2014

Sylvia

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Prompt – someone important in your life with whom you’ve lost touch with

 

Lost touch with seems to be an accidental or choice of losing touch, so I’ll stick to live people, although that doesn’t much narrow the list down. Faces assail my mind until one remains: Sylvia.

Oh, how I love Sylvia. Short and plump, coffee colored skin with a head of loose dark curls that she kept short-ish. She had a round face and a flat nose and the voice of angels. She had a way of moving as if she were floating on air or about to dance. Not just a skip in her step, but a hop and a pirouette too. Her voice soft and lilting, but more that brilliant combination of mother, sister, spiritual healer from New Orleans, Louisiana, a place that for me holds the mystical and mysteries and a longing place to try it just once.

Her husband was an NCO, a Staff Sargent, I think in the Marines. She had three kids who were about my age at the time or barely younger.

She used her softness to get her point across. We taught together for the US Navy’s child development program until she became the assistant director, one step down from where she truly belonged. She brought multi-cultural education to a place that should have had it all along considering the clientele. She taught me how to make the perfect sweet potato pie even though my own mother did not understand the concept of Dessert rather than side dish. As an aside, when I was recently in Virginia, McDonald’s had sweet potato pie instead of pumpkin. I’d consider moving south just for that.

Sylvia was encouraging and smart and strong and delicate. She was comfortable in her own skin with a bright smile. She wore loose, bright, colorful clothes and sandals with the most beautiful huge to my eye necklaces, bracelets and earrings. Her rings were simple to fit her small hands.

She inspired and awed me and the thought of her makes me smile.

In Hand

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Write about something that feels comfortable in your hand

 

I have many of these things that I hold, touch, rub, play with, not as bad as a smoker fiddling with a cigarette, but relatively close. You’ve already met Bob and despite what looks like a bulky outside, he really does fit comfortably in the palm of my hand. I’ve held him on car rides through ice; I clutched him flying over the Atlantic, rubbed across the chips in his casing during an MRI and slept with him in my hand in a hotel room. I can always find him if I wake up in the middle of the night and he’s hopped away.

Until Bob, I hadn’t really thought about all of the other talismans that I’ve had over the years. In high school and college, I played Dungeons & Dragons (D&D) and would roll the dice around in my palm under the table while my other hand held a pen. Although roll around is a bit of an inaccuracy since most of the dice were an assortment of odd shapes.

During those games, I also held what was known at the time as a worry stone. It was a small oval polished rock like thing with an indentation for your thumb to rub over it, made to rest in your hand. The rubbing was supposed to be comforting during times of stress and I suppose it was. It was procured at Kmart on the other side of town, and is long since lost, but I have other stones with words of encouragement or comfort on them: Breathe, Balance, xoxo (although that one was more because of the color) and I thought I had one that said Thrive.

Also at college, when I had to do any kind of public speaking, I held my friend’s matchbox from RIT. That was the school he longed to go to, and as his good luck charm, it transferred to me. I still have one of those matchsticks somewhere in my boxes of memorabilia.

When I’m at my therapist, I almost always wear a scarf so I can play with the ends or the fringe.

I have a Welsh spoon key chain that I rub with my thumb when I’m driving sometimes and a smooth stone from a medieval Welsh castle that I hold occasionally.

Last Easter, at the church, they gave out a small metal cross for Lent. This year, it was a small ceramic heart. I often hold them in my hand and in the case of the cross, I found it very comforting during some very stressful times as my medication was being adjusted. Rosaries are still a bit foreign in my hand, but they are also more utilitarian, for prayer rather than comfortable for just being held.

I am definitely one for symbolism and assigning importance to objects. I believe that some of that is due to the material world we live in. I also know how much some people care for me, but I get anxious and worrisome and a bit paranoid, but re-reading a birthday card or a book inscription or even just holding something that they gave me for a moment or two reminds me of the love they have for me and I for them.

I do like to hold things and think of what they remind me of. Most of them are calming just by their presence, and some of them need a closed palm to keep the good feels inside and close. At church, after the Lord’s Prayer, if someone has held my hand, I keep my hand closed to keep the warmth of that touch with me a little longer, and in this last week, for that brief moment between receiving the Eucharist and placing it gently on my tongue, I close my palm around it.

My charm bracelet gives me this kind of feeling. The charms symbolize different feelings, wants and peoples and I move around the chain pressing my thumb and forefinger together as I stop at each charm like a mini-hug.

Those are a few of my favorite things that burst from my heart but still manage to fit in my hand.

