I got a lot of my Christmas shopping done last night, so I feel better about that now. Just a few things left to pick up! I still have to write out some cards to send and to give to people at work, but I’m coming to a point where I don’t feel so overwhelmingly behind. (And this feeling of overwhelming behind-ness without even having kids to think about!)
I found myself looking longingly at the toy stores while I shopped last night. I miss when my brother and cousin were young enough to actually want toys. It was so much fun to shop for them! And of course I’d have to wander through the toy aisles, pressing the buttons on the toys that make noise, picking up the teddy bears to see if they were as soft as they looked. Last night I found such an adorable one—a baby’s snuggly doll, so impossibly soft, which looked like the “classic” Winnie the Pooh, wearing pajamas. I mentally ran through and through my gift list, but unfortunately I have no one for whom that would be an appropriate present this year! And of course my little Brendan is FAR too many years in the future for me to buy him a soft Pooh Bear, no matter how adorable.
(Mom, if you’re reading this, please do NOT take the preceding paragraph as a hint! I don’t want it for myself, really!)
My tree is up and decorated—my tradition is to put it up on the first Sunday of Advent. (For purists who complain about fake trees, I’ve always been in apartments where real trees are against the fire code, alas.) Tirithien helped me to decorate it. It’s a smallish tree, 6 feet tall, and after several years of use it’s become a little wobbly, but it’s still fully functional and looks quite nice, as long as you don’t look from the angle of its crookedness.
It’s never been any sort of fancy designer tree like department stores display, nor even one of the elegant trees with lights of all one color. I have two strands of regular multi-colored lights, because my tree is too big to use one strand. It is also too small for two strands, so the end of the second string always gets woven strangely in with the other, and the lightbulb density is much higher at the top of the tree. I got a new garland this year, a beaded garland with silvery and iridescent beads, so it went weaving in and out with the branches and lights.
Then the ornaments. The interesting thing about my ornaments is that some of them are nearly as old as I am, and I remember them from my very earliest years. I would tell Tirithien about them as we hung them up, and he listened to all my little stories about all my little ornaments, all these tiny treasures from Christmases past. And oh, how beautiful that softly lit tree was when we were done!
We’re going to go and pick out an ornament together sometime soon, some new and special piece which is just for us. His idea, a new tradition for a new time for us both. :-)
Tuesday, December 13, 2005
Monday, December 12, 2005
More Adventures in NW Ohio
On Saturday, Tirithien and I braved the World’s Scariest Mall, Franklin Park Mall in Toledo. It’s BIG. And it’s SCARY. It’s so big it has parking garages! And like any mall at holiday time, it was too warm and too full of perfume scents, and FAR too crowded. Malls are not my friend! But we had to go there, because it has the best movie theatre in Toledo. We saw The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe.
Oh wow. Oh wow. It was done incredibly well. It was extremely true to the book, with the exception of a few minor details that must needs change to make a book flow as a movie. Nothing at all that detracted from the original, though. The CGI was absolutely beautiful. The casting was just about perfect. They made no changes whatsoever to the Christian allegory; in fact, it seemed even more pointed by seeing it rather than reading it. I absolutely loved this movie, and highly recommend it to anyone!
After the movie, we tried to shop for a special ornament to hang on my Christmas tree, but we didn’t find anything which we particularly liked, and the mall crowds were grating on us both, so we went to dinner.
Then after dinner, we went to see the “Lights Before Christmas” display at the Toledo Zoo. Oh, so very beautiful! Millions of points of light, shining out over the snow. There was this one particular gigantic pine tree absolutely dripping in colored lights. It defies description.
But then we had a problem. We wanted to buy some fudge from the candy vendor there. I wanted chocolate-peanut butter fudge. Well, apparently in Ohio, pretty much anything of chocolate-peanut butter flavor is called “buckeye” flavor. Now, as a Michigan resident, I can tell you that the idea of eating anything with “buckeye” in the name grated awfully. But…. it was chocolate-peanut butter fudge.
But it was Buckeye Fudge.
Tirithien seemed highly amused by my consternation. (Yes, let’s see how it is if we ever find some tasty treat called Wolverine Fudge. Then you’ll see!) “Oh, I want to hear YOU order it,” he said. Thanks a lot. :-P
So I ordered it.
And I ate it.
I ate Buckeye Fudge.
And it was as tasty as it looked.
