reflection

Collections

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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:

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The Start of Summer

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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.

TV Season Finales

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This week is the end. All of our favorite shows are coming to an end, going on summer hiatus. Yes, it is TV season finales time. When I was a kid, you could practically set your watch by the television schedule. Second week in September they all started. Nothing was ever switched or pre-empted except in the case of a national/international event. In June, about the third week, everything ended, justin time for the kids to finish off school and head back out into the fresh, summer sun, which did not cause cancer, and a sunburn or tan was the mark of a healthy child.

All the shows ended the same week.

Our lives revolved around our televisions. They were the center of the living room with all the chairs facing it. We could almost always see the TV from the dining room even though we rarely ate in front of the TV in those days.

I remember the old timey TV dinners, Swanson of course with the metal tins and foil over the top. No microwaves. You had to have patience for both the start of the season and your dinner. Fried chicken and corn was my favorite.

We had no VCRs. There was no ‘let’s watch it later or tomorrow.’ You missed it, you missed it. Forget about internet spoilers, it took an act of Parliament to find out what you missed on the episode that you would not be able to see until summer reruns. We wanted spoilers. Desperately.

When TIVO was first introduced, I was offended as a capitalist that you could fast-forward through commercials. Commercials were the price you paid for a good television show.

Things are a little different for my kids. We will often have dinner in front of the TV for a special viewing – a holiday special or newly watching a series on Netflix – our newest one is Heroes and we all love it.

We’re (well basically just me right now) are planning a premiere party when The Walking Dead returns in the Fall. Although now, the modern Fall season begins in October, not everything begins on the same couple of weeks, and it ends in mid-May, if you’re lucky.

My kids, especially my oldest knows what it means to jump the shark, but they are surprised that it is not a metaphorical admonishment of going too far, but that it was a literal shark and I watched it happen on live TV. Well, if not live, then on a premiere episode that everyone else was watching at the same time.

We plan meals around special episodes – Scottish fare for the most recent Doctor Who, fish fingers and custard for the last one. I traveled 500 miles for a premiere party of the Supernatural TV series. Every week, my husband and his friend and I would have chicken parm heroes with our Star Trek night. I even made gagh (a Klingon noodle dish) for one auspicious event. I even coordinated a cookbook associated with a fan-fiction of Harry Potter.

We have no real food plans but we do have finales coming this week: The Flash and Supernatural (Arrow was last week). Then we wait for Netflix to get them, and we can rewatch this season before the next one starts in October.

Not to mention, new series that begin when the regular ones end: Major Crimes (returns June 8th), Orphan Black, loads of new things on BBCAmerica and TNT and old favorites on TBS. We still call it primetime, but it is nearly all-time!

I thought I was a TV junkie as a kid, but this new schedule is an enabler with the best of them. ANd there is almost as much television off the TV as on it with online discussion groups (they’re not just for books anymore) and a variety of Wiki entries. For many, the television season doesn’t necessarily end. They have Tumblr, fan fiction, and fan art, and stores like Hot Topic and FYE with fandom merchandise to keep them going until the hiatus is over.

I’m certain (because I’ve seen many of them) that the actors associated with Firefly wish that this onset of fannishness was around when they were cancelled. They would have been switched to a web series or a podcast. As it is now, they are welcome at all manner of sci-fi conventions. We still clamor for George Takei and William Shatner.

I’ll leave you with the description of a popular image on the internet. It is a picture of an iceberg. The big, dangerous part is hidden underneath the water, and the only visible part is tiny in comparison. The visible part is the original material and the giant, well hidden but a force to be reckoned with that hits you unexpectedly is the fandom.

TV is a limited series, but fandom is forever.

Called

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The imaginary lightbulb hovers over your head. We all metaphorically slap our foreheads wishing we’d had that V-8. We’re thrilled with our secular epiphany that we’re practically skipping along with excitement and trying to share it with anyone and everyone we meet.

In the church, I’ve found that they use different words to describe this sensation: their mission, a ministry, a calling.

It was brought home to me so clearly last year at my Rite of the Elect, signing the book of the Elect. I was called by name. G-d had my name long before I entered my church on happenstance. I was called by name again at my confirmation when I chose my saint.

