed. They don't have a bucket because we used it to 'clean up' before some friends came over. The clean up bucket is where things go to die. We'll never ever clean it out. But in this case, our laziness and lack of shelving came in handy. I quickly found a book without having to redress and walk my sick self downstairs for reading material.

"Mysteries of the Middle Ages" by Thomas Cahill was my choice. Austin bought it a few months ago, and I've been meaning to read it. I don't usually like non-fiction, and don't get all snooty about that admission. There is so much wisdom to be had in fiction, and usually the talent goes in that direction. Non-fiction writers tend to get caught up in their own ability to discover and explain, and so limit both their experience and the readers'. Don't get me wrong, there are plenty of good writers in the non-fiction categories, but they are usually writers of history, and what is history if not a story? Additionally, I find that most of the non-fiction writers I admire for their turn of phrase and grasp of human experience are actually writers of both fiction and non. Now that we've settled my superior opinions, we'll move on.

Thomas Cahill is that wonderful kind of writer that makes you want to quit your day job (or lack thereof) and wander through historic sites touching ancient stones. He is descriptive without excess, knowledgeable without snobbery, convicted without isolation. He embodies the type of writer I'd like to be, once upon a tomorrow.

Cahill is writing his way through a series that he calls 'The Hinges of History'. He focuses on those very small, seemingly insignificant times in world history that have otherwise gone unnoticed. These 'hinges' are the moments when the course of things could have gone drastically one way or another, and we are all very different because of the way the door hinged. He describes it ever so much better in his books, but there's the gist.

I was enjoying the read as expected, and also enjoying the layout of the book. I don't usually care what font is used or if pictures are included. However, "Mysteries of the Middle Ages" is a particularly beautiful book, especially as it is a relatively inexpensive soft-cover book. One picture caught my eye, and I turned to find the credit at the back of the book.

While I was looking for the credit, I saw a page in which Cahill explains what he means with the word 'mysteries'. I decided that this page might be worth a read, and indeed I wondered why it was to be found at the back of the book if the title of the book contained a word that needed further clarification.

Cahill says that the 'mysteries' he writes of are not the detective kind. We aren't talking about Sherlock Holmes or Nancy Drew or how Medicare works. No, Cahill says that to the mind of one living in the Middle Ages, this word would have been more akin to our word, 'sacrament'.

It is at this point that we are going to drive far away from Cahill's lovely book, because it was at this point in my reading that I stopped. The idea of mystery=sacrament had given me a nagging thought, and I put the book down in an attempt to catch the runaway fragment.

My thoughts went to the sacrament of Holy Communion, in which the phrase is used:

"Therefore we proclaim the mystery of our faith: Christ has died, Christ is risen, Christ will come again."

I've always stumbled over the word 'mystery' used in that sentence. I mean, of course the whole process of Communion is mysterious, and none of us fully understand what happens. But of all the things to call a mystery, why would the church fathers choose this? I find the concept of a Trinity much more mysterious than the fact that Christ died.

As my bath water turned cold, my thoughts began to assemble information. Do these words and ideas really flow into one another? Could Thomas Cahill have given me the answer to a church-related query?

What is a sacrament, anyways? The answers differ a bit, depending on which flavor and color your church is. The one I like best is from Augustine of Hippo. He said that a sacrament is "a visible sign of an invisible reality."

If these words do collide, it isn't any wonder that 'mystery' would contain as part of its definition, 'something that cannot be explained'. Still, I'm not any closer at grasping why that word would be used at what is supposed to be a rather rapturous moment in Holy Communion.

Are those things indeed mysteries of the Christian faith?

I'm going to try to find out, starting with the first.

1. Christ has died.

I don't find this to be mysterious. Christ did indeed die, and even those not of the Christian faith or any faith at all believe that a man named Jesus lived and died. Very few will hold to the idea that he was a grand hoax created by desperate people. There is enough evidence even for the skepticalist skeptic to believe that Jesus died.

What can be concluded from this information?

In order to die, one necessarily must have been alive. This necessitates that the life must have been given by a mother and father and that the life was sustained through food and water and breath. Jesus lived as you and I live, we can claim with assurance. His looks and feelings, his favorite foods aren't known to us. We cannot tell anything else from this sentence but that Christ had a body of a heart and brain, mitochondria and spleen, and that one day those functions ceased to work. Christ died.

2. Christ is risen.

Two things: Hello, we are claiming that someone who died was able to come back to life. That's kind of a biggie. Also, the word 'is'.

Christians and non obviously take different paths at this sentence. Whether or not Christ rose is really the central part of our faith. If he did, all is to be gained. If not, all is lost regardless of belief. There is plenty to argue on both sides of the fence. It is preposterous, of course. Most religious essentials are, but that's also what makes them refreshing and essential to the soul. The physical world is full of facts and 90 degree angles and gravity. Faith doesn't make sense when held against gravity and pushed to an angle. But it isn't made primarily for that world. Rather, the world was made for faith.

I'm reminded of a decoder screen, which is rather useless. If you hold the encoded information alone, you know that you have a code you cannot solve. If you place the decoder screen on top of the code, you have an answer. If you only use the decoding screen, however, you only have empty red plastic. The decoder was made to unlock mysteries. Without it, the mysteries still exist. Alone, it has no purpose.

I'm hoping that you don't need a decoder screen to keep reading. Sorry for my being obscure, you can blame that on my exposure to philosophy at the age of 6.

This blog isn't to convince you if Christ rose or not, but it will continue under the assumption that he did, as that is my belief.

I said that the word 'is' is important, and it really IS. We could say that Lazarus died and Lazarus was raised, and this would be true. But we don't say that Lazarus is raised, because we believe that he died another death one day, and remained in a tomb.

However, we say that Christ IS risen, and it makes all the difference. If Christ IS risen, it means that he rose at one time and IS STILL risen. This indicates a permanency, a everlasting lifeness, a forever and all time kind of thing. If he IS risen, then we know that he isn't subject to the physical constraints of time and death. One might even simplify and say that He IS.

3. Christ will come again.

I hate the Left Behind series and all the craziness they have brought into the world. To each their own, absolutely. Very intelligent and well-meaning people wrote the books, and I'm not going to say that They Are Wrong. (Though I do believe they are)

They have created a sense of fear that shouldn't exist regarding the coming of Christ. I have heard all manner of teachings regarding the 'end of time'. DOOOOOM!!!! NAKED PEOPLE!!!! MONSTERS UNLEASHED TO FEAST ON THE ENTRAILS OF SINNNNNERSSSSS!!!!

I know that there are many unknowns. But I also know that, beginning with the apostles, each generation thinks that they are in the 'last days'. One generation will be correct, while the others are just regarding the sinful world in which they life and are unable to believe that more evil could exist. If I had lived during the time of Hitler or Nero or Andrew Jackson, I would have certainly believed that Christ would appear at any moment.

He hasn't yet, and we don't know why. But above all, we need to create within our own community of faith the embracing of such a time. What does it say to the secular people of the world that the Christians are afraid of the return of the Savior they serve? It sounds backwards to me, and I'm part of the group!

If we believe that Christ is love, that he is the hope for the hopeless and the creator of our very existence, then we shouldn't live in fear of his return.

I believe that we fear ourselves. We think that Christ will appear in the clouds and we'll be driving to work and the TRUMPET BLAST will scare the PISS out of us, we'll lose control of our car, and the other cars that are unmanned will be causing accidents and all those naked people will be floating through the air while we scream to Jesus to please remember us because we thought we were good enough and could we please please please go to Heaven and escape the mark of the beast and those crazy winged terrors that are going to come through the air and does God remember that the sun is going to turn into blood and fire and the world is going to burn?!?!

We fear for the future as we do for the present: we fear that Christ really can't take care of everything. We think that maybe, just maybe, he'll forget little old me and I'll be left to live in caves because Christians won't be allowed to buy food. I'll be surrounded by the clothes of my loved ones who made it because Jesus remembered them because they were better than me.

He either IS or he isn't. If he has figured out how to raise the dead and live outside of time, I'm going to assume that the bloody sun and the clothing and the cars without drivers aren't going to be an issue. In the end, it isn't about you or me. It IS about Christ.

We are afraid that we aren't good enough to go to Heaven. The funny thing is that we aren't. We never ever are. Billy Graham isn't. Mother Theresa wasn't. I sure as hell don't have chance. But as we figured out already, it isn't about us.

Well. If you are still with me, BRAVA/O! It has been a bumpy road, walking over landmines in my mind. We have almost arrived at our destination, so please keep your seat belt buckled for a few more minutes.

I think that a sacrament is somewhat like a code. We don't always know what the code says. Sometimes we have a decoding screen that lets us feel for a few seconds what is being conveyed. The code isn't a secret, however, as an agnostic would believe. It isn't secret for the purpose of being unknowable. It is a mystery because it comes from and exists outside of our physical world.

Are mysteries and sacraments somewhat the same? I think that maybe they can be. A sacrament is often unknowable, which would make it a mystery. If it is, as Augustine said, a visible sign of an invisible reality, it doesn't really matter if we crack the code and hear angels sing. Sometimes we just need to know that the invisible is still a reality.

It IS.

Chesterton's Dragons

2011-01-07T18:47:00.007-05:00

"I know of men who believe in themselves more colossally than Napoleon or Caesar. I know where flames the fixed star of certainty and success. I can guide you to the thrones of the Super-men. The men who really believe in themselves are all in lunatic asylums."

G.K. Chesterton

I was in a deep despair when I first encountered Chesterton. Having been raised in A Particular Environment, I was familiar with old G.K. I recognized his picture and knew of his books. You might have said that I was acquianted with the man, but knew him not.

I was surprised and relieved to find him to be the best elixer for my wounded heart. I wasn't lovesick or homesick or physically sick. I hadn't lost my faith in God. I had, however, lost faith in myself.

You might assert that losing faith in yourself is no cause for alarm. I, however, couldn't manage to get through the day without feeling that my existence was futile.

I spent my days caring for a toddler who was good and curious and energetic, and a mother who was recovering from near-death and who mirrored my toddler in many ways. My husband worked all night, went to school all day, and I...despaired.

I decided for some odd reason that it would be the perfect time to train for a half-marathon. Though I was in good shape, I hadn't ever run a mile, let alone 13.1, but it was the only thing I could think of to get me out of the house.

I didn't have an iPod or radio or any other source of amusement. I ran around the World's Smallest Indoor Track for hours at a time, with only my imagination and sweat to keep my company.

As I ran and ran and wiped my nose against my t-shirt and counted the laps, I imagined myself on a stage. I sang, I acted, I told jokes. I was in a beautiful gown. I talked into a microphone. I was a researcher. I found the cure for cancer. I had beautiful white teeth.

There was only time for me to take a few classes at this time, and I picked one that piqued my interest: The History of Fairy Stories. I would have never been able to predict how much this class would change my life. Fairy? Isn't that a tiny little pixie?

My professor assigned a Chesterton work called 'Ethics in Elfland' taken from his book Orthodoxy. Of all the times I saw this book sitting on my dad's shelf, I never imagined the veritable treasure trove that was within.

Chesterton talked about wonder and life and golden apples and the belief that life was an adventure, a tale of wonderous delight that doesn't have to literally hold dragons as much as believe that dragons exist.

He spoke of the heart and how to ensure that the heart doesn't become brittle and locked, and he spoke of God and the sun and dandelions and wine. He made me believe that my life wasn't over.

I personally believe that G.K. Chesterton was somewhat of a genius. Perhaps not in original thought, but at least in his expression of thought and conviction of the same was the golden thread of truth.

Have you ever needed a life line?

The thing that I was most unprepared for in life was that life feels over NOT when you are sad or when bad things happen, but when you become apathetic.

Extreme circumstances in my life brought me to a closer realization of what I believed and who I loved and what I wanted to become. When the extreme danger and extreme tears and extreme fear had subsided, I was left with a hollow emptiness that felt like a black hole.

I've struggled with depression most of my life, and I know when that nagging feeling starts to gnaw on my heart. I hit it with Prozac and some exercise, talking to my friends and perhaps another serving of chocolate cake. In the season I've been describing, however, I was so beyond depression that to this day I don't know how I survived but for the grace of God and hard-headedness that borders on stupidity.

Enough of sadness! Chesterton lit my world with a torch that blazes ever true, to this day and beyond.

When I read his words, I wanted to read more. I wanted to wallow in them like a hippo in water, and toss and turn and bathe in the verbal potpourri that I didn't always understand but loved the way it smelled.

His words stayed with me while I was running, concocting all manner of unattainable lives for myself. His words literally gave me the energy to run another mile, change another diaper, cook another meal, dream another dream.

In a very movie-esque moment that I will remember ere the day grows old, I felt his words in a golden flash of a moment.

As I rounded mile 10, I found myself cresting a large hill. If you've ever run more than a few feet, you know that you often have to coach yourself. "You CAN do it!" I told my weary legs, "You WILL make it up this hill and you WILL make it to the finish line!"

My feet padded ever faithfully onward, slapping the pavement at awkward angles that gave away just how discouraged and tired I was becoming. And then....beautiful sunrise before me, runner's high in full swing, my own words of encouragement to myself still on shuffle in my brain...I understood what Chesterton meant.

We don't believe in ourselves. We don't believe that we will make it, we don't believe that we can keep going, and we don't believe that anyone will want to read what we have to say. But we believe that what we say is important, that what we are doing matters, that crossing the finish line is something that must happen regardless of our ability.

Those who are able to believe unswervingly in their dreams or person are too cocky to venture out into the world of chance. Lady Catherine de Bourgh comes to mind, if you remember Pride and Prejudice (which you should). She knew without trying that she would excel in everything she did. So, she did nothing.

Those that believe in their mission, however, know that they must go forth despite the chance that they'll never make it to their destination. How could we ever forget Frodo's words to Gandalf before he left The Shire? "I wish the ring had never come to me. I wish none of this had happened." The wise wizard replies, "So do all who live to see such times, but that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us."

If you haven't read those lovely books, that quote might not seem to fit. In my very emotional Lord of the Rings heart, it is all so entertwined that his words contain the whole weight of his journey. He couldn't do it, but the unhappy job had to be done. So he would go, and try, and take the ring as far as his hobbit hands could carry it. Lady Catherine would have never left Rosings, but Frodo went all the way to Mount Doom.

Belief in self had far less to do with the whole ordeal than belief in the mission.

What does all of this mean?

To my apathetic, cracked soul, it meant that I didn't have to believe in myself. It didn't matter that I had the self-confidence of a rug. I didn't have to forward my own interests or abilities. I DID, however, have to believe that SOMETHING was worth the mission.

And, despite my apathy towards my own existence, I knew through the words of G.K. Chesterton that the world was still full of sun and wine and God and dragons.

Chesterton told me:

"Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."

And, despite my apathy, I knew that the dragons must be beaten. The darkness must always be pushed back.

Sometimes you have to push it out of your own life before riding forth and pushing it back for the world.

Thanks to my friend Chesterton, I was able to do a little of both.

The Gift

2010-12-10T15:26:00.003-05:00

I've always enjoyed writing during the Christmas season. When I am famous beyond ridicule some day, I'll release all of my younger writings in which I lovingly detail the Christmas tree and its many qualities, the feeling that cinnamon spiked coffee gives me, and the indescribable jump of joy in my stomach when I realize that it is Christmas Eve.