I felt so dirty. :-P
Then on Sunday, I was sick most of the day. Hmm. Coincidence? Or can people from Michigan simply not eat “buckeye” items without ill effects? (And never mind that Tirithien claims this is the beginning of my “Ohio assimilation!” That’s just crazy talk.)
Oh wow. Oh wow. It was done incredibly well. It was extremely true to the book, with the exception of a few minor details that must needs change to make a book flow as a movie. Nothing at all that detracted from the original, though. The CGI was absolutely beautiful. The casting was just about perfect. They made no changes whatsoever to the Christian allegory; in fact, it seemed even more pointed by seeing it rather than reading it. I absolutely loved this movie, and highly recommend it to anyone!
After the movie, we tried to shop for a special ornament to hang on my Christmas tree, but we didn’t find anything which we particularly liked, and the mall crowds were grating on us both, so we went to dinner.
Then after dinner, we went to see the “Lights Before Christmas” display at the Toledo Zoo. Oh, so very beautiful! Millions of points of light, shining out over the snow. There was this one particular gigantic pine tree absolutely dripping in colored lights. It defies description.
But then we had a problem. We wanted to buy some fudge from the candy vendor there. I wanted chocolate-peanut butter fudge. Well, apparently in Ohio, pretty much anything of chocolate-peanut butter flavor is called “buckeye” flavor. Now, as a Michigan resident, I can tell you that the idea of eating anything with “buckeye” in the name grated awfully. But…. it was chocolate-peanut butter fudge.
But it was Buckeye Fudge.
Tirithien seemed highly amused by my consternation. (Yes, let’s see how it is if we ever find some tasty treat called Wolverine Fudge. Then you’ll see!) “Oh, I want to hear YOU order it,” he said. Thanks a lot. :-P
So I ordered it.
And I ate it.
I ate Buckeye Fudge.
And it was as tasty as it looked.
I felt so dirty. :-P
Then on Sunday, I was sick most of the day. Hmm. Coincidence? Or can people from Michigan simply not eat “buckeye” items without ill effects? (And never mind that Tirithien claims this is the beginning of my “Ohio assimilation!” That’s just crazy talk.)
Friday, December 09, 2005
Prodigal Boy
I’m still waiting to get the digital pictures from my mama. And I’m still kind of sniffly. And it snowed WAY too much last night. And it’s very cold in my office today. So I don’t have too many updates for anyone, at least not fun happy vacation ones. But here is what happened to me when I went to Meijer on my way home from work last night.
I pushed my cart around one corner and discovered a small boy, no more than 5 years old, if that, sobbing as if his heart had broken. No adults anywhere nearby. I asked the little boy if he needed help, and he darn near flew to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I lost my dad," he cried. So I gave him a quick hug back and told him not to worry, I'd help him find his dad. My plan was to take the little guy up to the service desk and have the dad paged.
Well, before we got very far, a large man came around another corner and started yelling at the boy for "running off." He was so busy yelling that he didn't see how relieved the boy was right at first-- we'd found his dad, yay! Then the bastard of a dad started yelling at ME. "What the fuck are you doing with my kid, bitch?"
Well, my jaw about dropped. I was trying to help the poor kid who'd been crying, and I was getting cussed out for it? I mean, I know no good deed goes unpunished, but this seemed a bit extreme. To my great surprise, though, I did not feel the least bit intimidated and responded very calmly, "He was upset and I was trying to help him find you. I suggest you keep a closer eye on him in crowded stores from now on," and walked away.
So, I'm really hoping the dad was actually more scared than angry. My heart aches for the kid, though. It seemed even sadder to me, though, because when the dad was yelling at the boy, he called the boy Brendan. And that’s my own dream-baby’s name. Somehow, that just made it all seem that much worse. :-(
I pushed my cart around one corner and discovered a small boy, no more than 5 years old, if that, sobbing as if his heart had broken. No adults anywhere nearby. I asked the little boy if he needed help, and he darn near flew to me and wrapped his arms around me. "I lost my dad," he cried. So I gave him a quick hug back and told him not to worry, I'd help him find his dad. My plan was to take the little guy up to the service desk and have the dad paged.
Well, before we got very far, a large man came around another corner and started yelling at the boy for "running off." He was so busy yelling that he didn't see how relieved the boy was right at first-- we'd found his dad, yay! Then the bastard of a dad started yelling at ME. "What the fuck are you doing with my kid, bitch?"
