motivation

A new year... a new decade... time for taking stock, time for making changes. It's what I love the most about New Year's, this motivation to look both back and ahead.

I tried to do it when the liturgical calendar changed, but without success. "Prepare ye the way of the Lord." it says in Isaiah. But Advent came and went last year. Even though I thought I would be prepared, I wasn't.

While it doesn't seem right that a secular holiday will hold more sway for me than the spiritual seasons, I will take whatever inspiration where I can get it... and run with it. Life is too short and my own gets shorter every year. I have no clue how long I have. None of us does. That knowledge can be both depressing and motivating. Today it's motivating.

Taking stock:

• I spend too much time playing Happy Farm and Fish Town, even though I rationalize that these games are a way to relax and unwind. Maybe I need to rewind, not unwind. Time to look at that and either wean myself away or go cold turkey. Lent will be a perfect time for this if I don't get to it sooner.
  
  
• I have let my own personal (creative) endeavors slip-slide away. Time to set a schedule to blog on a regular basis. Time to get back to the cartoons too. I miss those little boys. They give me great pleasure and satisfaction, not to mention they make my sisters laugh.
  
  
• I noticed just this morning that my patience level has deteriorated (yet again). Maybe it's time to change the furniture around. That usually helps. That and weeding out stuff... from my closet, drawers, bookshelves. Weeding out is like getting a haircut. I feel so much lighter, less encumbered. Maybe it's some law of quantum physics the scientists have yet to discover, but getting rid of stuff actually produces energy. You think I'm crazy? Try it. No, really try it.
  
  
• Okay this is a stretch, but I've been having a lot of bad dreams lately. I think it's time to write them down.
  
  
• Just in case I've never mentioned it, here's a trivia fact about myself: five is my favorite number. I do everything in fives... latent OCD gene I imagine, but I believe it's basically harmless. So this will be number 5 in the stock-taking activity for today: I am way too bossy. This not-so-harmless-trait is going to take more work than I can even imagine. Acknowledgement is the first step. I did, I do. I'm done for today. Time to go empty some drawers... get rid of five things.

New Year's Eve

Our celebrant this morning gave us a mini-sermon that struck home...

"Today is a time to reflect, he said, "on the blessings of this past year, but also on the challenges we have survived and endured." It's a good way to put it... describing a year that for so many has been fraught with illness, loss, unwanted change and heavy burdens. War continues to erupt in all the usual places, the economy is still tanked, and even with a hopeful inauguration ahead in January, there's a lot of hard work and sacrifice before us to turn any of it around.

In my own little corner of the globe we've had our share of trauma, and our extended families continue to need prayers for health issues, job security and a little extra courage to face the challenges of 2009.

Our celebrant on Christmas Eve elaborated on the angel's message to "fear not..." because, as he said, "fear gets us nowhere." So true. So on this New Year's Eve, the message is similar: Fear Not. Look at all we have survived, all we have endured. Look at all the blessings we have received in the wake of all the change. 

It's all a piece. And we are all in it together.

Memorial Day

Memorial Day is significant as the day to honor the men and women who lost their lives in the service of our country. It used to be a huge observance... with parades, flag ceremonies, graveyard visits, poppies in lapels... not so much now.

For one thing, the most recent "wars" where these men and women have been killed, have been bitterly contested. Viet Nam was the first war to show all the gory details on TV every night. Intelligent people began asking: Why? Why were we sending our brave children overseas to do battle in a tiny country they'd never even heard of? Of course, the enemy then was "Communism." Enemies change. Arbitrary lines on maps change. Agendas change. And we've outgrown some of our valiant naivete in matters political. Or at least that's the spin.

As a child I remember Memorial Day more for the rules and regulations... no white shoes before the date, and always make a trip (the week before) out to the graveyard to paint the urn and plant red geraniums. But in 1991 this holiday took on a new personal significance for me.

I had been away for the weekend, actually only overnight on Sunday, but I hadn't checked in on my mom since Saturday afternoon. I arrived at her apartment Sunday around lunch time and let myself in. She was asleep on the couch. I'd taken to checking her breathing every time I found her asleep, since by then she'd had at least three minor strokes. All was well. She was breathing, so I didn't wake her. I cleaned up the accumulation of dishes in her kitchen and made her some lunch.

