Today I am in a writing place. Sometimes, the traveling is far, and sometimes it’s close by. I’ve had this on my mind to write since July, and I’ve finally say down with my computer to start it. Twelve hundred words in and its started. Writing places are special. They can be at desks, tables, coffee shops, parks, and in beds. I’ll get back there this afternoon.
The weight lifted after reconciliation is palpable relief in the ability to try again.
This morning’s tea makes yesterday distant.
~Author Unknown
Tea is one of those substances that has universal appeal. It is both balm and cure. It is both home and on holiday. It is therapeutic and spiritual. It carries the weight or the lightness of the moment. It is steeped in tradition and ritual.
When my friend died, several of us drank certain teas that she liked or that represented her, and we wrote about the experience. I wrote about her, and our complicated relationship, about my own feelings for the tea I was drinking that day, describing the flavors and sensations of the drink, and I experienced several spiritual mindfulness. It gave me an opportunity for discernment and was an integral part in my spiritual journey.
It might be idiosyncratic, but I have my own rituals around my morning tea. When my tea is dark enough, I add the milk (if it’s not a citrusy flavor) and two teaspoons of sugar. I remove the tea bag, turn out the kitchen lights, and go to my favorite chair. Before leaving the threshold of the kitchen, though I always take two sips of the hot tea through the steam. I don’t know why; I just do. Every time.
But tea is also simple in its simplicity. It’s part of my daily life a part of my sacred space. I eat with it. I write with it. I pray with it. It is rare to find something that fits in everywhere and anywhere, and tea is that rare something.
Drinking a daily cup of tea will surely starve the apothecary.
~Chinese Proverb
Bread and water can so easily be toast and tea.
~Author Unknown
(This very strongly made me think of communion – the body and blood of Christ in the wafer and the wine.)
With much less fanfare than General MacArthur, I returned to church this morning. The door was heavy, and the air conditioning was cool. I crossed myself at the font of holy water, and took my regular seat. There was no one there who I usually sit with but there were the many familiar faces of the “regulars”.
Flipping through the missalette to today’s date, I waited for the hymn number to be announced.
Number 39. Humbly, Lord, we worship you. Good tempo, not terribly long, simple, serene, and lovely, and then the mass began.
It was as if I hadn’t missed a day.
As much as I might have wanted there to be something acknowledged for me in my head, petting my feelings, there was nothing to make me think that that any time had passed or that I had somehow was gone too long. In fact, I didn’t feel as though I was absent or that I was coming back, I was simply home again.
I hadn’t been to the physical church building, but I hadn’t been ignoring my faith; G-d was still everywhere with me.
I look forward to tomorrow and the rest of the week’s Masses.
I’ve been trying to put these words to paper for days now. The last time I attended Mass was on Father’s Day, just over two weeks ago. I look forward to Mass, whether it’s daily or Sunday. They each have their own style, their rhythm of worship, their benefit, their own spirituality. There is more laughter during a daily mass. I suppose it is the more informal of the two. Sunday is more musical.
I hadn’t expected to miss so many Masses. The first week I had two sons graduating, one from the fifth grade and one from high school. My brother came up for a visit. The end of that week brought relief, the stress floated away. I meant to go Saturday night, and I don’t remember why I wasn’t able to. I think there was a conflict of time, and I slept through both of Sunday’s services. I felt a twinge of guilt, but not too badly. It happens. I read my Bible, my Lectionary. I prayed the Rosary.
I’ve never gone to Mass out of obligation. For me, it’s always been a want-to-be-there; not a “hafta“. I enjoy being there. I get there before the opening psalm and I know my parts as well as my priest’s by heart. One would think that would make it boring, but it’s a comfort to be that close to the Word. I find joy in every moment.
I listen carefully to the Scripture readings and the Gospel and while I don’t really put myself in the place of the Scripture story or message, I do bring the message to my life: how does it fit? How does it relate to what’s going on for me? Does it give me more questions? Does it give me a word or phrase to think about, to pray on? Does it give me comfort and a gentle hand on my shoulder.
