Greyhounds on a Grey Day

Today I found a small blue thing at the dog park. Surprising, I know, considering a usual trip to the dog park results in the bagging of many small brown things.

This morning dawned grey and cold, a repeat of the last few days around here. Typical for a normal Maryland January but atypical of the southern temps we've experienced for the last two years. That global warming is a tricky minx; just when you think you have a handle on her, she blows some arctic air up your knickers and reminds you what a cold bitch she can be.

This weather has completely erased any willpower I possess. The most strenuous exercise I've performed in the last few days involved cutting copious amounts of shortening into flour to make biscuits. My stomach is in heaven; Linus and my thighs are in hell.

We have a huge yard so Linus was able to run around a bit, but he is used to at least four 3-5 mile hikes a week (translating to 10-15 off leash miles for him), and my refusal to leave the couch took him aback, to say the least.

Day One- Gazing out the window, Linus silently begs me to put down the fork.



Day Two- hope fading, Linus attempts a push up in a desperate attempt at exercise

 

Day Three- With his final bit of strength, Linus throws an ear across my keyboard,
hoping to gain my attention. I surf onward, accidentally spilling tea on his head.

Today a small spark of my former exercising self was lit within me, and I rose from my crumb filled bed. After heaving my legs into my largest pair of sweatpants (using two hands per leg), I threw a piano case around my shoulders for protection from the elements, and sailed forth to the dog park.

I know, I know a dog park means exercise for Linus, not me. But the fact that I put the chicken leg down and walked out of my house in sneakers instead of slippers was a huge step forward.

Needless to say, Linus was happier than a vampire at a blood drive.

He ran and barked and sniffed and humped, repeating this cycle over and over in a frenzy of joy.

And then...the girls arrived. A man entered the enclosed area leading not one, not two, not three, but FOUR of the most beautiful greyhounds I had ever seen.

The look on Linus's face was priceless. You know the music that plays every time Lauren Bacall or Rita Hayworth or Jessica Rabbit walks into a room? Linus had an endless loop of this playing in his tiny, tiny head.

To you these dogs may look like four legged crossing guards.
 To Linus? Sports Illustrated, swimsuit edition.

Linus approached the ladies, tail raised, butt available. Such a gentleman. One by one, the girls gracefully bent their heads, and in a manner I can only describe as delicate, sniffed the noxious fumes emanating from his hindquarters. Linus gratefully reciprocated, ecstatically shoving his nose wherever they allowed him to shove it. He was quite boorish, really. I guess the girls like it somewhat rough.

He really got them going, at one point joining in with other dogs to chase the greyhounds around the large enclosure.

This is the bit where my small blue thing moment happened.  As the dogs began to run, all of the adults in the park turned to watch. One greyhound in motion is a thing of beauty. Four greyhounds in motion stunned us into silence. With feet skimming the ground and bodies lunging forward, the dogs moved in silent rhythm, their syncopated movements perfectly timed.

The humans watched in awe. The other dogs, barking, fell quickly behind. The Ladies flew on, in single minded pursuit of an invisible rabbit, unaware of their unimaginable speed and unspeakable beauty as they completed their turn around the yard.

In those moments these animals defined Purpose, as they effortlessly acheived exactly what they were born to do.

What a lovely thing, to unquestionably possess the explanation of your existence.

I turned in a circle, half expecting to see a jet stream tracing the path they had run, but of course nothing trailed behind, save a few exhausted mutts and a dog named Linus.

Both Linus and I left the park happy and satiated, Linus with the scents of the Ladies filling his seriously compromised brain, and I with the unexpected pleasure of seeing Purpose fulfilled.

There are small, blue things everywhere. You just have to stand still long enough to see them.

Generations

"Snow falls... At first a few separate flakes float down slowly, one by one; then more, faster and faster, filling our eyes with dazzling, dancing whiteness. The movement is more mysterious because it is silent: dancing, wild dancing with no sound, like voiceless singing. If it made even the tiny tap of hail it would seem to fall into our world, but the silence is absolute; it is we who are walking in another world, a world in which we are ghosts. The falling flakes touch our face with unimaginable lightness and melt on the faint warmth of our blood, at once elusive and intimate."
                                                             Caryll Houselander

I went to the funeral of a childhood friend's mother today. My friend, Greg, and I were part of a very tight knit group of kids who were thick as thieves all through high school and college. Most of us still see each other, although not as consistently as we used to in our twenties and thirties.