When I brought it in, she still hadn't heard me puttering around in the kitchen, so I patted her shoulder to wake her up. Nothing. I shook her. It was then I realized she was stiff as a board. Her eyes were open, she was breathing, but nothing else was going on. It took me some time to process this information. I talked it through out loud with her.

"Mom, something's wrong. Wake up. You aren't waking up. I guess you don't want this lunch I made. I'm going to go call the doctor now. You wait here. Well of course, you will. You're not moving. Okay, I'm just going into the other room to call now. I'll be back."

The ambulance came and she went to the hospital. She never woke up. She died a week later.

For me it's not the date. The date changes every year. That year Memorial Day was much later, because she died on June 6th. It's the holiday I remember.

Happy Valentine's Day

Once upon a time Valentine's Day was absolutely the most important day of the year for me. More important than my birthday, even... because people generally feel compelled to remember you on your birthday.

For me, a Valentine was an expression of my worth... as a woman, or a potential partner, or as a person attractive or sweet enough to love. I put so much stock in this particular day I would be totally bummed out on years when I had no boyfriend.

On years when I had a boyfriend, I would put enormous pressure (on both of us) to make the day memorable. I wanted flowers, candy, a date, an expensive dinner... you name it, I wanted it. In my own defense, I was more than willing to give as good as I got, but that only made matters worse. I was so overwhelming in my effusive shower of gifts and affection, I scared them off.

What was with that? Insecurity... unreasonable expectations, pressure. What a waste.

Now I am a nun. (And it's Lent... no chocolate allowed) Wahoo! Having no expectations has got to be the most emancipating feeling on earth. I feel so sorry for all the guys I pressured or embarrassed or coerced on this day.

A toast to you, guys! You did your best (under ridiculous circumstances) and I have to tell you (and I'm sorry it's in retrospect) but I appreciate every single token of love you managed to express.

what day is it anyway?

Like most people, we sisters can get a bit mixed up. Not just the aging ones either, although their sense of time is way off the scale. "What day is it anyway? is always a good conversation starter... again and again throughout the same day. Yesterday's timing was funny... though quite logical in its outcome.

We were scheduled to celebrate a memorial at mass to Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. February 15th was his birthday. The sister at Morning Prayer misread the ordo and read his collect instead of the correct one for Epiphany. However, the sister who sets up the priest's books for mass had marked the collect for Martin Luther (aka Father of the Protestant Reformation) instead of Martin Luther King. Okay, we got to hear the right prayer, just not at the right time.

Next, the priest appeared in the crimson vestments of the martyred saints. Well... that makes sense in a way. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was assassinated; he just hasn't been declared a saint. The correct color would have been white if we'd been celebrating a feast day (which we weren't) or green for a regular mass.

This kind of attention to detail could be considered one of those hills of beans we protect and defend so violently. Does God care what color the priest wears to celebrate the mass or does God want us to love each other and cut each other some slack? Yet for some sisters there is a right way to do things... by the book, and the book says...

It won't help that next Monday will be the national holiday for Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. (which, by the way, will be the 13th anniversary of my move to New York City.)

gifts

Gifts... Some... are symbolic in themselves, some reflect the recipient's need, some the giver's. Some are last-minute efforts with no meaning, and some take on meaning only when you see the giver's smile or tears. —Tom Erich

In his daily meditation, Tom Erich was exploring his understanding of gifts, in the context of the story of the gifts brought by the wise men. His comments hit me especially hard, because I have a box under my bed still to be mailed to family. It is unfinished... lacking either one (or three) more items, depending on whether I decide to send just to the grandchildren or to include their parents. The one present lacking is something for the smallest child... a toy? a book? a soft cuddly something? Nothing I've seen in the Christmas array has shouted out to me "I'm the one!" and so the other bundles sit forlorn waiting inspiration from God. What's that about?

Well, for one, it's about fairness, and not showing partiality. Everyone must get something, even if it's a last-minute effort with no meaning. Except my heart just balks at that, which is why the box sits unfinished.