Even for a young writer, Christmas provides an endless supply of inspiration and description. We never grow tired, after all, of hearing things that make us remember anew what divine joy is ours. "Christ is come! Deck the halls and pass the eggnog! Falala! God rest those merry gentlemen!" At Christmastime, a sympathetic and eager audience is guaranteed. We willingly visit Hallmark during this season, so reading a short article about the meaning of Christmas or carols or tradition of the creche is a veritable piece of Christmas cake.

Last year I wrote about a Christmas carol. I've been planning on doing the same this year, just a bit behind in getting the words on paper. I'm glad, for once, that I didn't write this sooner. I would have missed something tremendously spectacular that makes this blog worth writing.

I've been planning on blogging The Little Drummer Boy. I love this carol. I love many, if not most of the Christmas carols. But I looooove this one. In a season filled with Ye Same Old Arrangements, this song is different. Every group, each artist, puts his or her own spin into The Little Drummer Boy. I think it is the rhythm that sparks creativity. It is simple, but so very passionate! Once you hear the opening meters, you cannot help but sing along, even if you are singing in your head because you have a Grinchy heart.

But what gets us, or at least me, is the universal soul searching.

The drummer boy was told to come see a newborn. A baby king, nonetheless, and one that deserved the honor of all who attended him. The drummer boy has to bring his finest gift to lay before the majestic child. When the drummer boy arrives, he sees that this king is sleeping in a barn...and sees that the king is, like himself, poor. As one poor boy watches another poor boy receive gift after gift of costly gold and incense, honor after honor of bending knees and reverenced hearts, he realizes that he wants to give something. But what?

The drummer boy has his own heart, his own knees. He could have knelt with the rest and offered thanks to God above that something wonderful had just occurred. The Christ came down on this day!

But he didn't! It would have been enough if he had. But he didn't. He had a drum.

The drum might have been a tattered piece of animal hide strung over a gourd, or even a hollowed out piece of wood with nails and linen to hold it all together. But it was his, and it was his to give.

He asked the poor baby king if he should play the drum. Mary the mother nodded, and the little drummer boy bestowed his gift.

So amazingly simple, and so amazingly difficult to grasp!

Here's what moves me about this song:

1. He didn't give as others gave
His economic situation in life wouldn't allow him to give a gift of gold. It just wasn't going to happen. Sure, he could have pawned his drum and bought a bit of gold dust. But then the Christ child would have had gold plus more gold. The drummer boy might have been ashamed to not bring myrrh, but he didn't have it! He could also have just worshipped the child as the others did. He could have wept and prayed and blessed the baby, and it would have been received. But he had another gift, a better gift, a more appropriate gift. He had himself. He was a drummer, and to play for someone was indeed a gift. We don't know if he was good or bad, but he gave the gift of his talent, thus worshipping and blessing the child, the family, and all who heard the rhythm of his pa rum pa pum pum.

2. He gave appropriately
You might have noticed that the drummer boy could have just given the baby his drum. It was the only thing he had to offer, so why didn't he just give the whole thing away? Somehow, he knew that his gift wasn't in the object as much as the offering. We say that it isn't about the money, and we say it because it is true. Money can buy things that we need, but it doesn't always speak of the heart. I wouldn't be excited if my husband bought me an expensive car because I don't care about cars. The money wouldn't show me that he put thought or care into his gifting. He could take the same money and buy us a trip to Vienna and I would be delighted beyond words. It isn't about the money, even if you spend the money. Gifts are about appropriateness and thought. I'd rather have a book about Vienna than an expensive car because that is what I care about. The drummer boy could have given his most expensive item, but he didn't. It wasn't appropriate. The child might have needed a lullaby to soothe his newborn body to sleep. The drummer boy gave of himself, of what he had, but also what was needed.

3. The gift was received
Mary nodded, and the animals even joined in the receiving of the gift. They were grateful for the gift that was offered, and they honored the giver by receiving with gladness that which was given. What a joyous gift in return for the drummer boy! He could have been sent away, hushed by the mother who wanted her baby to sleep. The gift would have been no less offered. But oh, to have such a gift received is a blessing that often out gives the giver!

4. The giver felt good
"It is more blessed to give than receive" is often right behind 'it isn't about the money" in the speech we give our kids on the way to Grandma's house to open gifts. We mean well, of course, and we mean what we say. But what we are trying to tell them is to be grateful no matter what they get. It is a good lesson, and many adults would do well to learn that overdue assignment. Usually, however, our kids just end up getting the impression that wanting a gift is wicked and giving gifts is honorable. What we need to explain is that when we give a gift...a real, honest, piece of our self, our time and energy, our love and thoughtfulness, when we give something like that...it feels better than receiving all the presents that Amazon can offer. It also feels great to get such a gift, and there is nothing wicked about being grateful and honored and excited about opening such a present. This is really receiving a gift, which is actually a hard thing to do. We don't want to seem greedy, we don't want to seem unthankful. Be like Mary and receive with grace and gratitude. Be like the little drummer boy and be proud. Play your best for him! Do your best for those you love, and even for those you've just met in a barn.

Well. Those are my thoughts I've been working on for a few weeks. I was, quite honestly, waiting on a story to tie in with it. I got one.

Last Sunday, I was at church with my family. Sabra, who has asthma, began to have That Cough that means business. She hadn't had any problems lately, and I was surprised that her inhalers weren't going to cut it. I handed her over to Austin and ran for the car, because it was time to drive home for the breathing machine. I prayed the whole way home. I prayed for her to be alright, which I mostly knew she would be. But I also prayed for myself. I was a little bit unhappy at yet another mad dash for breathing supplies.

"Come on, God! I thought we were past all this!" I whispered. "I'm tired of all this stuff with my kids, and I can't keep up with all their needs and I just don't think you gave them the right parent."

I trailed off, my mind wandering as it will do when I'm trying to pray and yet think, analyze, and organize at the same time. I got the machine, realized my connecting tube was busted, and made my way towards a friend's house who had one I could borrow. Now having the machine and all its parts, I got on the highway. I don't usually take the highway because I don't like cars and going fast, and highways being the natural marriage of these things, I try to avoid them. It was, however, the fastest way back to my wheezing child.

I whispered again at God, and I was asking what it was like to hear his voice. I cannot say definitively that I've heard God speak to me. I've been quite sure, pretty sure, maybe sure, or even just had a hunch that I thought God was trying to tell me something. I do my best to do that thing, but I've never really had to go out on a limb and tell someone that GOD SAYS TO STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO TO NINEVAH or anything of the sort. I was just whispering, partly to God, partly to my embarrassed conscience, that I hope I would know the difference if the time ever came when He needed me for something.

I pulled off the freeway at my exit and waited at the red light.

A homeless man waited at the corner. He had a sweatshirt pulled tight over his head, some grubby shoes, and a cardboard sign. It was snowing, and not a little bit, as this man, name and age unknown, held the words 'VETERAN GOD BLESS' scrawled over a piece of thick brown paper.

A thought jumped into my head, and it said "Give him a hundred dollars."

I reached for my wallet before the thought actually translated with real meaning.

"Wooooahhhh....I told myself. That's not a small amount. I have a house to move into, Christmas presents to buy, and I would REALLY like to buy some great new shoes...."

All the same, I know when to bargain with myself and when not to. "Ok, if the first bill in my wallet is a 100 dollar bill..." and of course, before the thought was completed, I was pulling a 100 dollar bill from my wallet.

I'm not a rich person. I had a bill that large because we use the cash system and that money is for groceries. This wasn't like handing over $5 that meant I wouldn't be able to stop for a latte.

I was now worried that the light would turn green before I could get the money to him. It was his, and I needed to get it to him quickly. I rolled down the window, waved him over, and he took the money without looking at what it was.

He thanked me, 'God blessed' me, and then looked at the bill in his hand. He pulled back his head in the way that those over 45 are known to do, and looked at me. He didn't think he could see correctly. He politely asked what the bill was, and it really was polite. He had already thanked me very warmly for the money, and was now just asking for my young eyes to tell him what the bill said.

"Its a hundred dollars", I said, "God bless you". I smiled and teared up as he began to cry. He put his face towards the sky and shouted "THANK YOU! OH THANK YOU!" while he continued to weep. Standing there in the snow, he told me that he was going to get a room for the night. He then held his hands out towards me as if to shake my hands.

His hands were almost touching mine when he looked at them. He pulled them back, ashamed. "They're so dirty..." he said, "my hands are too cold". "No!" I almost shouted, and leaned out of the car to grasp his hands. They were indeed cold, and dirty. But they were his hands, his offering for the gift that I gave him. I took them in my own and we stayed that way for a few moments, both of us crying, while we shared a simple human moment.

The cars were starting to move when he held out his sign to me. "Do you want my sign?" he asked. I thanked him, and did so graciously, but told him to keep it for when he needed it again. It was written on the back of a Miller Lite box. The car in front of me moved. It was time to go.

"God bless!" we both called to one another.

And I drove away, feeling that wondrous sense of gratitude that comes when you give and receive a gift. I gave of my heart, and he gave of his.

Some of you would argue that he needed a meal more than money. You might be right, but you might not be. It was impressed on me in a profound way that I was to give him a specific gift. So, I did. It was the right gift. Some of you will wonder what he did with the money. But it wasn't your gift.

He could have thrown it at me and told me that he didn't need charity or hand outs, just a few dollars to make ends meet. He could have acted like it was my duty to give to him, spoiled posh brat that I am in my SUV with a warm coat on. I could have told him to use it on food and not drugs. I could have told him to get a job. We could have interacted, the money still changing hands, without a gift being exchanged.

Instead, I gave a gift. It was received, and it was returned, ten fold and more.

Please don't assume that I'm some amazingly wonderful person. That would be quite an inaccurate assumption. I was the most stunned of all at this exchange. I was honored to hold his cold, dirty hands and pass the peace of Christ, and blessed that I had money to share. I was honored that he wanted to give something to me.

We inherently have a need to share ourselves with others. Sometimes this need gets twisted and we share ourselves in ways that aren't safe or wholesome. Sometimes this need gets burned out and we no longer want to share, because others only take. But the need is still there. It was given to us by the Creator, who shared himself with us in the ultimate gift.

The gift has been shared. You can receive it.

He receives you, cardboard sign, little drum, SUV and all.

The Little Drummer Boy

Come they told me, pa rum pum pum pum
A new born King to see, pa rum pum pum pum
Our finest gifts we bring, pa rum pum pum pum
To lay before the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
When we come.

Little Baby, pa rum pum pum pum
I am a poor boy too, pa rum pum pum pum
I have no gift to bring, pa rum pum pum pum
That's fit to give the King, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Shall I play for you, pa rum pum pum pum,
On my drum?

Mary nodded, pa rum pum pum pum
The ox and lamb kept time, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my drum for Him, pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him, pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum, rum pum pum pum,

Then He smiled at me, pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum.

lyrics:
Katherine K. Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone

The Stakes of Sweeping

2010-11-03T12:01:00.005-04:00

I'm supposed to be cleaning or teaching or planning the Thanksgiving meal. Instead, I've been reading posts on Amazon. I don't usually care what other people have to say about what they want or what they didn't like about their purchase.

But today, I read post after post after post. Why?

I wanted to check the karma in the air, of course.

I recently entered the Amazon $100,000 sweepstakes. You might be surprised to know that I am somewhat obsessed with entering such contests. After all, why would a mostly pessimistic person put hope into a little piece of paper, folded and stuffed into a box?

Well.

I'm not sure why, but my pessimism positively floats out the door when a sweepstakes or drawing is involved. I honestly and totally expect to enter each and every one I attempt. I've been known to be totally crushed when I didn't.

Life leaves me pessimistic because there isn't a sure bet that something good or bad will happen to you. Bad things can happen day after day, good things can happen day after day. There isn't one person who wins and the rest fail. There isn't one person who fails while the rest win. I have lots of fears about life. Some of them are quite ridiculous (fear of transportation) while others are more shared (losing a loved one). I don't have any idea what each day or week or year will hold. I like to know what is coming next, and there just isn't a way to know if you will get a job promotion (hooray!) or your house will burn (crap!) and the undecided, non-guaranteed things about life give me hives. (Real, honest hives.)

A sweepstakes, however....well...there is ONE WINNER! Someone HAS TO win. There is a prize, of a specified amount, on a specific date. There has to be a selection, and that selection has as much chance of being ME than anyone else. There's no rhyme or reason, no merit or worth, just a prize.

I admit that a prize won without merit is not as satisfying as the other kind. But I'm not winning the merited kind anyways, at least not yet.

So, I enter. I am currently signed up for sums of money, trips to every place imaginable, airplane tickets, a kitchen makeover, Broadway shows, hotel stays, candy baskets, and a Dora birthday party set.

Having had my share of frustration and pain this year, I'm thinking that I'm in pretty good running, in a karma kind of way, to win. You might think that karma or fate has nothing to do with a sweepstakes. It might not, but it's my way of not being too disappointed if I don't win. After all, how can I be upset that Austin and I don't have an all-expenses-paid trip to Scotland when the poor old couple celebrating their 50th anniversary got it instead? They've never left their sleepy little town and now they get to visit the land of their ancestors! Heck, I'm celebrating with them.

If you are wondering, I want to use the $100,000 to buy stuff for my house (well, ok MAYBE a three month vacation through every castle, church and museum in Europe.)

I know what couch I want. I know what bedding my kids want. I know that I need a refrigerator. I know how I want my house to feel and look and smell. Now I just need to pay for it!

I'm mentally deciding what to buy first, what to wait on, what would be too extravagant. What amazing Christmas presents I could buy for my friends! How many debts I could pay off for my family! Oh, I'll do wonderful things with the sweepstakes prize!

I went to Amazon's rules page to check when they'll be notifying me. The contest ends on December 19th, so I've got a few weeks to really shape up my list. But there are so many posts about how people want to spend their $100,000. They don't know it will be mine.

Most people want to pay off their student loans, consumer debt, house, car, etc. They want to go on vacations and buy stuff for their kids. One guy wanted to put a dent in his kidney transplant debt (dang it! he has better sweepstakes karma than I do) and some people want to give to charity groups, cancer research, orphanages and adoptions.

So...in sizing up the karma situation, I've decided that of all those who have posted, I'm somewhere in the middle. I want to do more than just buy stuff for myself (plus points) I want to help others (plus points) save for the future (plus) make a new home because my old one burned (plus plus plus) but I also don't have any legitimate needs (minus points) don't plan on giving it all away (minus) and hadn't thought about the most selfless way to spend (minus minus minus).

I'm somewhere in the middle, lower than the kidney guy, higher than the 'phat new tricked out car' lady.

In this season of Thanksgiving, when I'm supposed to be wholly and totally grateful for what I have, I'm desperately hoping to win a $100,000 sweepstakes.

So sue me. You might get a Dora birthday party set.

The Art of @$%& ('Scuse My French) Cooking

2010-10-21T16:25:00.011-04:00

George Bernard Shaw said, "There is no sincerer love than the love of food".

We can agree with his sentiments, and quite heartily at that! Not only do we understand the love of fine dining, the experience, the palette, the snap and spice. No, we also agree that the love of our continued existence means that we necessarily must feed ourselves. Our love of self is indeed the most sincere love that we have. Call it fallen nature, call it depraved, call it normal, but there it is.

Learning to put others first is the main issue we tackle in life. I have a baby who is learning that her needs are not the center of my existence. She doesn't like it. She yells at me when I make her wait for something. She pinches me when I take away a tasty morsel that she has rescued from the couch crack.

I have a 4 year old who is learning that what she does makes other people feel good or bad. She doesn't want to think about her sisters first, because it is only natural (or depraved, however you see it) for her to take care of her own needs first.