Kids, jobs, lives lived. You know.

As teens and young adults we had many occasions to chat with each other's parents as we stopped by the house in the beginning of the evening and stumbled back in at night's end. Except for the occasional drunken and/or idiotic mishap, all of the parents seemed happy to entertain our group as we tumbled in and out like puppies from one house or another.

And as much as our own parents drove us crazy, our friend's parents delighted us in equal measure.

As we grew up and got places of our own, we saw less and less of each other's parents, but they certainly stayed with us in our minds and hearts. In fact, it was easy to catch real glimpses of them in our own behaviors as we grew older and older...and older.

Don't ever say you are not going to turn out like your mother and father. That's a bet you are sure to lose, my friend.

Greg's mom and dad, Marie and Al, were always welcoming when we were young. No matter how many times we ate them out of house and home, drank their good beer, or broke a lamp, their door stayed open.

For the most part. There were a few times a window had to be jimmied. I'm sure these were just misunderstandings.

 Over the years I have run into Marie and Al around our small town, at kid's ball games, or at various parties and functions. Each time I saw them I felt sentimentally overjoyed, a feeling that I hope was reciprocated.

Marie was a small woman, quick in movement, warm and friendly. Her character was not forceful, but more like the snowflakes described above, full of quiet and light.

A few years ago, cancer came to live with Marie. She thought she had successfully driven this wholly uninvited stranger away, but recently it crept back to stay.

And so, uncharacteristically, Marie decided to think of herself. In her very private and calm manner, she told her family she was ceasing treatment. At the age of 75, after a life spent living for others, Marie focused on herself. The last few weeks of her life, in what one would imagine to be a situation in which one has no control, Marie turned the tables and called the shots.

She went home to her little house and surrounded herself with family. She waited for her parish priest to visit and administer last rites, repeating the words as they were spoken. And a few hours after these final prayers were performed, Marie quietly, and lightly, breathed her last.

Today we laid her ashes to rest. The earthly reward for her generous heart was plain to see, as so many people attended the funeral it had to be moved from the chapel to the church. I was glad for the family to have visual proof of the character of this wife, mother, and grandmother. I was glad to have known Marie and grateful for the chance to have been a part of her life, and a friend to her family.

Just as the falling snowflakes described above, Marie's great grace touched my face with unimaginable lightness, and melted on the faint warmth of my blood.

She is a part of me now, and a part of us all.

Bring it, 2013

Our house, prior to global warming.

New Year's Eve for me evokes a melancholia, as I reflect on the story of my time here, which seems to unfold quicker and quicker as the years march on.

As many poets have said, all change is tinged with melancholy, for we leave behind a part of ourselves.

Melancholia can be a good thing, as it gives yin to the yang of pure joy, salt for the sweetness of happiness. Songs of great beauty can be written in a minor key.

Instead of looking back on the past year, I'd like to look forward to what lies ahead in 2013.

-I make absolutely no resolutions on January 1st. Wait, that's a resolution.

-Oldest turns 17 and probably gets her driving license. Many visits to colleges are in store, as we decide which university will get most of our hard earned money and quite a bit of Oldest's liver.

-frontal cortex development continues for 15 year old Trouble. Thank you, God.

-LB goes to middle school and turns 12. It is officially time to get rid of that baby weight. Ha.

-Coach and I continue to travel through our middle aged marriage together, thankful that most of my midlife crisis has passed. Waiting to see if Coach falls down the rabbit hole, but I doubt it. Give that man a football game to watch, a steady job that pays the bills and an occasional snog and he manages just fine.

-Thousands of drivers face imminent peril as they travel Maryland roadways. See comment about driver's license, above.

-our friends face tough end of life decisions as they say final goodbyes to elderly parents Questions are raised and deeper levels of faith, or a deeper disillusionment for it, follows.

-Coach and I travel to New Orleans for Jazz Fest. The kids re-create scenes from Lord of the Flies as they muddle through at home. God bless whoever plays Piggy.

- In July, we go on a family vacation to the shore with Coach's family- 7 brothers and sisters, mother, and 20 or so grandchildren.

-In August, my hangover goes away. Damn Irish.

-In September I mark the one year anniversary of Small Blue Thing. I'm thinking of having a small get together in my backyard to celebrate. All followers invited. I think I can fit all 8 of you.

