My mother spent most of her life taking care of people. She cooked and cleaned for them. She shopped for groceries and clothing for them. She made doctor and dentist appointments for them and even took them to those appointments. She took temperatures and gave medicine. She changed diapers and sheets. She put hair in ponytails…really, really tight ponytails.
Mom began her caretaker role at a tender age. She was just a teen when my grandparents split up. My grandmother had to go to work full time, so the care of her younger siblings fell to Mom until she married my father. Then she had to take care of him…and eventually three kids.
Mom once told me that she’d dreamt of being a secretary when she was in high school. Of course, being a secretary was one of the few jobs that were accessible and socially acceptable for women of her station back then. She’d taken all the secretarial classes her high school had to offer. I remember seeing steno pads of shorthand that she’d saved. But Mom’s secretarial career was not to be, and I remember thinking that those steno pads were mementos…keepsakes…symbols of unfulfilled dreams.
My mother spent most of my childhood as a homemaker, and she was pretty good at it. But as the world changed around her and it became more and more common for women to work outside the home, I knew there was a longing inside her – a yearning for what might’ve been. Don’t get me wrong. Mom was okay with being a wife and mother. But there was a small part of her…deep down inside…that secretly resented, just the teensiest teeny bit, automatically being expected to forego her own dreams and ambitions to become a caretaker.
Once all her kids were in school and the financial demands of a bigger house out in the burbs made getting a job a necessity, she finally got her chance. It wasn’t exactly what she’d dreamt of in high school and it certainly wasn’t a “career,” but it was her opportunity to have an identity other than being “just a housewife.” Mom went to work in the customer service department of a retail store. Unfortunately, because, like Mom, I was several years older than both my siblings, her joining the workforce meant I would have to pick up the slack and, like her, become a caretaker. It was understood. The first-born daughter to the first-born daughter, the mantel had been passed, and I took it up. It wasn’t like I had a choice.
Mom might not have been completely in touch with that tiny bit of herself that resented the role of caretaker that had been foisted upon her, but I was. And it made me a shitty, shitty caretaker to my siblings. It also made me wonder if I would ever be able to love children of my own or care for them well. Happily, I was able to do that, and the caretaker mantel I’d taken up as a teen served me well in many, many ways. It helped me serve developmentally disabled adults when I worked in mental health. It helped me in my career as a teacher of young children, and, yes, it helped me be a good mother. Mom had set a certain example of sacrifice. She wasn’t the most loving and nurturing of mothers. She wasn’t warm and fuzzy by any stretch of the imagination. Her mothering had sharp edges, and, as what we now call a “highly sensitive child,” I was often cut deeply by them. Looking back now though, as a fellow caretaker, I respect the sacrifices she made…for her siblings, for Dad, for my siblings, and for me.
When Mom got sick, I think my dad finally recognized the sacrifices she’d made over the course of her lifetime and how she’d lovingly taken care of him too, for more than half a century. He tried his best to return the favor, but he just couldn’t do it at home. Caretaking requires a level of selflessness he just never had, through no fault of his own. Instead, he made what one might consider a more meaningful sacrifice – that of time. Not a day went by when he didn’t visit her at the nursing home, spending entire afternoons and evenings just sitting with her. I tried to return the favor, too, in small ways and tiny instances. I remember taking Mom to a doctor appointment on a day when Dad couldn’t. Rheumatoid arthritis had ravaged Mom’s joints by that time and walking was difficult for her. She asked to hold my hand as we walked into the doctor’s office. It made me acutely aware of how our roles had changed. I had that same feeling, more intensely, most recently at the nursing home. Mom had been put on a full, thickened liquid diet. All her food had to be spoon-fed. I came in at meal time one day to find Mom’s meal set before her but without a CNA available to feed her at the moment. The caretaker in me, the one she’d help create, took over. I instantly began to feed her. I said, “I bet you remember when you use to do this for me, huh?” She just nodded, as if to acknowledge a debt absolved.
On Christmas Eve of this past year, my husband, my kids, and I were watching the Pope say Midnight Mass on TV. Yeah, I admit that I’ve devolved just that far as a Catholic – from devout to Christmas Catholic to the worst kind of Christmas Catholic – one that watches Midnight Mass on network television on Christmas Eve. My cell phone rang at five to midnight. The nursing home had had a history of calling for less than urgent matters, so I wasn’t overly concerned when I saw the number on the caller ID. Mom had looked particularly good and alert just a couple days before. We’d planned to see her Christmas Day and bring her Christmas presents. But this call was different. “Come,” the nurse said, “We think it’s time.” I felt confused for a moment until it registered. “Okay,” I said, “We’re on our way.”
Mom was still hanging on when we got there. I asked my husband and daughters to give me a moment alone with her. Her breathing was labored, and physically she looked clearly to be on the dark threshold. I said her name and for some strange reason, I had great difficulty modulating the volume of my voice. No matter how hard I tried, every time I said, “Mom,” my voice sounded like it did when, as a child, I would lose track of her in a store. It sounded loud and frightened. After a few moments, I was able to compose myself enough to tell her, through tears, that it was okay to let go. I told her that I knew she was tired. I told her that we would all be okay and that she could go be with Dad. It was then that she took one last gulp of air and did just that – let go.
I think she waited for me that night, but I don’t think she was waiting for me, her daughter. I think she was waiting for me, the fellow-caretaker. I think she was waiting to ask – one caretaker to another – for permission to lay the burden down. After she got sick and went to live in the nursing home, it might’ve appeared to most people that her caretaking days had ended. They hadn’t. She was a caretaker right up until the day my dad died. Visiting her gave Dad a purpose. God only knows how lost he would’ve been had she gone before him. Once he was gone, her earthly mission was complete and, on the night she died, I think she looked to me for confirmation of that fact.
Today is Mom’s birthday, and I am missing her. I am missing her more than I ever thought I would. As complicated my relationship with my father was, the one I had with my mother was even more so. All my early memories revolve around her, and most of my memories begin and end with her. As I mentioned, Mom was not a particularly affectionate woman, and looking back on that fact now makes my heart ache a little. I would like to have had her hugs and kisses and cuddles when I was a child. I would like to have given them to her, too.
Home is the epicenter of my memories of Mom. The first home I shared with my parents was a tiny second-floor apartment in the building my grandparents owned. Of course, as a child’s experiences will, those memories mostly feature me, with my mother’s presence in the background. Still, it’s Mom that is in most of the memories…not my dad…not my siblings…Mom.
