The two's have it

It's hard to believe it's been two years... feels like more than that. I never knew how much I loved to write before this blog, and... (as I've mentioned before) my daughter-in-law can take the credit for getting me started. Loyal readers can take the credit for keeping me going when stumbling blocks of various sizes threatened to put the fire out. Even annoying anonymous commenters can take the credit for keeping me on my toes when I'd just as soon be flat-footed. It's been a great two years. Here's to a couple more... cheers.

the illusion of permanence

...life is about changes. There is no standing still, only movement. What feels permanent is itself dynamic, always in the process of ending so that a new moment can begin. —Tom Ehrich

"make this life in community permanent"
Yikes... did I actually say that? Out loud? In writing?
Hmmm... yes, I guess I did.

But reading Tom's commentary this morning has also reminded me that no amount of planning, imagination, determination, faith or wishful thinking can make things stay the same if they're going great, or speed their passing if they're going badly. Everything changes and life always moves on.

My friend Pat often speaks of life as a dance. It's a great analogy. Sometimes it's a square dance and we have a lot of interchanging partners. Sometimes it's a waltz and our partner steps on our toes. Sometimes the dance is a solo endeavor, and one of the joys in that is you can just sit down when you get tired. I like to dance but I get tired a lot.

no is just a slower form...

A friend of mine posted a poem on her blog here. She writes lots of poems, but the words in this one resonated on some deep vibrational level, so I told her how much I loved the thought.... that in fact, I might even want to steal it for my blog.

Here's an excerpt... the words that struck me especially in the context of my decision to make this life in community permanent:

Yes is yes,
but no is just a slower form of yes
until we learn the steps
because

the dance is all there is.

I thought of all the times I had joked about "running off to join the convent if things didn't work out", about all the prayers to God to match me up with a nice Christian guy who was interested in a life of service, about every time the idea of being a nun flitted through my consciousness I had said: not only no, but hell! no!

Another reader took issue with us, both with her words and then my agreement... as if he knew so much more than we do. She patiently explained her point but he kept at it, and at it, and at it.

And, his point was valid, in the context he was coming from. What rankled was his inability to see any other point of view. This is obviously an intelligent man. But in this particular case, it would appear his need to be right overpowered his own intelligence.

I agree the dance is all there is. But if someone keeps stepping all over your feet, he might want to invest in a course at Arthur Murray.

who is my neighbor?

It turns out that faith is not a secret code of rightness that will unlock the treasure of eternal life. It turns out that faith is a relationship with God and with the world, and that the name of this relationship is love. —Barbara Crafton+

An anonymous commenter responded to my potato salad post: "I'm wondering, Sister (Doctor?), if you might give us an example or two of doctrine as "arbitrary" as dill over sweet?"

Well, first of all I'm generally not in the mood to respond to anonymous anybodies anymore (unless it's my son). If you can't be bothered to type in your name, you don't deserve a reply. Second of all, I'm not a Doctor, nor do I have an MDiv. I do have a Bachelor's in fine art and graphic design... but that's not exactly credentials for interpreting the Word. Interpretation requires no credentials, actually requires less than a brain... I may need my brain to put my thoughts together and type them out in written form, but I only need my heart to recognize the truth.

Still, it's a good question, (especially if you're a lawyer) and even more so if you'd like to put me in my place for spouting unfootnoted opinions about scripture. Maybe it was the word gospel that did it... even though I used a little "g".

Tomorrow's Gospel: (Luke 10: 25-37) the parable of the good Samaritan is as good an example as any, so I'll use that. Luke implies that the question the lawyer asked was meant to trip Jesus up. And Jesus didn't bite the bait, at least not in any way that would be satisfying... he told a story.

He told a story about a man who might be called an unbeliever by some of today's scripture police. This man performed an unsolicited act of charity. He saved a life, took a risk, treated a perfect stranger in need as if it were someone from his own household. The implication to this story was that this unbeliever, having acted with compassion and love to his "neighbor" would in fact, inherit eternal life. (You didn't get that part?)