This past week was my Diocese’s Spring Enrichment. I know I’ve mentioned it before. This week is one of those weeks that fills me with excitement, with dozens of light bulbs popping on, hovering over my head. I’m loving every minute of it. I had a full schedule of fourteen classes. I chose everything with a little help from my friend, and I can’t wait for next year to see the offerings. I don’t think I’ll take fourteen classes again, but I have some ideas of what kinds of classes I want to take now that I’ve got the hang of it.

I spent this week leaving some more of my shell behind. My comfort box is collapsing under the weight of hearing myself and the response to what I’m feeling and saying. My opinions and beliefs aren’t changing but the way I’m explaining and expressing myself is. I don’t expect to agree with everyone, but I do want to be able to have rational discussions.

I took a Pastoral Care and Depression class. I chose this, not because I’m a pastoral care associate, but because I have depression. I’ve had depression all of my life. It is only in my diagnosis and looking back that I can see all of the signs, the symptoms. I asked questions in class, I offered insights. I was able to bring up thoughts about how to support LGBT youth in the church – the heightened abuse, homelessness, and suicide of that age group. I was able to offer what not to say to a suicidal person, and what’s worked for others in that position. I asked about gender identity. Between Social Justice, Everyday Divine, and Pastoral Care and Depression, I found a little niche of note taking.

In the middle of that class, I had a lightbulb moment. I felt a calling. I can’t describe it as anything other than being called. One moment I was taking notes, the next moment, I was thinking how I could bring my experiences to the people who need it in my parish. How can I protect and support people who think that the church won’t be there for them and their struggles, whatever they may be?

This also fit in with the whole theme of the keynote address, taking the history of the church and looking at the aging of the church. The average age in the US is 37, but the average age of white Catholics is 45. In my parish, the ones that I primarily see are older than that. I bring up age because many of the people with the struggles – LGBT equality and issues, depression and mental illness, money – are in the younger demographic, but those caring for them are a bit older. This older group lived in a time (and some still feel this way) of stigmatizing mental illness, of don’t ask, don’t tell, of pink for girls and blue for boys. Much of this is a product of their times. Everyone I’ve met though are exceptionally giving and helpful. It’s not a matter of being unwilling to be supportive, but not knowing how to.

I’m somewhere in the middle. I’m in the older demographic of the forties and being a white Catholic, albeit a new Catholic, but I’m in touch with a younger generation. I have different thoughts about LGBT. I have the experience of having depression, and having been suicidal for a time. I have coping techniques that I can share. I evangelize and witness, but I also ask questions. Apparently, you can teach an old dog new tricks. At least I try.

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, but I’m called, and I feel the tug of actually using my experiences to help others. I was told recently to think about this and pray on it, and that is what I plan to do. However, my writing is part of my life and my ongoing therapy and recovery and spirituality, and here are my first thoughts about being called. Sometimes it feels a little overwhelming, but I do know that I wouldn’t be given more than I can manage.

It’s not the first time I’ve been called, but it does seem to be the most important calling because it affects so many others, both in my life and not yet in my life.

Continuing My Education

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Whether we know it or admit it or not, life is a constant series of learning new things. More and more of us are redefining what getting an education is. It used to be over 60s were considered a non-traditional student. Then, housewives who were trying to break back into the work force. Then the second careerists were non-traditional, and then the youngish ones who made bad choices or were waiting to have enough money.

Now, all these groups and more are less non-traditional and more changing with the times. Schools are needing to adapt through course requirements, including credit for practical experience and travel and life lived to new financial aid options, although this will always financial information even though parents are paying less and less if any of their child’s college bill.

When I started college, it was expected that I’d go. As much as I wanted to write, I was encouraged to go into something practical. I was pre-law. There was never any question about paying for school. We never even talked about it. My parents paid from that moment through all of my formal secondary education. I was stuck on a trajectory that I would have liked to have changed.