Well, my jaw about dropped. I was trying to help the poor kid who'd been crying, and I was getting cussed out for it? I mean, I know no good deed goes unpunished, but this seemed a bit extreme. To my great surprise, though, I did not feel the least bit intimidated and responded very calmly, "He was upset and I was trying to help him find you. I suggest you keep a closer eye on him in crowded stores from now on," and walked away.
So, I'm really hoping the dad was actually more scared than angry. My heart aches for the kid, though. It seemed even sadder to me, though, because when the dad was yelling at the boy, he called the boy Brendan. And that’s my own dream-baby’s name. Somehow, that just made it all seem that much worse. :-(
Monday, December 05, 2005
Sniffle, sigh, ack.
Okay, I'm home!
And my sinuses officially hate me for dragging them back north! I had SUCH a miserable headache today. I seem to be readjusting to northern-ness, though. The headache is faded.
I really had a great time in Florida. The best parts were when my Baby Brother and I would run off on our own for awhile. Whee, rides! We went on Space Mountain four times!
It's funny, but when I was a kid, I was actually scared of rides like that. Now when Baby Brother says, "Let's do it again!" I say, "Okay!" And then we run around in Tomorrowland hiding behind walls and humming the Mission:Impossible theme.
I think I'm actually a 10-year-old in an adult's body.
I will have some pictures to share once I get hold of my mom's digital camera and upload them, and some more details about the trip once I get them sorted out from the fragments in my travel journal. There's plenty of good stuff, including Baby Brother breaking the bus, and me getting stopped by airport security. Yikes! Stay tuned!
And my sinuses officially hate me for dragging them back north! I had SUCH a miserable headache today. I seem to be readjusting to northern-ness, though. The headache is faded.
I really had a great time in Florida. The best parts were when my Baby Brother and I would run off on our own for awhile. Whee, rides! We went on Space Mountain four times!
It's funny, but when I was a kid, I was actually scared of rides like that. Now when Baby Brother says, "Let's do it again!" I say, "Okay!" And then we run around in Tomorrowland hiding behind walls and humming the Mission:Impossible theme.
I think I'm actually a 10-year-old in an adult's body.
I will have some pictures to share once I get hold of my mom's digital camera and upload them, and some more details about the trip once I get them sorted out from the fragments in my travel journal. There's plenty of good stuff, including Baby Brother breaking the bus, and me getting stopped by airport security. Yikes! Stay tuned!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
Flying Away....
But only for a few days.
Yes, I shall be gone for awhile. I'm going to Florida with some of my family members-- to Disney World! I get to pretend to be a little kid for a few days, and just run around and have fun. Squee! :-)
Only... only... it will be my first lengthy separation from Tirithien! *sniffle* Five whole days without my beloved! (Yes, I sound like a lovestruck adolescent. No, I'm not the least bit ashamed of that fact!)
I will be back very late Saturday night, probably with all sorts of stories of comic misadventures. (That kind of thing tends to happen when I go places with my Baby Brother.)
Take good care of my blog while I'm gone. I'll be back soon! I'll try to bring some warm weather with me as a treat for all the Northerners. :-)
Yes, I shall be gone for awhile. I'm going to Florida with some of my family members-- to Disney World! I get to pretend to be a little kid for a few days, and just run around and have fun. Squee! :-)
Only... only... it will be my first lengthy separation from Tirithien! *sniffle* Five whole days without my beloved! (Yes, I sound like a lovestruck adolescent. No, I'm not the least bit ashamed of that fact!)
I will be back very late Saturday night, probably with all sorts of stories of comic misadventures. (That kind of thing tends to happen when I go places with my Baby Brother.)
Take good care of my blog while I'm gone. I'll be back soon! I'll try to bring some warm weather with me as a treat for all the Northerners. :-)
Thursday, November 24, 2005
Dreams of the Ordinary
Normally my dreams are very strange. I dream of myself as a hero or a seeker of lost truths, an explorer, a defender, or I dream of the magical child who may one day be my son. I dream of stories to be told, of myself as other beings, and of great triumphs. There's very often an epic feel to my dreams, a sense that my spirit has been wandering through an enchanted realm while my body slept peacefully.