Even still, I have a 7 year old who is learning that her limited experience in life does not make her wise enough to challenge me on everything. She hears every day that she is not the fount of all wisdom. She doesn't like it, but she has to learn that listening to other people is as important, and often more so, than listening to yourself.

From day one, we are hard-wired to look out for our own needs, and do whatever we must to ensure that those needs are met.

Food and self -preservation are linked. Take it from a former anorexic that you stop eating when you hate yourself, or a huge part of your life. Happy thoughts are following, don't worry.

We know that food is self-preservation. We eat to stay alive when our circumstances are dire. We may eat bologna, potatoes, or even grass if we must. We'll skip the salt, the butter, the china. We can eat with our hands, with neither plate nor utensil. But this is merely meeting a base need, and little more. Food is more, so much more than mere self-preservation.

Food is an expression. Actually, food is many expressions.

For the consumer, food is a way to touch that part of the soul that years for beauty. Food can taste beautiful, look beautiful, smell beautiful, and make us feel beautiful. If you haven't experienced this, take whatever you are currently eating or drinking and put it on a beautiful plate or in a crystal goblet. There is a profound difference that can be felt to the very core of your being. Indeed, I read a study once that revealed drinking orange juice from a beautiful cup is healthier than from a regular old glass. The vitamin C absorption was higher, the serotonin levels were better, and the individual who drank thus was measurably healthier.

Oh, the delight of a meal well prepared! The soul, the smile, the heart rejoices. We eat because we need to, but we prepare because we can. Delicate lacy branches of herbs, butter browned carefully with mushrooms, a carrot plucked right from the earth (or farmers' market)...these things do so much more than feed our hungry stomachs. We eat more slowly, more consciously, more purposefully when a meal has been well prepared for our enjoyment.

And for the one who prepares...well! The meal is an expression of love. We've heard this before, of course. But why is it true?

I've been cooking ever so much more than I used to. I come from a line of...non-cookers. I can't say if that is due to nature or nurture, but either way I was never taught, by example or otherwise, how to cook. It never really vexed me before this year. I could make do, follow a simple recipe. I had baked a real cake, a real lasagna, a real....something else. But cooking wasn't my thing! Why should I care? Let the Mama Palmas of the world do their thing, and I would be the happy consumer.

Well, long story short is that my kids kept going to the hospital, trying new medications, and it turns out that they are just allergic to stuff. It isn't really a hard thing to deal with...IF I cook. I cannot find enough convenience items like cereal, crackers, bread. But if I'm willing to make it, no big deal!

Crap. Did I mention that I've never been taught ANYTHING about cooking?

So I've been slaving away, making cookies so often that I no longer have to read the recipe. I've been trying my hand at homemade bread, homemade sauce, homemade e.v.e.r.y.t.h.i.n.g.

What Martha Stewart didn't tell me is that there is a profound learning curve when it comes to cooking. When it comes to actually PREPARING, well...there's a reason why her show is popular and yet despised.

The first thing I ever cooked for Austin was a frozen pizza. It wasn't a purposeful choice, but of course it sticks out in my mind now. My family didn't buy frozen pizza one single time during my entire life. They still haven't. They also don't make their own. They also don't buy it. (Actually, my mom did once make a 'pizza' out of a huge mushroom turned on its head, plastered with tomato sauce, Velveeta, and chunks of tofu. I don't think it counts.) I was pretty excited about declaring my difference from family of origin food. So, I took off the pizza's plastic and popped that sucker in the oven. Voila! I felt like the moms of my childhood friends who made exotic things like Chef Boyardee and Pop-Tarts. We didn't get those things. We got rice.

Smoke filled the apartment.

Austin ran to the oven, pulled out my American masterpiece, and looked incredulously at me.

"You forgot to take off the cardboard!"

"What cardboard? Oh. Well. I...thought it was there to....be like a pan or something."

Laughter. More laughter. Me feeling stupid, Austin laughing hysterically.

I was really, really sad about that poor fake pizza. Why? I wasn't trying to impress, just feed. But somehow, the food I was preparing (albeit very, VERY marginally) had become an expression. I wanted to feed somebody. I wanted to meet their needs, and even though I chose poorly, I could also have chosen a can of dirt and corn syrup (Chef Boyardee).

When you prepare a meal, you spend so much time. SO. MUCH. TIME. There's the scheduling (will you be home tonight?) and the meal searching/planning, the grocery shopping, and this is all prep work! The cleaning and the mixing and the measuring, the scraping and beating and flouring and kneading....all for such a small thing, in the end.

The chef prepares in anticipation that those she serves will be delighted. She prepares in expectation that what she makes will be taken into the very being of those she serves. Naturally, the love in a meal well prepared can be felt.

But it is hard. Really, really hard. It is difficult to do all of this, day after day, week after week, grocery trip after grocery trip.

I run out of ideas, energy, money, and then desire to even try. I burn stuff. I don't know how to season properly. I've never been given any help in the whole 'dead animal' department, and cannot cook a steak/chicken/pig(gulp!) AT.ALL.

I got rather frustrated today when I was trying to make soup. I didn't have certain parts ready when I needed them, and other steps were done way too early. I envisioned yet another night of 'whoops, sorry this doesn't taste great' and 'let's just have cereal'.

But then, as I stirred the browning onions, I realized that I knew they weren't ready yet. Onions turn a certain color when they are sauteed for the right amount of time, and mine weren't quite the right hue. I put my face closer to the fragrant mix, the simple heated decadence of onion and butter. Tonight, the soup would work.

Martha Stewart, Rachel Ray, Julia Child, Giada de Whatsit, they are all so amazing on their shows. They have it down to an exact science. I'm very, very far from their enthusiasm and expertise. But, they are also trying to teach me how to cook.

I've never had that before.

As always, it is hard to listen to someone else. I'd rather take my own advice, figure my own way through the difficult tunnels and trapdoors of cookery. But it isn't about me. It is about so much more.

The art of cooking is, as in many things, in the practice. I must play with the paints and get my shirt dirty before I come up with a masterpiece. Even then, I'll do well to remember that not all meals can be Renoir or Monet (Coq Au Vin). Some must be Modern Art (Noodles and sauce).

Bon appetit!

Wolf Cheese

2010-10-17T22:56:00.005-04:00

Novelists who go to psychiatrists are paying for what they should be paid for.

-Unknown

It is at this time that I stop following the quote book in order. You don't have to know that, but I thought I should tell you that I'm going to flip through on some days and find what sounds good. This isn't always the way that writing should go. No, even when one needs The Muse to come and turn wavy tendrils into the golden specked air, one should also be consistent. The Muse isn't consistent, and one of us really should be. I find that some of my favorite writings have occurred when I had to write about a particular subject. Something about creating character, or some such nonsense.

But for tonight, I break my own rules.

I've been thinking about going back to therapy lately. How honest of me, eh? I have no idea if I'm normal or not, but from judging by the lives of friends and family, I'd say I'm not too odd.

I first darkened the doorway (or maybe I didn't, depending on the time of day and the science of shadows, which I'm not too good with) of a therapist's office when I was a wee lass of 16. Why, you ask? Well, let's just say that I have an active imagination paired with a propensity towards being in the wrong place at the wrong time...all the time.

I've been back for periods of time every few years, dealing with this or that or this AND that. It doesn't phase me too much, I don't have the feeling that I'm doing something shameful or secretive.

But.

I've lately been dealing with a set of issues that I'm not really sure how to address. I have some fears about the implications of unresolved issues, and I don't want to be caught off guard, one day losing my mind and ending up on the news. Although, I must confess that I have a desire to be auto-tuned and become the next YouTube sensation.

I'm not dealing with anything 'big' per say. I wasn't raised by wolves, I didn't see someone murdered, I don't have a paralyzing fear of cheese. But I have a collection of little things through the years that aren't little to me. I doubt that some of the persons responsible for my pain would be aware that they caused me any discomfort in life.

Sometimes I think that I need to move on, get over it, put the past behind me. After all, everyone has problems, right? Nobody is perfect! Sometimes I think that I need to realize that there is at least a standard of normal and the things I've experienced are NOT in that realm. After all, everyone doesn't have problems like MINE, right? Nobody is perfect, but some people ARE crazy!

I was talking to Apollonius a few weeks ago about this issue. I told him that I'd feel somewhat more settled in my soul if I knew whether or not to feel sorry for myself. That sounds horribly lame, but there it is. I just don't want to spend time moping about things that are just run-of-the-mill, everybody spills red Kool*Aid on their white shirt kind of things. But I also don't want to try to casually dismiss things that have real, life-altering significance. After all, being raised by murderous wolves who hate cheese is a thing to talk to a professional about, right?

Well, Apollo the wise suggested that I write a book. Because, you know, I don't already want to. I have about 7 books going in my head or on paper, and some of them I love and others I hate and I want one of them to really say things that matter. But, Apollo said, you haven't written yourself yet. Why not? Why not write down all of your weirdness and let that be a cathartic, cheap form of therapy? And then, the world can decide if you spilled Kool*Aid on your shirt of if you have wolvomurderocheeseyphobia.

I'm kind of liking the idea. Unless, of course, it ends up too dull. What parts should I write? Do I change names and dates to protect the (possibly) innocent? Is it disrespectful to speak of those who shaped my life, if I paint them in the way I perceived? Will it be a pile of pathetic papers, dog-eared by me but one day laughed over by my children while I drool in my dotage?

The journey within is a frightening one. I don't know if I'm more frightened of having nothing to deal with, or no ability to deal. But I like the idea of being my own therapist. Pulling out thoughts and slapping them on paper sounds more refreshing than watching the sad thoughts course down my cheeks, making small black pools at the bottom of my chin. Stinking eco/animal friendly mascara smudges too easily.

I use it because of the wolves.

I don't want them to come back for me.

Hestia Ate My Home(work)!

2010-10-14T13:33:00.004-04:00

He was a wise man who invented God.

-Plato (427?-348?B.C.)

Any writer will tell you that their work is affected by their life. I write about what I see, think, taste, and hear about the things around me. If I write about an outside event or idea, it is still going to be tinted by the things going on in my own life.

I have two major roads of thought on this quote. The first road stems from the last word. The word 'god' is capitalised, indicating God, the all supreme being that is studied and worshipped in Christianity. However, Plato was before Christ and therefore Christianity. He would have, no doubt, been familiar with at least the idea of a single, all powerful God, THE God of Judaism. In this line of thought, Plato's words seem a bit sneering. It would appear that he is proclaiming that God was invented, and therefore not real. This is an awfully big and dismissive way of dealing with such a big subject.

But is he, in fact, talking about God?

Plato, being so wise and insightful (for reals, if you haven't read his stuff and are up for a mind bender, go for it!) thinks that whoever invented God was wise. He doesn't say why. He doesn't say which God, or which wise man. So, without digging through his myriad works to unlock that mystery, we have to just plow on, armed with our own ideas.

This is where we hit the second major road, and the explosion of personal life comments on the way.

Austin and I have been reading the Percy Jackson series. Yes, we are loud and proud about our love of Sci-Fi/Fantasy/Myth, and the best ones are often found right smack dab in the childrens' section. Next, I'm going to work my way through those Peter Pan Starcatcher books.

I've read the first four books in the last few days, so you can imagine that my thoughts turn to the gods of Greek mythology when I read this quote. I've been battling minotaurs and dragon ladies in my sleep, so naturally I assume that Plato must have been reading the Percy Jackson series when he said the aforementioned quote.

As it so happens, Austin and I were talking about gods when we drove to church last night. He was looking over his sermon material and I was trying to help because I'm JUST that kind of lady. You know, slightly intrusive and sometimes bossy. He was comparing some scripture verses that told of vengeance and blame and ownership. He commented that we mortals will do whatever it takes in order to not blame ourselves. We don't want anything to be our own fault, usually just personally, but sometimes even collectively.

It isn't our fault that we have no food! The gods must hate us!

Wait honey, I didn't mean to cheat on you! I was hit by Cupid's arrow!

And yet, I don't think that the gods were created for the sole purpose of deflecting blame. When an ancient man needed to explain how the sun rose in the sky, he knew that it couldn't come from a mere mortal like himself. No, something that majestic and awe-inspiring had to be the result of magic so amazing and terrible...it was almost hard to imagine!

Why did the ancient peoples invent their gods?

Austin pointed out to me several years ago that the Bible says (um...I forget where) "...the idols stopped talking". Which means....creepy....that they USED to talk! Before Christ came, we know that these kinds of things happened. If a bust of Zeus started talking to me today, I'd run to the nearest mental hospital. But it does beg the question of whether or not the gods were really mythical. I mean, if I served a goddess of grain, offered her stuff, prayed to her, sacrificed to her, and she was able to speak to me? HELLO?! I would believe in her, and I'm quite sure that you would as well.

What then, does this indicate about gods or God? Reality does not indicate authenticity.

We were told to have no other gods before God. We weren't told that there is no other god.

Now don't get your panties in a twist, I'm not saying that you need to go serve a grain goddess because she might be real. But it would be dangerous to believe and teach that God is real, and therefore that settles all matters of belief. We cannot prove God, as He only can prove himself.

God is real. Demons are just as real. Angels are real. Knowing if something is real doesn't give you any more answers. You don't serve what is real. You should serve what or whom is right.

I've veered off both of my two thought highways and am now on a back road going towards a ghost town. I need to get back on track.

I think that the gods of myth are a mix of real myth, a deep hunger for truth, evil presence, and ignorance mixed with amazing creativity. Some of these things are good, some are bad, some are neither and both!

But it makes me wonder; what have I invented about God? I know some things about God. I know what wiser men and women have learned. But we all hold personal ideas about who God is and why he works the way he does.

Zeus was made by someone who was trying to order his own universe. Ancient man wanted to explain things. Each man and woman added their own thoughts, and, over time...we have a mix of thoughts and stories about who Zeus was and why he worked the way he did.

Do we, in our wise and modern state, continue to do this to our God?

I think that we do, and I don't know that it is wise.

I might be no better than the ancient woman who claimed that her home was messy because Hestia, goddess of hearth and home, had cursed her.

That is a good idea though.

Who is the god of homeschooling and baked goods?

Accio, Fantasy!

2010-10-06T16:19:00.004-04:00

I've been illish the last few days, thus the break in quote blogs. Don't worry, I love them as much as you do and will return to them shortly.

Today, however, I write about something that is on my mind. I'm going on vacation tomorrow. I am going to one of the few places in the United States that could conjure this much excitement, this much longing, this much...magic!

Tonight I will pack my toothbrush and hair tonic and hopefully everything else I need to live away from home for a few days. Diapers, inhalers, non-fragranced everything for one kid, plant-free products for another, socks, allergy free chocolate, and other essentials. The most irritating thing on that list is socks. Tomorrow we'll get to the airport, shoot me with more sedatives than a horse gets when a new king comes to the throne, and settle in for a short flight to Orlando. Get bags, drive to hotel, check in, try not to think of invisible bugs on hotel pillow, maybe sleep.

And then...oh, what delight and rapture will be mine!

I will go to Hogwarts.

I know, I know. Some of you don't get it. Keep reading.

Let's do an exercise together. Think of your favorite book. Got it?

Think of all the things you love about that book. The words that are used, the places that are described, the people that pepper the pages. I'm sure you must have thought about falling into a book at some point in your life, yes? Can you imagine how amazing it would be?!

Sewing lace with the Bennet sisters, hearing Aslan's voice, watching Benedick woo his lady, seeing the majesty of Rivendell, chatting at the pub with Bridget Jones...my list goes on and on!