I thought perhaps that the joyful Friday, the Supreme Court’s decision for marriage equality, the reminder to everyone that I already knew that “gay” rights are civil rights unconsciously kept me from going. I knew this was only the beginning of the celebration and the ongoing march forward. I’m still rainbow festooned on all of my social media. I’m not ready to go back to the blandness of regular life.
I’m proud of my stand on equality. I can explain my position and unlike many other good people I have no qualms about my stand, and my beliefs. I do not have a crisis of faith. I find it easy, in fact to reconcile my LGBT+ beliefs and my Catholic faith.
It’s possible that subconsciously I was afraid to go to church where surely people more conservative than I would be discussing their views.
I decided at the end of that weekend that I would return to the Daily Mass the very next day.
I didn’t make it.
And I didn’t make it five more times.
It wasn’t until reading today’s email from my online Ignatian Spirituality Retreat that a series of words clicked for me.
“Unfortunately, we can’t change others, but we can be attentive and make sure that the good spirit is driving our choices.”
I read that, and it gave me pause. I went about my morning, but finally I came back to it this afternoon, and thought about what was keeping me from my worship services that I loved; that I missed.
For the last two weeks, my church (and many others) have participated in a Fortnight for Freedom. According to my research for this, it is “freedom to bear witness” to the truth of the Gospel.”
That’s not what I thought it was. At least that’s not what it seemed in looking at what our community prays about (when prayers are aloud).
Perhaps it’s that sometimes our preachers get too hung up on how Christians are perceived in the US. I’ve heard from friends who feel that this country doesn’t respect our freedom of religion.
That is truly a ridiculous notion. I don’t mean to offend anyone who does feel that way, but my question for you would be: how is your freedom of religion impeded in any way, shape, or form?
My answer is: it isn’t.
You aren’t persecuted or prosecuted. No one forces you to take or not to take holy sacraments. Not being able to inflict your religion on others against their will, and against their own religious beliefs is not actually your freedom being denied. In fact, it is you denying someone else their freedom.
I did not want to go to church lately, and pray for freedom of religion in this country. It’s hypocritical. What we’re really praying for is for others to kowtow to our beliefs; to force them to follow our doctrines. And I won’t have that.
When I read that statement in my email this morning: “we can’t change others” and “make sure that the good spirit is driving our choices,” I realized that I didn’t have to pray what others pray. I could pray for people and places that are truly under persecution; places where freedom of religion isn’t free.
I can pray for the ideals of this country and that they carry on for all its citizens, regardless of what they believe or don’t believe.
Baking a cake for someone who doesn’t believe what you believe isn’t standing up for your religion; it’s bigoted, and it makes a mockery of truly faithful people, who believe in and follow Jesus’ words and deeds.
Bake the cake, and pray for them. Do you bake cakes for divorced couples? For couples who live together? Adulterers? People on diets? Isn’t cheating on a diet lying? What about the fifty-year old person who wanted the icing to read: Happy 29th Birthday Again. If your business was a grocery store, would you refuse to sell gay couples milk for their baby because you don’t approve of their “lifestyle”?
It’s only in the ludicrous examples that show how ridiculous many of these people are acting. This doesn’t change what you believe, what you pray, what you support. It’s simply good manners. I think we should all pray for that.
I don’t know when I’ll return to church. I want to. It’s not the attending; it’s the going, the getting there, but I will.
I haven’t lost my faith; just my transportation.
HuffPost posed the question this morning: What will you do with your extra second?
I knew it was coming, but this leap second still came as a surprise to me.
One extra second.
We make fun, and some of us take it a little too seriously, but it’s an interesting question. Each second in our day passes with or without our noticing it. On some days we barely notice; on others we wonder where the time has gone. Seconds pass, and soon they become years past. Decades.
Which second is my extra one today?
That second when I slept in?
Or the second when I was too ill to get up?
What about the second it took to reblog the HuffPost picture earlier?
A piece of the Supernatural rerun I’m watching or is the special second in the commercial?