Holy Thursday or Mass of the Lord’s Supper

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A lot was going on today.

There was a prayer service this morning, and surprise, Father J called me up for a special blessing. I do not like the center of attention place, but I really like all of the warm-hearted and good wishes that I’m being given. When I turned to go back to my seat, one of the women in the front (who I don’t know), grabbed me and hugged me. There is a lot of hugging.

In fact, as an aside, the only group who hugs more than this church is the posse!

While on my errands, I received a call from my going-to-be-godmother who is also the parish office manager to say that Father J had a revelation.

This worried me.

It should have.

He wondered why I wasn’t having my feet washed at tonight’s mass.

My first reaction was, “NoNoNoNoNo…”

I do NOT like people touching my feet. They’re dry and very ticklish and let’s just leave it at that. Basically I only take my socks off to take a shower.

I was told that I didn’t have to, but it was one of those you shoulds but you don’t have to, and I’d still have to do it next year, so I said, ‘whatever he wants me to do,’ which has been my usual response to most things that I know I can get through but don’t want to say yes. (Like Wales and LARP and an emergency c-section, but I digress.)

I’m already carrying the oil of catecumen in the processional, and I am supposed to announce it. It needs to be very loud. At rehearsal, they made me say it three times because my voice is too timid. If they let me type it on tumblr, I could have gotten it in ALL CAPS, bolded and italicized, and it would have been perfect.

And then of course, I’m carrying a glass jar of oil that’s been blessed by the Bishop for the parish for the entire year. No pressure there on not tripping and throwing it through the air like Daffy Duck.

One of the things that has surprised me about all of the things asked of me for the ritual of becoming Catholic and observing Easter has been how non-plussed I am about everything.

“Are you nervous?”

“No,” I say, and surprisingly I’m not.

I’m more nervous about meeting tomorrow’s train than anything I’ve been asked to do.

I’ve gotten a tiny surge of anxiety and in my mind asking myself, ‘you want me to do what?!’ but it’s fleeting, and I nod my head and smile and I mean it.

I have been given a certain grace to accept what I need to do or maybe it’s that it’s like an obstacle course. I jump through the hoops to get to the prize, and of course this prize is being in communion with Jesus Christ.

Once it was there in front of me, it was there. No doubt. No question that I believed and this was the right thing and if you ask anybody there is not one thing in my life that I can say that about.

If you asked me what’s for dinner, I’d answer, but it would be with a question mark – a kind of ‘is that okay’ at the end that I have never said or felt with joining the church officially.

Telling people made me more anxious, but once the statement was out of the way, the decision was right, and I always knew it.

Tonight, all of us oil and banner carriers were standing in the back waiting for our cue when I noticed a smoky wisp at the front of the church. I didn’t smell incense, and thought at first that it was that dust that you see in a ray of sunlight, but I realized that it was indeed the incense, but it wasn’t a smell, it was the way the incense rose. I watched it climb slowly, steadily and I promise you it was in the shape of a Jewish star. (Also called a Star of David, and it is through David’s line that Jesus is born.)

I could feel myself getting emotional. It was only the most recent moment of clarity.

While Father J was washing feet, he seemed to say something to make the person more at ease. We laughed, and he poured the water over my foot.

I’m pretty sure they put ice cubes in it. I have never felt water that cold and my foot jerked. I’m lucky (or was he the lucky one?) that I didn’t kick him in the face.

It was a humorous moment, but when he laid his hands on me, the humor went away and a most incredible feeling came upon me, I want to say ‘washed over me’, but that seems a bit cliche, although that’s what it was. He dried my foot and leaned forward to kiss it and looked into my eyes and said, “G-d bless you,” and it was a moment much like the one earlier with the incense.

If in my mind thngs don’t make sense, there is no rationale or reason to it, these moments of clarity, of faith, of knowing give so much calm and comfort and warmth.

After that we venerated the altar, eucharist was given and we walked and sang as a group to the parish hall for the host to be kept for adoration and tomorrow’s mass.

The kids were a little antsy, but one more mass for them. We have lots of cleaning and grocery shopping to do tomorrow. (Good Friday fasting is much different than Yom Kippur fasting.)

As I said, there are things I’m anxious and nervous about, but I think it will be okay; I hope so anyway.

At this moment, I feel content, so i’ll post this and go to bed.

Grumbles, Grumblies, Grumblr

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Today’s homily was about grumbling. The Grumbles. Grumblies. Father J may have looked directly at me, but that may also have just been my guilty conscience. He was saying that we should have less grumblies. The Grumblies are those things that pick at your brain and land on your very last nerve, like typos or posts with your instead of you’re, captions that don’t match the picture or any number of things like leaving the toilet seat up or the tea kettle turned the wrong way.