Lately, though, my dreams have been most... ordinary. I have been dreaming dreams of children to raise, a dog to care for, a home and a garden to tend, and a loving and beloved husband to help me with all of it. Does it seem pedestrian? Dull? Far too ordinary when compared to my usual dreamset?
Oddly, it does not. In these dreams of what could be mundane, there are still stories to be told. There is still a sense of the epic. My dream-children have magic in their beings, and my dream-husband sees in me a weaver of enchantments, while I see in him a hero and warrior.
In this seemingly-ordinary dreamscape my subconscious has crafted for me, of cleaning spills, pulling weeds, and pushing the children on the swings, to my surprise and slight chagrin, I have found wonder-- strange and beautiful wonder where I never thought to see it.
So today, Thanksgiving Day, I offer my thanks for all the ordinary, beautiful things of my life-- the potatoes I will peel for dinner, the warmth of the water in my shower, my guinea pig's soft fur, my brother's laugh when we tell jokes the rest of the family doesn't understand, the gentle strength of my boyfriend's embrace, and all the other things that make up the words, melodies, and harmonies of the song my life sings.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Lately, though, my dreams have been most... ordinary. I have been dreaming dreams of children to raise, a dog to care for, a home and a garden to tend, and a loving and beloved husband to help me with all of it. Does it seem pedestrian? Dull? Far too ordinary when compared to my usual dreamset?
Oddly, it does not. In these dreams of what could be mundane, there are still stories to be told. There is still a sense of the epic. My dream-children have magic in their beings, and my dream-husband sees in me a weaver of enchantments, while I see in him a hero and warrior.
In this seemingly-ordinary dreamscape my subconscious has crafted for me, of cleaning spills, pulling weeds, and pushing the children on the swings, to my surprise and slight chagrin, I have found wonder-- strange and beautiful wonder where I never thought to see it.
So today, Thanksgiving Day, I offer my thanks for all the ordinary, beautiful things of my life-- the potatoes I will peel for dinner, the warmth of the water in my shower, my guinea pig's soft fur, my brother's laugh when we tell jokes the rest of the family doesn't understand, the gentle strength of my boyfriend's embrace, and all the other things that make up the words, melodies, and harmonies of the song my life sings.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Monday, November 21, 2005
Having Dinner with the Forces of Chaos
Last night Tirithien and I went to dinner with my baby brother. (Baby Brother is not-quite-14.)
I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I was when Tirithien met my mom, but I was still a little anxious. After all, a young teenage boy is a capricious thing, ever-changing in mood and word!
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried at all. They hit it off beautifully. I was thrilled! My brother and I are very close, in spite of our rather large age difference, or maybe because of it. So if he and the man I love become friends, that makes life so much the better for me. We can all enjoy each other’s company.
Of course, a large part of their non-stop conversation (I swear, you’d think they’d known each other for years) consisted of stories of pranks, strange ways of making people squirm, and other various forms of mischief. I’m quite sure that this is why the restaurant hostess seated us WAY back in the back corner, so we wouldn’t scare the other patrons. I’m also wondering how much chaos might ensue if my boyfriend and brother join forces. It could get messy! :-)
I wasn’t nearly as nervous as I was when Tirithien met my mom, but I was still a little anxious. After all, a young teenage boy is a capricious thing, ever-changing in mood and word!
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried at all. They hit it off beautifully. I was thrilled! My brother and I are very close, in spite of our rather large age difference, or maybe because of it. So if he and the man I love become friends, that makes life so much the better for me. We can all enjoy each other’s company.
Of course, a large part of their non-stop conversation (I swear, you’d think they’d known each other for years) consisted of stories of pranks, strange ways of making people squirm, and other various forms of mischief. I’m quite sure that this is why the restaurant hostess seated us WAY back in the back corner, so we wouldn’t scare the other patrons. I’m also wondering how much chaos might ensue if my boyfriend and brother join forces. It could get messy! :-)
Thursday, November 17, 2005
Honey, can we have a polar bear?
Last night was the University of Toledo’s last home football game for the season. Why did they have it on a Wednesday? That’s all ESPN’s fault. But anyway… I knew Tirithien would want to go, since if we go down to Wright State next year this would be the last game he sees in the Glass Bowl (wow, that makes the stadium sound like it’s an aquarium). And I’ve been to every home game this season, so why not finish it out? I agreed to this, of course, BEFORE I realized it would be -800 degrees out last night. But even after I realized this, I still said I’d go. I’d just bundle up properly, and be fine, right? So here is my travel journal for my trip to Toledo.