What are our seconds filled with all the rest of the year?
Can’t my leap second come on my birthday? Or Christmas morning? Or I can take an extra pause between rosary beads?
An extra second, an extra breath taken, an extra glance at my kids, an extra thank you to my son for being chauffeur, an extra hug, an extra like on Facebook, an extra eye raised to G-d.
For me, my extra second is still yet to be used.
I think I’ll keep it saved for an emergency when I run out of time or need to meet a deadline.
I think I’ll save it for that moment when I need to stop and take a deep breath.
I’ll keep that extra second in my pocket like a good luck charm, to be saved and used when I most need it.
This has been one of those crazy busy weeks. For the last three I’ve resorted to lists that included absolutely everything that I needed to remember, even consisting of using the bathroom, sleeping and eating breakfast. This is where my anxiety meets the normal end of year stress and they compete for which is going to make me the most miserable and forgetful.
Since Monday, we’ve had the last day of school, report cards, forgetting and then buying the teachers’ gifts not to mention the bus driver’s who should be nominated for sainthood. We’ve had a broken bicycle, my middle child’s DARE graduation and 5th grade moving up day, my oldest child’s high school graduation plus keeping track of all the parties he’s expecting to go to this weekend. We had my brother visit for about twenty-eight hours (to attend the aforementioned graduation) and my youngest child’s doctor’s appointment for her yearly physical. I had planned on sleeping late Friday since I forgot about the doctor, and then I was going to just veg out at home for the rest of the afternoon, ignoring everyone at home and on the internet.
However, the internet had other plans for me. Reverend Clementa Pinckney”s funeral with President Obama’s eulogy and rendition of Amazing Grace brought the emotion and grief of last week’s church shooting back into my mental sphere. That sense of loss undermined with the controversy of the confederate flag and the discussion of what constitutes racism if the shooting of nine Black worshippers in their church isn’t (according to some news outlets.)
Then, with the Supreme Court’s 5-4 ruling that anyone and everyone in this country can marry whom so ever they choose, my Facebook and Tumblr exploded with the force of a thousand rainbows. As one comedian said, opening Facebook on Friday looked like a battle between the confederacy and a skittles factory. A more apt description I have thus far not seen.
While the kids were out meeting Minions at our local FYE store, I stayed home to catch up on my lying around and watched Lee Daniels’ The Butler on Netflix. I thought this would be an interesting escape from the emotional roller coaster this week has been and I’d see the inner workings of a White House staff member, i.e. the butler. I apparently did not read what this movie was actually about. It was excellent, and I would highly recommend it, but in telling The Butler’s story, it wound its way from 1926 Georgia sharecroppers to 2009 and the first Black President. It followed Forest Whitaker’s character through the civil rights movement, which brought out an emotional tear fest for me. It was painful to watch, especially the historical re-enactments of lunchroom counters and beatings and exploding buses, not to mention the fright I felt at seeing white-sheeted Klansmen that I remembered from my history classes.I was a sobbing mess by the end of it.
While I failed in looking for that escape, it was actually a nice way to be reminded of how far this country has come. With the marriage equality victory still taking center stage on my Facebook, this was a good reminder of what the civil rights movement was all about, and how we still have so far to go for so many.
However, the forefront of my emotions were still back at my family adventures, which started the inspiration for this reflection. It was exciting and scary, emotional and giddy as we proudly watched our two sons mark milestones in their young lives and move towards their next chapters. I wanted to be part of every moment, and I tried to relish in it. It’s not easy when so much is happening at the same time, and while I was trying to live in the moment, I was also trying to record those moments.
And to be honest, my daughter was a good sport that 99% of this week’s activities had her taking a backseat to her brothers. Even her visit to the doctor wasn’t all that pleasant since she didn’t get a special mommy day like usual for those kinds of things because money was short this week. So no lunch out, but we’re making summer plans with the next paycheck.
