Dependency

I expect my 14 month-old to be dependent upon me- well at least somewhat....he is pretty stubborn, fighting to do everything himself, but at least he still depends on his Mommy for food among other important life necessities.  I wish I could slow him down a little...push the rewind button and just hold him for hours and hours while he falls asleep snuggled up to my chest all warm and cozy- such a tiny little nugget.  Nope, not anymore.  Nowadays he pushes me away and struggles to get down ready to explode out of my arms bolting for whatever is in arm's reach.  He is so full of life, such a booming ball of explosive energy.  He is focussed and driven, strong and determined...he is my little Capricorn.

So, dependency... I am very independent just ask my mother, and my wife.  Probably too independent, but that's for another day.  I like to stand on my own two feet, to do things for myself, to have confidence in myself without "needing" to rely on others to do things for me.  Honestly, I really don't like depending on anything...not the weather, not the time of day, not expected outcomes, not even the internet... I would rather plan for the worst and be surprised when things work out- yep, sounds depressing like i've survived abandonment as a child- nope...just bratty.

Well, this week due to the crazy freezing rain that fell from the sky the church lost power and the modem and internet were fried. So, we have not had an internet connection since last week.  This has not been a particularly easy week.  Some of my colleagues just see this as a  God holiday and spend time on other things... but for me, this has been tragic- what else is there to do?  Without the web I feel paralyzed, inhibited, less than, stifled, brain dead- yikes!  Yes, I think part of my brain is all membranish and things while the other half is full of code!  I mean what the heck?  What has happened to my generation and beyond that we are hardly functional without access to the internet, to our phones, to our iPads, laptops, etc.?  Though there are days when we are fully online that I don't even turn my computer on, and yet I am not all a rage those days- spinning out of control?!
I feel like I am learning a toddler's lesson or something, and not sure that it will even make a difference...............

Not sure that there is much more to say about this, but I do find it pretty despicable, and just bad taste to be so addicted to the internet that you would blog about it-  oh well...

It's working now, so I guess i can work again tomorrow.

Is Lent really that sexy?

So, I know Lent has traditionally made school boys cuss and Jewish granddaughters come to despise ironing, but has this predominantly Jewish, Catholic tradition really earned her stripes as nouveau chic within the mainline church...or more with the glam loving' working middle class moms and retired, overly energetic, gay white men?

The last time I checked articles about Lent were fused with social media inscriptions of ashen foreheads and "love you, mom" banners scrolling underneath.  Not that the Wall Street Journal didn't actually take a step up in my book by giving credence to such an historically significant religious holy day, but I was all expecting to see photos of the drive by Ash-ins enthroned by ivory flowing cabanas plumped with robust velvet pillows and tall glistening wine glasses while twenty somethings relaxed with their friends after posing for endless selfies.

Don't get me wrong, taking close-up photos of yourself to post and show the world- is no more narcissistic than a Facebook post about what you ate for breakfast, where you bought your groceries, which Bachelor you are "more like"..., this week's greatest accomplishment.  Honestly, selfies couldn't be less flattering- nose hairs you didn't know could grow that long, lines, rolls, shadows and shades that only exist in your mind- or on every screen in America- so Dennis Martin from Loyola, I'm sorry but get a clue.

It does seem that this day which officially marks the day Jesus began his wilderness journey in the desert, probably a close second to hell, has come, for some, to mean little more than a glass of wine relaxing by the pool while forgoing dessert...I mean, dessert not in liquid form, of course.

The sexiness of this season, like all others, has its appeal on glossy paper, screens that promise relief, rest, retreat, a few days of ME time.  The problem is I don't really remember being invited to get to know "me" a little better, to hang out with me, to rub my feet, to get a tan, a pedicure, fill myself another glass and another and another.  It's not that I don't need- or WANT...some or all of those things... I mean don't every touch my feet...but hanging out with me isn't bad?  I'm not saying the wine is worth giving up either, BUT - seriously, when else- if not NOW, if not when it's okay for the world to know that you're focussing internally, digging deep for the extra push, the big reveal, looking for a little more than just the usual leftovers-when?  If we can't stop, if we can't take more than 1 deep breath per day, if we can't find solace as we burry our toes under the dirt from whence we have come...if we can't let go and let it be during the season of Lent..when?  And why all the charades?