If you follow my blog with any regularity, you all know that I am a grumbler. I grumble. I grumble a lot. Sometimes, well, no, that’s not fair; it’s always warranted, at least in my mind, but sometimes all it needs is an outlet. I post here. It gets ignored. I’ve actually cut back on the grumblies; I was becoming Peter and I did not want that. I do not want that. There are times that I need the comfort and the hugs and the shoulder to lean on, and asking for it is just too hard.

Another problem my grumblies have is in the need to get them out; it’s not always the best idea to name names. However, when not naming names, the problem is often misinterpretation as to the subject of the grumblies. Another downside is the common feeling that whatever is bothering me isn’t what’s been word-vomited and that leads to the assumption that it’s passive-aggressive. I will tell you a secret: It is almost never passive-aggressive.

I do know how it sounds, but sometimes, truly it is just the truth coming out and there is only one way to say it, like tearing the band-aid off, but in my world, I don’t want to hurt anyone, so I hem and I haw and I stall and stammer, and grumble here and grumble there, and talk circles around the real matter-at-hand that in the end no one knows what the problem is, but everyone is all pissed off and there is a new conundrum, and no one knows how that happened. But I guarantee, with 85% accuracy that I was not being passive-aggressive.

You know, there’s stuff that’s been going on for many, many weeks. Only a handful of people know what it’s about, and I would hazard to guess that even they’re in the dark because I don’t talk about it. I don’t have anyone to talk to about it. So I grumble.

I want to fix things. I want to say things, so I only say half of what I wanted to say – dipping my toe in the water as it were and I end up with my foot in my mouth. I apologize and try again with more words, with explanations that are so wordy and twisty that a contortionist would feel at home in my sentence. And I do it again, and I hope that all I get is my own foot in my mouth as opposed to someone else’s foot up my ass.

I stay quiet when I should speak out, and a mole hill becomes a mountain. And I grumble. And no one listens. And at some point it comes to a head.

In this particular case, today’s instance is more complicated than when I usually do this. There’s baggage. There’s misunderstanding. There are private issues that I can’t grumble about. There is consideration that I need to give, but sometimes it bothers me that I feel as though no consideration for my issues is given to me. I’m expected to step back, to take the deep breath, to wait, and for the most part, that’s okay because I try to know where that expectation is coming from, but some days are harder than others, and this is one of those days.

The stress is piling on with family and teenager and what’s for dinner and mother in law (who is truly the easiest person to get along with in the world), sorting out my sister’s schedule, Easter and church and wow, it’s next week already, and I have more appointments and yesterday’s doctor’s visit was a bit more intense than I planned on and now I’ve got more appointments for blood work and tests, and today I hit a wall.

I could feel the misplaced snark, but not snark, more like it’s nasty cousin, and the anger that had no place, and I needed to just shut up, which I did. Mostly. But it’s pent up, and instead of a full blown volcanic eruption, I released little currents of steam, drips of hot lava and tumblr grumblrs.

I’m not even sure if it helps me.

I know what I want.

I want someone to read my mind. To tell me what I’m thinking and that it will be alright, and I can ask anything again and say anything and it will be alright, and normal is a horrible word, but I want normal, even if normal is a little different. I want it back. I’m trying so hard not to be a jackass that I’m being a jackass, aren’t I?

Babble, babble, grumble.

I’m reading Ashley Judd’s memoir and I’ve said this week, in some places, it is just too much. Too much emotion, too much spirituality that is too familiar and so a bit heartrending, too much pain. I think of how lucky I was, and am, and so much of the emotional upheaval and depression from her, I feel, and I feel as though her recovery tools might be helpful for me, so I might try a couple. Parts of it I’m finding intense and stressed. I could use a massage after this book.

Tomorrow is Wednesday, but more than that it’s a New Day and I have a chance to try again. Maybe I’ll get up the courage to send a message, to ask the question, to say the words.

In the meantime, I will have Mass, which is a balm on my heart, and I have my Memoir Workshop and before this weekend I will ask someone for a hug. Not anyone off the street, but I will walk in and ask someone for a hug, and that will get me through for a short bit.

It will be alright, right?

Empathetic Spirit

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“The commitment to help our poorest sisters and brothers is not an option, but an expression of our love for G-d.”

“…but also a turning toward our neighbor with a generous heart and empathetic spirit.”