Though Mom stayed at home until I was a teenager, I honestly have no memory of what she actually did. I remember dinner being on the table shortly after my father got home from work every day. I remember having clean clothes. I remember living in a relatively clean house. I just don’t remember my mother actually making those things happen.
What I do have is snippets of memories – short mental “video clips” of Mom. I remember her washing my hair in the kitchen sink as I stood on a chair in that little apartment. I remember talking to her on the telephone when she was in the hospital when my sister was born. I remember turning back to look at her when she dropped me off at kindergarten…only to find her gone. I remember how beautiful and slim I thought she was compared to me. I remember her irritation at having to deal with me getting my first period on Thanksgiving Day when she was trying to prepare the holiday meal. I remember her sending me into the bathroom of the store she worked at to try on the dress for my first wedding. We had ordered it there because she got a discount. She sent me in and told me to let her know if it fit because she “didn’t need to see it.” I remember how much that hurt.
I remember hugging my mother tightly when my 16-year-old daughter died. “They killed my baby, Mom. They killed her,” I sobbed. In a rare moment of nurturing, she patted my back and whispered, “I know. I know,” as she returned my embrace. I felt her sorrow for me.
I remember the blank expression on Mom’s face when I had to tell her Dad died. I couldn’t tell if she understood or not. I remember the time tears suddenly began rolling down her cheeks one day after Dad died, when she, my husband, and I heard a loud altercation break out in the hallway outside her room at the nursing home. It seemed that, in a rare moment of clarity, she finally realized exactly where she was and that she was without him. My final memory of Mom is the empty look of her sky blue eyes as she took one final labored breath on the night she passed. It was like she was someplace else…already.
For some people, their relationship with their mother is simple – pure and loving. Mine was not. For most of my life, it was strained…and strange. I use to feel jealous of women that were “best friends” with their mom once they reached adulthood. I don’t feel that way anymore. I know my mother loved me, but I accept the fact that part of her secretly resented me and my siblings for robbing her of her dreams and for me then going on to pursue some of mine. She was human and humans are complex beings.
A song has been going through my head as I’ve been writing this. It’s Prince’s song Strange Relationship. The refrain goes like this, “Baby I just can’t stand to see you happy, but, more than that, I hate to see you sad. Honey, if you let me, I just might do something rash. What’s this strange relationship we have?” To be clear, this song is about a dysfunctional romantic relationship, but, in many ways, it’s applicable to my relationship with my mother.
Love is a strange thing. Its expression takes many forms. It can be expressed in words. It can be shown through deeds. It can look like affectionate gestures such as a touch or a kiss. But it can be expressed subtly, too – through the giving of time or resources or a sacrifice of self-interest. The words “I love you,” were not often spoken in the household I grew up in, and that once made me question the sentiment’s presence there. Time, age, and wisdom have shown me otherwise. I hope, wherever she is, Mom now knows the gratitude I feel but never expressed to her. I’ve come to understand that her love took the form of hard work, sacrifice, and all those little ordinary deeds of care. The expression says that deeds speak louder than words, but our hearts must be open to understanding them. My mother was a caretaker for almost all her life. I like to think of caretaking as a whispered language of love articulated through deed. And in the words of a song by my mother’s favorite band, The Beatles, “All you need is love….
My first writing love was poetry, specifically song lyrics. I listened to them day in and day out, long before I could write a single word. Around age nine, lyrics for my own songs began popping into my head. I was desperate to set them to music. I diligently poured over books about how to read and write music. I gave it my best shot with a stupid little Clavier organ. It proved only to be an exercise in frustration. Mozart wrote music at that age without lyrics, and I quickly found out that I am no Mozart. Having had zero success learning to play any musical instrument, I eventually came to terms with the fact that composing music was not part of my future. I did, however, continue to write poetry. I even won a contest once when I was thirteen. I didn’t write much poetry after that though. Life happened. Years later, when I took a “Creative Writing for Teachers” class in college, my interest was reignited. I wrote some really great poems for that class, but I wrote little after that. I have only written three poems since then. One was inspired by the loss of my oldest daughter. One was inspired by the life of my surviving child. What follows is my most recent foray into verse. It was mainly inspired by the Greek myth of Echo and Narcissus but also by some of my own personal experiences. Those of you that read/follow my blog enjoy my prose. Your support is deeply appreciated. It is my sincere hope that you will enjoy my poetry just as much as you enjoy my stories.
Echo sighed, rolled over and closed her eyes.
Darkness held her bound in sleep – Somnos’ spell cast well.
A spark of red cut the gray on the blade of the horizon.
It caught her eye.
Risking much, with a single finger she reached out and touched the glow.
Burning words enveloped her, lending warmth to dark winter.
Honey and whiskey dripped from a silver-tongue, giving sweetness to the bitter.
She drank deeply, greedily, from his outstretched palms and then pulled them to her cheeks.
He recoiled in horror, turned away and then turned back for another glance.
Her eyes widened.
She leaned toward him only to find…
Fair Narcissus, lovely poet, simply sought his own refection within the pools of her eyes.
Okay. Here’s the scenario: It’s a commercial for Victoria’s Secret lingerie. It features Kate Upton’s ample bosoms spilling over the top of a lacy black bra – the kind the sales girl calls a “balconette.” Whatever. Right? It’s the kind of bra some gals have no business wearing. There’s a soft-filter on the camera, accentuating her “come hither” look. She gazes intently into the camera and softly whispers, “I want you. I REALLY want you…but…but…I’m on my period.” Wicka-wicka wuuuut? Got you didn’t I, boys? Yeah, I hooked you. Well, you can console yourself with the notion that Justin Verlander, World Series-winning future Hall of Fame pitcher, has had to hear those very words uttered from the luscious lips of that woman. Now you fellas can do me the favor of a continued courtesy read. Ladies, I think you will find what I have to say amusing and all too relatable.
Ever since the day Aunt Flo first rang my doorbell, some forty years ago, that bitch has had it out for me. Yeah, she’s always had my launch code…my address, my zip code, and my social security number, too. And I’m not sure why, but she really doesn’t seem to like me. I realize that many of the experiences of “womanhood” are rarely positive for anyone, but DAMN! Could the Creator be any more spiteful? For instance, I remember my mother’s initial reaction when I got my first period. Most moms are like, “Oh! My baby is all grown up!” They get sentimental. They’re caring and sympathetic. They think about their own experiences with “the curse.” Not my mom. Nope, that wasn’t Bonnie.