Meditation, yoga, pilates, white cotton rippling in the distant background and bearded angelic old men emerging directly from the Grecian shores of paradise... champagne on a striped picnic blanket in New York's Central Park, dogs actually catching and returning the frisbee...?  Let's not let the sexy keep us hidden from ourselves, the self in which exposure would absolutely unravel...yet with threads still willing to be bound again...and again, and again.

Giving up

Weariness is not an excuse for giving up.

jonquils in the breeze

jonquils in the breeze
unabashed, but leaning still the light itself can enter in
kept within its inner core the creamy color's silken skin
doth boast and scream and dance with green it's lush enveloped by
the colors flow and crack and bleed the night time's cry released
cowered, covered, bleaken, bare full of wonder crisp like air
careless yet careful dreamlike depictions of golden ballerinas
Imaginative and free, surrounded by a twinkled spring
lost in lovely worlds apart, finished beauty...from the start

Relax a Little

If you had told me that the rest of my life would be filled with nightmares of tragic death, flashes of horrible accidents, thoughts of impending doom...I would STILL have had a child, BUT................

I swear, not a day goes by that I don't close my eyes and either see my son plummeting to his death, lying lifeless in his crib, or drowning in an unknown body of water!!!!!  Who knew parenting would make you go insane!  It's a sick thing, really, that your maternal instincts, your unconditional love-drives you to such freakish mental erraticism that you can't rest at night without the morbidity of your worst nightmares stealing your last breath.  

Just last night I was fading in and out of sleep, ready to drift off into la la land when all the sudden I jerked so hard I pulled my neck muscle...after visually seeing, Sage smiling and holding my hand one second while hiking in the mountains, and the next falling from a cliff to his death the next.  Shannon and I have been talking about planning a summer trip to the mountains which i have been pretty enthusiastic about- looking forward to enjoying the mountain air, strolling through deserted ski towns surrounded by luxurious snow-tipped peaks on all sides, eating salads that are really just awkwardly shaped pieces of grass that really do taste like dirt- at least it's fresh.  Who knew, all the while, that my subconscious was on over-drive... planning, instead, the particulars around how-where-when & why my son would not live through the week?! 

Of course this all has to do with fear, and I get that.  I worry constantly that something is going to happen to him...that he won't wake up, that he'll choke on his food that he'll slip in the bathtub and drown, that he'll have autism, that he won't reach his milestones that he won't grow as he should, that he will hate us because he doesn't have a father, that he'll want to find his mysterious donor of sperm..........and the list goes on.   

Worry.  I would have to say that it is my new worst enemy.  I have never really considered myself a big worrier...In fact, I have traditionally been a risk taker.  Not anymore.  Everything changes when the life you are risking is not your own.  As unhealthy as this sounds - he has become the priority of my life, the center of our universe, the demise of our social lives- not that we had much of one before Sage, but he sealed the deal for us.  We literally sit and stare at him, watch his every move, listen for every syllable, watch the way he holds his mouth, the way he waves his hand, the way his inflection has grown and changed, even the way he sticks his his butt up in the are and tucks his arms under him while nestling himself into a little ball of sleep at night.... he is our little wonder, our little nugget, our Love monkey... Of course, I worry and I have a feeling I always will.