Perhaps (gasp!) you don't like Harry Potter. I'll only accept this if you haven't read the books. If you haven't yet read them, please don't yell at me until you have read the books. If you just don't like them, I think that your imagination is suspect and we probably won't be really good friends in the future. But just go back to your own favorite book, and you can understand where I'm coming from, right?

All fiction readers share in common the desire to learn about someone or something else. We want it for different reasons. Sometimes, we want to escape to a different place. Sometimes we want to live through the achievements of others. Still again, we want to experience the world in a way that makes us feel alive. Non-fiction works tell us of the world we live in, how to understand it, what can be proved, what has come before. Fiction works tell us of the world inside us, how to understand it, and what can yet occur. They are both essential to the forming of a good mind. I appreciate, love, and read both.

But reading of the world within and without and beyond...it makes life, many days, quite more liveable. I escape gladly to the familiar whine of Mrs. Bennet's voice, and I am quite sure I know how Lembas bread tastes. I'm always wanted, sometimes needed, and never turned away in these places. I know them, they know me, and we have quite the bond.

You can imagine my thrill then, upon hearing that one of my favorite hiding places, Hogwarts, was going to be a physical reality. I've followed each news update, looked at the sketches, seen pictures of the building progress, thought of my own fabulous ideas, and now, am ready to visit. I can't believe that the time is upon us!

I know, I know, I KNOW!

Hogwarts is a castle from a book. Yes, it is! No, it isn't!

I cannot explain it if you don't already understand. I'm not sure how to say that I love certain 'mythical' places as well as or better than I do the physical places in which I find myself. I cannot explain that my throat has been parched these many years for the taste of Butterbeer or that I long to smell the earthy dampness of the Herbology greenhouse.

It many ways, it is the same visiting Cinderella's castle. I've never particularly cared for Cinderella, and I was still quite excited to see her stunning digs. (Post-stepmother, of course.) Why? What is it about these kinds of places that make the heart quicken and wonder bubble forth, unseen for many days or even years?

Fantasy, myth, magic. Some say that all I'm describing is a fairy tale. A fun way to spend an afternoon, no less and certainly no more.

G.K. Chesterton, however, got it ever so right:

The things I believed most then, the things I believe most now, are the things called fairy tales. They seem to me to be the entirely reasonable things. They are not the fantasies: compared with them other things are fantastic...Fairyland is nothing but the sunny country of common sense. It is not the earth that judges heaven, but heaven that judges earth; so for me at least it was not earth that criticised elfland, but elfland that criticised the earth.

Read his amazing work, Ethics in Elfland, and hear it from his genius. But the things that we KNOW, the law of gravity and photosynthesis, the color of the sun and electricity, aren't any more fantastical than alohamora and a minotaur. We've grown used to the things that surround us. Fairyland reminds us that all things are indeed fantastic. By showing us that the river runs with wine, fairy tales and myth remind us that, already, it flows with water!

Chesterton says that fairy tales "remind us that we have forgotten." Can we fly? Can we fight the evil one and win? YES! We think we can't, because our noses are stuck in books of facts. Fairy, like faith, cannot and will not be proven. We love it, we read it, we breathe it, because it resonates with our sleeping souls. Wake up, and hear the song!

I cannot wax eloquent, therefore I am just waxing.

I'm so excited, I can hardly even begin to say. You might not understand, or you might be full of jealousy that you aren't going with. If the former, go read a book until you get it. If the latter, email me your home address and I'll send you mail from Hogsmeade.

For now, I must shop and pack.

Allergy-free chocolate cannot be bought in the land of dreams.

Playful Plautus

2010-10-01T14:57:00.003-04:00

The gods play games with men as balls.

-Titus Maccius Plautus (254?-184 B.C.)

Plautus was a Roman playwright who wrote many comedies and has about 20 surviving works. How's that for being a published author?

Apparently, he often made jests at the gods in his plays, and even stooped so low as to have people compare their own filthy mortal selves with various gods. My sources say that the state was in control of all plays at this time (as they would be for many, many centuries to come) and would have censored these jests if they went too far. Thus, Plautus was probably just including feelings that were becoming shared amongst the people.

The gods, so it seems, were falling out of favor with the people who created them.

I'm married to a guy that knows the ins and outs of almost every god-myth of Greek or Roman culture. He even knows some of the Norse gods, and who knows where Norse is? Maybe it along with Holland, is in The Netherlands. I jest. But, Austin does know all this stuff, and delights on sharing the information with any and all who want to hear, and some that don't.

Personally, and luckily for me, I have always found these myths to be interesting. I love how they interweave and become so complicated. The gods, by and large, were angry, impetuous, self-centered whores. Celebrities of the ancient world.

I've always been too interested in the celebrities of my own world. I used to drool over the newest US Weekly magazine, get updates from People magazine, and yes...even looked at a few celebrity gossip websites when I couldn't whet my appetite for information. Austin is always confused when I know which celebrity has a daughter named Ramona, where so-and-so got their cool scarf, and why what's-his-face is getting a divorce. When a celebrity gets married or has a baby, shoot...forget about it. I would have my nose in any and every piece of paper or website out there, just to see what her dress looked like or if she was as fat as me at 9 months.

It has been maybe a year or more since I last knew who was sleeping with whom, or where they ate on their recent trip to Vienna. I just sort of....fell out with the celebs. I just don't really care as much anymore, and I think Plautus helped me understand why.

The people I read about in my gossip magazines weren't really people. Flesh and blood and plastic, perhaps. But many of them didn't seem to have any idea what life is like for most of the people in their own country, let alone the world. We've all read that quote attributed to Mariah Carey in which she says she would like to be as thin as those people in Ethiopia, but without all the flies and stuff. GROSS. Whether or not she actually said this, it gets my point across. No, not all famous or wealthy people are out of touch with the world. But many of them are, and the rest of the world keeps moving while the angry, impetuous, self-centered whores keep playing.

I don't remember exactly when I stopped wanting to know who did what with whom on which company's dime. But I remember feeling gross. The gods are just playing at life while I'm trying to live mine. They drop 20 grand on a birthday fete, and I hope I have 20 dollars for a birthday party I'm going to tomorrow.

Plautus and his fellows were growing tired of the influence, the power, the importance of the gods. They were realizing that they didn't have to show them the deference of yore. The gods are what we make them, after all, and not the other way around.

Play ball, Plautus!

Alfonso's Quote

2010-09-30T14:11:00.005-04:00

"If I had been present at creation, I would have given some useful hints"

- Alfonso the Wise (1221-1284)

Not knowing who Alfonso was, I looked him up. He was a king! Among things that he would probably rather be known for, he was the brother of Eleanor of Castile, who married Edward I of England (also known as Edward Longshanks). It all comes back to England somehow, in the end. If it doesn't...I'm not as interested.

But how funny is this quote? It seems as though Mr. the Wise has a dry sense of humor, which I can certainly appreciate. I've been told that I have a dry sense of humor, though exactly what this means I cannot explain. I've never heard of anyone as having a wet sense of humor, but the thought makes me wrinkle my nose in disgust.

But still, good old Alfonso was being quite funny some 700 years ago when he insinuated that he would have made some better choices about creation. I wonder what he would have changed?

I found out that he married a 10 year old girl who was thought to be barren for four years. He almost had the marriage annulled until she finally proved her fecundity by bearing him 10 children. Was he saying that he would have changed something about marriage or children? No doubt he had some ideas on how to make that whole business better, as he had several bastard children.

Or, as he was very learned, maybe he was angered by the often intense stupidity of man.

Maybe I'm crediting him too warmly. It could be that he wasn't upset with man as much as upset with God. After all, if man is dumb or marriage dull, we should just be irked by the one who made the whole lot!

Or, maybe he just saw an aardvark.

It was actually in reference to Ptolemy's treatise on astronomy. He thought it was so good that God should have taken advice when creating the heavens.

It doesn't seem as dry or funny now. I think he might have meant it literally. Maybe this is wet humor? Wet humor = when you are being serious but other people think you are a bit ridiculous. If that makes sense, I have another example: marrying a 10 year old girl.

Woody Allen's Typewriter

2010-09-28T18:21:00.004-04:00

How can I believe in God when just last week I got my tongue caught in the roller of an electric typewriter? - Woody Allen

I'm pretty sure that most people just think that this is a funny quote. HA! Clever, quirky, odd Woody Allen. Isn't he funny? See how he deflected the (possible) question that proceeded his answer?

I didn't really laugh. My brain went mad with other thoughts.

1. I've never used a typewriter.

2. I hate every Woody Allen movie I've ever seen.

3. Most people will insist on their disbelief in God because of bad things that happen to them or anyone else they've ever met. They miss the point.

So, which of these to tackle? Surely I won't have enough time to adequately address these four issues. I'm going to go with the one that is the most pressing.

I seriously hate Woody Allen movies. They are supposed to be 'darkly funny', 'ingenious', 'an actor's dream', and so on and so forth, until I feel that everybody is dumber than me, or I am dumber than everyone else.

I think that Woody Allen movies seem like a horribly boring play in which the actors may or may not be talented but the content is so inconsistent and dull that it is impossible to tell. Similarly, a chef may be talented but cannot cook a gourmet meal with spam and circus peanuts.

I think that might be all I have to say on the subject. I don't feel as though I owe his movies the honor of dissecting them or giving them any real thought. I just find them insufferable and would rather clean a toilet than watch them. (I hate cleaning toilets and it makes me dry heave)

Well, I wrapped that up pretty quickly.

Though they are supposed to be retro and cool now, I'm rather glad that I never had to write a paper on a typewriter. I type too fast and too inconsistently to rely on something that I cannot erase with ease. The constant paper changing and clacking and liquid papering would make this blogger lose focus.

Perhaps Woody Allen's movies are still in the typewriter stage? Perhaps he is too fast and inconsistent to get it right the first time, and would like a way to rewind, erase, start again?

I doubt it.

If he isn't careful, someone might one day say "How can I believe in God when last week I had to watch a Woody Allen movie?"

Alas. God made Woody Allen. Maybe God put Woody Allen's tongue in a typewriter on purpose.

It could happen.

The Chrysanthemum Quote

2010-09-28T17:34:00.002-04:00

Austin and I went on a date last week. We went to Maggiano's, ate far too much, and then found ourselves back in the car at a truly embarrassing hour. 8:43 P.M. to be exact.

With not enough time to go shopping (we totally both love to shop whilst on a date) or see a movie, we decided to...just...drive...until...we...found...LOOK! BORDERS!

We should have felt completely and totally lame to be walking around a bookstore on a date. But we didn't. We love to read. We love to be surrounded by books, even if we aren't reading. So we walked in, sat down, and stared at each other. So I decided to...just...walk...around...until...LOOK! BARGAIN BOOKS!

Lately, there hasn't been much for us to say to each other. We are getting on just fine, thank you very much. But life is doing a complicated dance step, and neither of us have learned this particular number. At the end of the day, my AdonisApolloAragorn is tired, full of stress, and doesn't know what to do to change his circumstances. I'm little help. In fact, I might be pushing things in the negative direction, because I have my own woes as of late. I feel as if I repeat my actions and words and feelings day after day, and I continue to turn the hamster wheel and can only lament that I cannot get out of the cage. Yes, I love my kids. Surprisingly, I even like homeschooling. I care more about food dyes than I would like, but I'm trying to let it go.

But still...we don't always have new, exciting, or even interesting things to say. Someone at his work is being a gigantical ass. Woowoo...heard that one before. Sabra got out of trouble by finding a loophole, Moira's skin can't tolerate things with aloe or Shea butter, Isla ate a hairball. Or wait, was that yesterday? It might have been next year...or...something.

So as we walked the aisle of bargain books, me stopping to admire collections of History's Most Interesting Architecture and 1001 Things To Never Tell Your Mother-In-Law, I found myself searching and longing for something to say. Anything, really.

I found a book of quotes. I'm kind of a sucker for quote books. There's always something good to be read, and when I don't have the time to find my own meaningful quip or phrase, someone has already gathered a tender bouquet of offerings just for me! A quote book is a shortcut to literary happiness; and though I prefer the scenic drive, I'll not snub the smaller jaunts. And, after all, Winston Churchill himself said "It's a good thing for an uneducated man to read books of quotations." I'll assume he meant that educated women also might like them.

I picked up the $7.99 book, The 2,548 Best Things Anybody Ever Said by Robert Byrne. I said, "Hey, it would be fun to blog about each quote. You should buy this for me! I'll write a blog a day...for...um...several years. Although I don't even get to bathe every day, so it will most likely take me a decade to write through this book. I'm never going to be a real writer, am I?"

Austin looked at me, took the book, and went to buy it. I asked if he wanted me to pick something out for him, but he said that he has neither time nor energy to read right now. (I suspect that he secretly wanted the Percy Jackson series, but he didn't give me time to go get it.)

So, I don't know. Maybe I'll write on all of them. Maybe just some. Maybe, maybe I'll just educate myself about things other than how to bloody well find Halloween candy that won't send my kids to the hospital.

Maybe I'll give Austin something to read, and something to talk about other than the gigantic ass at work.

The first quote is:

Why don't you get a haircut? You look like a chrysanthemum. -P.G. Wodehouse (1881-1975)

So. There's the literary masterpiece snippet for today. I...think...

Well. Obviously Mr. Wodehouse (of whom I know nothing...smart lady fail) was being funny. Better that that, he was being witty. Who compares a hairdo to a flower? Also, if you ever have to spell chrysanthemum, you are sure to think of Anne (with an 'e') and her love/nemesis Gilbert Blythe. It is a happy, mental kind of quote.

Other than your wittiness, Mr. Wodehouse, I'm not sure what else I can attribute your quote. But my ignorance of who needed a haircut, and of who you were and what you did, shouldn't limit your quote. It stands alone, a small piece of what you were thinking, a key to the way that you thought.

I called someone a gigantical ass. Yours is better, Mr. Wodehouse. Point to you, sir.

Wit's End

2010-09-01T14:03:00.005-04:00

I have sent the children upstairs to play while I, their teachermommy, sit and do the unthinkable. I am going to blog.

Technically we are at lunch break, which excuses me. But unless I can wrap up all of my thoughts in a clean 10 minutes, I'll be cheating.

Last night, Austin sent me a text. He was running late (shock!) and would be home even later than anticipated (how unusual!) because he lost track of time and talked too long in his meeting (a first!). After he sat in traffic (sounds so luxurious....silence....or music....and alone) he was frustrated and let me know where he was. His text (sent at a stoplight, of course) said:

At Burkitt (The main road near us)

While stirring the boiling chili, attempting to make a bottle for screaming Isla (whom I was holding...wait...who?whom?) and telling Sabra to STOP CLIMBING ON THE COUCH and gently persuading Moira to NOT DIAGNOSE EVERY TWINGE SHE EXPERIENCES, I got the text.

Without thinking, without hesitation, I flipped open my phone and told qwerty to send the following:

At wit's end

To his credit, he didn't reply. He knew that I was either yelling or being yelled at, and also making a world-class dinner. He knows that I have been dealing with situations in the house as of late that try me to the very core of my being. Sometimes I weep. Sometimes I laugh hysterically. Sometimes I close myself in our closet and he has to ask me if I have the nail scissors again (guilty).

It doesn't happen often, but I must have looked really, really scary. He told me I could go, leave, do whatever I wanted. I wanted to leave the country and not come back this year, which isn't a possibility, so really...the gift isn't all that it sounds. But still, I could just go. When Austin finally arrived after his 13 hour workday (be super jealous of pastors and teachers), he ate his dinner with the kids. I was too frazzled to eat. I also *might* have stopped by Codi's house on my way to the grocery store and *might* have eaten some leftover wedding cake that *might* have made me feel sick and spoiled my appetite. I sat with them, to give some sense of familial involvement, and then before I knew it, I was out running.