It was Thanksgiving, and Mom was busy trying to concoct a show-stopping dish-to-pass that would rival my grandmother’s culinary expertise. She was way too busy to deal with anybody’s bullshit. Even though I had friends with older sisters and knew what to expect, all of a sudden finding my drawers soaked with red stain freaked me out. I felt stunned, and, like any girl would, I went to my mother. “Jesus H. Christ, Christine! Already? And now? God, I thought I had a few more years.” She ushered me into the bathroom, showed me the pad stash, and said, “HERE!” Then she turned and went back to the daughter-in-law versus mother-in-law Turkey Day throw down. I was left to my own devices. Luckily, there were instructions on the back of the package.
It isn’t just menstruation, though. I have had a contentious relationship with the workings of my female body all my life. I wasn’t much of a “girlie girl,” when I was growing up. I wasn’t a “tomboy” either, though. I just really liked running around, climbing trees, riding my bike, and spending summer days barefooted and getting as filthy as I possibly could. It felt like important work at the time. Then, one-day, genetics dealt me the cruelest blow. I “developed” early…and I’m talking, like, age nine. This necessitated an uncomfortable conversation, initiated by my tactless mother, about my need for a bra. The talk “segued” into a tangential lecture about the importance of wearing deodorant. The worst part is that the entirety of this conversation occurred in public…IN THE SUPERMARKET! Needless to say, it was not helpful. The only thing that “talk” did was to make me feel even more self-conscious about my body than I already was.
In spite of her less than supportive initial reaction to my premature burgeoning womanhood and since I was such a good student, Ma was totes cool about letting me skip out on school for “girl stuff” any time I wanted. So, that was cool. If on my way to the bus stop, my cramps made me feel like I might literally die, Bonnie had no problem calling-in to school for me. When my crazy-ass hormones made my face look like a zit-studded pizza, she was A-Okay with letting me stay home for a couple days until it got better. I’m not sure I would’ve made it through adolescence were it not for her leniency.
In adulthood, my body continued to wage a battle of wills against me, especially when I was trying to get pregnant for the second time. I badly wanted a sibling for my daughter, but my body was like, “Hey, dude, we did you a solid by letting you have ANY babies, and you want another?” It was during these attempts to conceive that I was diagnosed with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. After my primary care guy, the hippie doc that delivered my first child made the initial diagnosis, I went for a second opinion from a doctor that was recommended by a friend. The experience was yet another negative interaction with a healthcare provider to pile onto the heap I’d previously experienced. I can best describe this guy and his bedside manner as a combination of Hannibal Lector and Dr. Cox from the television show Scrubs. He confirmed hippie doc’s diagnosis and said, “You know, if you REALLY want to have another baby, all you need to do is lose some weight.” He might as well have added, “Fatty” to the end of that proclamation, as insulting as it was. Weeeeell, I proved THAT MOTHERFUCKER wrong within the next couple of months! I found myself pregnant post-haste. This perceived victory over my body’s contrarian will was short-lived, though, because it quickly began to look like I might lose the pregnancy. I started to spot, and my ob-gyn told me to prepare myself, just in case. I was put on bed-rest. During this time, in addition to eavesdropping on my neighbors’ cordless telephone conversations via my then husband’s police scanner, I constantly talked to my unborn child. “Come on,” I would say, “You are so, so wanted, little baby. I can’t wait to meet you. Please, please, please come meet me and your big sister.” Happily, my pregnancy made it full-term, but my child’s final symbolic protest against entering the world was a forty-eight-hour labor that had to be aggressively nudged along with Pitocin and Olympic level pushing. Luckily, she was a cherubic dreamboat of an infant once she got here and is now the truest love of my life. My body, on the other hand, continued to be a spiteful bitch.
All I can say is that I thank the sweet baby Jesus for mankind’s greatest invention – the contraceptive pill. It was this miraculous pharmaceutical invention that finally allowed me to conquer the wild and erratic hormone rollercoaster with which my body or genetics chose to supplement the storied consequence of original sin. Still, years later and after being lulled into a false sense of normalcy, I decided to stop taking the pill. The “hell on earth” that is having three teenage daughters in our house convinced my second husband and me that we were done with our need to breed, so I convinced him to have a vasectomy. Compared to most men, I guess his procedure was relatively traumatic. I felt bad and pretty guilty.
Maybe it was the universe’s revenge for my insisting that the hubs have such a “barbaric” procedure. Maybe it was my body’s treasonous desire to avenge the years my hormones languished in containment at the hands of synthetic control. I’m not sure. But I will tell you that hell hath no fury like female hormonal imbalance. A couple years after going off the pill, my crazy-ass symptoms returned – acne like that of a thirteen-year-old boy, menstrual cramps that sometimes rivaled labor pain, and mood swings you’d swear were the basis of a script for Dexter. I’d dealt with it all before, so I just endured. Medically speaking, eventually, you reach an age at which synthetic hormones present more of a risk than a benefit. So, I was advised by my doc not to resume use of them.
A few years later, however, that same physician began overreacting to every tiny “symptom” of something being wrong with my lady parts. Knowing she had had problems of that nature, I suspected she might be projecting. I trusted her, though, so I complied with every test and procedure. Then one year during my annual exam, she was convinced I might have some sort of serious problem. She wrote me a referral to an ob-gyn colleague of hers. Almost as soon as I sat down on the exam table this guy started throwing the “c” word around. Believe me when I say that nothing makes you willing to let a doctor run every test in the book like the idea that you might have cancer. He hadn’t even examined me when he told me he was going to do a biopsy.
I was nervous, but I desperately wanted to know if there was something really wrong. The nurse got me prepped and soon the hellacious invasive procedure began. Once he started, he said, “Yeah, I think I’m going to have to dilate your cervix a bit, so things might get a little uncomfortable.” “What?” I said, “You mean MORE uncomfortable, cuz this is already pretty fucking uncomfortable!” He laughed, “It really won’t be that bad. I’ll numb you up,” said the person who doesn’t even HAVE a cervix. Many women are familiar with the feeling of your cervix dilating…naturally…as it does in childbirth. And it’s FUCKING painful! Now imagine your cervix not having the motivation of a human being coming through it to make it cooperate. Yeah, it’s like that. For you fellas, I can describe it to you like this: someone takes a tiny tightly wound spring, shoves it into your dickhole, and then, “POP!” springs your shit wide open. Uh-huh. I was out of my mind in pain and on the verge of passing out from hyperventilating when the whole nightmare was finally over. Doctor Marquis De Sade and his RN minion looked worried. Perhaps the vision of a malpractice suit was dancing their heads. I dunno. But they acted concerned enough that they offered to crack the exam room door to, “let in some fresh air while we let you have a moment to rest here a sec.” Afterward, I couldn’t get to my car fast enough.
