reflection

My Fandom History, Abridged Version

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In high school I wrote fan fiction (although we didn’t call it that then) for The White Shadow.; Mary Sue self-insert. I wrote RPG spy fiction. Again Mary Sue self-insert, but with a little more character development. I wrote band fic; less Mary Sue, more career exploration. I was a photojournalist for the opening act, and I guess except for the band, I kind of try to do that now with my blog. It reminds me of the inspiration and the you can do anything feeling that I forgot about in my thirties.

I like to think I’ve gotten better, both as a writer and a creator of original content. Those three examples are not something I usually share. It’s in the embarrassing box of teen angst, and hiding my fan side in the closet. It’s okay with certain people, but not others, and that’s how we give off the aloof, quiet, introvert vibe. Some of us are those things, but as a whole, fans are exuberant and fun and loud; very loud.

My first fandom was Star Trek. I was in every aspect of fandom. I watched every episode multiple times, I knew every episode by heart, I learned Klingon, I went to conventions. I bought the books and set my clock by Starlog’s publication date. Star Trek led me into every other science-fiction/fantasy from space to dragons to magic to time travel. There were watching parties, and special menus for mystery dinner nights. I could recognize later generation actors out of their makeup by their voices or body language. I’ve stood hours in line for autographs, but in those early days, we didn’t pay for them.

As a TV junkie, I’ve followed many actors on their careers. Shaun Cassidy for one; William Shatner and George Takei for others. I’ve gone in and out of fandoms, although most of them continue to have a place in my heart. I was recently reminded of H.R. Pufnstuf, one of my favorite shows and Land of the Lost by the same team of Sid & Marty Kroft.

I belonged to the SCA, which in and of itself is its own fandom; the fandom of medieval history. I’d claim to be a history buff and a political junkie, but those are just different words for fan and for the fandoms.

Fandom now is far more extensive and out in the open than I ever imagined it would be. There are mainstream stores in the malls dedicated to them: Hot Topic, and you can find licensed merchandise from Minecraft to Lego to DC and Marvel Comics franchises in Wal-Mart and Target. You can’t get more mainstream than that.

When my daughter was three, I found a beautiful, mostly historic rendition of a velvet scarlet Spanish Renaissance gown with a matching velvet tiara for Halloween. That was in Target, and it was less than $20. It would have cost three times that or more for me to make it for her. The only princess costume I could ever wear as a child growing up were those plastic ones of Sleeping Beauty. My face still gets hot when I even think about it.

We’re not embarrassed to say our pop culture loves, and there is no wrong way to be in fandom. Many of us wax and wane on our involvement, and which fandom gets the most attention at one time.

Harry Potter was the book series that brought me into today’s fandom. It was loaned from a friend who thought I might like it. I did. With Harry Potter came movies – in fact, Prisoner of Azkaban was the first movie I ever attended alone. In addition to the movies, I discovered a whole new world on Live Journal of fan fiction, and from there found other fans, and groups, and sub-fandoms, and meta – the analysis of the details. No longer would the minutia of details be relegated to small groups meeting in basements and youth centers once a week or month. Now, the minutia is everywhere. There are headcanons and alternate universes (AUs). There are wikis for individual television shows, movies, and comic book characters. There are kinks and squicks, which aren’t always sexual in nature, but preferential, and their are triggers and spoiler etiquette.

I hear my non-fandom friends expressing fandom sentiments like canon and ships. Many of my closest friends are originally from fandom. What we’ve discovered in fandom is that in addition to our mutual love of fandom, we also have families and jobs and our mundane life doesn’t need to be so mundane as our friendships broaden and include people from across the country and around the world who we never would have met if not for our intersecting fandoms. In turn, we share our views and our values, we accept and learn.

I would say that the fandom I am most involved in is Supernatural. I’m sure most people would have guessed The Walking Dead, and while I do consider myself in that fandom, I don’t get to meet and know the people who are also in it except for Norman Reedus‘ Facebook and Instagram.
With Supernatural, there is tumblr, conventions (even though I don’t attend), watching parties, meta, fan fiction, discussions, speculation, compassion and kindness. Every day I witness those last two in the fandom. It was there already, but is even more pronounced with Misha Collins’ charity, Random Acts and gishwhes, his annual scavenger hunt.