My friend Beth says that she likes to run because she gets to run AWAY from her family. Now, we all know that Beth, like myself, loves her family and would never leave them. For long. But sometimes, well. Sometimes having small kids and worrying about your best friend and your money and your kids' schoolwork and your husband's unhappiness and your extended family that NEVER STOPS being INSANE and your creepy draw towards nail scissors when life gets hectic...you just need to get out. Alone.

I'm not a great runner. I don't get to run half as often as I'd like. But I do really love it. I ran a full 5 miles last night without feeling anything but the lovely pound of my feet on the pavement. Stress makes you better at exercising, in case you haven't discovered that trick. When my mom was recovering from her aneurysm and life was hectic and horrid, I ran at least 90 minutes a day. I'm not saying it is the best option, but hey....you do what you can.

So as I ran in the thankfully descending temperature of the last eve of August, I thought. My thoughts swarmed in odd fragments, swelling sequence, and colorful frustration. I ran past a dead baby snake. Gross. Then another. Then another. Then, oddly, three dead butterflies.

While making my way to the halfway point, I tried to figure out what dead snakes and butterflies meant. I really expected to come up with something. And then I felt odd for feeling that the universe was trying to send me a sign through dead things on the road.

Dead snakes...meaning....I hate snakes and seeing them dead means...well...they were babies. Maybe I'm not supposed to have any more babies? TOO LATE, UNIVERSE! ha! I beat you to it. No more babies out of this teachermommyrunner. E.V.E.R. But dead butterflies..hmm. Butterflies go through a metamorphosis, so maybe I'm not supposed to do that? But I don't want to be the universe's caterpillar. We used to have a big tree in the back yard when I was a kid. It was beautiful, surrounded by tulips. During caterpillar-spins-a-cocoon season, the tree was covered in nasty big nets of lumpy caterpillar tombs. It made my teeth mushy while I ate breakfast. I tried not to look at it, but it was like a nasty magnet. You WILL look at the LUMPY TOOOOOMBS.

And then I tried to wrestle my thoughts back so something helpful. I didn't need Mushy Teeth Syndrome while running. If I thought too long about those nasty nets, I wouldn't be able to eat for the rest of the night. Even writing about them make me feel like I'm chewing them. Gross.

So my mind hopped to my text: at wit's end.

I've always thought of that saying as a way to convey one's immediate proximity to the end of their ability to cope. It is the last signpost before glazed eyes and nail scissors.

But then, for the first time, I realized that one of my favorite words is in there. Wit! I love that word. If I say that someone or thing is witty, it is a high praise indeed.

I love the saucy, quippy, intellectual humor that is wit. I am in awe of the witty phrases sprinkled through literature, and I love those that can pepper their own world with its warm scent.

So, I thought to myself, am I really at the end of my wit?

This obviously necessitates the question of whether or not I posses such a thing, but I'm on a deadline to get back to teaching and I'm already 20 minutes late.

Let's just color my world happy and say that I am or at least can be, a little, somewhat, sometimes.

Last night I think I was getting awfully close to the end of the wit rope. I hate that I am not a good enough time scheduler (irony alert) to make my life work in conjunction with my responsibilities. I can do the mommy thing. I can do the writer thing. I can do the friend thing. I can clean my house...haha. But I can't seem to shuffle the pieces together correctly.

Do you remember those little puzzles that have moving pieces? There's one empty space, and you have to move one piece around, then move another, then move the first one back a step, until you have a picture? That's what I feel like I'm doing with my life.

I'm moving things around, but I'm still not getting a picture. I just have an irritating puzzle. The puzzle taunts me.

When I got those puzzles as a kid, and even now when my kids get them, I usually either throw it away or cheat and take the pieces out. I'm not really sure how to apply that to life.

But I hope that my picture doesn't have dead baby snakes. My wit doesn't extend quite that far.

Flying Pants

2010-08-23T20:52:00.004-04:00

You might have noticed a distinctly large pause in my retelling of our lovely Ireland trip. I'm not attempting to chuck it out the window, but I also feel that I shouldn't keep you waiting for the next installment of What's Happening To Beatrice.

I started homeschooling my kids today. Well, 2/3 of them. The remaining 1/3 took a few tentative crawling steps today, so I guess I could claim that I'm teaching her something. Mostly she just wanted to get her chubby little fists around another pair of Polly Pocket pants that would cause her (again) to choke and me to run (again) for the phone to (again) call 911.

But back to the 2/3. Just as an interesting side note, I've always liked fractions. I cannot explain this, but I've always felt that in the mysterious and yet still frighteningly dull world that is everyday mathematics, fractions are the most like letters. I've always had somewhat of an obsession of counting letters and syllables and separating conversation into equal or comparable parts (fractions!).

So.

I would like to tell you that I spent hour upon hour researching the best method of teaching for my future Rhodes Scholars. I should have color coded schedules of WHEN to implement, HOW to execute, WHY to teach. I would also like to tell you that I read the introduction to each textbook, and have lesson plans for at least the next month.

But I don't. I'm putting that out there because...well...because I am. I'm hoping that other parents might read this and feel really, really good about their own parenting and/or teaching skills. *Or* they just might feel that they aren't the only ones who are flying by the seat of their pants. And then, if they are even more like me, they will wonder how you fly by the seat of your pants anyways. Where on pants should one fly? In my opinion, pants should be stationary objects. Legs inside the pants can of course be called upon to walk...but pants moving about of their own volition would be terribly frightening and a reason to go inside and lie down until you don't see moving pants anymore.

I'm excited and terrified and ready and unprepared to be teaching my kids this year. I don't want to wax poetic/insane about why I'm choosing to keep them home. Let's just say that the matter is complicated and this seemed the best option.

But in parenting, as in life, I find that the rules and the expectations are sometimes too complex that I cannot even bear to think of how much more I can take before utterly breaking apart and writing wax poems about flying pants.

Should I be frank? I'd rather be hazel. But I'll go with conventional wisdom here.

My house burned in June. Not a kitchen fire that you might expect from one who literally burns the first grilled cheese every stinking time. Not even a contained fire that has us renovating the downstairs bathroom. Short of the entire house burning to the ground in a pile, our house is ruined. The outside seems the same, aside from a black flame of cakey smoke on the garage brick. But inside...inside, my house is gone.

The insurance will fix it, so they say. Most days, I'm pretty hopeful that no matter how difficult Allstate Insurance has been, (you read it here folks!) they will make the house livable again.

But first we had to wait. We had to step through puddles of grimy muck and recognize the Monet print that my dad bought me for Christmas when I was 15. We had to look at the perfect shade of red paint, peeling now in patches to reveal that all of Painter Austin's hard work last year was now literally up in smoke.

We talked to an adjuster. Then another. Then the first one. Then the second one's boss. Then another and another and another and I'm not exaggerating.

Our amazing friends and church family helped us clean the refrigerator that Austin swears was more disgusting than the time he had to peel a fried cat off our car engine. (Sorry...hope you aren't eating.) They pulled our things out of boxes, took pictures, wrote down each item, and made jokes while we tried to feel lighthearted about this ridiculous new project that we don't really have time or heart or stomach for.

And it all seemed to be ok. In fact, it seemed almost comically unbelievable.

And then one Saturday, while working in the heat of a hideously warm southern summer, I pulled two small hats out of a dirty box. Flies swarmed around my hands, covered in gloves, covered in black ash. I had written down individual brands, sizes, colors of pants, shoes, toys, dishes, pictures, dolls, books, blankets. I felt sad sometimes, but really...I know that life is so much more important than the things we keep.

But the two hats...they were something different. I held them, sat on the dirty floor of the burned out room that used to be our garage. And, hopefully kept secret by my breathing mask and sunglasses, I cried. I cried and couldn't stop crying. The little pink Mickey Mouse hats had my girls' names sewn on the back, recalling a lovely Disneyland vacation. And for whatever reason, they made it hard to breathe, made the fire hard to bear. The rivulets of grimy tears were still etched on my face hours later when I came to my parent's house, now my home, to bathe.

Finally in the comfort and security of a hot shower, I tried to wash away the feeling that I had let my children down. I tried to fumigate the smoky feelings of inadequacy and failure. I scrubbed at my nails, I scrubbed at my legs, and I scrubbed at the idea that things matter...but they don't...but they do.

I can't say that I'm over the feelings yet. Every time I visit the burned house (as it is now called in Cagle vocabulary) I try to remind myself that a house is just a house, even when it was a home. Every time I'm away for a few days, I tell myself that it isn't as bad as I am making it out to be. The walls are still there.

So...what does homeschooling have to do with flying pants? I'm not sure. Throw in my sad thoughts about Mickey hats and my wreck of a home and I don't know how to tie it all together.

I guess I will go for the obvious and say that when you aren't sure how to teach your kid math and when you aren't sure why the small stitched hats make you cry, you have to remember that in the end...it probably isn't as bad as you are making it out to be. Right?

I could be bordering on delusion, but what I've told myself is that when it is hard for me to teach multiplication and why we must learn about nomads, I can just set it aside and at least build up the walls of the kids' education. Make them love to learn, and the rest can fall into place. They don't have to know why yet, but they do have to want to know why. Fan the flame of love of learning and the resulting warmth will take them farther than mere facts and figures.

When it is hard for me to wait up for Austin to get home, and when I wonder why I must learn about patience (grocery shopping with three whole children) I can just set it aside and build up those things that make my family what it is. We laugh together. We spend money on hats with our names on them, even though we'll only wear them once.

It probably doesn't make any sense, or, *gasp* sounds like the last section of Eat,Pray,Love in which the author gets so obscure in her desire to make sense that she she borders on Great Aunt Martha kind of crazy.

But I kept the hats. They are full of smoke and are permanently smudged with the thick, greasy nastiness that is fire aftermath. But they are reminders of what is important, even when you are throwing out everything you have.

Days, The Second and Third

2010-08-08T19:25:00.010-04:00

Well.

We left off with me in Ireland, full of tea and toast, and already confused again with the electric shower. I conquered it last year, but as I was so very sleepy, I took a very cold and then blazing hot shower (do you KNOW how much it HURTS to shave in cold water?!) before Austin pulled on a cord and them proceeded to have himself a nice, normal, hot shower. I did likewise the next day, and remembered yet again how easy the electric shower is. Stoopid me. Stoopid bleeding legs.

We slept the very deep sleep of three people who have no idea what time it is, and therefore are confused to the point of weeping. We were SUPER smart and booked ourselves to arrive for our first *real* day in Galway...on a Sunday. That's right, folks. Pastor Austin and myself (and Isla B.) had to get our still confused, still sleepy selves out of bed and ready for church at a hideous hour. Austin insisted that he wasn't tired, that he'd never felt better. Austin lies sometimes. It isn't his best trait.

Off we trotted to Discovery Church, enjoying the friends from last time, and drinking as much tea as possible to ward off the crazy feelings of my-body-is-floating-6-hours-behind-where-is-my-squishy-pillow-please? I'm sorry to say that although I thought I was ok...ish that day, I clearly was OUT OF MY HEAD because I didn't take any pictures. I guess I was thinking that...well...I don't know. Maybe I was trying to blend in and didn't want to feel the tourist? (Bwahaahaa..nah)

After a lovely lunch with friends (can't even remember what I ate! good grief...the JETLAG) we went back to the house...and...then...ZZZZZZZZ. Austin still insists that he wasn't sleepy. Mmkay.

We are now at Monday, July the 26th. We felt much more like real people, and were ready to eat Galway. And also, visit. Our friend Paul (who hasn't given me his permission to be named in the world's most popular blog) drove us into Galway's city centre. I was very, very glad to see the sheep. I heart Irish sheep.

So here we are, ready to revisit Shop Street, home of all things fun and fair. I cut my hair several weeks ago (well, I PAID someone to do it...which isn't a given with me) and at first I loved it and now I hate it. These pictures make me cringe. I know, I know...we are always our hardest critics. But...I'm pretty hard on others, so maybe that isn't true? I think WOWZA look at those hideous bangs that are flat. And YAHOO my hair went from wavy (normal) to just blah (happens every few years, don't know why) and what GREAT TIMING! Because it isn't like I'm already busy hating my body 8 months after Isla. NOTE: If you haven't had a third child, don't do it! I mean, if we're going to be totally selfish here, that is. Isla=love her. 3rd child body that is NOT obeying me AT ALL=not the best way to wake up in the morning. (There are people with no feet. There are people who have both sex organs. There are people who have necksag that looks like female underparts. I choose to be grateful.)

But here is our lovely Shop Street! Ahh....take it all in, folks. It goes on and on, full of horrible tourist shops, lovely crepe stops, pubs galore, and clothes I'll never afford (and some I wouldn't want to). It is always bustling, full of interesting things to do and see, and lined with street performers who do amazing/creepy/funny/scary/talented things.
Here's a sand sculpture guy who has a tool in his right hand, cigarette in his left. With his brown velvet jacket and crazy hair, he would suddenly sweep upwards to a standing position, and take a long drag from his smoke. He would stare off down the road, turn, stare at the sky, and then bend back to move a few granules of sand that would eventually make all the difference in his craft. It was rather clever.
I walked past this pub hundreds of times on our last trip. At least, it felt that way. I never, ever thought of the (sick? clever?) irony of the name, The King's Head. Ouch.And you, my fair love. Ahhh, how I've missed your decadent cakes of fluff and light and delicately sugared custard! You made me gain 7 pounds last time. Sigh. Yes, I'll come sit and visit for awhile. You are a good friend, Griffin's Bakery, and I owe it to you. I won't be happy when I return and my pants are too tight. But I'll have the memory of us.

Just look at it. The berries...the freshly whipped cream...the hidden crunchy toasted coconut.
Bread by any other name...

Raspberries, honey glazed confection, jam filled heart. Ah, how you swell my hips and spirits.

So simple, so divine, so happy to see me.

Um. This is quite simply because it is mentioned in the Bridget Jones books. Yes, I'm that kind of reader.

After our lovely jaunt into the city centre, we had dinner with some Irish friends, ate two kinds of potatoes on the same plate, had 8 cups of tea and drove home. Isla is still the world's best traveling baby. And, Austin and I are Very Full Of Food.

Come back tomorrow (unless my children drag me bodily from the computer like last time) to hear about Day 4, in which we visit The Cliffs of Moher!

Day, The First

2010-08-06T10:26:00.007-04:00

In an effort to meet all the needs of my friends who asked to please be packed into my suitcase for the Ireland trip, I'm going to write a trip play-by-play (sans banal conversation or bathroom trips unless very interesting). This is my effort of supreme love for you, my friend and reader, in the hopes that you will feel as enchanted and relaxed and amused by the events as I was and am.

Well.

Staying true to fashion, I packed my suitcase a mere handful of hours before we were to be at the airport. I had the kids' suitcases packed, I had their medicines and toiletries and peanut free snacks packed. I remembered their favorite stuffed animals and pillows and blankets. After all that packing, I could hardly keep from just throwing random clothing items into my own suitcase and calling it finished. After all, I mused, what need had I for fashion on this trip? I needed jeans and shoes and a shirt. If I wore it three times, well...it wouldn't be the first time that Europe had met with a young dirty adult snapping pictures of everything in their path.

So we dropped the older girls with the first set of Amazing Friends Who Love Us and then, Austin, Isla and Your Favorite Blogger leisurely drove down the road to have a cup of frozen yogurt and head towards the airport.