I already messed up the box for the other side of the family. I sent to my other son and daughter-in-law, and did not include a gift for their son, who would be visiting for the holidays. I didn't forget him; I just forgot he'd be there. Damn.

So I sit and ponder this whole gift situation... asking what's the point of a gift in the first place? The best I can come up with is to surprise (or delight) the recipient. That's always been easier with friends than family. When I was in high school, and made my very first Christmas purchases, I spent most of my money on one person and had to borrow against my allowance to make up the difference. Over the years that evened out a little, but I still ended up with lots of stuff for one, and nothing for another. The last minute scramble to find something bland or safe was a matter of necessity then. It isn't now. Or at least it doesn't have to be. That's what I'm thinking. Rationalization? Maybe. I'll ponder awhile longer.

New Year's Resolutions

I made a few resolutions this year... except I didn't write them down. At my age, that could be good news or bad... if I don't write them down then I might forget them; then I might not keep them. But if I forget them, then I won't feel guilty about not keeping them.

They aren't regular resolutions anyway, so maybe it doesn't matter. As far as I can remember all my past resolutions had "to DO" somewhere in the implication: to do more exercise, to drink more water, to get to work on time... to write more letters.

I already do enough now; I even have more time to do it. What I want in the new year is a change of heart, compassion, peace of mind, mindfulness in general. I can't have those by doing.

I've never been much good at just being. For years my worth was measured by my productivity, and I got good marks most of the time. There was a certain satisfaction in getting a job done well and on time. Of course it was important not to question whether the job itself was even worth the effort. A lot of times it wasn't, but I got paid for the effort, so no complaints.

Now I don't get paid for anything and most of what I do does feel worth it. There's no more angst over wasting my talent or my time or my money. I don't have any money. In a way, life got a whole lot simpler when I took life vows.

Except most of us have experienced the annoying truth that: things that are simple are not necessarily easy. Complexity gives any measurement a sliding scale... it's easier to fudge the results or blame unforeseen parameters when results don't occur as predicted. So for me, just being could be a major flop. No time like the present to find out.

the day after

I remember Christmases past when on Christmas morning you could barely see the tree for all the mountains of gifts piled in front of it. I think back on those as the years of excess... when things were so important because the important things were so lacking. I cannot say it was anybody's fault... the culture contributed, major dysfunction in the family, never having conversations that went below the shallow how-are-you-I-am-fine variety. To have those conversations would have been dangerous at best. To invite the kind of vulnerability required to go deeper was just not safe where we lived. We did what we could...

I spoke with both of my sons yesterday evening... after all the hustle and bustle of our busy day here. Although I had just seen both of them earlier in the month, that had been an odd get-together because it centered around my life profession. My birthday was the week afterwards and my sisters went overboard to give me a lovely party... almost as if they suspected my kids might forget. They did.

My older son lives in a time zone three hours earlier, so his hustle and bustle still revolved around dinner. The other had a million in-laws in the house, so our conversation was mostly drowned out and peppered with other conversations with the people around him. I was placed on hold a few times during both conversations and wondered briefly why I had even called at all.

But I knew. I called... to hear their voices... to engage. To remind them that although I am a nun, I am still their mother... and that I still love them. I cannot pile up presents to the ceiling to show that love, and even if I could, I wouldn't do it anymore anyway. It was an illusion, like so much of our culture's approach to life. We have forgotten we are in fact okay. Just as we are. Flawed, yes. God knows why.

That is part of the mystery we can't come to terms with. It kills us to imagine a perfect God who could/would create an imperfect world. Because we equate perfect with good. And... we can't imagine an imperfect God. Why not? Explain to me exactly why God has to be perfect.

Hey guys! This must be the place!

Short week...

The week of Advent IV is a day and a half long this year. That's what happens when Christmas falls on Tuesday. We had our normal Monday rest day yesterday (although only a few got any rest.) Most of us were about the business of last minute Christmas preparations. Some were cooking or baking, some grocery shopping, while others attended to the assorted rest day activities for the elderly sisters.