But how could that be possible? It says in Acts 4:12 that you must believe in Jesus Christ to obtain salvation. (Well at least Peter said you must.) Yet, in Acts 10 this same Peter gets his comeuppance directly from God... and a bunch of gentiles receive the Holy Spirit before they even get baptized.

My priest friend and spiritual director her site is here concluded her thoughts on the good Samaritan parable with these words:

It turns out there's no secret code, no hidden key. There's no need of one: eternal life isn't locked. Anybody can live as a lover of God and neighbor, just by walking out his front door and looking around at what needs to be done. And then doing the first thing that presents itself. And then another. And another. As many as you want — they're all your neighbors. And the Christ who lives in you also lives in each of them.

Oh... by the way, she has the credentials.

surprising neighbors

... faith isn't about doctrine, institution, career, or being right. Faith is about God and the many surprising neighbors God sends to help us along the way. —Tom Ehrich

I wonder why it takes so long to understand these things? And why, once we do understand them, we forget them again?

I remember my move to New York twelve years ago with an entire fantasy in tact of what this city would be like, what this stupendous move would mean. I had been "sent forth" by my loving congregation in Florida, and here, in this amazing city I would somehow find my place, do God's work as well as my own, make a difference.

The reality was nothing like I imagined. Much as I loved the energy of the city, I was overwhelmed by it. I walked to work every day, learned to navigate the teeming sidewalks... learned the rules: (never stop) but on weekends I holed up in my tiny studio, ordered Chinese food delivered to my door, and didn't set foot outside until Monday morning. I'm still like that in many ways. I love going and coming, but only if there's somewhere to go. Otherwise I'd rather just stay inside the house.

The difference now is that I have family inside... a big family by all my old standards. One sister came to hug me last night before she headed off for her trip, another called up to see if I wanted to sleep in an air-conditioned room... little acts of charity that remind me I am here, with neighbors, and... I seem to belong.

Happy Birthday

I have a dear friend who has known me forever... (at least a quarter of a century.)

She brought me to New York to work for her... doing a job for which I had absolutely no experience, yet she was willing to take the risk. She had once worked for me when we both lived in Florida, so we played "turn-about" and I worked for her, until she moved on to another position.

When I left my job in Florida, I had recommended her as my successor, and in New York she did the same for me. They might call it karma in some cultures, but for us it was a unique blend of friendship and common sense. As close as we were personally, it never interfered with our professional relationship.

I was present at her wedding, the baptisms of both of her darling boys, birthday parties and New Year's Eve celebrations. She helped me with our community's benefit last year by providing new talent... she has been an inspiration and a strong support for my "call" to the religious life, not to mention the generous funder of many breakfast and lunch dates when one or the other of us needed to talk.

Today is her birthday.
Blessings (dear friend) to one of the true gifts of my lifetime :)

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?

potato salad gospel

We're getting ready for our 4th of July picnic... barbecued chicken, potato salad, cole slaw... the standard stuff most Americans would eat on the 4th. My first husband taught me how to make potato salad, just as someone else had taught him. He said one of the secrets was to boil the potatoes in their skins and peel them after they were cooked. Today I used red potatoes, so I only peeled half of them, to give the salad some color. He was also a stickler for green onions instead of white, and I always follow that rule. He used sweet gherkins, though, and I prefer dill, so in that sense I've altered the recipe and made it my own. We do that in many aspects of our lives... not just cooking... take someone's cherished idea or tradition, change it just a bit, and make it our own.

The followers of Christianity have certainly done that through the ages... sometimes for good, and sometimes not. Doctrine as arbitrary as a preference for dill over sweet has caused cruelty and untold suffering for those caught in the middle, as well as those defending either side. I wish we could just give it a break, this constant need to be right, this constant need to convert others to our version of right.

Independence Day: "We hold these truths to be self-evident... that all men are created equal." except when those men (or women) aren't doing it the way we think they ought to. Then we damn them to hell. So... will I go to hell for using dill pickles in my potato salad? Maybe, but only God knows that... not all the sweet gherkin advocates.