But. I suddenly remembered that in my packing frenzy of I-don't-care-I'm-laissez-faire, I forgot socks. I hate socks. I have two whole drawers of all kinds of socks that are just waiting for me to sort them. When a kid needs socks, they go to the drawer and hope to get kid socks, as opposed to men's dress or women's athletic. They know better than to hope the socks will match. But ugh...socks. Still, I would need them for the closed-toe-shoe holiday this would be.

So. A quick run to Target to find socks. And bottles for Isla! Crap. I forget everything. Ok...I also might need A CAMERA BATTERY!

Suffice it to say that we went to four different stores and then made it to the airport with enough time to dazzle the Delta folk with Isla's cute face and get on an earlier flight. Huzzah! We would now have more time in the Atlanta airport to have dinner!

And then...as they always do...the cranky powers that be that determine/ruin travelers' plans, told us that we now had to sit on a runway for one entire hour, in July, with no cool air. I did not lose my mind, but I did despair of the all natural deodorant that I now insist on wearing as it isn't linked to causing cancer. I'm happy with the no-cancer link. But in these moments of stress and heat and humidity and closeness to other humankind and the man in front of me who INSISTS on LEANING HIS CHAIR BACK even though the safety video clearly states that now is NOT THE TIME, I miss my good old anti-perspirant.

So, we finally took off, me saying prayers over and again that the plane wouldn't lose an engine and a wing or have a terrorist on board.

We landed in Atlanta, quickly made our way to the next gate, and then looked for food. It was past dinnertime, and our bellies had not been fed airplane pretzels. We walked happily up to one location, only to have one very rude, unhappy, and let's face it, ugly girl tell us that WE ARE CLOSED! and that WE AIN'T GOT NO FOOD LEFT FOR Y'ALL.

Repeat this three times and I'm wondering why anybody likes Atlanta.

Finally found the Prince of Atlanta, who served me some sort of spinach and broccoli concoction wrapped in bread. It tasted like heaven and I thought positive thoughts about him towards his general direction. I hope he gets a raise and then is the manager for all those other not nice people.

Woohoo! Time for Delta flight whatever (I try not to memorize the flight number as it makes me fear that I hear it on the news, saying that it has blown up) to Amsterdam! We got on board, got a lovely seat in a front row area (behind first class, but of course) and there was an EMPTY seat next to me! I knew it was going to be amazing. We would be able to put Isla between us and stretch out! Hurrah!

And then. The Dreaded Look. You know, when the person you see has realized that he/she has to sit next to you, and you are both unhappy about it?

There is some sort of cosmic force that passes between eyes in The Dreaded Look. You exchange your distaste of their person, you recognize that you will fight to the death for your share of the armrest, and you will steal their pretzels when they go to the restroom. The Dreaded Look is nearly fatal when a baby is involved. He took one look at my sweet, perfect Isla, and he turned and had the cheek to ask a stewardess to change his seat. It.Was.ON.

If I could stomach such a sight, I would have willed Isla to vomit on him. Instead, she smiled and laughed and cooed and even though everyone on the whole plane fell in love with her, he was impervious to her charms and I'm quite sure was carrying a bomb in his shoes.

The next seven hours (gross) passed with some sleep, zero crying from World's Most Perfect Baby, and some of the very worst airplane food I have ever looked at. I went without any food for seven plane hours, which everybody knows is 35 regular hours.

We arrived in Amsterdam! Confused, bedraggled, and ready for some tea, we scouted the area for breakfast. It was around 3pm.
Lucky for us, the lovely Dutch had fresh kiwi-strawberry juice, hot tea with real, non-scary milk from happy cows, and some sort of quiche/pasty hybrid. Austin just had coffee as he had opted for the scary airplane breakfast. And then he had to go to the bathroom. Airplane food...it shouldn't be this way. Paying shouldn't have been hard. But we didn't have Euros yet, so I just handed her my debit card. And she pointed at the little machine. Which was allllll in Dutch.

I don't speak Dutch. T'was slightly humbling.

After our 'fast food' breakfast on real plates with real knives and glasses, we looked for a souvenir of our quasi-Amsterdam visit.

I'm going to dazzle you here with my complete honesty about my complete stupidity. I cringe before you, naked (not really) and ignorant.

I asked Austin (quietly, as I at least had the wisdom to know that I was dumb) why all the gift shops had, alongside the famous tulips and magnets referring to soft drug use, things that said, Holland. Hello? Amsterdam is in The Netherlands!

My spouse looked at me. Blinked. Looked again. Then a a smirky smile lit up his eyes. He explained that The Netherlands and Holland were one and the same. Damn my bad geography and ignorance. So glad I asked him quietly.

We bought an Amsterdam Starbucks mug, which I realize is a little cheesy and not really an authentic sort of souvenir. But it was better than the plastic wooden Holland clogs, and quite honestly, I like it.

We now had an hour to pass before getting on a plane to Dublin. Austin wanted to sit at the gate. I wanted to not sit. Ever.Again.

We compromised by not sitting while looking at the duty-free selections of nasty fish in a jar.

After giggling at pickled herring and drooling over Stroopindewaffles, we decided to go wait at the gate. But first....a picture MUST.

Austin obliged because I told him he had to OR ELSE. Yes, I felt kind of stupid holding painted wooden tulips and grinning madly while thinking of my sister. But it is a good picture, and that's why I have good vacation memories. Viva la embarrassing picture unless it involved nudity.

While waiting for our plane, I asked something about my lipstick. It is new, it is bright, and I kind of love it. Austin let me know that he didn't share my opinion. I told him that he might not like it because, at the moment, I happen to be wearing a black shirt and no other makeup. He laughed and said no...he doesn't like it because it is ugly.

I pouted a bit.

And then I applied more.

We get along in a rather grand way. And when we don't, I take pictures to punish him.

Technically, the day kept going. We flew to Dublin and then drove with our friend Paul Cullen to Galway (he gets lost all the time and I'm not sure why or how, but my sister suffers from a similar affliction so I just sigh and laugh) and with tea and toast we celebrated our arrival into Ireland. But I was zoning out big time and if you told me I married Holland's Prime Minister I would believe you. Jetlag, that specific stepsister of fatigue, is an odd beast.

So we consider this the end of my first day of vacation. Yes, it was spent traveling. But as you can see, it didn't go dully by.

Come back tomorrow to enjoy Day, The Second.

De-Served

2010-06-23T22:35:00.005-04:00

I've heard a quote that essentially says "I might have deserved my enemies, but I didn't deserve my friends."

I'm not going to look it up and give you the impression that I knew who said it. The information is out there, I know. But at the moment, it doesn't matter who said it.

Be it Benjamin Franklin, Shakespeare, Jane Austen or Austin Cagle, it is a true statement.

It jumps into the realm of indescribable to talk about friendship. Like love or wonder or hope, it has a ring of magic to it that is only understood, and almost never properly explained.

The only way I have of describing friendship is to say that once I had a friend, I felt unalone in the world. Unalone is not a word, don't bother looking it up. But it is a better choice for my feeling than to say I felt like someone understood me or that I felt that everything would turn out in the end. I do love when friendship makes me feel that I'm understood. But it doesn't, always.

The highest compliment I can stutter is that my friends, my good and lovely friends, make me feel that even when they don't understand or have an answer or even have a cup of coffee to share with me, they are there. Their presence soothes me even from afar. It is a great and wondrous thing to be unalone in the world. If you've ever been alone, you'll understand what I'm saying.

For a few months, Austin, Moira and I stayed with a friend. We were between houses, as I like to say. He gave us a room and my aunt gave us two mattresses and we lived very gratefully in our little room and took turns sleeping in the crack of the two makeshift beds. It was a very, very sad time. Not because I didn't have a home, necessarily, or because I had to work at Old Navy (the horror) but because I didn't have friends. I was between houses, and also between friends. I couldn't deal with the great and consuming feeling of loneliness.

I don't tell you much about these kinds of things, but I prayed every night for friends. I know, you are feeling really sad for me because I was such a sorry loser. But I did. Again and again. Crying all the while, tired of feeling alone.

I've been happily settled with a home and friends for some time now. I've been grateful. But every once in awhile, I realize just how undeserving and lucky I am.

Are you confused because I'm talking about something happy? Lucky you, I've been taking my meds on a (sort of) regular basis.

Just to keep you good and alert, we are now going to talk about enemies.

I have few enemies. I have lots of people that I don't care for, and even more people that annoy the snot right out of my nasal passages. I'm not naturally a nice person. I don't say this with a sneer. I really respect the quality of niceness in other people. It baffles me. The first person that ever shocked me with this gift, Dara Green Shultz, is just......NICE! She's so amazing to be around. She thinks the best of EVERYBODY and doesn't say mean things. Not even about people she doesn't know! I was totally unprepared for someone that didn't say ugly things about how Jessica Simpson can't sing (she was popular at the time) or WHY Scottsdale girls always talk like their hero is Elle Woods.

I'm not nice. I think mean things about people, and I think I'm smarter and could do a better job and my kids are much prettier than theirs. It falls out of my mouth all.the.time. It is a success if I keep it inside. Even with this horrid character trait, I don't have enemies. I don't want people to hurt or feel sad or have ugly shoes. I just want them to go away.

I DO have a few people that I don't ever want to see again. Ever. If God puts then in Heaven, alrighty then. But until that time, I'm juuuuuust dandy thinking that they have chronic halitosis, genital warts and the meanest, stupidest children that ever were made.

I've had people do some pretty horrible things to me, and one day if I run out of things to talk about, I can tell you why I wish them warty. But even so, through all the bad, I could never have been prepared for the good.

How telling it is of my personality that I fully expect someone to tell my secrets, hurt my feelings, and call me fat. I'm shocked when they bring me my favorite tea for no reason. Amazed when they keep my kids yet again while I go to the hospital for something else. Totally blown away when they give me a whole car. Touched (in a good way) when they research my kids' allergies and make meals for us.

Why am I singing their praises? Well, for one, I'm kind of awkward (like a man) about telling people how amazingly wonderful they are. I could write pages and pages and names and stories about not only my very closest friends, but even those whom I'm just getting to know. I've somehow struck a goldmine of the best friends on the planet. (Extraterrestrial friends yet to come)

But mostly, I just needed to say something not nice about myself. Aha! You KNEW I wouldn't be kind for a whole blog.

I admitted to Austin a few nights ago that I have no clue why my friends are....my friends.

I don't cook. I'm really not good with kids as they somehow smell my fear. I don't sew, I don't sell cool stuff, I don't have a closet full of awesome kid clothes to give away. I don't have a clean home full of lovely things for them to enjoy. I don't really...well....do anything. I don't put together really cool thoughtful gifts and drop them off 'just because' and I can't remember the last time I thought to ask someone if they needed me to help them.

I'm not saying this to be self-deprecating. (Unless I have the definition of that word wrong, in which case I guess I might be.) I am saying it because I just want to put it out into the world: I am really, really, so very truly and totally amazed by the goodness of the people that surround me. I'm inspired to be a better friend by the acts both small and large of those whom I am lucky enough to call friend.

So...consider this your awkward greeting card. I've underlined the important parts twice, just so you'll know how much I care.

Hopefully, I'll throw you a baby shower when you finally bring your baby home. I'll cook you a meal that you'll like. I'll give a fabulous toast when you get remarried. I'll stop by 'just because' with that pair of flowered espadrilles you've been eyeing, and I'll call you crying when I cross the marathon finish line. I'll remember that you've always wanted to see the German castle that we can't spell.

Until then, thanks for making me unalone in the world.

I'll never deserve it.

But I am grateful.

Check The Label

2010-06-23T17:00:00.000-04:00

Beatrice Blount, Beatrice Blount, where have you been?

*sigh*

I've been to market, to buy an assortment of locally grown, organic, grass fed, no hormone, cage free, peanut free, soy free, tree nut free, no fresh fruits or green peas or carrots or chemicals or dyes or animal byproducts, humane and environmentally conscious bag of stuff.

It is kind of a small bag.

A small, expensive bag.

But I like the bag, and the bag (made from recycled stuff) is here to stay.

Depending on how long you've known me, you might be surprised to hear about the recent changes to the Blount family diet. If you've known me for ten years or less, you will recall that I have a penchant for Cheetos and I haaaaaaaate to cook. Hate.To.Cook.

For those select few who made it through The Great Friend Removal of 2000, you will wonder if I'm headed down 'that path' again. Rest assured that I have no intentions of further developing my food phobia, and I promise not to drop below 100 pounds again. (Snickers to self...ooh, Snickers.)

I think that I'm somewhere in the middle of the health meter for the average American person. I would never, no never, let my kids eat circus peanuts or Cool*Whip. However, their daily vitamin is administered in the form of a gummi penguin. I make them drink water, but I also let them drink Sprite. We don't eat fast food very much, but we also don't have vegetables very much either. I buy healthy grains, but I also buy sugar. I assume that we haven't been very far from average, but I could also be blissfully ignorant. It helps my self-esteem to think that other mothers feed their kids circus peanuts dipped in Cool*Whip for breakfast.

Well.

Boy with allergies meets girl with phobias, and the rest is history.

The children inherited his allergies, and they have so far only showed slight promise at the phobia gift. We'll see. For now, I'm the only phobic one.

After about 40 pokes in each of their tiny little backs, we have discovered that the kids can't eat....much.

The kids are allergic to nuts? SUPER! Because NOTHING has NUTS in it!

The kids are allergic to soy? AWESOME! Because 60% of packaged foods have it! Woot!

And so on, so forth, etc. and here I am, elbow deep in books about animal cruelty and websites about chemicals and documentaries about heart disease.

I'm not new to this world, but I haven't visited in quite some time. Last time I crossed the border I went a little nuts (wait...can't do nuts anymore...let's say crazy) and had to be removed against my own will.

So I'm sitting on the tarmac, holding my passport and wondering if I really am going to be able to stay in Healthland for awhile.

What other option do I have?

Anyways, this isn't about how disgusting meat is when produced in the (sadly) "normal" way or how much frigging corn and nasty soy are in our diet. I say nasty soy because not all soy is good for you. And even the good stuff makes me want to yak.

Really, I'm not inclined to complain very much. Just a few days after my kids were told that they are collectively allergic to: peanuts, soy, almonds, walnuts, brazil nuts, cashews, carrots, peas, fresh fruit, chemicals, dogs, cats, horses, birds, oak, grass, maple, mold, ragweed, fake fragrances, flowers, adhesives and that's all I can remember without looking at the paperwork, my friend found out that her sweet little girl can't have milk, eggs, wheat and something else I can't remember. HELLO?!

My friend has been diligently making lasagna without these ingredients. Cakes, snacks, and heaven only knows what else. I'm sure it is amazing. She is amazing and I wish I had inherited her fabumommy genes.

I've still been wandering aimlessly around the grocery stores and farmer's market stalls trying to figure out WHAT to FEED these KIDS. Cereal for dinner is losing the luster it once had. One night, my oldest was delighted to find that she could have a spoonful of honey for desert. My middle child opted out, and I felt horribly guilty when I snuck a (serving size) spoonful of Ben & Jerry's. I can sneak a bite and only worry about my thighs. They can't sneak things at all.

I always ramble a bit before getting to the point. Let's hope that the time is now upon us.

I was passing through the kitchen a few weeks ago and overheard a conversation between Moira and Sabra. Sabra can have some fruits, while Moira can't have any. We knew this before going to the allergist, so she hasn't tried many things in the produce category. Sabra was eating a pear and Moira asked her what it tasted like.