Supernatural showed me a literal whole new world, and was instrumental in my recovery from depression. I love the shows, I love the plots and the characters and the fan family, but I also keep Supernatural on as my background noise. I know many of the episodes so it doesn’t interfere with my writing or my living for the most part, but the voices give me the soft comfort, the hand on my shoulder, the short, quick hug when I need it. We all must have something like that in our lives, and for me, Supernatural is it.

Fandom is here to stay, and I for one, am glad of it. It is so much of my life that I forget when I’m talking to a non-fandom person that they don’t know the details; that the casual viewer doesn’t recognize the reference back three seasons, or the foreshadowing.

Fandom is a life unto itself, and a life unto others. It is supportive and comfort in a loud, sometimes angry world. It can be hope and faith, some of the things that most of my fandoms ascribe to be; a better world in the future, a future of exploration and creating; of ideals and compassion, and so many of the things we embrace and try to emulate in our own lives.

My Shrine Visit

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I’m still not sure what to call my Shrine visit. Since I live so close, about an hour, it feels odd to call it a pilgrimage, but really what else was it? Retreats have leaders and in my mind, they last more than one day or part of one day. It was a few weeks ago that I went on a day pilgrimage to the Shrine of North American Martyrs in Auriesville, NY [Technically, it’s the Shrine of Our Lady of Martyrs]. I couldn’t believe how close it was, practically in my backyard. It is so much of what I run away from home looking for and all the things I picture a shrine should be: pastoral, bucolic, natural, historic. Should I use serene? That seems cliche but it does fit. Strolling the grounds costs nothing but time, and it’s beautiful and quiet, and yes, serene, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. It is the perfect place to think and to pray and to reflect and contemplate on anything; everything.

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A First Day of School Reflection

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This morning at Mass, our priest spoke during his homily about the nativity of the Holy Mother, which is today. Would that be Marymas? One of the things that he mentioned is that in the today’s readings and Gospel, instead of talking much about Mary’s birth that we are commemorating today, it’s all about Jesus. It’s about how she’ll be bringing the Christ child, the Lord, Jesus into the earthly world that she, and we, live in.

That struck a chord with me as I sat down this morning to write about the first day of school. I thought I was going to write a few hundred words about my feelings on returning home to an empty house; the quiet, the little sounds in the basement of the furnace that I can hear so clearly now that the television is off and the summer screeching has stopped. I thought it would be lonely, but would still give me that renewal that I tend to get in the fall when everything starts up again.

It was supposed to be about me; my coping with what to do for the full days, getting re-organized, and catching up on the summertime neglected me.

Instead, like Mary’s birthday, it’s all about the kids.

And today’s that day. The first day of school in our neck of the woods has finally arrived. From what I’ve seen, we’re one of the last regions to return for the fall session. My nieces went back last week, my nephews the week before that. My Colorado friends even started in mid-August.

Here and now, though today’s our day.

Last week, my middle son went to middle school orientation; my oldest went to college orientation and attended his first day of classes.

My little girl got on the bus alone for the first time this morning, mere hours ago. No big brothers to lead the way; not that she needs any more independence. Yesterday’s argument was if your lip balm is colored it is still lipstick and you’re not allowed to wear it. Because; that’s why.

They’ve all had their moments when the toddler disappeared even if for only one day. It’s a long transition for everyone; two steps forward, one step back.

One day my baby is cuddling in bed and the next she’s painting her toenails. I don’t want to let her grow up. She screams like a banshee, in happy times and angry, but she’s barely above a whisper when my priest says hello to her.

My oldest seems to have crossed the threshold from confused to his family standing to a comfortable big brother. He’s asked for help and advice more times in the last two weeks than in the last two years. He’s reached that trusting place where we’re becoming friends; kind of. He’s eighteen, he drives his own car, he’s a firefighter, he’s in college. He runs errands and cooks dinner. He babysits, which means if he can’t hear them and they don’t blow up the house, it’s all good. He waggles his eyebrows and smirks when he’s trying not to laugh.