Once inside the safety of my vehicle, I began bawling. I phoned my husband and told him about the ordeal. He said he’d make sure to bring me a bottle of Pinot when he got done with work. You are probably thinking, “Okay, surely this trauma caught some horrible problem in the nick of time.” It did not. The results were negative. The procedure was completely unnecessary. What’s more is that I got billed nearly a grand out of pocket for that shit show.
The following year my doc did the same damn thing again. “Uuuuhm. I think I see a polyp or a mass or something,” she said, “I think I need you to see the gynecologist.” She gave me another referral to Dr. Immacrook. This time I politely declined. I let the office know I’d be in touch with them about to whom I wished to be referred. After asking around, I found a wonderful doctor at a highly recommended practice. Still, I avoided going for the “annual exam” thing. I hated it. It made me psycho. I couldn’t sleep the night before my appointment. God forbid an appointment would be scheduled on a workday. Then I’d have to take the entire day off…no matter what time the appointment was. I avoided going. I didn’t go. I wouldn’t go…until there was a problem. Then there was a problem.
As I mentioned, my lady business has always seemed to be out to get me, and it recently put me through a pretty big scare. I missed a period, which at first, I thought was the sign of a perfectly natural change – menopause. Then, like some kind of sick macabre surprise party, I started. And when I say I “started,” I mean I began to bleed like a stuck pig. I hadn’t been expecting it and, I certainly hadn’t been expecting anything of that magnitude. I wasn’t prepared, and, what’s more, is that it happened at work. Such a situation is really unfortunate for someone that works in a profession where they are unable to use the restroom when they need to. I’m a teacher. So there are times that I have to wait five to six hours to use the toilet. On this day, I was certain my five and six-year-old students would go home to tell their parents about how they watched a pool of blood form around their teacher’s ankles as she sat in her “teacher chair” while reading the day’s Big Book story. Seriously, I thought I’d have to call my husband and have him bring me a change of clothing! Luckily, it didn’t come to that. What did follow, however, was a straight month of bleeding. And that’s something freak-out worthy for any woman of any age.
Okay. For most women, once you get to a “certain age” you begin to anticipate the big “change.” Though it’s talked about even less than menstruation, most women know enough about it to recognize a few hallmark signs – hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, inconsistent periods, etc. Still, by and large, it’s a process shrouded in mystery. No one wants to talk about it, because it’s depressing…it’s a fucking drag…and it’s nature’s way of saying your days of being biologically useful to the human race are done. Consequently, I didn’t know if what was happening to me was normal…or if it meant I was dying or something. So, I called my gyno’s office. It took me nearly a month to get in to see someone, and, by the time I finally did, the bleeding had stopped. I saw a midwife named Patti. I really liked her. She was a little older than me and had a very relaxed, accepting bedside manner. She examined me but found nothing of immediate concern. She did, however, recommend an ultrasound. She thought they’d be able to do it there in the office that day, so I’d leave with at least some information. Unfortunately, there were no technicians available that day so the procedure would have to be performed at one of the area hospitals…nearly another month later. Afterward, I was told I’d get a call within the week to tell me the results, but after a week of handwringing and no word, I phoned. Midwife Patti was on vacation. It would be another week before I would know anything. When Patti finally called, she told me they’d “found something,” They wanted to schedule a sonohyterogram, a procedure that would give more precise results. Color me officially freaked out at this point. I called to schedule the appointment only to find it would be another month of high anxiety before I’d get any answers. Facing another semi-invasive medical procedure, I spent the month ruminating about every worst-case scenario.
When I called to make the appointment, I had questions. The receptionist/scheduler did her best to answer them, but it was clear her knowledge was limited. “Are they gonna need to dilate me for this?” I asked. “Uuuuh, lemme see (click, click, click – keyboard sounds). Yeah, it says that they will,” she answered. “Well, I’ve had that done before and it hurts like hell. Will they sedate me for it?” I continued. “Oh no, no. Most women say it’s just like really bad menstrual cramps. You just need to take some ibuprofen beforehand,” she laughed. “Well, I’m allergic to ibuprofen,” I replied. She was silent for a moment and then said, “Gosh, I guess you’ll just have to do Tylenol then.” Acetaminophen has never done more than take the edge off any pain for me. “Ooookay,” I said, “Should I have someone drive me?” “Well, you know your body, so I’d say it’s up to you,” was her answer. Yes, I DO know my body…and my history of sexual abuse…and how even the most routine gynecological exam sends my anxiety into the stratosphere, so I made sure my husband took the day off work to take me.
The first time I forced my husband to go with me to my gynecologist’s office, we both remarked at how we seemed to be surrounded by screaming reminders of our particular stage in the human condition – post procreation but pretty far from post-mortem. I didn’t ask him to come into the little room with me that time. I remember sitting alone, bare-assed, on the crunchy paper of the examination table, gazing out the window. I wondered if the architects had tried to create a perfect frame of the woodlands in the window, in an effort to ease the anxiety of women that would soon find themselves recumbent and in the most vulnerable of postures – feet in stirrups, privacy torn asunder amidst the glare of a spotlight and under the gaze of a stranger. Patti the Midwife was compassionate and sensitive. I trusted her. I trusted my new doc, too. None of my appointments at this practice had been as bad as the ones I had elsewhere, so I was hopeful that this procedure, in the hands of gentler kinder folk, might not be as bad as I feared.
My girlfriends all rallied around me prior to the second procedure. I had their steadfast support. That helped. At my request, they shared a couple Xanax to help me through it. Like before, even though the appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, I took the whole day off work. Doing so allowed me to prepare the way I prefer to and the way most women get ready for a date that presents the possibility of “getting lucky.” You know what I mean – shaving like you’re about to have surgery and being particularly thorough about what gets well lathered in the shower. I sifted through my underwear drawer to find a pair without holes and free of period stains, ones that were regular knickers and not “sexy lingerie.” Cuz, of course, wearing the really good stuff would be weird and just plain inappropriate. I know, I know, I know. They never even see your drawers, but I’m convinced that they just know. Part of why I go to all this effort is that I’m a lunatic, and the other part is that I absolutely adore my doc. It took me forever to find this kind Southern gentleman. So I always try to get things extra tidy…out of respect for him and a profession that revolves around having to stare at all manner of cooches every day all day. To me, gynecologists are like the Georgia O’Keefes of the medical profession – completely accepting and understanding of the uniqueness of every vag. Something I’m not sure I, myself, could do.