It reminded me of the scene in that angel movie with Meg Ryan...City of Angels I think. It was a perfectly stupid movie aside from the amazing soundtrack. But in the movie, Nicolas Cage (angel) asks Meg (human) what a pear tastes like. And she answers something that ends up being romantic or some such nonsense. But can you tell someone what a pear tastes like? What if that person has never had an apple or a banana or anything to compare it with?

I felt sad at first for Moira, but then when seeing that she was just curious, I let it go. It is what it is, and of all the things that can go wrong with the human body, food allergies are not in the heart wrenching category (unless, of course, they are ignored).

But it is such an odd thought.

When we left the doctor's office a few months ago, I knew that some big life changes were in order. But I've been thinking about things a day at a time. I just have to fix them a 'safe' dinner tonight. And tomorrow I'll need a safe breakfast. When we go to a birthday party, I have to bring their own safe cupcakes. It requires more planning (which I'm soooooo good at) and baking (ditto) and natural food shopping (which I'm wealthy enough for, being married to a pastor/teacher). But...it IS doable.

A few days after this No Nut Revelation, Sabra asked for her favorite candy. M&M chocolate discs of colored love are her happy thoughts that make her fly. Her birthday cake a few years ago was a giant M&M. She loves them. She made an M&M pot at the paint-your-own-overpriced-pottery place. Guess what? M&Ms are made in a facility that also processes peanuts. She can't have them. I gently told her that she couldn't have any. She rolled her eyes and told me that she didn't want the nut kind, just the regular kind. So....I explained again what her allergy meant in terms of dietary exemption.

She wept.

I know, that is kind of funny and cute and sad all at the same time. But she really did just put her head on the floor and wail. She looked up after awhile and said, "forever?" and I (with real tears in my eyes, even though it was only about sub par chocolate) nodded in the vertical affirmation that would cause her to again weep and sob and snort.

When Moira asks about a pear or Sabra sadly looks at the M&M bags, I remember that this is an inconvenient issue for me. For them...it is a forever kind of thing.

One day, Moira will be out of my home and into her own posh European flat. I won't have to worry about if the animal crackers have soy, but she will. Sabra can't eat her favorite childhood candy ever again. Never ever, not even for the sake of nostalgia. By the time she's my age, she probably won't remember what they taste like. How WEIRD is that?!

There are so many lessons I'm learning in the world of Check The Label. It is just food. But it isn't. Sometimes little wake up calls sound like a trumpet blast. Actually, more like a tuba. I like tubas better. And...one person's inconvenience is another person's EpiPen.

I can't give Sabra another M&M, and I have no idea how to explain what a pear tastes like.

Good thing I'm such an awesome cook. Wait...

The Game of Life

2010-05-25T13:42:00.004-04:00

I'm stealing some time to sit and write today. Sabra has a friend over, Isla is sleeping, and the laundry pile should have my attention. Alas, I give it to you, dear sweet computer. (You complete me....and keep me from having those 'no-no' rages that the doctor says need to be kept under control.)

What should I write? Should I regale you with the tales of my family and their recent decent into food anarchy? Perhaps I could talk about the immigration issues in my land of yore. Austin and I both lost a grandparent this month, and that definitely deserves some blogtime.

Instead, I'm wondering why I haven't had the time to write about the above issues sooner than now. And I'm instantly telling myself that 'life' happened.

What does that mean? I hear it from friends when I complain and ask why I haven't finished school yet or fit back into my lovely size 4 jeans that TAUNT ME with their cuteness. They tell me that it is 'just life' and I shouldn't get too worked up about it. After all, they say, you shouldn't be a slave to guilt....just enjoy life!

Confusion.

As always, life gets away from us. Or, life happens to us. Life just isn't what it I thought it would be. Life is for the birds, life is what life does, life is a ride, life is a journey, life is a dance.

So...

It seems as though the ubiquitous term needs a little clarification. Otherwise, I should stop insisting that 'life' itself is responsible for my life's interruptions.

I used to go to Kentucky quite a bit as a kid. My grandparents lived there in a town you might have heard of, Middle Of Nowhere. It is across the pond from Gets No Television Reception and in the county of Play Board Games For Fun. (Author has an aha! moment as she realizes why she hates board games. Hmm.) Well, we only had some old board games and Archie comics from the 1960's to keep us entertained after the sun went down. Me, my sister and cousin, and a big stack of Jughead and Bettie.

But when the comics had been read, there was Masterpiece, Trouble, Scrabble, and Life. I HATED THE GAME OF LIFE. I would go to bed early or take another bath or make up scary stories about the abandoned house in the backyard. (Which is still scary to this day. We checked last week.) The game of Life was so dull! What if I didn't want a car and little pink pegs for children? What if I wanted to not visit those white plastic buildings? I just wanted to drive around, and that was supposed to fall under the 'losing' category. Ugh. I hate board games.

I don't want to do the typical, 'here's what the dictionary says'. But let's just use it as a springboard. When you type define: life into google, you get the following. I've inserted my own thoughts, because that's what I'm here for.

•a characteristic state or mode of living; "social life"; "city life"; "real life"

Hmmm. Not helpful in this context.

•the experience of being alive; the course of human events and activities; "he could no longer cope with the complexities of life"

Ooooh. Yep, this is important. The experience of being alive! This sounds rather exciting. However, the experience of being alive would indicate...anything that suggests life. Pain, dirt, frustration, and fear indicate life insofar as they relate to the whole life experience. We like the idea of experiencing life, because I think society as a whole tends to equate 'life' in this context as the joy of breaking through monotony and really doing something (whatever that means)

•the course of existence of an individual; the actions and events that occur in living; "he hoped for a new life in Australia"; "he wanted to live his own life without interference from others"
The course of existence is subtly different from the experience of being alive. We can exist without necessarily experiencing existence. Obviously, someone in a vegetative state would fall somewhat under this category (though science is still too limited to tell us what the life of the mind can let us experience) but I know people who breathe and chew and pee and walk, and they are hardly aware of these things, let alone that ever present 'bigger picture'.

•animation: the condition of living or the state of being alive; "while there's life there's hope"; "life depends on many chemical and physical processes"

Well...I could get all kinds of philosophical on you. My dad made us philosophize at the tender age of six (and surely sooner, though I have blocked it) and so it is a very core part of my being to think of things in terms of their philosophical category and usefulness. Instead, I am thinking of that example sentence that says 'life depends on processes'. It is interesting (read: insanely infuriating) that people often say that they don't want to rely on pills or medicines or liquids or powders in order to 'get through life'. I understand what they are saying. Many people don't want to rely on a cup of coffee to wake them up, because that means their state of wakefulness is reliant upon a mere beverage. No, they would like to be in charge of their own abilities. However, it is interesting (read: actually interesting) that our bodies are a chain of chemical and physical commands and posts and processes. I can take the heart medicine. I can reject the heart medicine. In the end, I cannot control my heart. I might prolong my life by taking the pill. I might shorten my life by eating too much crappy food. But there is ultimately a greater force on whom my life, and all life, depends. This doesn't mean that we allow all things to control us. But to be a control freak to the point that you cannot rely on others or things that might help you live a good life is unnecessary. Food for thought.

•the period during which something is functional (as between birth and death); "the battery had a short life"; "he lived a long and happy life"

The lifespan of this blog might not be as long as I would wish. Alas, all things must come to an end.

•the period between birth and the present time; "I have known him all his life"
Life can give us a change, then! I have known him all his life, and he would never have forgotten Mother's Day! Unthinkable! This tells us that life has a turning point, if it is wished.

•the period from the present until death; "he appointed himself emperor for life"

I will hate tree nuts for the rest of my life.

•a living person; "his heroism saved a life"

A drooly living person is sitting in my lap, chewing on a plastic butterfly toy. I hope it doesn't teach said living person to eat bugs.

•liveliness: animation and energy in action or expression; "it was a heavy play and the actors tried in vain to give life to it"

Breath and joy and electricity and carpe diem! Ahhh, once again, the 'life' that we enjoy thinking about. Weird though, as that indicates once again that we see 'life' as existing only when things aren't heavy and boring and monotonous and flat.

•living things collectively; "the oceans are teeming with life"

So are the folds under Isla's plentiful neck. She always smells like Parmesan, even after the shower. Poor baby.

•the organic phenomenon that distinguishes living organisms from nonliving ones; "there is no life on the moon"

WhatEVER. The moon was the Garden of Eden. Everybody knows that. Life just moved on. (WHAAAAT did she just say?! Does she actually think that?) Answer: No, not really. It was in a galaxy far, far away.

•biography: an account of the series of events making up a person's life

I'm listed in someone's biography. Ten points if you know whose it was.

•a motive for living; "pottery was his life"

Writing is mine, even though I don't get to it as often as I would like. But so is Isla's fluffy face.

•life sentence: a prison term lasting as long as the prisoner lives; "he got life for killing the guard"

Must be talking about Tony Sanchez, my fifth grade bully.

Well then. Life is, as we anticipated, multi-faceted and full of indefinable complexities. But it is what it is, it is what I make of it, and it is often not what it is cracked up to be (whatever that means).

I don't always get to write when I would like to. But it isn't because life is happening to me. Life is just...happening. I happen to be here.

Mayhap I'll write tomorrow. The world, after all, needs to hear about my thoughts on time travel.

The Morning After Pill

2010-05-03T10:11:00.004-04:00

(photo credits:Rick Murray, submitted to The Tennessean)

This blog is not about abortion.

As many of you are Christians or Pro-Life, I would imagine that the title of this blog made you instantly raise your inner fists, ready for a fight.

I'm not going there.

But I thought all night about something, and as I formulated these thoughts and held them up to the light to see if they sparkled, I really set my heart on the title.

Pray proceed.

I live in Nashville, Tennessee. On May 1st and 2nd, I watched in horror and disbelief as my friends and neighbors were faced with a deluge of terror.

Most of you, Tennesseean or not, have seen footage of the immense flooding and loss that our cities faced this weekend. If you haven't yet done so, look them up. They are, in the simplest of words, unbelievable. Our city is reeling.

I watched the news station almost nonstop. Images kept pouring in, even as the tornado sirens in my neighborhood went off and our power came off and on and on and off.

Images...that stole our hearts and filled us with the sense that I can only describe by asking you to remember what it feels like to stand by the ocean. You feel small. Beside the ocean, it feels eerily comforting. When the ocean is the parking lot at your favorite restaurant, it is eerily disturbing.

Water lapped up towards the stop lights, missing them by an inch. Massive trees that have been around since before segregation were felled. Homes floated away. A woman gave birth in a safety boat as she was being rescued. A man lost his life before a boat could come to his aid.

Is that the Publix in Bellevue? I was just there last month!

Look! That's the old golf course on Blue Hole Road! My God...that man is going under the water.

The Schermerhorn is getting flooded. Oh...please let the water not touch that beauty.

All the while, calling friends. All the while, friends calling.

Are you ok? Are you safe? Did you lose anything?

All the while, telling friends that we were safe. All the while, friends telling us that they had lost their car or their garage or their electricity, or their home. Some lost their lives. I didn't know any of them. But their death, and the immense loss, fills Nashville with a different heavy cloud today.

I went to bed last night, and I thanked God sincerely for the dirty room in which I had put my children to bed. I thanked him for the huge pile of laundry that I *still* haven't done. I thanked him for my pillow and my soap and the diapers for my baby and my home that is still standing in the place it was built.

I thought with sickening sympathy of the thousands of people that share this city with me, that do not share the ability to have their own pillow, their own home, their own life. I thought of parents trying to comfort their kids at a shelter while they tried to make a small corner of a gym seem like a safe haven. I saw the exchanged looks between husbands and wives when their little girls asked them if they could go home soon. I could feel the dread of not knowing what they would do...there was no way to pay for the loss...there was no way to know when they would get their son's favorite toy that helps him sleep.

And then...

I thought of the morning after.

We've all experienced it. Something horrible, unspeakable, insurmountable, happens. We eventually put our head on a pillow, and sobbing we fall asleep.

The morning dawns, and we open our eyes. And for one very small, very precious second...we don't remember the day before. We might only have enough time to stretch our arms and wonder why our eyes sting. We might have enough time to lazily think about what kind of breakfast we'll have.

After that...the deluge.

The clipped scenes, a mental collage of all the pain from the previous day come unbidden to our hearts and we grieve anew, and sometimes more deeply than before.

I would, were I able, give something to all those neighbors of mine who are waking up this morning.

I do not want to sound crude, but if so I apologize.

The Morning After Pill was created to help people forget the night before. They want no trace of what occurred. They want no reminder. They take a pill, and life moves on.

If only we had such a device for truly terrible things. If only there was a little small thing to swallow to make the death of a loved one something that never happened. A second of bitter in your mouth, and your life came back to you...shining, untouched by tragedy, unhindered by the loss of home and life and stability.

I do not have such a thing. I cannot wish their life better this morning. My heart truly hurts as I think of those who are experiencing the seconds when the pain comes flooding back and they realize that it isn't time for work, because work is under water and they wonder if they will even have a job.

I don't have the Morning After Pill. And though it sounds so very cheesy, I do have hands...and feet...and I have (thanks be to God!) a home to share and baby clothes to give away and stuffed animals I can put in the hands of little boys who miss their favorite toy.

There are many, many ways to help the people of Middle Tennessee this morning. I'm going to my church to help do whatever they tell me to do. Cleanup or organization or handing out of goods to people in the community...I really don't care. I want to do it all.

I hope that in those minutes or hours or days that we help, we can ease the pain of those seconds of The Morning After.

(photo credits: Shelley Mays, submitted to The Tennessean)

Prior (Ah!) Ties

2010-04-26T10:02:00.006-04:00

I've always HATED when parents say that 'having children changes your priorities'.

I hated it before I became a parent. Why, oh why, should having a small person change the fact that you want to backpack your way across Germany? I couldn't understand it.

I hated it right after I became a parent. Why, oh why, should a screaming bundle of money-sucking joy change the fact that you want to sleep in on Saturdays? I couldn't understand it.

I hated it after I had my second child. Why, yada yada, does having another 'whoops, yes I mean OF COURSE you were planned' change my desire to finish school? I still hated the phrase, and the oddly smug looks of parents who said that Parenthood, in all of its splendiferous wisdom, made you suddenly able to rearrange your life into a Feng Shui mosaic of purpose.

And guess what?

Now that my third child (whoops, yes of course...) is closing in on on five months I STILL totally hate this concept.

It kind of makes sense when famous/rich/uber privileged people say that having children completely reordered their lives. If one is accustomed to spending large amounts of money on strange things that rich people dig (two laundry rooms in one house) then I guess it is quite earth shattering to have to drop all your plans to change a dirty diaper and rock a screaming child to sleep.

But for the working class citizen, the 'every day Jose' kind of fellas like you and me, well...we are used to it, no?

NO JOKE: I am now typing with only my left hand because my right one is holding Isla's bottle. Little monkey pretends she can't hold it herself yet.

So. A few weeks ago I was commenting to a fellow mother of waaay too many kids that I found losing my 'pregnancy/I Like To Eat For Any Reason' weight, ever so much harder with the third child. I was back in my size 4's a mere 6 months after having Sabra....without trying. I hate myself for this, so you don't have to make ugly remarks at my former good fortune. Anyways, I find myself 20 weeks into Isla's life and I look like I still have another baby in there. Ugh.

Surely, another mother would sympathize with me, right? Or better yet, she could tell me to just skip the sleep and get my cellulite sprinkled backside out of bed and get in shape!

Nope.