“I will do a random act of kindness as an expression of my love for G-d.”

(the Living Gospel, March 28, 2014)

 

I’m having such a hard time concentrating on today’s readings. I read them easy enough, I had feelings that I thought I could express and then I started answering asks and reading things and getting frustrated.

I think the most frustrating thing is being called a liar. If only it were that easy to taint someone. Actually, it is that easy if you say it enough times. But the truth is, I’m not lying about this. I would even check my facts and have no problem admitting if I’m wrong, but lying? Really? Why would I want to have this argument when there are so many easier ones? Not to mention that the difference between my number and theirs doesn’t make a difference in what we’re discussing, and if you want to get into a pissing contest, I have absolutely no problem putting my integrity up against the other party.

And sadly, this is all in my head when I should be concentrating on G-d and Jesus and the next three weeks.

I have so much on my mind – that nervous excitement about the next few rituals. Will I trip? Will I be able to kneel this Sunday? My knees suck and I only fell over last Sunday. Can I carry the oil on Holy Thursday without dropping it? Will everyone come who I want to be there? I still need to send messages to four people. We’re going to visit our families before Easter. I have two doctors’ appointments and a mammogram that needs to be scheduled. My memoir workshop is starting next week. The workshop teacher has a book published so I need to come up with money to get that.

On the other hand, my almost-godmother keeps sending me inspirational cards that make me smile every time I read them. I’ve had more signs of hope this week than in the last two months. Doesn’t take the worry away but I’m in a better place. I printed out all those wonderful messages for my First Scrutiny and they also make me smile whenever I look at them, and I have all of the post-it notes from the likes from my becoming an Elect. (I’m going to do that again for the Vigil by the way.)

I have three books that I’ve taken out of the library for my Kindle and I bought a book that was on sale (free really because I still have a gift card) about baseball by David Halberstam. He was the commencement speaker for my college graduation.

Today’s act that they recommend is a random act of kindness. This was a nice reminder that I have promised my soda money to Random Acts, and once this posts, I will donate the $15 to them. As it says above, “a generous heart and an empathetic spirit” is really the way of Random Acts as well as their “commitment to help our poorest brothers and sisters…” If I have taken anything away from Supernatural it is finding this charity co-founded by Misha Collins. They embody everything I want to stand for in my life, and are a worthy place for my money (and yours). I won’t say extra money because no one has extra money, but what little I have goes to them, my church and our local volunteer fire department. We can all spare something. Give up one coffee or lunch per week. It’s not much, but for a small charity or organization, it adds up.

This Lent I am taking who I was, who I became when I joined this vast family and who I will become after my transformation at Easter. It is the one thing I can truly grasp about Easter. It was always something I tried to do in the Fall during Rosh Hashanah, but it wasn’t until attending and participating in Mass for the last two years and taking the examples of friends who showed me so many things and mixing that with the amazement I feel when a Scripture literally speaks to me, I have no doubt that I am finding myself and my place in the world.

Part of my path is of course, being vocal and open and talking about all of this and writing these posts that just flow from my mind and my heart.

I am getting ready for my first confession, and in the class on Salvation, I was told to kind of run down the Ten Commandments and that would give me an idea of what I need to ask forgiveness for. In reading today’s excerpts that I’ve shared with you, I also realize that I need to show myself some empathy and compassion. I am often hard on myself when I don’t need to be. I think we all are like that with ourselves, but I should show myself the compassion that others show me.

I have to find confidence in myself as well. There are things I want to ask for but I honestly don’t know if they are selfish or intrusive, and the waiting stirs up so much doubt in myself and in my relationships. I’m always afraid to step on toes, to say the wrong thing, to ask for too much. Waiting is not easy, but it can often be a constructive place to be for a little while.

The last time I waited for a long time, I read The Count of Monte Cristo. Today I am reading many books that are weirdly interconnected even though they really don’t seem like it. I think I want to do a writing exercise next week. I just have to figure out a day and a town to go to. If I do, I’m sure I will tell you all about it. In the meantime, I guess I did find something to write about. I hope it means something. Sometimes I never know.

On the card I just received there is a St. Francis deSales quote: “When you come before the Lord, talk to him if you can. If you can’t, just stay there, let yourself be seen. Don’t try too hard to do anything else.”

Don’t try too hard to do anything else. I think I might try that; not try too hard. Let’s see how that works.

It’s Not Easy Letting Things Go

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Yesterday’s reflection was about forgiveness.

Today’s homily was about what is most important and Jesus says: Above all else, love G-d with all your heart, mind & soul and second take that love and love one another.