Facing forward

As the time approached for him to be taken up, Jesus set his face toward Jerusalem. He sent messengers on ahead, who went into a Samaritan village to get things ready for him; but the people there did not welcome him, because he was heading for Jerusalem. When the disciples James and John saw this, they asked, "Lord, do you want us to call fire down from heaven to destroy them?" But Jesus turned and rebuked them. Then he and his disciples went to another village.
.....
As they were walking along the road, a man said to him, "I will follow you wherever you go." Jesus replied, "Foxes have holes and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has no place to lay his head."
.....
He said to another man, "Follow me." But he replied, "Lord, first let me go and bury my father." Jesus said to him, "Let the dead bury their own dead, but you go and proclaim the kingdom of God."
.....
Still another said, "I will follow you, Lord; but first let me go back and say good-by to my family." Jesus replied, "No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for service in the kingdom of God."
—Luke 9: 51-62

As our celebrant reminded us this morning, today's Gospel from Luke is so densely packed it would take four hours of sermons to cover everything. My deacon friend is preaching today on the very last sentence, and has woven his points around those twenty-three words on plowing. Another friend, a gifted writer, priest and spiritual director, wrote about the dead burying the dead.

Our celebrant emphasized the beginning: He set his face toward Jerusalem. He spoke of the rejection in the Samaritan village, of the things Jesus told one potential disciple versus what he told another. In this morning's sermon the focus was that Jesus knew exactly what he was doing and he knew the cost of it. Three different takes on the same lesson... yet... All three of these friends touched on one unifying point: our temptation to live in the past.

As I continue to journey the path God seems to have plunked me down on, I realize that I, too, am sorely tempted to look backwards. I have not set my face toward Jerusalem or anywhere else, for that matter. Not really.

It occurs to me that much of my concern over the relationship with my ex-husband stems from a subtle, yet delusive, desire to recondition and overhaul this failure of my past. Perhaps the fact that I was allowed to "do over" other early failures...[ I quit college (practically flunked) in my third year, yet in my 30's went back and graduated with honors.] I secretly thought of course I'd get to do that one over too. But living in the past creates its own bondage, and if I am to be free to tread this path in peace, then facing forward is the only choice.

stumbling blocks

The longer I stay in community, the more I learn... about why people come here and why they leave. It's a process. as they say, and having experienced much of it, and watched others do the same, I can attest to the simple truth that everyone's journey hits the same kind of stumbling block, no matter who they were before they arrived, or who they think they are when they leave (or stay.)

I'm also pretty sure I (myself) have not hit the huge ones yet. But I have definitely had my fair share of stumbling over the medium-to-large ones. I weathered the "sister-so-and-so-is-always-riding-my-case" scenario, but I have seen others crack under that burden. And... having weathered it once, does not necessarily mean I can do it again. That's the problem. As soon as I think I've got an issue nailed, it springs back to bite me.

There are other rocks along the path. There's the internal: "I'm-a big-fraud-and-if-you-only-knew-you-would-hate-my-guts" rendition, a slight twist on the standard human condition of I'm not worthy. Of course we aren't worthy, we aren't God, get over it. Yet we are worthy, because God said so, and all other scriptural references to the contrary, I choose to believe that over all the other whiny Psalm verses: the ones that cry out for vindication and retaliation for assumed injustices and iniquities.

There's the flip side of I'm not worthy. It's the "why-can't-she-act-like-I-do?" or "why-does-she-insist-on doing-things-her-way?" which implies that not only am I worthy, but even more worthy, so you should follow my example... because of course it's the right way to do it. Whatever it is.

That last one can be a catch 22. In a community there are established ways of doing things, whether because it makes it easier for everyone else or because we've always done it that way... (the ever-constant rock-in-your-shoe.) If stacking the baking pans in order of size is an established way of doing it, then refusing to do it because she happens to think it's a stupid rule, says something very telling about a sister's willingness to "learn our ways", something a candidate promises when she is received.