What really surprised me this week was that amid my frantic-don’t-forget-anything, do-we-have-everything pseudo-shrieking was my oldest son, my almost high school graduate, my volunteer fireman and almost certified EMS worker doing everything I beckoned. Everything. From wearing a collared shirt under his graduation gown to leaving the park early so we could have lunch with his uncle before he got on his train for home to not needing to be asked even once to get out of bed on graduation morning. For twenty-four hours he was on time, ready, cooperative, and non-argumentative as we pushed and prodded, posed and hugged. He even let me kiss him a couple of times.
As much as I think my son slacks off, he passed all of his classes, he received the highest diploma his school offers; he earned some college credits and kept up on his fire department/EMS training. So, his room wasn’t clean. Ever. His bed wasn’t made. Ever. On occasion he got the dirty dishes out of his room, and he took showers, made dinner and helped with his brother and sister when he was asked; sometimes before he was asked.
When I told him he couldn’t come to his brother’s DARE graduation because it was parents only, he was incredulous. “Let them try and keep me out!” I was surprised at his determination to be part of something for his younger brother like that. He went from shrugs and ‘sures’ to caring and wanting to be part of it. I think I was most proud of that moment than even holding his diploma finally in my hands. The diploma was his hard work come to fruition, but the former – that was my hard work. That was my parenting, of showing my children what is important in this life: family.
As they get older, their needs and wants change and evolve, but they’re getting it. The one thing I had control over, I seem to have been successful at. I found out that I’m doing something right, so I can keep trying to do it with my two younger ones, and hope they turn out as strong and kind, caring and loving and thoughtful as their brother who led (and continues to lead) the way.
My Dad died twelve years ago in May. We miss him every day. He only got to meet my oldest son, and they had a wonderful relationship before he died. My son is graduating from high school this week, and with Father’s Day just yesterday and my son moving into a new chapter of his life, it’s hard not to think of my Dad and Dad-things.
Yesterday my husband took all of our kids to Six Flags. They went swimming and rode rides, and won prizes and had a great time together. (I’m not a ride, stuck outside in the heat person, so I stayed home, which was good for everyone!) At the park, there was this old fashioned photo thing that he wanted to do. He was thinking we would do it as a family, but I said I actually didn’t want to be in it.
But why?
When I went to college, they had one of those set-ups in the student center, and my Dad took an antique sepia photo with my siblings and me. I wanted my husband to do the same thing with our kids. Just Dad and the kids, pretending to be in the 1800s. I plan to frame them both and hang them together. I can’t wait to see it! I’ll try to scan them both later in the week, and post them for your amusement.
That is one of the ways my Dad is part of this week for us.
Another way is his blue stone ring. He wore it all the time. I don’t think he ever took it off. It was a gift from his parents. I think he received it for his Bar Mitzvah, but it may have been when he turned 18. When he died, my mother gave it to me for my son, the first grandchild in our family.
We’re going to give it to him on Wednesday, after he graduates from high school.
All the greeting card stores and Target-Wal-Mart card sections always put the cards in one grouping: Dads and Grads – get all your presents and cards in one convenient stop. Plus toilet paper and candy. This year, our family is really celebrating Dads and Grads.
It’s going to be a very long, very tiring, very special week for us. Enjoy your own celebrations with your dads, grads and families.
There’s the largest ball of twine and dryer lint, Coke bottles, and spectacles, but for most people collecting is a little more subdued. For each of us collectors we all have our origin stories, how we began collecting our treasures, our first whatever. We get all excited and starry eyed talking about our things and hope in our reverie that our audience’s eyes haven’t glazed over while they go over their shopping list in their heads.
For me, I’ve had several collections over the years for a multitude of reasons. When I did historical re-enactment, I collected all manner of books on the Middle Ages: art, children’s history, fiction. When I was a teacher, I collected children’s cooks. I’m always on the lookout for Jewish stories for children. After my first visit to Wales. I’ve collected both history books and travel ones. Books are big in our family. My husband and middle son collect comic books (and action figures). My daughter’s love is fashion – reading about it, wearing it, and designing it.