My devotional asked: How do I make decisions about what is right and what is wrong?

I worry about this all the time.

How do I put things or actions in the right column or the wrong column, and not everything is so cut and dried, is it?

I’ve mentioned before in one of these that I do hold grudges. I still get a twinge when I think of certain people, and I’m not feeling particularly charitable, and that makes me feel bad. I try to let things go, but sometimes it’s not easy.

I’ve confided in people and then had them betray me with that information. I had a woman yell at my infant son when he was learning to walk and would fall down on the carpet in our second floor apartment above hers. This is no exaggeration. I have finally let it go, mainly because it’s not worth holding onto.

A few years ago, I met someone with this generous philosophy, and it was foreign to me. I mean, no, of course, don’t have a grudge, but if someone wrongs you why is it wrong to be angry and to hold onto it for a little while? In the last few years, I’ve seen my way and this more compassionate way side by side, and I will tell you that I’ve been the one to change. I have changed, and definitely for the better.

That doesn’t mean perfect; it does mean better.

I can see more clearly the rationale of not holding the grudge, of not having anger be the default, of letting things go when you can, and of compassion and forgiveness, which I’m finding seem to be running themes during this Lenten season.

I’ve always been able to see the other side, but putting myself on the other side to see what’s happening and why things are happening – well, it’s much harder, but it is better in the long run for my friendships, my personality and my blood pressure.

I will still get angry. I will still feel entitled, and want to argue or lash out or say it’s not fair when it’s not. But I have also learned to take a deep breath.

I have learned to look through other people’s eyes.

I have learned to listen.

I have not learned patience – that is one of the three things I pray for every day.

I have learned to be selective in what I do get upset about: choose your battles wisely we are told.

Yesterday, I talked about signs of hope. I’ve seen at least three this week. That doesn’t make what’s going on with me easier, but it pushes me out to the next day, and lets me calmly assess and calmly question, and every day is a new day.

A clean slate.

At least I try to wipe away yesterday’s hurt, or yesterday’s wrong, and move forward.

I will ask for answers. I will hope that I can continue to speak my mind. I’ve always been allowed to, and I will hope that hasn’t changed.

At the end of the week, I will ask for forgiveness on things that I have done and more than just apologize for them, a deeper apology will be offered and forgiveness will be sought.

This is more than just getting ready for my first confession. There are real people who I owe things to. I’ve reached out to some already. There are still one or two more.

First, I need to look at myself, and see what I’ve done that’s right and wrong and then I can seek out, and hope that it will all be okay.

Love G-d and love your neighbor. I’ve seen it done by people I’m close to. It’s not impossible. I can do it too.

Rite of Election

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I posted some pictures but I didn’t write much about last week’s Rite of Election. As I was reminded of today, and pretty much any day I’ve been in church since, I am now an Elect. My name is in the book and in five weeks I will be fully joining the church. I still need to try on robes, although they have a different, official-Latin-type name; alb. I’m both nervous and excited and only apprehensive of the ritual itself.

Last week, my nerves only extended to looking funny and being the center of attention which I abhor. I was still excited despite hoping that with all of the steps I was supposed to take that I wouldn’t trip and fall or do anything else equally stupid.

It was a full day of the Catholic Church in all its glory beginning with the first part at my local church for the Rite of Sending. My congregation said blessings over me and extended their prayers that things continue to go well. I was up there with J, who was standing in for my godparents and sponsor and she walked me through it all, making sure I knew where to go and when to stand up, when to speak and all that technical stuff.

While Father J was asking the questions of J and myself and then saying the prayers, I watched a beetle crawl around the steps of the altar avoiding looking at the packed pews. It was strange to look out at people and even stranger to be able to tell who the devout were as opposed to the obligated, although thankfully no one looked at their watches that I noticed.

They dismissed me from the church during Eucharist, something they will do for the next three weeks after the Scrutinies. I stood in the gathering space for the rest of the Mass. As the rest left, people would look over and wave, smile and nod. A few came over to shake my hand and congratulate me on getting this far and wishing me luck for the rest. One woman was in the RCIA program fourteen years ago and one man was a catechumen last year. They were both still very excited with their joining the church and were very excited for me as were their spouses, all four shaking my hand and glowing with happiness. I couldn’t help but let the happiness warm me.