Ash Wednesday Musings on Missing

One of the practices to which I have long been hoping to commit is writing, daily.  Thus, my most prioritized practice during Lent will be to write, to put on paper or a screen or hell i'll settle for a napkin- the scribblings of my mind. With Natalie Goldberg staring down at me from the top shelf everyday I might as well get on with it. Why? Lots of reasons, but for today, this:

"Our task is to say a holy yes to the real things of our life as they exist – the real truth of who we are: several pounds overweight, the gray, cold street outside, the Christmas tinsel in the showcase, the Jewish writer in the orange booth across from her blond friend who has black children. We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.”  - Writing Down the Bones, Natalie Goldberg

Today is Ash Wednesday, and though I was unable to make it to the service tonight because I was playing Reverend Mommy with my almost walking, but not yet, so i'm screaming because i'm frustrated toddler, I am determined to follow through with my goal.

Today, I was reading an article and the topic of "missing someone" was briefly mentioned, and I started thinking about the first time I really missed my wife, Shannon. First of all, to miss someone you really have to be separate from them, right? Well, for the first several years of our shared life together we didn't spend 1 night apart!  And, when we did, for various work trips or family things, we'd talk every night, and carry on as if we were sleeping under the same moon. It wasn't until at least 3 years later that I went to Germany for an extended stay during the summer, and had the opportunity to REALLY long for her presence, her touch, her smell...just her.

There's something mysterious about missing someone, isn't there? An emotion that elicits a physiological response, like a yearning deep down in your gut or a throbbing sensation back in your throat and sometimes and almost sensational warm and fuzzy all over feeling- with prickly hairs standing up and all.  And, in a strange way, it's as if missing her, for me, was almost as satisfactory as seeing her, again... I said almost.

Ash Wednesday is, of course, a time that we think about death and life-our mortality, and often spend time thinking about, missing our loved ones who have died. This kind of missing is different, though. I mean, I know that for those of us for whom the afterlife is an anticipated reality we are supposed to be hopeful about seeing and being reunited with these friends and family members, but there is just something different about longing for someone, in this life, whom you know will never return. It is often void of the warm-fuzzy buzz, but elicits and all new response that is deeply and equally as mystifying and unsettling at times, sad and even burdensome. And It's as if our grief is somewhat guilted by the very notion that our faith, if pure enough, should sustain us through this sad longing, bereaving, missing...

It is like Saudade.  "Saudade is a Galician and Portuguese word that has no direct English translation, but was once described as "the love that remains" after someone is gone. It describes a deep emotional state of nostalgic or profound melancholic longing for an absent something or someone that one loves. Moreover, it often carries a repressed knowledge that the object of longing may never return. It is the recollection of feelings, experiences, places or events that once brought excitement, pleasure, well-being, which now triggers the senses and makes one live again. It can be described as an emptiness, like someone or something that should be there in a particular moment is missing, and the individual feels this absence. It brings sad and happy feelings all together, sadness for missing and happiness for having experienced the feeling."  [1]

On this day we turn our thoughts towards the wilderness and to the man who was led into a place of dry bones, without food, without water...with just this kind of aching dependency, longing for life again, for connection, for hope that maybe things would turn out differently... Knowing how the story ends, though, sorry for the spoiler,  we can, instead, see this Jesus journey through the eyes of the hopeful wanderer who was led through the desert with saudade as his guide. Longing for the world he would soon leave behind love would usher him into baptismal waters once again. Whether a full understanding of future events or not, his steps followed the hollows of the night where darkness seeks to bring death, but where Hope rises with the bright morning sunlit sky.   

I think he probably spent those days consumed with thoughts about his own mortality, dancing in the rain though no moisture filled the air, curling up like a babe under a cave whose shelter never reached the sky, and drinking from the well so deep that even the water forgot to fall. It is true that his footsteps spoke the language of hope and have given us a gift-when faced with indeterminate circumstances that we, too, might choose life.  May it be so.
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At least that's what I thought about today, but tomorrow, hopefully, I will experience the kind of deep, pure faith that is sure, and be cosmically reminded that it can lift us into an altogether new reality where mortality is an un-feared possibility and dust an inviting decorum for our souls.  Until then...