I’ve will be spending the better part of this week in a classroom, expanding my knowledge, meeting new people, meditating in nature, contemplating my journey so far. Spring Enrichment with my Diocese is still new to me, but it si also comfortable. I have my notebook, my pen, my camera and I am ready. There is something kind of spiritual about being in a classroom, especially hearing new things about religion and its place in history. Imagining myself there is something I’ve always reflected on my readings, whether they be Scripture or historical text. I’ve since discovered that this form of contemplation has a name: lecto divinia. I had always called it daydreaming. 😉

This week’s immersion  into so many Catholic ideas and opinions give me the thoughts that not only do I belong but I can continue to grow as a spiritual person while learning something new.

Education or Retreat or Both?

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This is my second year.

There are still jitters and anxiety of what people think, how I look, that I don’t fit in the auditorium seats, but there is also familiarity. I know where to park. I know where the back door to the events center is so I can get to the air conditioning quicker. I know where to get my ID and my schedule and how to use the online interactive map. I remembered to print out the bathroom, food and wi-fi highlights.

I recognize people like the wonderful storyteller from my last retreat, and she recognized me. And waved. I’m taking two classes with her this week. I recognize the musicians and the introductory speakers from the Diocese. I recognize the Bishop who has a wonderful way of making you at east with a smile that illuminates how much he believes and the joy of bringing that to the people of our Diocese. The Bishop Emeritus has his own way, a little less smiley, but no less welcoming to a new face.

The chatter continues and I forget about what I’ve forgotten at home and fill my senses with the buzz around me. It could be cooler, but part of that is in my head. I people-watch. People hug, people wave, people wave back. I got my own hug from a familiar friend and smiles towards me from new ones.

We are all in good company and we know it. All friends here, though most not yet met. And this week of open minds and new ideas and history remembered begins with music and the opening prayer in Spanish. Gracias a Dios.

Memoir

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My weekly memoir workshop began yesterday. Eight weeks of free writes, homework prompts, feedback, new ideas, community, camaraderie, and so much more. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks and our first class went beyond expectation.

For me this workshop is more than practice and writing. I joined this long standing group as newcomer back in 2012. I stumbled upon the notice at the library and I immediately signed up. I don’t even remember what I was doing at the library in the first place.

I had just been diagnosed with severe depression. In addition to that blindsiding me, there was anxiety creeping ever higher on the hit parade, and suicidal thoughts dominating many of my thoughts then. I needed distractions or at least motivation to continue on.

I had started attending talk therapy and went through a series of anti-depressants that took a bit to find the right combination. I lost two important supports, but found others. The only thing getting me out of bed in the morning was my newfound ritual – church, church, church, talk therapy for my depression, physical therapy for my knee, get through the weekend and start again.

This writing workshop was my lifeline.

One of the things I’ve learned in the ensuing three years is that there is no such thing as too much learning, too much information. When I talked about taking a memoir class people were surprised that I was writing my memoirs.

Of course I wasn’t. What in the world did I have to write about? I was nobody. But one of the other things I learned is that we’re all nobodies until we’re not. We all have our stories and they are each amazing in the scope of our families, of ourselves and in the overarching narrative of so many people in this country (and every other) who we pass on the street daily and read about in the history books.

The second thing I learned is that prompts are prompts. This class is focused on memoir, but memoir can be a jumping point to all other kinds of writing: fiction, history, picture books, cooking, travel, and more. And other writing topics are a springboard to all the other fields. I’ve recently taken a travel writing class that only supported the idea that all writing is related. The memoir class sparked everything and had made me a better blogger; taught me to find my focus and follow it. The travel class, as short as it was, gave me the impetus to take something on the sidelines for over five years and start it in a proper way that might be a magazine piece or a book. Either way, it will be something.

This class is still my lifeline even though my life is in a much better place than when I began. I’m thankful to say that while I’m still searching for myself, the suicidal tendencies have been tamped down. The class continues to be freeing and centering and only maintains all the ways I want to be and all the things I want to write and it lets me go anywhere. Whether a fictional ghost hunter or a memoir of my spiritual journey or a travel book of Wales, it is all there.

Our class theme this session is threads. Like the stuff theme before it, it sounds so little, so unobtrusive, but like the loose thread in a carpet that can unwind the whole thing, it can also reveal so much. From the bare floor to beneath the floor boards, children playing, dishes clattering, dogs scraping and scratching the wood. Is it a memory? Is it a fictional detective taking it all in tracking a killer, finding something else? Is it the floorboards of Thomas Jefferson’s first house?