I had some leftover Hydrocodone from a previous dental procedure, so just before the appointment, I took it with the Xanax in anticipation of the worst. Needless to say, I wasn’t feeling a care in the world once we got to the office. I planned to ask if my husband could come into the exam room with me. I expected to be told he couldn’t, so I had a response planned. I would say, “Okay. Now it’s not like he hasn’t seen my lady junk all up-close-and-personal-like…of course, without the benefit of that glamorous lighting.” Sadly, I was denied the opportunity to slay with that bit of wit. Without objection or questions, they allowed him to accompany me. Once in the little room, he nervously scrolled through his phone while the technician completed yet another regular ultrasound. I’ll admit, it was probably the teensiest bit awkward for him – sitting just a couple feet away from his wife lying with feet in stirrups while a lady stranger shoved a big bagged-up dildo shaped camera into her business. The tech finished the procedure, and we waited for the doc to arrive for the “main event.” He was running late. I was worried the Xanax/Hydrocodone cocktail might wear off. All I could think about was the itty-bitty-spring-thingy blowing up my shit.
Dr. Southern Comfort knocked before he came in. He apologized for his “taaahdineeess,” and he introduced himself to my husband. He explained what he’d be doing, showed me the instruments he’d be using, and told me how the procedure would help him make a determination about whether or not something was wrong. He immediately said there’d be no need at all to dilate me. Hallelujah! Then he got down to the business at vag, alternating between telling me what he was seeing/doing and discussing baseball with my husband. “Boy, he’s good,” I thought to myself, “What a masterful multitasking motherfucker!” It seemed like he’d only just begun when he pronounced that there’d be no need for a biopsy either. There was nothing…absolutely nothing…wrong with me. He de-gloved, shook my husband’s hand, and bid us a lovely remainder of our day. I was stunned but relieved. I’d been certain I’d be setting up a surgical consult for my hysterectomy at the checkout desk. Instead, I paid my copay, and we went for a late lunch. My narcotics hadn’t even worn off yet. It was the best lunch date ever.
I have the utmost reverence for what the female reproductive system is capable of, and as someone who has passed two human beings through her cooch medication-free, I am humbled by the miraculousness of it all. With that being said, I still find myself mired in the love-hate dichotomy that is my relationship with my body – specifically my reproductive system. I hate my period. I hate the pain. I literally feel physically ill for about a week before until a few days after. I hate the mess. I hate how self-conscious it makes me feel, just like I felt that very first day of my very first period. I hate the way it affects my entire life for days. Still, the thought of not having a period is almost as bad. Looming menopause pushes all my insecurity buttons. It makes me feel old, dried up, and “less than.” Reproductively viable or post-menopausal – both states suck in their own way, and both are intimately tied to the way a woman is perceived by society.
Still, I feel like our culture is slowly shifting…for the better. Reproductive viability is no longer the be-all-end-all of a woman’s value. Though the value of a woman’s appearance still seems to be dying way too hard, in my opinion, the trend toward gender role nonconformity and gender fluidity have made a positive, albeit small, impact on how women see themselves. It’s my hope that, if I ever have a granddaughter, she can shrug off all the myths, negative connotations, and stereotypes about “girl stuff” that my mother, my daughters, and I grew up with. I hope she can see herself, first and foremost, as a human being…one that just happens to have two X chromosomes, a uterus, and all the other things – good and a little less than good – that go along with being born genetically female. That’s my hope…my wish. Well that, and maybe legal-in-every-state cannabis-infused tampons. That’d be pretty bitchin, too.
I will never be a proponent of the “food is just fuel” philosophy. Where I come from meals are more than mere nourishment. To me, food is the most complex necessity. Human history has shown as much. In Food and Eating: An Anthropological Perspective, Robyn Fox describes food’s unique role in the lives of humankind.
We have to eat; we like to eat; eating makes us feel good; it is more important than sex. To ensure genetic survival the sex urge need only be satisfied a few times in a lifetime; the hunger urge must be satisfied every day.
It is also a profoundly social urge. Food is almost always shared; people eat together; mealtimes are events when the whole family or settlement or village comes together. Food is also an occasion for sharing, for distributing and giving, for the expression of altruism, whether from parents to children, children to in-laws, or anyone to visitors and strangers. Food is the most important thing a mother gives a child; it is the substance of her own body, and in most parts of the world mother’s milk is still the only safe food for infants. Thus food becomes not just a symbol of, but also the reality of, love and security.
All animals eat, but we are the only animal that cooks. So cooking becomes more than a necessity, it is the symbol of our humanity, what marks us off from the rest of nature. And because eating is almost always a group event (as opposed to sex), food becomes a focus of symbolic activity about sociality and our place in our society
Some of my happiest childhood memories revolve around food and cooking. I fondly remember standing, perched on a stepstool at the counter in my Grandmother Vesta May’s kitchen, helping her roll out the dumpling dough for her chicken and dumplings. During summertime, I often accompanied my grandparents on their trips back home to South Pittsburgh, Tennessee. I remember sitting in rocking chairs on the porches of individuals whom I barely knew that were supposedly my “relatives.” The unfamiliar company never kept me from wolfing down the delicious pimento cheese sandwiches, deviled eggs, and sweet tea that were served to us so graciously on a tray with the good “company” dishware by those people. Even at that young age I recognized what a lovely thing Southern hospitality is. Another tradition I was always eager to help with was picking wild blackberries from the thorny bushes in my grandparents’ backyard. My enthusiasm was largely due to the fact that I knew Grandma would magically transform those dark jewels into sweet, rich jam that I’d get to spread thickly onto warm homemade biscuits. I’d spend the night at Grandma and Grandpa’s house in the summer, too. Since the house wasn’t air conditioned, on particularly warm nights I’d sometimes awaken feeling sweaty and uncomfortable. Seeing a light down the hall, I’d stumble bleary-eyed toward it to find Grandpa in the kitchen having a “midnight snack.” Sometimes it would be peanut butter spread upon Ritz crackers. At other times Grandpa would be slurping, from a tall glass, a mixture of buttermilk with cornbread leftover from supper crumbled into it. He’d motion for me to sit in the chair opposite his, and he’d push the plate of peanut butter crackers toward me. On nights when he was enjoying the buttermilk-cornbread concoction, he’d make a glass of it for me using regular milk. He knew I didn’t care for buttermilk. Elaborate Sunday suppers with an extensive menu, another Southern tradition, were my grandmother’s favorite ways to show off her mad cooking skills. They were a showcase for her culinary talent and also made my mother acutely aware of her shortcomings in the kitchen.