I have learned one quite unusual lesson in this community: sweating the small stuff seems to be a necessary evil that allows the grace for the large stuff to flow through us like... well, grace. Who knew?

The Big ONE

My youngest grandson Noah is one today! Happy Birthday punkin doodle. Wish I were there to see your giggly cake-smeared face.
love, Grandma

Irresponsibility

There was a fad awhile back when "motivational" posters and mugs were everywhere... you would see them in offices and school classrooms, even police stations. You still find them here and there, but they are no longer the rage. As with all clichés, they wore out quickly. I'm not knocking motivation by a long shot, but our culture's quick-fix mentality has evolved like a fast-growing cancer, even in our motivational thinking. We expect fast food for eating, fast cars for driving, fast computers for googling, fast relief from ailment, and a fast-track to success. Anything short of fast must be bad, or old, or wrong.

I found a site called Demotivators® here that takes a different tack... most of them are tongue-in-cheek, sardonic and skeptical, but they carry an underlying truth that life is not always going to be lemonade out of lemons. Sometimes there's just no water or sugar to be found.


This one on irresponsibility is a good example. Yesterday my friend and I were discussing some of the logistical problems with feeding the homeless. Volunteers staff the feeding program at his church, and the most prominent excuse for not volunteering is "What can I do? I'm only one person." The unspoken flip side of that is: "since I'm only one person, it's not my fault that you don't have enough volunteers."

Jesus was absolutely clear on who's responsibility it is to love your neighbor, to care for the vineyard, to feed his sheep, to do justice. We may try to wiggle out of any (or all) of those commandments because in this country we've been inoculated at birth against hard labor, dutiful response to others' needs, serving the common good.

But... as the flood of our irresponsibility rises, at some point we're going to run out of higher ground.

In the garden

I've always been intrigued with the story of Eden. I've brooded over it and written about it many times, trying to tease out some other interpretation besides crime and punishment.

Adam, God's first human creation, was pretty much coddled by God—fed, protected, cherished, given special benefits. He received a mate because he was lonely, and, he didn't have much to do to earn his keep. He was spoiled. rotten.

It's not rocket science to predict that the only stated rule would be disobeyed. One of the hardest jobs for a parent is to enforce the standards and inflict consequences. Without that structure the child grows up undisciplined, unruly, and unprepared for life outside the home. The consequence in Adam's case was life outside the home. Only there, without all the props and privileges of the garden, would he learn how life really works.

I think we've taken that story and twisted it inside out. We've assumed that obedience and perfection are the points here, when it may be that listening to the advice of one with more knowledge and experience is the point.

Eating fruit that gave useless knowledge (of good and evil) did not kill Adam, but it certainly messed with his mind. He noticed he was naked and felt shame. He noticed he had disobeyed and felt shame and fear. He reacted to both in ways that were easily detected, and when challenged, he blamed his wife. She in turn blamed the snake. Neither had ever experienced guilt before, yet both knew instinctively the worst way to assuage it... blame someone else.

A new life outside... totally new experiences, opportunities to learn for themselves, to work and earn their own living, to trust each other, rely on each other, support each other, rather than blame each other... those were the consequences.

habits and facts meme

MikeF, at The Mercy Blog, has tagged me for a meme. (I know, my New Year's resolution was no more memes, but I've also fallen off the water wagon, so what the heck...) If tagged, and you accept, these are the rules:

1. I have to post these rules before I give you the facts.
2. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Pretty straightforward, ha! Well, after the last couple of posts I should be able to confess just about anything, so here goes:

1. My favorite number is five. I find great comfort in doing things in fives: I'll wash five dishes, then put five things away in the kitchen, then dry five dishes, etc. I count as I go. I've tried other combinations of numbers but nothing beats five. Even though this meme calls for eight facts, I may only do five...