Who knows?

But it’s all there for the finding, including finding yourself, a journey that never ends.

Traveling

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Sometimes, travel is little more than a series of random occurrences that culminate into an unexpected travel experience. That’s why journeys and paths are often used as metaphors. We understand the underlying meanings of undertaking a journey be it physical or spiritual. Even on a meticulously planned trip, there is still inevitable randomness that is simply out of your control.

The weather.

Traffic and Car Problems.

Construction and Renovation.

Companions’ temperament.

In 1986, I went to the U.K. My boyfriend broke up with me, we shared a dorm and he had a new girlfriend. If we were still dating, would I have gone anyway? It’s doubtful. I had nothing or no one holding me back. So I went, and it changed my life and my outlook on life.

Last Fall, I discovered a saint’s shrine within driving distance and so I went. My family was out of town. I doubt I would have made the effort if they were home. There is another shrine nearby. I’m going to spend some time there this Fall.

I’ve had the opportunity to travel by trains, planes, and automobiles. No boats though. Boats are not for me. I’ve been able to experience day trips, two week long holidays, and one week adventures. Hostels, hotels, campgrounds. Sightseeing, business travel, retreats. Family and solo. So many ways to go and so many places to stay.

As exhausting as traveling can be I find that there is nothing like the feeling of exhilaration and energy that recharges my batteries.

Seeing new things and seeing old things with new eyes are only two of the benefits of traveling.

As much as I like the convenience of traveling by car, a couple of years ago I took the train from New York to southern Virginia. I was nervous at first, that mode of travel being new to me and traveling alone, but I loved it. I loved everything about it. I loved watching the countryside out the window. I loved how much more room there was than on an airplane. I loved the wide variety of people and characters I ran into. I took notes and I eavesdropped discreetly. I read and I snacked. It was confirmation that it’s not the destination, but the journey that makes the traveling worth the trip.

Reminders

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Hail to you, our King, obedient to the Father; you were led to your crucifixion like a gentle lamb to the slaughter.

Today’s Gospel acclamation reminded me of something that often strikes me as funny. As someone who did not grow up with the New Testament, on occasion I will hear something in the church readings and I will remember it from the secular world.

Lambs to the slaughter is one of those phrases.

Another one is when Mary Magdalene asks where Jesus has gone after his burial in the tomb. Her words are: They have taken the Lord from the tomb, and we don’t know where they put him (within John 20: 1-9).

The way this was intoned the first time I heard this, it came out in a rhythm, and reminded me of Little Bo Peep: Little Bo Peep has lost her sheep and doesn’t know where to find them.

There are many times I wonder how many fables, how many familiar sayings come from the stories of Jesus, original reminders for the less than literate as his Death and Resurrection are repeated and told as more and more believers each find Him in their own time.

Kind of like me.

Palm Sunday

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In reading one of today’s reflections in Give Us This Day, I was reminded of something that has often bothered me throughout the years. Who killed Jesus?

Growing up Jewish I was always offended by the notion that Jesus was betrayed and that the blame always fell to the Jews.

My response has been that that was all there was. There were no Christians. You were Jewish or you were Roman and the Romans crucified everyone. How could the blame not fall to the Romans? Even Jesus’ followers considered themselves Jewish.

It was very confusing to me as a young person.

In reading and understanding the Gospel of the Passion, it is a little clearer, at least enough for me to speak on.

It also helps that the Church seems to have embraced Jesus’ Jewishness, something that surprised me when I first came to my parish.

Today’s Palm Sunday Mass opened in our parish hall where our palms were blessed, we were sprinkled with holy water and we walked out into the cold air under a bright sunny sky to the Church for the rest of the mass.

Most services have their own beauty, but these during Holy Week really do a good job of bringing us back in time, and letting us relive the original Passion, in addition to gaining the perspective of two thousand years.

Today begins the holiest of weeks for Christians. My first one as a Christian. I’m looking forward to growing and learning more as a Christian and seeing how different my views are from when I was growing up.

I grow every day.