About a month ago, my husband tried to clean his room. My son got angry and yelled at him, “Don’t! Leave me alone!” He forgot to pause between ‘don’t’ and ‘leave’ and so it came out, “Don’t leave me alone!” I was in another room laughing and even child#1/adult#3 couldn’t help but laugh. He also forfeited a hug. Much like the one he gave us this morning as he left on his second day of college classes.

My middle guy loves Lego and Minecraft, Star Wars and Batman. He is the curator of my husband’s comic book collection and the comic shop clerks know who to talk to about delays or up and coming specials. He’s very organized and doesn’t like change. He needs timely warnings to prepare him for weekend adventures. Don’t ever tell him something will take five minutes if it will take six. He doesn’t mind waiting if he knows how long the wait will be; exactly how long the wait will be.

It’s taken almost eleven years for him to barely get used to the fact that we do not eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the weekends. Sometimes it’s barely one real meal. This used to take a change in our expressions and a visit to my lap for a hug and whispered explanation. If I want something done properly, however, he’s my man.

#3 is the girliest girl to ever girl. She loves pink and lace, tights and leggings, hats and fancy shoes. She polishes her nails and designs her clothes. She sings and dances, takes care of her babies, and does her hair about about ten times a day. She wants long locks like Rapunzel. She was enamored when I showed her a picture of Crystal Gayle. She works that messy ponytail so well that she puts Scarlett Johanssen and Kristen Stewart to shame. And her feet and hands are the dirtiest I’ve ever seen on anyone. She wears that lacy pink dress and climbs trees. She kicks off her flip-flops to go kick a soccer ball across the yard. She’s got the personality of an entire theatre troupe. She’s a special one.

They’re all special in their own ways and watching them grow into themselves is a double edged sword of privilege and pain.

They are more than my legacy; they are their own. Picking and choosing from their parents and grandparents, their friends and television friends.

They’re becoming.

As they watch their mom, me, in the last few years, converting to Catholicism, finding my way as a Christian and as a writer, adopting compassion, speaking out on all manner of things, and having fun at my “advanced age” I hope they see that their becoming never ends. It grows; it ebbs and flows, it continues and the path darkens and forks, but we are always changing, and whatever path we start on, there are many detours and many opportunities to change our path if the one we’re on doesn’t work out the first time.

The most important thing I hope I’ve taught them is that their lives are not etched in stone, but in sand. One swipe of their palm, one grabbing up of a stick or use of their finger and they are able to draw a new future. Tear the page and throw it in the fire. And most importantly, be you.

Who you may be, become you, my babies.

Writing vs. Posting

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I have been writing on three posts somewhat simultaneously. I start one, move to the next one, stick a thought here or there, save, and continue. When I went on my pilgrimage, the third came to life. Now, I’ve started a fourth that seems to have taken over.

As many of you know, I usually write on my Kindle; my finger and Swype. For something that takes a little more thought and words I use my keyboard. But then there are those doozys. The ones that go over 700 words just in the head space, and I know that I need something a little bigger: my laptop.

For the fourth wip (work(s) in progress), I need to watch a four+ minute video for my analysis; my meta. I can’t really watch a video of that quality and type notes in a first draft format without my laptop. I’ve been watching, and writing, saving to my dropbox to edit on my Kindle, lather, rinse, repeat.

For the third wip, I typed my handwritten notes with the kindle keyboard, dropbox’d it, and continued in the laptop.

The combined word count so far for three and four is well over 2500 words. Truth be told, they’re closer to 3K and nowhere near finished.

I really, really want to post them both.

Like right now.

But they’re just not ready for prime time, and sitting here listening to my fandom playlist, I was reminded that whatever name I give myself – writer, author, blogger – at no point have I ever said I’m a poster.

Posting is the publication, the end result of the work; the time put in, the research, watching the damn videos, adding the damn links, checking the damn facts, honing the opinion, the WRITING.

WRITING.

However long it takes from thought to page to post, it goes nowhere without the writing. So, if the first one takes five months, and the second one takes three months, and the third two or three weeks, and the fourth one and a half months, no matter. No worries.

The writing is the thing.

And the thing is the most important thing.

The thing is the writing.

Thursday Travels – Writing Space

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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.

Monday’s Good for the Soul – Tea

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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.)

Monday’s Good for the Soul – Mass Returns

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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.

Missing Mass

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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.

MY Extra (Leap) Second

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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.