She said That Phrase. She even had that 'I am enlightened and soon you will be too but for now I'll give you my sage advice until you join the ranks of Smart Moms who only care about their children and neglect their personal life' look that makes.me.crazy.

She told me that I wouldn't/shouldn't care about my physical appearance now because I had 'more important' priorities.

I stared at her for longer than I should have. I have a very, very unfortunate inability to hide my thoughts when I'm sleepy or stressed (so...all the time). I think I just smiled awkwardly and then walked away.

But it stayed with me.

I doubted it, I raged against it. I questioned it, I cried. And then....I was simply back at irritation.

Why?

Well, I don't feel that my priorities are any different. If I had a magic lamp or a winning lottery ticket or some other magical device, I would wish for pretty much the same things.

1) I want to pay off debt and be financially 'set'. This way, Austin could be home with the kids more, and he wouldn't be a big ball of stress. Also, I could buy all the iTunes and tote bags I wanted. (Never underestimate the value of a tote bag or great playlist)

2) I want to travel. I want to go to Vienna and hear the street violinists and walk the halls of Schonnbrun. I want to be a groundling at The Globe for a performance of Much Ado About Nothing. I want to stick my feet under the blue waters in Santorini. I want to take my history loving Moira to see The Tower of London and let Sabra marvel at the sparkling jewels. I don't know yet what Isla will want to see, but I want to take her to see it! I just want to feel the sway and hear the click of cultures around the world, now so foreign to me.

3) I want to write. I want to write what I want, and what I think, and what I feel and can't understand. I'd be a big liar if I said it didn't matter if anyone read what I have to say. But really, in the end, I want to do it regardless. I have books in my head. They might suck. But one day, I want The Book to just jump out of my fingers and into the world of literary galaxy that swirls with all kinds of magical delights.

These, my big three wishes, co-exist with my responsibilities as a parent. I want to hug a big fat Nona in Roma as much as I did before children. Now, I just have to buy a few more plane tickets.

So, where did This Hideous Phrase originate?

I guess that one could look at my life and make a strong argument that I don't have the same priorities. Otherwise, how could I let my kids get in the way of writing? Shouldn't I just ignore their cries of 'Mommy she hit me, Mommy she stole my doll, and Mommy Sabra keeps taking her clothes off and sitting on my favorite pillow'?

When I think of it in this manner, it does seem that I have fallen prey to The Phrase that I so detest. I spend more of my day dressing dolls and dispensing medications than I would like to admit, and many such days pass while I remain unshowered, unOFFICIALLY educated, and unsatisfied with my current stage in life. Have I reprioritized? If so, when did it happen, and why did I let it occur?!

(Side note: since last update, I have changed hideous diaper, unwittingly smeared yellow poo on my forehead, tried to convince Isla to watch Baby Einstein, and am back at bottle holding while typing with my right hand. )

It is often said that anything is possible if you just want it badly enough. This is a truth that wears liar's clothing. Anything is indeed possible. Space travel, a smart female (non-Alaskan)President, and a winning lottery ticket are possibilities. But they aren't all my possibilities. Who knows? Maybe I'll be president someday. But probably not.

With faith, with determination, with God, all things are yet possible. But they aren't all possible for me. I am not the center of the world, even in my own world! It is a bitter pill to swallow. I may never have a critically acclaimed novel. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't write it. I may never hear Vienna's violins. But that doesn't mean I shouldn't strain my ears now and again to see if their tunes waft through the wind.

So what of The Phrase?

I think that I have determined there is a small, yet quite distinct, difference between responsibilities and priorities.

Responsibilities are those things we must do, day in, day out, without fail. I have to breathe, I have to eat, I have to drink good tea. Priorities (at least in my definition) are those things that remind us, in the depth of responsibility boredom, that we are more than breathing and eating and even good tea. They are 'prior ties' to our real self. I am as I was before I had children. I am hopefully wiser, and definitely older. I am also more in need of tote bags. But I am still me, and I can hopefully find a way to bring my children into those areas of life that I feel define my existence.

My priorities haven't really changed with children. My responsibilities, however....

I am responsible for feeding my children. If I don't, they will be hungry. They will think I don't care for them. I will be guilty of a grave error, and will be judged in this world and the next. It doesn't rank high on my list of things I want to accomplish at the day's end. But it is there, and it is at the top of a list that tops all priorities.

Who would read and heed the writings of a woman who didn't take care of her children? That woman would have little to say and less to respect.

Such a woman, such writings, are not to be borne.

But my kids were.

So now I have my responsibilities. Sometimes they make me want to run away and find my Roma Nona. But she would chide me.

"Go home!" she would say. "Feed your babies! There is time yet for you."

I hope there is. Even if I have to stop to wipe the baby poo off my forehead.

Chocolate Communion

2010-04-03T23:51:00.005-04:00

This week I went shopping for Easter candy.

This is the first year in my parental history that I remembered to buy Easter things. I know, I know...I shouldn't be such a wretched parent, I should remember my kids' feelings, yada and such.

My excuse thus far has been that my kids' birthdays literally hug Easter in their calendar proximity. After the birthday fetes, why oh why should I add to their stash o' toys by just buying more stuff?

Every year, my mother tells me that they need Easter baskets. And every year I scramble at quite the last minute, buying bunnies with broken, hollow, sub par chocolate ears. It should be noted that my mother only remembers my birthday because I write it on her calendar. And now she guilts me into buying Easter baskets for her darling grandchildren.

However, this year we didn't do birthdays the same way (more on that later) and so I thought a small basket would be in order. After obtaining the necessary financial backing from my business partner, I thought about what I should include in these festive wicker receptacles.

Moira has been asking for a 'real' Bible, so that was really the top of the list. Austin greenlighted the appropriate translations for his mini-me, and I had the arduous task of deciding on the color of the cover.

Um...they don't really need socks...hairbows....crayons....hmm. What should I get? A big fat no to any more toys, and even their book collection is getting really big (I've inherited my father's problem/gift of obsessive book buying/reading) and I don't want to buy stuff just to have stuff.

It really did take awhile for me to realize that getting some candy would be an acceptable idea. I'm soooo very healthy and my kids never, ever eat candy. (Snort)

The thing is, I have thrown BUCKETS upon GALLONS of candy away during the last few years. When any normal child gets candy in their goody bag, trick-or-treat sack, Christmas stocking or such, they usually eat it. Maybe not all of it, especially when the trick-or-treat bag yields those odd brown paper wrapped candies that have no writing, ingredient list or brand name. These candies frighten me and are immediately thrown away because they are probably causing nuclear fallout in the Zhinishan Desert.

My kids choose two or three things from any such candy giveaway, and then ignore the rest. I can leave it in the middle of the table and they will only make piles with it according to size, color, or addition of allergens (largest pile). So, I don't really buy them much candy. They just don't like it all that much.

But.

They loooove good chocolate. For whatever reason, my dad started feeding little bits of his 'secret stash chocolate' to the kids when they were hardly able to eat Cheerios. He likes very dark chocolate, and keeps it hidden somewhere until my mom finds it and he has to move it again. Therefore, my kids have learned to love good quality chocolate, even the really dark stuff. When we pass by Godiva, they pick out a truffle. And they eat it. And they don't scream for a whole bag of it.

Why is this?

Because it is good stuff, and when something is that good, it satisfies!

Think about it. If you had the choice of a whole bag of Hershey or a single well-crafted truffle, which would you choose?

I would take the good stuff any day. It satisfies in a way a whole truckload of the other stuff just can't.

I've heard many people say that they don't let their kids have 'nice' things because kids just can't appreciate it.

Ouch.

I disagree with this way of thinking, and that's our topic of the day!

I'm somewhat in love with Philosophy shower gels, and have been such a lucky girl that I have a few bottles of it in my shower. It isn't Dial soap, and it certainly isn't something I buy every week. But I let my kids use it when they shower because they learn at a young age that they have worth. They know that I'm sharing something with them that is more than soap, and that I'm letting them in on something that makes ordinary things a little more special. When I run out, they run out as well! And then we use cheap bar soap until the next bottle of happy shower gel arrives. But we share it either way.

A kid knows when you aren't sharing. They have a wicked sense about these things. Try to sneak a chocolate when they aren't looking, and they will catch you most of the time. They know that there is a big difference between the plastic plate you hand them and the china plate you get for yourself. Sometimes they don't care. But, at least in my case, they usually do.

I haven't been able in good conscience to tell my girls that they cannot have a real fork or glass because they might mess it up. Quite honestly, I have just as much a chance at breaking something as they do. And more importantly, I'm not worth any more than they are. I don't get myself a glass because I'm important or because I've earned it. I get a glass because I'm thirsty and need a drink, and I need a way to fulfill that need. The receptacle matters as much as I allow it to. And when I attach so much worth to that vessel that my child cannot be included...well, I think that starts down an ugly path.

As I was thinking about this issue, which is lately of importance to me, I was reminded of communion.

Depending on which flavor of the church you scoop, you may or may not be accustomed to children receiving Holy Communion. I grew up in an area of the church that was kiiiind of against it but not really because that would be offensive and if you seemed to be listening to the sermon, they'd let it slide this time and you could receive. Austin grew up in an area of the church that included children in this holy act.

All denominations have their weaknesses and strength. Community was a strength in his church, particularly in the area of sacraments.

We've probably all heard someone say that kids shouldn't have the Body and Blood because they 'don't understand it'. Obviously we could tell such a person that she most likely doesn't understand it either, because nobody can understand the full mystery. But then the bigger issue is when we remember that Jesus himself said that the children should come to him, and not be kept from him. Yowza. That's pretty easy to understand.

Children don't know about theology, they don't know long passages of Scripture, and they sure don't know how to sit still in church for very long. But they know how to eat, and they know how to drink. And, they know how to love. There isn't much more that is required to come to the table of the Lord besides those simple things. Love, real love, includes hope and repentance and sincerity. My kids are probably better candidates for the Lord's Supper than I am. They know that Jesus told us to, and that Jesus loves them, and that all you have to do is drink this wine and chew this bread. How simple is that?

I don't want my children to be barred from communion for the same reasons I don't want them to miss good chocolate.

If you are worth it as an adult, you are worth it as a child. Children have an amazing ability to understand when they are being honored and included. If you teach a child that they are only worth circus peanuts from the dollar store, they will have a really hard time learning that they are worth the finest chocolate. If you teach a child that they are only worth going to class to glue popsicle sticks and cotton balls on a Jesus cutout, they will have a really hard time learning that they are worth the body, and the blood, that Jesus gave them.

So this Easter, I'm giving my kids a new Bible and a Godiva chocolate bunny. Because they are worth all of those things, and so much more.

I hope they get the message, even if they don't really understand.

By the time they do understand, they will know that they are deeply loved and appreciated not only as my children, but as fellow Christians and part of the eternal community of faith.

Jesus wanted the children to come to him, just as they were, with chocolate smeared cheeks and cowlicked hair. He would have shared his finest china, or shower gel, or whatever he had. We know this because he gave, in the end, his last breath.

Happy Easter to you. I hope someone gives you a very nice chocolate bunny. If not, ask your grandmother. She will always make sure that you are honored, no matter your age.

Don't Sweat It

2010-03-27T23:23:00.003-04:00

Have you ever been worried about something? If no, we cannot be friends. Go away.

If yes, then pray proceed.

When you were worried about this something, did anyone ever say to you, 'don't sweat it'?

How did you respond? If you smiled and agreed, we cannot be friends. Go away.

If you (at least in your mind's eye) ran a power sander over their knee flesh and then rolled them into a salt pit, then pray proceed.

I detest when people tell me to 'not sweat'. It makes my blood boil, which I would assume makes me sweat, and thus their cute little phrasology is really counterproductive.

What does it mean, anyways?

Let's say that I'm concerned about what I'm going to make for dinner. I call my spouse and say that I don't have time to go to the store, and what in the name of Minerva will I tell the children when they demand nourishment?

Spouse, armed with his wisdom and witty quips, tells me not to sweat it.

How could I sweat dinner? This bring the most grotesque visions to mind of my pores leaking fish sticks and Ore*Ida 'just like in a restaurant' crinkle fries. I already have a crippling inability to look at a pancake while it is cooking because for some reason I am always reminded of a face bubbling on a griddle. (I don't know why, but I really do see a face that screams in agony as it bubbles with the intense heat. Think of The Scream by Edvard Munch and that's what I equate with pancakes.)

I know, I know. Spouse is telling me to 'not worry about it'. But the reason I called him is that I am worried about it, or concerned, or at least mildly mentally engaged with the issue at hand. If it were just a regular part of my day, I wouldn't bother to call about it. I only call when something is stressful or happy. I do not call to tell him that the mail arrived, unless said mail includes a large check or a large bill.

In my oh-so-fake scenario, I'm worried about dinner. Let's stretch a bit and go with that.

I've recently been made aware that I hate cooking. I don't mind baking every once in awhile, usually in the fall when pumpkin bread calls my name. (Pumpkin bread doesn't have a scary bubbly face though.) But I hate...nay, DESPISE cooking.

Some of my closest friends are amazing in the kitchen. Chickens want to end up on their tables, stuffed with feta and apples and served with a good Chianti. Cows dream of becoming meatballs made by Mama Palma. Daniel Noga makes Chocolate Pots that could end the fighting in the Middle East. Geri Miller's trifle soaked in Chambord...well, our language has not feeling enough to express the rapture of eating such a decadent treasure. I love eating what other people cook. But I hate cooking.

No big deal, I guess. Except for the small issue of being surrounded by people that need to eat. If it was just me, I think I could get by most nights with great bread, imported cheese, hummus, some fruit and an unspecified beverage of choice (read:cereal).

But I can't have cereal, or even imported cheeses every night. Dinner must be purchased, prepared, served, and cleaned, and then repeated...night after night after night after blasted freaking night.

I sweat it.

I'm not sure where this odd phrase originated, and I certainly don't care enough to research those origins. Instead, like a good American, I'll just assume that I know what it means and then say why I don't like it.

When we physically sweat, we can shower. We can use antiperspirant or deodorant, as long as they aren't those bogus rock deodorants that are a big fat crock of placebo. Or, we can ignore our sweat. But nobody tells us to stop sweating. Why? Because we can't!

Our bodies are made to sweat in order to keep our temperature at a safe level. If we raise our activity level, our temperature goes up. When it gets to a level that would no longer be safe, our body cleverly releases sweat in order to keep our skin as cool as possible. Sweat may be annoying or embarrassing, but it keeps us alive and healthy.

So I'm wondering if perhaps there is an emotional 'sweating'. Perhaps I can freak out about the things in my life that I feel that I should be able to control (dinner) because doing so allows me to keep 'cool' about the things in my life that I cannot control (crappy economy that ate the worth of my house).

So what do you think?

Is being (not exaggerating here) neurotic about dinner and laundry the way that I express my inability to change the fact that my children really, really like to go to the hospital as much as possible and develop illnesses that most doctors have never heard of?

Or, as Spouse says, do I need to stop 'sweating it'?

And if you choose the second option, do you have a better way of expressing this idea?

What if I said, 'don't pee it' or 'don't sneeze it', or....well...

When faced with something that bothered or alarmed you, would my charge of 'not sneezing' the issue make you feel as though you had been handed a helpful tool?

If someone is worried about what they will put on the (dirty) table for dinner, is it fair to assume that a simple 'don't sweat it' will release the pressure and allow them to feel at ease?

Nay!

I'm intrigued with my 'emotional sweat' idea. This may be why I cry so much. Or perhaps it's just the fumes from my rock deodorant.

Time to go make pancakes.