The second part of the day was the Rite of Election at the Cathedral. The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is in downtown Albany, and is the second oldest Catholic cathedral in the state. St. Patrick’s in NYC is the oldest. It is also the third oldest in the country. It is of the Gothic style taking your eye upward, bright light coming in through the stained glass windows and outside the buttresses and spires add to the medieval world feeling. (I would add an author’s note that if you’re interested in church architecture to find David Macaulay’s Cathedral. It’s a magnificent artist’s rendition of the building of a medieval Gothic cathedral.)

Arriving, we were almost late. I misunderstood where the parking area was. While it was physically on the left side of the church, there was no entrance on that side and so we had to drive around the governor’s mansion, the park, the state museum until finally figuring out where the entrance was. The church itself was much smaller than I expected, but the vaulted ceilings and pillars made it look huge. We came in a side door, so we entered about halfway up the aisle. I had been told that our seats were in row 5, so as I began to count back, Deacon M came over to meet us and showed me to our seats with my family following.

It may have technically been row 5 but in fact it was front row center. I might have had to catch my breath. The only one sitting ahead of us was the Bishop.

When Bishop Hubbard was appointed thirty-seven years ago, he was the youngest bishop in the country and is currently the longest serving bishop in the Diocese’s 162 year history. He tendered his required resignation in October and will be replaced the week before this upcoming Easter.

This service included a Liturgy of the Word but no Eucharist. There was so much to see that I spent a lot of my time looking around. Stone walls, large and small statuary, stained glass windows in every spot they could fit them, pillars. The Cathedral’s Tabernacle was gold and three times the size of the one at my home church.

Once I settled between Father J and J, again standing in and guiding me, my nerves left me. I let my husband take care of the kids and I listened to the service and let my eye wander. The ambo was up a circular stair, all made of polished wood, reminiscent of the ones I saw at the Burton Parish Church in Colonial Williamsburg recently. (After it was all over, my daughter took the camera, climbed up there and took selfies. She also took one on the altar and when I said I was glad she didn’t sit in the bishop’s chair, which looked more like a throne, she smiled and said that she had, and then skipped away to find more cookies and juice.)

After the godparents answered that the catechumens had been studying and were ready for this next step, we were asked if we accepted and wanted to continue to join the church. The only answer is “I do.” I was one of the first ones called to greet the Bishop. He took my hand, shook it and welcomed me into the church. I think I said thank you, but I was trying to imprint the moment on my memory and also not trip on the steps. He had this soft smile and a sturdy voice, and while the whole time I knew I was doing the right thing, this was one of the confirmations of that. It all felt so right. No hesitation, no mental missteps, no questioning. Once I made the choice to become Catholic, I have never wavered. I have been nervous about telling people for fear of offending anyone or saying the wrong thing, and not knowing which things I know from others and which I’ve learned from doctrine, but the choice itself? Never a question; not one.

I signed my name in the book, and that was where my hand didn’t work right, but I managed it and looked at my family, and I could feel the grin on my face with the overwhelming excitement of this moment for me.

There were more blessings and then we were back in our seats for the rest of the Liturgy and the other candidates who had been previously baptized. We took pictures on the steps, and I got a nice one of the kids outside. I’ll have to remember a list of pictures I want at the Easter Vigil because I know I forgot to take some.

We were able to wander around the Cathedral afterwards, but I plan to go back and do some more wandering and picture taking. There was a short line by the Baptismal font where the Bishop was receiving people and taking pictures.

That kind of thing usually makes me nervous, but I really was in a very good mental place. I’m surprised at how little anxiety this whole thing has caused. There is a calmness that is just there, a comfort and the knowledge that this is so much the right thing, probably the only thing I’ve never wondered about if I were making the right decision.

All of my feelings, as I learn more and more through the RCIA program, I realize that much of what I had in my belief system matches perfectly to what the Catholic Church teaches and the words of Jesus Christ. It surprises me that I’ve waited this long to find this out, although I suppose things happen the way they do for a reason. Something will be said by a friend or one of the program teachers, and my response is almost always when I was a child, I thought….

It still knocks me back a bit, but that is the presence of the Holy Spirit always being there whether I felt it or not, but always being there to guide me and put the right questions in my heard at the best times to search out the answers.

I can only hope this continues over the next few weeks as I approach my first sacraments before my family, friends, godparents and church family. It’s not long now.

Cardigans

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“Take this and wrap yourself in the love of strangers and friends whenever you need warmth.”

This was part of the message I received on a recent gift given to me and I was reminded of it when it came time to write about cardigans. When I was a kid I never liked them. I don’t know why. At some point, that changed, but it took forever to find one that worked for me. I didn’t want zippers or hoods. Those were too much like the sweatshirts I wore all the time as a teenager. They were a reminder of something not quite right.