I made a haul at the Farmer's Market... six poinsettias and two big bunches of assorted mixed Christmas boughs. We used to take the car to Staten Island for our Christmas flowers (when the budget was four times what I spent yesterday.) We no longer have the car, and are scaling down in other areas as well. It felt good to spend so little and create so much. I approach flower arranging the same way I approach cooking: collect the leftovers and see what I can make that doesn't look or taste like a rerun.

So this year we have a big basket of assorted boughs under our altar, mixed with the late-blooming herbs from our garden, holly and some sweet kale flowers. A large red velvet bow adds the color. Today we set up the creche, hang a wreath on the altar cross, and will be close to being finished.

This entire Advent has been a bit of a blur for me. I was focused on other things. The liturgical year has never quite matched my spiritual cycles anyway... except for Holy Week. But I remember some Christmases past when I never even celebrated Advent until I was taking down the tree. It's easier to celebrate subliminally now, and I recognized an odd pattern with the prayers for each particular week:

Advent I Give us grace so we can cast away the works of darkness and put on the armor of light... We can do this ourselves. We just need a little help.

Advent II Give us grace to heed the warnings (of your prophets) so we may forsake our sins... Okay, we're not getting it yet, we see that. But all we need is a little help and a reminder now and then.

Advent III Stir up your power... and with great might come among us. We are so totally blowing it, you'd better do something dramatic to get our attention.

Advent IV Purify our conscience... by your daily visitation... so your Son will find us prepared... It's all in the ordinary everyday encounters that we are sanded down to anything close to perfection. Attention to detail, acknowledging the small errors in judgement or compassion. Practice, practice, practice. Ignoring our conscience is the easy way out, but it never works for long. It's a short week to practice.

Amazing performance

I've attended a lot of performances of Handel's Messiah in my day... All were memorable (in their own way) but yesterday's performance at Trinity Church Wall Street stands out as the best by far. For one thing, the soloists were not over the top, being divas for their own exaltation. Their tones were pure and intensely focused, but it was the text that stood out, not operatic calisthenics. In particular the soprano who sang the final aria was awesome. Her voice soared without the gale force normally associated with those extremely high notes.

Ever since I was a teenager and was taught it was not only polite, but important to "stand up" at the first strains of the Hallelujah Chorus, I've always looked forward to that one moment when the audience rises. There's something to be said for standing up for pure joy... the physical act reinforces the emotion the music already evokes... one supports the other and as the chorus swells in volume and pitch, my heart swells as well. Who cares whether King George actually stood up? Who cares if some programs now discourage the practice? Some people want to stand; they should leave well enough alone.

I'm always a sucker for the Hallelujah Chorus, no matter how awful the choir might be. Yesterday's choir was most excellent, however, and we were there as guests of one of our celebrants. Our seats were amazing. I always wonder what people must think about a bunch of nuns in the expensive rows. Behind us, the "general seating" was packed. But the truth is, we didn't buy the tickets; people give us these things... especially at Christmas. We get grapefruits from Texas, oranges from Florida, candy and cookies, wreaths for our front door and chapel... it's a magical time of receiving for us.

The brilliant conductor had been a student of one of our founding sisters. She had encouraged his musical talent and was intensely proud of his achievements. She told me how, in the fourth grade, he would bring his compositions to her and say, "Sister, I have written you a symphony!" I sat beside her at the concert and she had brought her own dog-eared score. She followed along through the entire performance. Afterwards we went up to greet him, and he gave her a big hug and kiss.

The conductor introduced us to another well-wisher who was standing in line: a priest he had known at Trinity for many years... the same man I had known as an interim priest from my old parish in Jacksonville. Small world, isn't it?

End of the season

It's been a quiet and restful Thanksgiving weekend, considering we're nine nuns living together. We had few guests for dinner Thanksgiving day, not like in the "old days" when preparations started at Oh-dark-thirty, as one of our sisters calls the crack of dawn. I was up to pop the birds in the oven at 6:30, but that was very reasonable, since my only responsibilities this year were turkey and gravy. (And nut pie.)

Our celebrant at mass gave a fascinating history of how the fourth Thursday of November had evolved from its early beginnings. He spoke of the anomaly that Thanksgiving is, a day of solemn prayer dictated by the state, not the church... that our own prayer book was twelve years behind the eight ball in including a collect for Thanksgiving Day.