2. I've had as many jobs/careers as some celebrities have marriages... elf at Santa's Village, Navy photographer, proofreader, bookkeeper, audio visual producer, 3-D animation artist, college instructor, massage therapist, motorcycle safety instructor, print designer, art director for a national publication, and now... nun. Some jobs were full time, some part time, but all were exciting, even the proofreading. (Oh, I did not mention wife, mother, grandmother, singer/songwriter and poet, none of which I got paid for, nor wished to be)

3. I play stupid video games when I'm stressed: Big Kahuna Reef, Pyramids, Mah Jong solitaire. I usually get bored and quit before the end of the game. Even though these games are mindless, I feel soooo smart if I win, which is almost never.

4. I'd like to publish something... someday... just once... a novel, poetry, cartoons... anything. And I want my picture on the back flap, one that looks like me now, not ten years ago.

5. I say what I think and then re-think what I said. It often involves removing my feet from my mouth and apologies and groveling.

6. My favorite place on earth is a beach. I love the sound of surf, the smell of salt air and Coppertone, picking up shells, getting a suntan, walking the callouses off my feet. I've had my best conversations with God at the beach.

7. Look! I'm at seven already... I did not quit at five. (That must mean I don't yet qualify for the obsessive-compulsive diagnosis?) Okay... fact 7: I used to have the most amazing memory. Aging has removed that attribute from my asset category. Oddly enough I am not too upset, because I still remember to talk (ad nauseam) about what a great memory I used to have. I can still recite all the counties in Maine in alphabetical order and the unabridged opening to the Superman (TV) cartoon... "in the endless reaches of the universe, there once existed a planet known as Krypton..."

8. All the foods on my Absolutely NOT list, (either due to high cholesterol, high blood pressure or medication for same) are the foods I like best: bacon, anchovies, shellfish, grapefruit, pasta, butter, cheese... is that not a crime?

okay... eight people to tag to do the same thing:
1. my daughter-in-law (because I love her and she'll probably do it)
2. Zanne (because I love her and she may do it)
3. cat (because I love her and she likes memes)
4. Kim (because I love her and she'll probably do it.)
5. Natty (because she'll think of something outrageous, if she does it. Oh, and because I love her.)

I'm quitting at five. It's my favorite number.

burning bridges... continued

You may wonder why, if I couldn't bear a phone conversation with my ex-husband, how I thought I could handle a face-to-face? Another part of my baggage I think... I don't like the telephone. I was not allowed to use the phone much as a kid, so I don't enjoy using it as an adult. Unless I'm conducting business, I get antsy after two minutes. I have to go to the bathroom or I will say I have to go to the bathroom. Either way, I need to hang up.

To say that my ex-husband has been a huge piece of the puzzle in my discernment to the religious life is an understatement. He was the wild card in nearly every hand I've been dealt over the past four years... coming to a final decision without taking him into account was impossible, is impossible. For awhile I tested the idea that this life was some kind of training ground... a place God had called me to learn whatever it was I needed to know to successfully live with him again.

I'd be in the kitchen, cooking something, and I'd find myself imagining cooking the same thing in his kitchen for him. It didn't occur to me that in this fantasy of being married to him again, he was never around. When that aha finally hit, I realized I couldn't go there. The idea of doing things for him was very strong, the idea of being with him was unimaginable. Face it, I'm denser than Iridium when it comes to relationships

The dream I posted several weeks ago (if you wish, you can read it here) was thoughtfully interpreted by a number of friends, but the one that rang most true was offered by a girlfriend of nearly two decades. She knew me when I was married, has known and supported me through divorce, boyfriends, the move to New York, job changes, more boyfriends... and this choice to become a sister. I was her boss once and she was mine. She knows me inside out like no other friend.

Her take on the dream went something like this: you're seeking a place where your generosity, talent and gifts will be accepted and appreciated. In the dream, you'd already done all the cleaning and cooking and organizing for the party but the soup was still frozen. (It was lentil soup, not important enough to be noticed.) The bowl was too small—because you have so much to offer, you need more than one person to receive; you need God Himself. Even though he tried, your ex-husband could not find a way to accept these gifts, and when you opened the big container, it was full of the baggage (charred dreams and dirt) from your marriage.