Mary, Mary Christmas

"When [Mary] surrendered herself to God, there was indeed a miraculous New Heaven and New Earth. The Spirit entered the world- light and wisdom and love, patience, fortitude, and joy entered the human heart and mind, and in the sight of God a springtime of loveliness woke in the world."
                                                                                                             The Reed of God
                                                                                                             Carryl Houselander


For Christians, Christmas is a time to celebrate the birth of Christ. As a mom of three growing children, I find I identify more with Mary during this season. The story of a fourteen year old girl issuing the Christ child, full of the knowledge she will almost immediately lose him to the world, has always fascinated me.

Mary wasn't a woman full grown, she was basically a child. When her son was brutally tortured and crucified  she was only 47 years old, my current age. And yet, she carried this enormous responsibility with grace and dignity, a dignity that's clearly expressed in her Magnificat, a poem from Luke's gospel, one of the earliest Jewish-Christian canticles written.

My soul doth magnify the Lord : and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my Saviour.

For he hath regarded : the lowliness of his handmaiden.

For behold, from henceforth : all generations shall call me blessed.

For he that is mighty hath magnified me : and holy is his Name.

And his mercy is on them that fear him : throughout all generations.

He hath shewed strength with his arm : he hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.

He hath put down the mighty from their seat : and hath exalted the humble and meek.

He hath filled the hungry with good things : and the rich he hath sent empty away.

He remembering his mercy hath holpen his servant Israel : as he promised to our forefathers, Abraham and his seed for ever.

Glory Be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Ghost;

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end. Amen.)

                                                                                          Book of Common Prayer

I am hesitant to think Mary actually spoke these words. But Luke's poem expresses the woman he and others living at that time knew her to be.

Over the years, I have had quite a struggle with the divinity of Christ, as told by the story of the Angel Gabriel descending to inform Mary of Nazareth she has become impregnated with the child of God.

I'm willing to bet Joseph was glad God decided to stop at one.

This doubt used to cause me great stress. For a number of years I considered myself an atheist; then, as my practice of yoga developed and I learned more about Eastern religions, I practiced a general spirituality. Reading The Life of Pi, one of my favorite fables wherein a boy decides to follow multiple religions instead of only one, further confirmed my agnosticism. I also love earth religions, such as the faiths practiced by many American Indian tribes.

I found that atheism, a faith in it's own right, was not right for me. If there's one thing age has given me, it's the gift of uncertainty. I'm just not willing to bargain that my pitiful brain contains the universe's highest form of knowledge. I can't even remember the location of my car keys.

Love is a powerful tool. Too powerful, I think, to spring only from electrical impulses and nerve conductance.

These days, I am very grateful for my Catholic upbringing as I feel it provides a firm jumping off spot for the consideration of my place in the world. I am no longer concerned with my uncertainties about the stories of my religion; conversely, I enjoy the process of questions and the answers they uncover. I employ a little less logic and a greater acceptance of letting unexplainable events just lie.

A raw oyster looks absolutely disgusting, and has the consistency of snot. Yet, I find oysters delicious and completely addictive. Unexplainable. Doesn't bother me a bit these days.

As Carryll Houselander relates in The Reed of God, "The wind of the Spirit had beaten on the door, rattled the windows, tapped on the dark glass... One day a girl opened the door, and the little house was swept pure and sweet by the wind. Seas of light swept through it, and the light remained in it."

Mary may not be the Mother of the Christ; Jesus may not be the Son of God. But Jesus was a man so extraordinary, he didn't just make the world a better place while he was living in it, his presence has provided hope for many for thousands of years since his death. (Of course, horrible things have also happened under the auspices of religion. But that's a story for another day.)

Jesus' words speak of love and respect, for all, including women, a segment of the population not exactly highly regarded in his time.

Mary, of course, holds precedence over all. Jesus so loved his mother. And by many accounts never married.

It just occurred to me Jesus may have been gay. Now I love him even more.

Mary Christmas, everyone.

Convent Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Tis the week before Christmas

and all through the Convent,

Not a thing seems different.

Can it really be Advent?

(Oh yeah? You try rhyming convent. Wiseacre.)

As you might expect, the All Saints sisters don't buy in to the commercialism of the holidays. No lights are strung, no wreaths adorn doors. There's no tree decorated with ornaments and tinsel, and no garland on the mantel.

There's not even a trace of a blow up lawn ornament waving in the wind at the entrance to the chapel.