He explored the theme of a state-dictated day of thanksgiving by asking, "if all are to give thanks, then to whom and for what?" Good question for a country finally looking recession straight in the face, grappling with the price of fuel, a shrinking economy, high unemployment, soaring medical costs, and the looming unpredictability of climate change. Denial no longer works for anyone but the wealthy, and their numbers shrink as the gap between rich and poor widens.

One of the readings appointed for Thanksgiving talked about "first fruits," the income-tax-like offering to God for the harvest. It was not a thank offering, it was 10% of whatever you harvested, whether the year was lean or abundant. In lean years there may not have been much thanks to spare, especially when 10% of very little left your family in debt with nothing to eat. The point was, of course, the belief that everything belonged to God to begin with. Nothing was ours by right. He wondered aloud that if we really believed that, and behaved as though we did, would we take better care of the Earth than we do? My answering thought was "Probably not."

I thought of how hard we are as a group on our belongings here in the convent. Everything is communal property, no personal possessions, and we chip bowls and wear out vacuum cleaners and take little heed about stuffing the washing machine to overload capacity. If these things were ours, would we treat them better? I know how I took care of my own things before I came... and the fact that I had bought and paid for them with money I earned meant they had to last. We have lost that element here, as I think we lost it in the larger sense in our dealings with Earth and her resources.

In his final final wrap up, he asked the question: what are blessings? It was an excellent theme to ponder on Friday as the community went into a day of silent retreat. No flurry of Christmas shopping... we stayed home and prayed, rested, and ate turkey sandwiches.

As I pondered all of my other blessings, I learned that both of my sons will be present for my life profession. What a gift. What a wonderful way to celebrate the last Sunday in Pentecost, the end of the season, the doorway to the next steps.

my favorite Halloween picture

Happy Halloween to All

Gone fishin'

In about ten minutes I'm out of here. (Not forever... it's my last week of rest time.)

I'm taking a three+ hour train ride to Newport, RI, home of my past, and present home of a dear friend who lets me come and stay with her every year. In my mind I can already smell the salt air, taste the fried clams... I have a new book (a gift from one of my sisters who has a knack for picking excellent reading material for me) and my bathing suit, although it looks pretty overcast outside my window right now.

I'm taking the laptop, ostensibly to work on cartoons for a calendar we might do as a Christmas gift for our associates... hopefully this year, but if not, maybe next. If I have internet access I may post. Otherwise, see you in a week.

love...

Independence Day

I'm still pondering last Sunday's readings...

In his letter to the Galatians, Paul talked a lot about freedom (vs slavery) both in the literal sense and figuratively. I have no way to relate the experience of literal slavery, either as an owner or as one owned. I know about prejudice, but slavery? Even my active imagination can't wrap itself around the degradation of that kind of possessiveness.

The early followers of Jesus came from all sections of society, but especially from the marginalized: the poor, the slave, the disenfranchised. Many of them had next to nothing to lose, they'd already lost everything. But some, like Paul, had a lot to lose. Jesus made no bones about the cost of discipleship. he told his followers they'd lose family, status, even their lives if they followed him. Yet they followed him anyway. The freedom he promised was too real to ignore. The cost of that freedom is something I think about a lot.

Today is our nation's anniversary of freedom from European rule... a bold uprising in a backwater colony... Like the early Christians, the early Americans paid a huge cost for the freedom they achieved. I wonder if either group would recognize the current version of what their sacrifices produced?

Assorted Musings on Mother's Day

My friend mentioned she doesn't like Mother's Day. She may post about why that is, and I'll probably agree with whatever she says. Her words always encourage me to think about things differently. For the record, I like it. (Thinking differently... and Mothers Day. Both.)

I remember when my kids were in grade school they'd come home on Friday with hand-made cards—class project. The greetings were generally as creative as the teacher involved, sometimes humorous. Drawings were big, question and answer sessions... I like my mother to cook: (fill in the blank) My mother is prettiest when: (fill in the blank) I love my mother because: (fill in the blank) I saved those cards for years... my sentimentality for them long exceeded my sentimentality for the macaroni Christmas ornaments they brought home.