Hello. That was insightful as well as prophetic. I haven't had that much profundity smashing the sides of my brain since I quit talking to angels. (Another story... another post.)

to be continued...

burning bridges...

I didn't see my ex-husband on this last trip to Florida. You'd think: So? doesn't ex-husband imply past tense? Who cares? And yes, ex does imply past tense. But relationships are often more complicated than they appear. Ours has been fraught with a number of complicated inconsistencies, and the sum total of our own past tenses did not add up to the thirteen-year-marriage we barely survived, nor the friendship we have since tried to maintain.

When we met, we both expressed the thought that we had known each other before... in another lifetime. I believed it... lock, stock and barrel, and actually, nothing there has changed. It's just one of many reasons I stayed married for so long after common sense said: BIG mistake. There were other reasons: my inability to set boundaries contributed heavily to the mess we were making. I avoided conflict in a number of ways: giving into or avoiding confrontation on his views of politics, art, religion, clutter, spending money... his jealousy of my kids and the time I spent with them was countered by spending more time with him and less with them. It wasn't enough. Eventually I just spent more time at work, where I (the real, the free, the unique I) was appreciated. I was a coward.

I was also afraid of burning bridges. Somewhere in my past it had been stamped into my consciousness "Do NOT burn your bridges."

We had planned to get together at some point, but not much was working out. To be honest, I didn't much care. He had arrived in Hendersonville (unexpectedly) my first night at Kanuga and that had creeped me out. It felt like stalking, and I had no internal resources for handling stalking. The more I thought about it, the more I freaked, so I didn't think about it... until he pressed for a time to see me again.

I emailed him. Email is a cowardly way to carry on a relationship, even one that doesn't exactly exist. It's not pleasant to know that about myself again but there it is.

In the email I told him his surprise appearance at Kanuga had felt like stalking, and that subsequent remarks about my son had ticked me off. I was angry with him, that part was clear, but the rest was a mess. He emailed back, angry now, himself. Wished me a happy life (I could read the gritted teeth between the lines) and... of course I caved. I agreed to see him, but he insisted on a phone conversation. I couldn't bear a phone conversation, so we never did get together.

(to be continued...)

home again, home again... jiggety jig

My wake-up hour for the flight home yesterday was four am, an ungodly hour when bedtime was way past midnight. Our last movie together was Night at the Museum, which the kids insisted I had to see, because it was filmed in New York. Five of us were snuggled on the couch, the four children and me, sharing a huge bowl of popcorn, when the littlest, who was in his big sister's arms, decided he needed popcorn too, and began his eager crawl over arms and laps toward his goal. Nobody stopped him until he was in the bowl, and then only reluctantly. We were all convulsed with laughter as he proceeded to toss popcorn into the air, as well as stuff it into his own little mouth. He is a giggly baby, and his joy is infectious. I realized it was the first time I had relaxed enough to have fun with my grandchildren, rather than watching them have fun with each other. We made a mess, and their mom will be cleaning popcorn out of couch crevasses for months. She didn't seem to mind.

The trip home was relatively easy. Fatigue can either intensify or blur the inconveniences of life, and for me everything was blurred, a blessing. I lay down for a short nap after lunch and woke up at midnight. I looked at the clock (stupidly) and rolled over and went back to sleep. I was tired.

My house-full of sisters was tired as well... not enough hands to make the work light, they had declared today a rest day even before I arrived home. I accepted this blessing too, and am taking the day at a quiet pace.

I am catching up: on my email, on my backyard garden project, on reacquainting myself with the sisters I have missed, but have been out of mind for two weeks. This is my home now, these are my people, and I am glad to be here.

family time... continued

"We call it family time instead of rest and retreat because everyone knows that family time is not necessarily restful."

I understand that comment now, although I didn't when I first heard it. Now I am a few years older, and like my aging mother before me, any disruption in my routine must be handled thoughtfully, with consideration. It used to annoy me when she couldn't get her act together to be spontaneous, when every little exuberant outburst from my two noisy boys would cause her to frown or to shudder, or worse... to correct them and me. She had forgotten what little children are like, just as I have.