The cardigans I was looking for had to have buttons down the front, no pockets, no hoods, no ski designs. I worked in a sporting goods store. I hated ski designs. It took forever, but I finally found the perfect one. It was a green, but not the green that I liked. It took so long to find; I bought it anyway. Ironically, the color was a sage green, a color that I now love most of all. It had wide and thin knitted stripes and some kind of design every other strip. It was a crew neck collar, and it buttoned all the way to the top, although the top button was hard to do on the thick double-knit collar. I loved it. There was something writerly about it; the imaginations of going places. I can’t quite explain it. I wore it long after I wore it out. I think I still have it, but I couldn’t find it for today.

Oh, and cardigans don’t mess up your hair.

Now, however, I do wear hoods and zippers, and pockets are a handy addition, but I’m still averse to jersey/sweatshirt fabric. I like wool or wool-like, small knits rather than cable knit.

The one I’m wearing right now was a gift for Christmas, and it is the perfect color to go with anything and everything and the perfect weight for every season. Light enough for a summer sweater, just enough warmth for under a winter coat or heavier sweater and shawl.

If it is somehow too warm, I have taken to wrapping the sleeves around my waist and wearing it that way, so it is always handy and ready for the chill of an air conditioner turned up too high. I am never without a sweater. Well, almost never. And cardigans are always my preference.

My favorite part of the cardigan is pulling it closed. Not buttoning it, but pulling it tight like a hug, like that message I wrote at the top of the page. There is something extra in being wrapped in a cardigan. It brings me memories of Welsh mountain fireplaces and stories under a lamplight, even though in most of those memories I have no cardigan, only its feel.

Some of the warmth I know comes from one of my favorite people known for his cardigans and his tennis sneakers: Mr. Fred Rogers. There is no one warmer than Mr. Rogers. His daily welcome into his home, his soothing voice, his wise and kind words, and of course the feeling that you are the only one he is talking to and that you matter just because you’re you. You felt his love and wanted to visit forever. I don’t know if he made cardigans both uncool and cool again for me, but he is the warmest wearer of them all.

My oldest son, who will be seventeen at the end of this week, was not a huge fan of cardigans, but he loved Mr. Rogers. Unfortunately, iconic Mr. Rogers passed away before my two little ones were born and sadly, they don’t know him as well. Zachary watched Arthur (the cartoon aardvark) and Mr. Rogers every day on PBS. It was a glorious day when Mr. Rogers appeared animated on the Arthur series.

We once wrote a letter to Mr. Rogers, asking for his television schedule and thanking him for his daily friendship. We were both surprised and not when he actually answered. He sent us a packet with the television schedule of topics he would be sharing with his viewers and two separate letters; one for my son and one for me. He signed my son’s “Mr. Rogers” and mine “Fred”. It was wonderful and I still take it out and re-read it now and then.

Cardigans have a feeling all their own and like fresh-baked cookies are better when shared.

Elen of the Hosts

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St. Elen (Elen of the Hosts) (St. Helen of Caernarfon – English)

Everyone keeps asking me about my choice of saint for my confirmation name. I thought it might be easier if I wrote up a little bit about her since she is an unusual choice. With a person so far back in history, there are many things that are conflated and confused, especially with so many having the same names and much of the history and mythology being intertwined as one, not to mention that it was an oral history with bards and storytellers, and so what was remembered may be less than accurate to what actually happened, but some of Elen’s life is well documented through The Mabinogion (known as Elen Luyddog) and the writings of St. Gregory of Tours and Sulpicious Severus.

St. Elen is known as Elen of the Hosts or Saint Helen of Caernarfon.

She is a Welsh Catholic Saint and is often confused with Helena of Constantinople because of their similar names and the similar names of their sons, both of whom were named Constantine. Helena’s son was better known as Constantine the Great although Elen’s son was called Custennin Fawr, which is Welsh for Constantine the Great. This was not helpful.  St. Helena of Constantinople’s son is the famous one.

It is also possible that the sons have been confused over the centuries and they did not both have the Great descriptor and that was added later. There are other sources that describe nearly every royal house in Britain traces its lineage back to Elen and her husband Macsen, 4th century Emperor of Rome.

Elen’s feast day is May 22.

It is said that through her association with St. Martin of Tours, she brought the monastic church to Wales with her sons, Custennin and Peblig (who is also a Welsh saint known as Publicus.)