My mom’s mom wasn’t much of a cook, so my mother never had the benefit of learning much from her. At my father’s behest, Mom reluctantly submitted herself to her mother-in-law’s tutelage and came away with a few decent meals in her recipe collection. Beef Stroganoff was my favorite dish and what I always asked for as my birthday dinner. Mom also had an opportunity to expand her horizons by learning a few “ethnic” recipes. My father grew up in a relatively diverse blue-collar neighborhood. He forged lifelong friendships with the sons of a few Polish and Italian immigrants. After everyone was married and had families, my mother learned from their wives. She added Italian and Polish dishes like indulgent cheesy lasagna, spaghetti with huge meatballs and authentic Italian “gravy,” tender homemade pierogis, and crispy-on-the-outside-fluffy-on-the-inside mashed potato pancakes to her repertoire. Once Mom went back to work, after all her children were in school, these kinds of meals were reserved for holidays, special occasions, and the occasional Sunday supper to which my grandparents were invited.
My mother’s return to work and the subsequent infrequency of those labor- intensive meals inspired my father to pursue cooking “as a hobby.” He got interested in the cooking shows that were broadcast late Saturday afternoons when he got home from work. He studied the cooking techniques and recipes detailed on The Frugal Gourmet and America’s Test Kitchen as well as those on reruns of The Galloping Gourmet and Julia Child. It was always a surprise to see what Dad would try his hand at from week to week. To provide the freshest ingredients for his cooking, one year he even planted a garden…the vegetables of which his spoiled, entitled children resoundingly rejected once they found tiny (harmless) green inchworms in the broccoli. And that was the end of that. Even though he lives alone now, Dad still enjoys cooking and talking about food. His newest obsession is the Insta-Pot craze. Yeah, don’t get him started on that one. “Know what I made last week?” he’ll ask. “No, Dad. I don’t. What did you make?” I’ll respond, taking the bait. “I made a pot roast, a good old fashion pot roast! Wanna know how long it took?” he’ll continue. I’ll humor him and say, “Okay. How long did it take, Dad?” His eyes will light up at the chance to share the miraculous feat of technology with which he believes I’m unfamiliar. “Fifteen minutes! I’m not shitting you, kid. It only took fifteen fucking minutes! Isn’t that incredible?”
Barbecues were the summer family tradition on my mother’s side of the family. Unlike my father, Mom had a slew of siblings who, in turn, had spouses and kids. Less refined than my Dad’s Southern relations, Mom’s family was all about the PAR-TAAAAY! Booze flowed freely at these events. Music played, loudly, and many hijinks ensued. During one particularly raucous gathering, my mother chased her brother into the house (HER house) with the garden hose and proceeded to spray him with it, full blast, in the face! One of my favorite memories of those barbecues is when, one Independence Day, the family gathered ‘round the boom box and sang Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody together at the top of their lungs. My Aussie boyfriend at the time found himself speechless at the spectacle. Apparently he was under the mistaken impression that Aussies had the market on boisterousness cornered. And yet, here were fifteen “Aaaamurakins,” ranging in age from about four to eighty and all of whom being the furthest thing from professional vocalists, making a decidedly less than joyful noise unto The Lord. My youngest daughter still mentions this wonderfully amusing memory from time to time. That says a lot about its impact. She was only six at the time. At these events, my dad loved to man the barbecue grill, and my mother loved to pass off her mother-in-law’s wildly popular potato salad recipe as her own. It was a centerpiece of every summer gathering. My aunts loved to compete for the “runner up” spot with their own potluck dishes. Summer barbecues culminated with a big Labor Day bash. My mother, her mother, and her sisters put their own spin on the traditional Southern dish of “fried green tomatoes.” Something only blasphemous Yankee women would do, in place of the green they used the red ripe tomatoes that are always in abundance during summer months in these parts. May the dear soul of my Vesta May forgive me, but, truth be told, I like ‘em better that way. Sweet red ripe tomatoes coated in crushed Corn Flake crumbs and fried in bacon grease are truly a crunchy, sweet, smoky, succulent slice of heaven! Once everyone had eaten their fill of the tasty bastardized delicacy, any leftover tomatoes were stewed, canned, and put up for winter dishes like meaty goulash and spicy chili.
The loving experiences I’d had cooking with my grandmother, my fond memories of her delicious food, and the positive associations I had between food and family made me eager to take home economics in junior high. It allowed me to build upon the skills I’d learned from Vesta May. I often put my newfound knowledge to use when I had to cook for my father and siblings on the nights when my mother worked a closing shift or when I gave baked goods and other foods as gifts to family and friends. Later in life, as a young wife and mother, I loved to find new recipes to make for my family or to take as my “dish-to-pass” at potlucks. When my mother got older, I took on the mantle of preparing the big holiday meals – Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. I prided myself in creating elaborate meals – the kind my grandmother prepared. I found great satisfaction in the enjoyment of my family. In recent years, inspired by cooking shows on Food Network and The Cooking Channel, I’ve found a similar satisfaction in cooking for friends on the rare occasion that I entertain. Like my grandma, I just love making people happy by cooking delicious food for them. I’ve sometimes dreamt of having a restaurant of my own where I could do that on a greater scale.
Now that my children are grown and gone, I don’t have much occasion to cook on a grand scale. My husband enjoys a very limited number of foods and dishes. Though the byproduct is a ton of leftovers, there are still times when I cook things that I love just for myself. Sometimes I freeze the leftovers to have for meals in the future. Sometimes I take them to my dad. As he’s gotten on in age and after never having done so for most of my life, he now tells me he loves me. He uses the actual words. He never did that before. Unfortunately, it can’t erase the effects of a lifetime of not hearing them. So I just can’t bring myself to say the words back. I bring him leftovers instead because as is the case in many families, food is code. It’s saying, “I made this, see. I took great care. I invested time, and I’m giving it to you because I want it to make you feel happy. I want you to feel happy.”
Loving people means wanting happiness for them. It means wanting big things for them. It means you wish them things like falling in love with their soul mate or finding the job that’s their purpose in life or having a life filled with health & wellness. But it can also mean you want the little things for them, too. It can mean you wish them a sunny blue-sky day or a day free of stress. It can mean you want them to have a day when they can do something fun or have an adventure or maybe just sleep to their heart’s content. Sometimes it means, “Taste this! I made it for you! It’s so good, and I want eating it to make you feel good!” Tonight I’m making my husband’s favorite pasta, Cavatappi, with homemade Alfredo sauce and pan-seared scallops. It’s a love letter to him…and to myself. It’s me saying, “Before we go back to the daily grind, let’s take the opportunity to enjoy one small pleasure of life – a lovely meal.” No, it’s not like this is the last time we will enjoy such a meal, but it is a symbol…a celebration…of the good things and pleasures in life – things like vacations and sunshine and sleeping in.