She disapproved of the way I allowed them to "run wild", of their lack of table manners, of their grabbing each other's toys. She wanted to take them to a nice restaurant, but not until they could put their napkins in their laps without being told.

I remember all these things as I observe my grandchildren interacting with each other, as I watch my son and daughter-in-law patiently explain (once again) to the three-year-old that no... he may not change his shirt for the fourth time this morning. He wails at the top of his lungs in frustration. I shudder.... and frown. I have forgotten what little children are like.

family time

We have two kinds of vacation at our convent: "rest and retreat" and "family time". I rise early at my son's house. It is the only quiet time here.

When I visit I am never prepared for the decibel levels: loud, louder and loud with explosions. They rise and fall like dictatorships. I am also never prepared for the passionate affection of this beautiful family. I am in awe of my daughter-in-law's equanimity, my son's generosity... but I am already exhausted. How do I explain that to either myself or to them?

We watch TV a lot here. I never (get to) watch TV in the convent, so it is always a novelty for a day or two. Mostly movies, because there is really nothing much on TV... although I did watch several episodes of Top Chef yesterday.

My son and I bond over movies. He has already seen them all and I have seen none, so he chooses. Yesterday we watched The Guardian, and parts of Oceans Eleven, Ultraviolet, Sahara... something else... it's a blur. The kids built a tent out of blankets in the office area (where I am now) and it's still there. I've carefully removed one of the walls to sit at the computer. They also filled the baby pool and splashed around for awhile. Their energy is limitless. (Well not quite... they are still asleep.)

The baby is beautiful. He's still at the age where he's happy with anyone holding him so I am enjoying the unconditional love that only a one-year-old can bestow. Each child is delightful, each in his/her own particular way.

I am inadequate at expressing my enjoyment of their spontaneous antics and outbursts, mostly because of the accompanying shrill screams and loud crashes... I cannot decipher them, everything moves too quickly for me. Are they hurt? Angry? Just screaming for the sheer joy of making noise? I can hear them upstairs now... the Kracken has awoken...

Back to Earth...

It's always strange for me to post from someone else's computer. Like using someone else's bathroom, nothing is exactly where it is in my own space. But flexibility and innovation and making do with what you have are all admirable qualities I (sometimes possess and) always long for. So here I am once again, at someone else's keyboard.

The three of us who were at Kanuga left early yesterday to get "home", back to the waiting obligations of job, family and the funeral. Because of Adelaide's incoming grandchildren I've been relocated to another house, until I shift gears once again to meet my son and his family for the rest of the week. That will be later today, when we can hook up after the reception.

I did not travel in habit this trip. I had not expected to need it for a vacation in the mountains and later (maybe) at the beach. I packed capri pants and tee shirts, one linen dress for dinner out, (when we will celebrate Mother's Day and everyone else's birthdays,) but no habit. I had not planned for a funeral.

My sisters back home had to gather all the pieces and ship them to me FedEx. I opened the box last night to sort everything out, iron the wrinkles, and discovered one piece was missing... the one thing I had not mentioned in my email to explain where everything was in my cell. Oops.

It's not a noticeable article of attire like the cross or the scapular... it's a piece of plastic that slides into the little white cap to which the veil attaches, and it holds the top of the cap in a stiff arc at the top of my head. Without it the whole thing flops and looks stupid. This morning we got out some cardboard and I went to work. I've inserted that stiff plastic thing enough times that I knew by memory the approximate shape and size I should cut out, but the plastic bends and snaps back easily and cardboard folds and creases. Oops. After a couple of failed attempts I got it to slide in without too much crumpling. It ain't perfect, but if nobody pats me on the head, it will do.

"Make do with what you have or do without" my grandmother used to say. So in an hour we will celebrate the life of a particular grandmother, not mine, but one who was herself the epitome of frugality and making do. I hope she likes my hat.