There is one addition to the altar- a lush, fragrant Advent wreath with fresh greens and candles as thick as my wrist.

Also present is a contemplative silence, heightened by a profound anticipation.





At the end of this week the sisters will assemble a cresh in the nave of the chapel. Constructed of wood and straw, the cresh conveys in the simplest way one of the most complex miracles of the Christian faith.

Both my house and the house at All Saints share the emotion of anticipation- theirs for the coming of the Christ child, and my kids' anticipation of their own Christmas miracles- an Ipod Touch for LB, the first season of Modern Family for Trouble, and the entire clothing inventory of Anthropologie for Oldest.

My husband anticipates an oxygen tank and a walker, as he will likely require these items after practically painting the entire house in the last week. I anticipate 50 family members descending upon our house on Christmas Eve.

I hope to be mindful of the simple message of peace and serenity offered by my friends at the convent as I rush headlong through the upcoming days.

Happy, Happy Holidays to all of my blog world friends.

"Maybe Christmas," he thought,
"doesn't come from a store.
Maybe Christmas… perhaps…
means a little bit more."
                                            Dr. Seuss

Saints Alive it's the Buddha

 This past Tuesday Catholics celebrated the feast of St. Josephat.  I started to read a bit about him and I found his history very interesting. Turns out Josephat plagiarized the Buddha.

 Jumpin' Josephat, he even poses like the Buddha.

That's the type of nonsense that can get one kicked out of the University of Enlightenment.

The complete story of Josephat's path to sainthood can be found here. Below is Wikipedia's drive-through version:

According to the legend, King Abenner  in India persecuted the Christian Church in his realm, founded by the Apostle Thomas. When astrologers predicted that his own son would some day become a Christian, Abenner had the young prince Josaphat isolated from external contact. Despite the imprisonment, Josaphat met the hermit Saint Barlaam and converted to Christianity. Josaphat kept his faith even in the face of his father's anger and persuasion. Eventually Abenner converted, turned over his throne to Josaphat, and retired to the desert to become a hermit. Josaphat himself later abdicated and went into seclusion with his old teacher Barlaam.

Apparently this story caused a bit of a deja vu for some historians, who began to trace the story back.

It seems the Latin Josaphat was derived from the 11th century Greek Iasaph, which was derived from the 8th century Arabic Yudasaf, in turn derived from the 6th century Persian Bodisav, who originally transcribed the name from the original Sanskrit Bodhisattva. Bodhisattva is, of course, the Buddha. 

That is some game of Telephone. Thank goodness my kids weren't in charge, Josaphat would have ended up with some unfortunate name like Pee Pee Poopyhead.

Turns out, Josephat's story is almost identical to the story of the Buddha's childhood and young adult years.

*please hum "Circle of Life" from the Lion King here*

We're all playing the same game. Just with different names.

Convent Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Some things in life are bad                                                                                                               
They can really make you mad
Other things just make you swear and curse                   
When you’re chewing on life’s gristle                              
Don’t grumble, give a whistle                                            
And this’ll help things turn out for the best ...And ... (Music slides into the song)

... always look on the bright side of life ... (Whistle) 

Always look on the light side of life ... (Whistle)
                                                                               Monty Python

                                                                              

Although I have gotten a bit better at looking at the bright side of things, I am genetically programmed to see the glass as half empty.

It's been a bit of a struggle, fighting a natural pessimism, one driven by an overactive thought process. Life would often hand me lemonade and I would make lemons out of it.

Sometimes good karma disguises itself- by the time you realize it was in front of you, you've moved it to the side.

It can be difficult to stay out of your own way.

Thank God, with age came wisdom. Well, first came anxiety, then bitterness. I believe I am moving into the wisdom stage. Baby steps, baby steps.

Today the convent is bathed in an icy rain, drops dripping off of leaves, railings and rooftops.












It's easy to recognize blessings when I'm here, somehow they are clearer, brighter, much easier to see. I look out the window at the hazy mist and can not be more grateful for the day God has given me.

There's no questioning why I'm here, or wondering what I should be doing instead to better myself and my situation. I still handle some real life work on my Convent Tuesdays, but emails that might normally cause hours of anxiety are handled with a polite out of office reply.

All that anxiety can wait until tomorrow, and by tomorrow the problem may well have resolved on its own.

That lemonade is lookin' mighty tasty.