I don't know who invented Mother's Day. I could have looked it up, and given you the history, but you can google it yourself. I do that (google information for my blog) sometimes... so I'll appear more intelligent than I really am. And I actually am pretty smart about some things. I have excellent reading comprehension, decent grammar, good spelling (if not typing) skills. I'm creative and productive, have most always been able to earn a living. My learning curve is suffering with old age, but I guess that's to be expected.

"Street smart" I have never been. Naive would be a better term... or gullible, perhaps. As a child, I was sheltered from violence, gang wars, drive-by shootings. I was not sheltered from child molestation, but neither was I traumatized by it. It left its scar, but one that was barely visible. I wonder about the scars (visible and otherwise) left on my children... how my neglect, insecurity, inability to set boundaries, and bad choices have affected them in ways they are still dealing with.

That is all in my past, I cannot change any of it. What I can do now, is love them with all my heart, let them know it in as many ways possible, and wish them well. Oddly enough it appears I've been given a second chance at mothering to some of our elderly sisters, who grow more child-like every day. They spill, break dishes, go out alone without telling anyone, lose their place in the Daily Office... lose their glasses, or cane. They ask a thousand questions... tell me the same story again and again... yet I take it in stride without much annoyance. I have more patience, more compassion with them than I did with my own kids. (Maybe growing old does that too.)

When I was little, everyone wore a carnation on Mother's Day. There was a code: if your mother was alive, you wore red or pink. If she was dead, you wore white. I never wore a white carnation because somewhere along the way that ritual was phased out. But flowers for Mother's Day have never phased out. I read that Mother's day actually surpasses Valentine's Day in flower deliveries, and that's a HUGE flower holiday.

I got flowers from my older son this year. Irises. Beautiful purple irises. The card read To My Mommy I loved that. Mommy. I only know one other adult who still calls her mother Mommy. And I do love flowers, too. Some folks think they are a waste of money because the shelf-life is so short. Nah. Jesus didn't think it was a waste of money when Mary cracked the jar of nard over his head. The perfume was exquisite and he loved her for it. It said "you're worth it." For me it's the same with flowers. In spite of everything, I'm worth it to my children.

I am blessed with two sons and they take turns surprising me. When I was younger (and way more cynical), I'd say "It's good to have two. You have a better chance of being remembered by at least one of them." This year it was flowers.

Aging

Dream: I have missed my grandson's birthday (again) and I am trying to write a blog to apologize, to explain that my (once razor-sharp) memory keeps failing me. I begin the post with "I have too many grandchildren." ...as if that were a valid excuse for not remembering the youngest's first birthday. No, I cannot say that. It sounds judgmental, as if I were rebuking my son for having four children. As the dream continues I keep revising the text, trying not to whine, trying to sound appropriately contrite. I feel guilty, helpless, hopeless in this. I start again.

The truth is I'm having difficulty coping with the fact that I cannot remember things any more. I am having more difficulty with my irritation with others who forget key details. I now have no grounds for complaint (as if I ever did) but now the clarity is painful.

I begin again. I talk about the aging process, things my mother used to say when she was growing forgetful... when she no longer could do things on the spur of the moment or would become agitated when asked to change her plans. It took her two hours to get dressed in the morning. She needed to know ahead of time what to wear. I am not that bad, I say to myself. But I know secretly that it takes me longer to organize my day now too. I start again. "I have too many grandchildren." No, I can't say that. Now why can't I say that? I cannot remember. So I leave it for now, and hit "save as draft."

I wake up exhausted, slowly becoming aware I've dreamed the whole thing. I pray quietly in the early morning dimness. When was his birthday? I'm afraid to look at the little book where I keep all the dates... how late am I?

Later in the day I finally look at the book. I look at March, April... his name is not there. I look at May... hope springing up.. maybe I am not late? His name is not there. My son's name is there. I knew that. I have only two sons. I can remember two. June... there he is, June 24th! I am not late. Ah... but when June comes will I forget again? I sigh. And give thanks for my forgiving sons, my forgiving sisters, my forgiving God.