So, sorry Jillian Michaels…and Harvey Pasternak…and Gwyneth Paltrow…and all the rest of you amongst the subconsciously masochistic haters of the human experience, I think you’re wrong. Food is not simply fuel. It’s a complex necessity. It’s a pleasure of being human, and I’m claiming it! There is simply far too much misery in the world, so why create more by denying this simple fact? I’m pretty sure that people who languish in starvation on a daily basis would agree with me. Yes, food is a necessity for physical survival, but it can also bring happiness. Think of a starving man in Sudan as he greets a box of food dropped from the heavens with happy tears streaming down his face. I’m pretty sure that food is going to taste amazing to him and fill him with joy. Food can be love. Giving food can be a gesture of love to a co-worker or a beloved family member or a stranger that you’ve never met in a faraway land or the disheveled guy that parks his shopping cart at the exit ramp of the highway and talks to himself all the time. It can be altruism.
We are the only animals for whom food is such an incredibly complex, emotionally charged, and multi-faceted thing. We produce it, we share it, we withhold it from others, and we sometimes deny it to ourselves. We cook it, create it, and consume it. Food nourishes the body of any organism, but, truly, it can only feed the souls of humans. Can I get an amen?
I’ve always been a guarded person, badly scared by situations in which my trust was horribly violated. The many abusers, bullies, perpetrators, and violators precipitated my extreme cautiousness, and my wounds have frequently gotten in the way of relationships. That’s not to say, however, that there aren’t many lovely souls about whom I care deeply. I can, however, safely say that I can count on one hand those who hold the largest pieces of real estate in my heart. One such individual is my beloved husband, Michael.
Mike and I met a few years after my divorce and following one fairly serious relationship and a string of several meaningless ones. I felt like I’d been through the ringer when my Yahoo Personals ad led him to me. The only reason he was even on Yahoo Personals was that his roommate had, without his knowledge, placed an ad there for him. His reply was intelligent, honest, and funny – all the things I was looking for. We exchanged phone numbers via instant messenger, and he called me. The connection was instant. We talked for hours. At the end of our conversation, I agreed to meet him at my favorite restaurant, which wasn’t far from his apartment. I’d been through numerous blind dates, at this point, and, frankly, I wasn’t very confident that this one would be any different. But it was. He was handsome and funny and charming, just like he was on the phone. I felt comfortable with him instantly like I’d known him for years. In fact, I felt comfortable enough to invite him back to my apartment, something I’d rarely done on a first date. He was a perfect gentleman, though, thus confirming my instincts about him.
It might sound like a cliché or some kind of fiction, but we’ve been inseparable ever since that first date. In fact, not a single day has gone by, since the day we met, that we haven’t spoken to one another, even before we lived together, and, even after we were married, at times when we were apart physically. That’s pretty remarkable for someone with the history I mentioned previously. It takes someone with an extraordinary capacity for nurturing to heal an animal as badly wounded as I was. It took time and great patience. He worked diligently, with surgeon-like skill, to heal the wounded hearts of my daughters. He was always there, and that proved his commitment to them. Ultimately, he earned their love and trust, too. I couldn’t have found a better father or a better husband. It was clear. The remarkable part, though, was that he, like me, had been through more than his share of heartbreak, mistreatment, and pain. The odds of us finding one another, in the whole wide world, and being able to overcome the wounds of our respective pasts were pretty slim, and yet, we did. We’ll have been married seventeen years in September.
A couple years ago, during the winter of 2016, Mike had to travel out-of-state to train for his new job. He and I were apart for some of the longest periods of time we’d ever experienced since that first day we met. During this time, I happened upon and fell in love with a song by Nathan Sykes (featuring Ariana Grande) that had recently been released. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts, music has always had the most profound effect on me, and the lyrics of this song were like a window into my deepest feelings:
From the way you smile to the way you look, you capture me unlike no other. From the first hello, yeah, that’s all it took, and, suddenly, we had each other. I won’t leave you. I’ll always be true. One plus one is two, for life, over and over again.
So, don’t ever think I need more, ‘cause I’ve got the one to live for. No one else will do, and I’m telling you, just put your heart in my hands. I promise it won’t get broken. We’ll never forget this moment. Yeah, we’ll stay brand new, ‘cause I’ll love you over and over again.
It’s a rare thing, in this universe, when we find something that meets almost every need we have. When and if you find that, my friends, be aware that you are so, so lucky and never ever take it for granted. I surely will not.
When I was in my early twenties, I felt a certain “spiritual stirring”. I was a newlywed, at the time, and expecting my first child. I felt like I finally had some of the things I’d been longing for all my life – a husband, a home, the best paying job I’d had to that point (but it actually wasn’t well-paying at all). I would soon have a family of my own. In spite of this, I found myself fighting feelings of unhappiness and deep depression. I didn’t understand why. In hindsight, I now realize that these feelings had more to do with a chemical imbalance in my brain and a dysfunctional marriage than any kind of “spiritual” issue. Still, I wanted answers. I’m an analytical person by nature. I do research. I Google. I pull every issue into its minutia and evaluate each speck. So I set out to dissect the “spiritual.” Of course, Catholicism strongly discourages this type of shenanigans. Maybe it’s because I never attended parochial school or maybe it’s because I did attend the school of hard knocks. Either way I was just defiant enough to look beyond The Church and not care about the consequence to my immortal soul. I was open to any and all philosophical, religious, and spiritual orientations. I read books. I attended worship services. I had heart-to-heart conversations with devotees of many religions and spiritual persuasions. Although he was no longer a practicing Muslim, my husband at the time had been raised as one. I found the faith interesting and horribly misunderstood, but I felt no connection with it. Oddly, I identified most closely with an obscure faith called B’hai – in theory, anyway. Unfortunately, there was no B’hai presence in my community, and I never felt strongly enough to seek it elsewhere.