Elen is also named on several Roman roads in Wales and is known to be the patron saint of British roadbuilders and the protector of travelers. Roman roads in Wales are known as Sarn (au) Elen or The Causeways of Elen and she is said to have commissioned the road themselves to be built, but it is more likely that the roads were named for her after her death as their existence is much older than she. There is recent discovery that there are even older roads in Ireland, showing that the Celts were proficient roadbuilders, so who know?

Initially, I was seeking out a Welsh saint because of my long spiritual connection to Wales and the Celtic peoples, but upon discovering St. Elen, I discovered that there were several other reasons why I connected to her.

First and foremost, Ellen was my mother’s middle name and it gives me a connection to her as I join the church. My first teacher, who taught me lessons of generosity and the importance of family.

Secondly, Elen is from Caernarfon, the town in which I stayed for three nights in 2009. It hadn’t been on my list of places to visit until a Welsh friend randomly suggested it that I should go there and see the castle.

Her daughter is said to have married Vortigern, the only source for their marriage being carved on the Eliseg Pillar which is very near Valle Crucis Abbey, another Welsh place I gravitated to.

Ellen is also one of my favorite television characters: mother, business owner, independent, smart, how could I go wrong?

As I mentioned earlier, St. Elen is also the patron/protector of travelers, and more than anything else I consider myself a traveler. It is always my choice for being and writing and seeing and I love that this saint has a connection to something I love so dearly despite the anxiety that accompanies it.

 

*sources are limited and all the ones I used are second hand sources. I tried to use only the information that was known in more than one source.*

Lenten Reflections

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Lent is a time of introspection, something that I’ve done much more in the last couple of years. I know I seem sadder or more upset, and there is not any one thing causing that. I put this note here because I do tend to say things that are just below what I really want to say or I lean towards the passive-aggressive, and this series, 40 Days of Lent explores a lot of deep seated feelings and emotions, and when a scripture or reflection hits home, I just go with the flow. I don’t want anyone to jump to conclusions when they read my innermost thoughts. They’re innermost for a reason. That said, any personal questions may be directed to me if you think that I’m referring to something specific that you’re concerned with.

These meditations are for me and sharing them benefits me with your feedback and love, and they may continue beyond Lent, but it is too early to say anything on that subject.

 

 

“Our needs are provided for when we provide for the needs of others.” (Living Faith, Mar. 17, 2014)

“Stop judging and you will not be judged. Stop condemning and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven.” – Luke 6

“…quick to condemn and slow to retract…”

“I will pray for a generous and more compassionate heart.”

(the Living Gospel, Mar. 17, 2014)

 

I read these after an internal monologue of hurt and anger this morning. Getting up an hour before I needed to and on the wrong side of the bed after a freakish dream that wasn’t over will certainly do that to a person. Not to mention that in addition to whatever, my son missed the bus and his grades came in email. No one was a happy camper this morning.

Then I took a deep breath and sat down to remember why it was internal and not out loud and I re-read today’s passages.

Judging for me can be a reflex action. It just happens when feelings take over. I still feel like the last kid picked for the team, except I’m not the last picked – no one actually wants me; they’re just stuck with me. I can tell you countless times in the last six months that it’s felt this way despite any contrary statements. I’m not the life of the party, I’m barely noticeable and I really am out of sight, out of mind. After a couple of years of this, it makes me feel just a little bit paranoid.

I’m always on the peripheral, left out, an afterthought. It’s probably not even on purpose; I just don’t leave an impression.

When I do finally become included, I like it to continue. I give my whole heart. And when it’s not reciprocated or taken away, I’m afraid, and it makes me feel upset over little things, to parse every syllable, to analyze every comma in a message, to add tone where there is none, and more problems ensue; some of which can’t be fixed.

I know that I’m guilty of knee-jerk reactions, but the longer I meditate on my reasons, I see that a deep breath and a short wait brings about a little more clarity than what I started with.

To be fair, understanding something doesn’t always change those judgments I made. It’s easy to give advice and less easy for me to take it. It’s also possible that my judgments are correct, but it’s unfair to expect anything to change because of my feelings or desires when there are other, more important, factors.

I would consider myself a compassionate person. It’s definitely more of a natural fit now, but even so, my heart tends to be more compassionate than my actions. Even if I know what’s right, I still might need a push in the right direction.

I need to stop the knee-jerk reactions, the judgment and the condemnation even if it’s only in my own heart, and be more generous with my understanding and reaching out as its needed, not as I want to be needed.

I don’t count to ten, but a deep breath held for an extra moment or two does wonders to stopping the misplaced anger.