When I travel, I still collect pins and postcards and foreign money, especially coins, and ask friends to collect it for me since I travel so infrequently. I also collect griffins and pewter pieces.
My mother collected stamps. My brother has her collection, and she started getting my son some when he was a baby, like dinosaurs, comic strips, super heroes, etc. We still do that, but we’re more selective as they relate to our interests (Batman, Star Wars, and the like. I recently bought a sheet of Harvey Milk.) There is something for everyone.
I have a couple of church friends who collect Mary (the Blessed Mother) statues from their world travels.
In an informal poll on my Facebook, I was surprised by the diversity of people’s collections, some I’d heard of, but many I had not even considered. Demographically speaking, not including myself, respondents were ten female and two male, ages between 21 and 71. Orientation was evenly split for those that identify publicly and all but two were the same race. Most religious practices were unknown to me, but two are Jewish and five are practicing Christians with various degrees of devotion. All but one are college educated with four still in college. Jobs include administrative assistant, nurse/LPN, teacher, nanny, EMT, with two in the insurance industry.
Here is a rundown of the collections; maybe you’ll find one of your collections on this list:
Memorial Day* is the unofficial first day of the summer season. For some of us, school has already finished; for the rest it is a long weekend respite before the big sprint to the finish line of end of school and the Fourth of July. It is red, white, and blue and barbeque, no homework, shorts, and sunscreen. Unless you’re in retail, it is one of the only holidays that everyone is off from work.
We pretend to clean the house, catching up on family TV time (Heroes is our current family series) instead. Hot dogs for dinner, whether or not we grill them doesn’t matter as long as they come with beans and possibly corn on the cob.
Currently, I’m spending the next couple of hours in a comic/gaming store while my son plays hero clix and I catch up on my writing and next month’s editorial calendar for my site.
I’m sitting at a table, kindle and keyboard at my fingers, Diet Coke at my side, enjoying the air conditioning, and trying to figure out how to ask for the wifi password, but in the meantime I’m contemplating summer.
Summer is my least favorite season. I dread it every year. Not that I’m such a big fan of winter either, but at least in winter you can warm up. Whether you’re using a cozy blanket, extra sweater, or cuddling with a favorite friend or family member, or even a dog, you can eventually warm up.
No so with summer. There are only so many clothes you can remove to get comfortable, and let’s be honest, it can get so hot that you could be stark naked and still sweating bullets. Putting on deodorant to sleep really expresses the oppressive heat that just won’t be relieved. And I live in the Northeast, not known for the heat except for the occasional heat wave. I have friends in Arizona, and their weather truly astonishes me. It seems to me that it can’t be that hot on the sun, but they survive.
The only thing I want to do in summer is lay back, put my feet up, adjust the air conditioning, and make sure that my Kindle and Netflix remote control are at my side.
I do realize that my anti-summer attitude is caused partially by my adverse reaction to the sun because of one of my medications. I barely need to be in the sun for the itching to start. I don’t get a rash, but I’m constantly scratching, and it won’t stop until I’m either asleep and wake up the next morning or take a shower. It’s awful, but it is in fact, not as bad as most people’s allergic reactions or even sunburns.
I hate it, though because it makes me look lazy. Not that I don’t have lazy tendencies or a zillion procrastinator bones in my body, but I hate saying that I don’t want to go outside. I love my backyard; from the kitchen window at least. We have a beautiful lilac tree that I love the look and the smell of, but I can almost never enjoy it. By the time I steel myself to head out of doors, the yard has no more shade left.
Still, I have three kids who love the outdoors and need to get outside every day. They have their Nerf guns and bow, soccer balls, bicycles, and a tiny bit of newfound independence.
Summer can be long, but like me, those who are not fans of summer, we can still have a good time during those months with our kids off from school, and making plans for fall, my favorite season of the year.
If I can get through summer, I can relish the fall.
So…
What is your favorite season?
What is your favorite thing to do in that season?
What is your favorite thing to do in summer?
*A post about the commemoration of Memorial Day will follow this afternoon.
Griffins and Ginger Snaps 