I was working as an assistant home coordinator at a group home for developmentally disabled adults during this time of “spiritual quest.” My co-workers were lovely, kind, and caring people. They seemed super happy. I wondered what made them so damn happy. So, one day I asked the happiest of these happy people – the only male direct care worker. The group home was his main gig, to pay the bills and support his adorable little family, but he was also a Pentecostal minister. I learned that nearly all my co-workers were “born again” Christians. I was somewhat familiar with this “born again” thing. My father was not Catholic, and although they didn’t necessarily raise him in the in the Baptist church, my grandparents considered themselves Southern Baptists. As were many men of his generation, my dad was the boss of our family, so my mother could offer no objection when I went to visit relatives in Tennessee during the summer with my grandparents and attended Baptist services or when I begged to go to Vacation Bible School at the Methodist church with the little neighbor girls. So here I was working in this warm, cozy, joyful place with a bunch of sweet happy Protestant folks that were high on Jesus. Of course, Pastor Happy was more than eager to lead another lamb to the foot of the cross. I was in pain, so I held his hands and prayed with him to have my soul saved. I sound bitter, don’t I? I’m really not. Pastor Happy was a truly beautiful human being and really did “walk the walk” of The Savior. He saw that I was suffering, and he wanted to help. I’ll admit being “born again” did help…for a while. I’ll tell you that there is nothing quite as intoxicating as having the “joy, joy, joy, joy down in your heart” when you’re surrounded by others who seem to have it in every square inch of their bodies. In the long run, though, I knew I was just faking it. It simply didn’t feel right or natural to me, and there were times that it actually felt quite strange– like the first time I heard someone “speaking in tongues.” That straight up freaked this Catholic out! I was raised to believe that when a person does something like that they need an exorcism not a microphone.
My stint as a full-blown born-again believer, complete with tax-exempt tithing to First Assembly Churches, the Christian Broadcast Network (Yup! That is Pat Robertson, folks), and Chuck Colson Ministries was short-lived. Look, I acknowledge the ridiculously of this period in the evolution of my belief system. Luckily, cynicism is not a quitter though. Like Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture, she builds slowly but gets louder and louder and LOUDER until she is heard. I abandoned my “new-found faith” almost as quickly as I had embraced it. Still, the yearning persisted.
It was about this time that I discovered the book Embraced By The Light by Betty Eadie. It’s Betty’s account of her near-death experience, and one of the most vivid detailed accounts of an NDE experience on record. I found it incredibly compelling. Betty describes her experience in great detail, but what struck me most was her discussion of how she learned that, before we are born, we are presented with a life and a mission, which we can accept or reject. We are made aware of every detail of said mission, every detail of the life, and the ultimate purpose of both. We can accept or refuse, without consequence. For some reason, the idea made perfect sense to me and resonated deeply. The ideas in that book stayed with me for years and years. Even after tragic events that would unfold far into the future, I never forgot them.
When my daughters were young, I resisted the urge to indoctrinate them in any religion. Their father wasn’t too keen on the idea either, and we hadn’t been married in the Catholic Church anyway. I didn’t feel compelled to have them baptized or to receive first communion or be confirmed – to receive any of the sacraments, as I had in spite of my family’s ultra-loose grasp on the faith. I arrived at my decision, though, mostly because I’d come to feel as though faith and spirituality are only meaningful when we find our own way to them rather than being dragged down a path. Most of the time, while the girls were growing up, I felt satisfied with that decision. It wasn’t until my oldest daughter hit a particularly difficult period in her development that I began to have doubts. She was a willful and rebellious teen. Somewhere in the back of my Catholic mind, I wondered if it was because of her Godless upbringing outside The Church and being raised by a Muslim father and agnostic stepfather. Catholics are taught that devotion to God and The Church is the key to a happy life. Maybe if recommitted myself to Catholicism and The Church, God would forgive my transgressions and fix my failures as a parent, even if I couldn’t erase my decision not to raise my children Catholic. I started going back to Mass every week. I prayed the Rosary every single morning and pleaded for the Blessed Mother’s intercession. It’s pretty ironic that, during a time when I was most devout, I should suffer one of the greatest losses a person can endure. My daughter was killed in a car accident. I remember devout Catholic friends, fulfilling their roll as “guardians of the faith” saying, “Give your pain to the Holy Mother. She understands more than anyone what it’s like to lose a child. She lost her only son.” It didn’t help. My daughter’s death reignited the cynicism that had been deposited in my heart and mind from every trauma I’d ever suffered. How could a merciful God strike such a blow to someone that had already been through so much, someone who was trying so hard to be a faithful servant? You needn’t cite scripture, my devout friends. I am familiar with the tale of Job. What can I say? I’m just no Job. Losing my child all but extinguished the compulsion I once felt to be a good, devoted, and obedient Christian.
It’s been many years now since the loss of my daughter and the spiritual crisis that followed. My feelings have softened…a bit. If pressed, I would still say that I consider myself “a believer.” I still love the beauty of The Mass and never fail to feel awestruck by its ancientness. Much to my husband’s chagrin, I still observe Lent. Why? Because I appreciate just how much such a small sacrifice or minor inconvenience can remind me of how good I really have it. I adore Pope Francis. I think he’s a good and compassionate man. In fact, I think that somewhere down deep within the heart of The Church, Christ and his message of kindness and compassion lives on. I still don’t regret having not raised my children as Catholics, though. I can’t imagine the additional pain and guilt my youngest daughter, who is gay, might’ve endured if she’d had to contend with the judgment and condemnation of a 2000-year-old institution in addition to that of society. These days I really couldn’t really label my spiritual beliefs as “Catholic” or “Protestant” or “Agnostic.” I will tell you that I believe in the connectedness of all human beings. I believe we are connected to one another. I believe we are connected to the natural world. And I do believe in a divine presence of some sort because I just find it so unlikely that the incredible beauty that exists in the world could occur randomly.
I have also come to believe that all of us are here, on this planet, for a reason – for a mission, one that we signed up for even before we were born. In our current physical form, that mission might be unknown to us. Still, we live it anyway, as we were destined to do. For some of us, the mission is short-lived. It is impactful all the same. What I know is this – a life is like a pebble. It strikes the water and creates ripples. Those ripples expand exponentially. They move things in the water. They cause pond-dwellers to jump or move. The movement of those life forms stirs the sediment on the pond floor, which, in turn, sets in motion more activity. We cannot know the full impact of a life, whether it is short or long. We can only trust that there is a bigger picture, like an expansive eco-system, of which one life is a small but important part.
I think faith is so much more than religion. It’s more than clinging, steadfastly, to the teachings of a certain belief system. It’s even more than believing without the benefit of seeing. Well, at least, I think it can be anyway. I think faith can be the best of being human. I think it can be seeing the divine in one another. I think faith could change the world if we didn’t equate it with religion. If we could only view faith as a fluid – taking the shape of its container – we’d be better off as a species. I will never be “anti-faith.” I still think “faith” is a good thing, a positive thing. Label me, if you must. But don’t label me with a religion. Label me as what I am – a faithful human. Namaste.
/* Style Definitions */
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;