4:30- Leave work. Notice that it’s very cold and windy, and yes, those are snow flurries. Crap.
5:14- Arrive at home. Home is further south than work, so it should be warmer, but it isn’t.
5:16- Feed squeaky guinea pig.
5:18- Remove work clothes. Begin bundling up. Flannel pajama pants, then jeans over that. Hmm, should I wear tights under all this? Nah, I won’t need that. Tank top, thermal top, fleece sweatshirt. Ah, nice and toasty for the first time all day! I’m disguised as a college student for this event—the fleece is a yellow UT sweatshirt Tirithien gave me. No one will know I’m not really a student!
5:25- Walk out to get mail.
5:27- Conclude that wind cuts right through the denim and flannel on my legs. Go back in for the tights.
5:38- On the road to Toledo, making sure I also have my gloves, hat, and scarf to wear as I get colder.
6:23- Arrive at parking lot where Tirithien is waiting. Notice that he is much less bundled up than I am. For comparison, see the below artistic rendering. (If you click on the picture, you can see all the details of our bundled-up-ness.)
6:24- Decide to go get pizza before the game, since kickoff is not until 7:30. (I’d thought it was at 7:00.
6:36- Arrive at pizza restaurant. Place order. Gaze at each other lovingly across the table, annoying nearby patrons in the process.
7:02- Wonder if annoyed patrons somehow sabotaged our order, since it wasn’t there yet.
7:05- Receive pizza. Yum! I’m sure that the eating of pizza is also helping my college student disguise.
7:30- Keep trying to flag down server to get a box for the leftovers. Hello, we’re missing the kickoff here!
7:35- Get box, get check. Go to bathroom while Tirithien is paying the check. (Thank you, sweetie!)
7:36- Realize that going to the bathroom while wearing so many layers is a tricky sort of maneuver.
7:39- On the road to UT.
7:58- In the stadium looking for seats. It’s snowing. This is a bit more than flurries. Tirithien looks up at the falling snow and says, “Now this is football weather!” I look at him like he’s crazy. There is no snow in football. Football is played in the fall. It does not snow in the fall. It snows in the winter. Snow means hockey weather, not football weather!
7:59- Sit on metal bleacher (okay, we had a blanket to spread out on it). Okay, it’s cold, but not intolerable. I can handle it.
8:14- Realize that since the game is on ESPN, there are going to be far too many media breaks and they’re going to be far too long.
8:20- Realize that ESPN must have brought their own referees, because these guys are obviously blind, much like the standard ESPN play-by-play announcer. Find common ground with similarities between ESPN’s abuse of hockey and abuse of football.
8:30- Realize that my toes are a little numb. Think longingly of my warm apartment and my TV on which I could be watching my Red Wings… nah, they were playing in Calgary. That would make me cold just to think about it.
8:40- Halftime show. Apparently the opposing team’s band does not do well in the cold. The opposing team’s band wears marching band capes. How embarrassing, they all look like they’re trying to be superheroes!
8:49- The Rocket band takes over. Wow, they must have saved their best show for the last game, because they were on step and sounded great!
9:15- Game resumes. It’s getting colder.
9:18- Realize that my coat is covered in snow.
9:38- Referees make phantom penalty calls that result in a touchdown for the other team. Decide that referees’ brains are frostbitten because they didn’t wear fancy knit caps like mine.
9:39- Try to tell Tirithien of this theory. Realize that my face is numb enough that I can no longer talk properly.
9:52- Notice that one referee has a big “F” on the back of his jersey. Ask if there’s also one with a big “U.” There is. Laugh at the idea of the F and the U standing next to each other. Note that maturity level is dropping with temperature.
10:20- More interminable referee bungling resulting in another score for the other team. Stand on the metal bleacher in front of me and shout, “Kill the refs!” as best I can with my numb mouth.
10:20:15- Tirithien decides it’s time to get inside before either (a) I freeze into a solid icicle, or (b) he feels the need to throttle a referee or two.
10:25- Go into campus library to thaw before heading back to vehicle.
11:15- Head back to Tirithien’s car, so he can kindly port me back to my own car. (I didn’t park on campus because they’d have charged me money to park there on a game day. I guess my student disguise isn’t that good.)
11:35- Head back north. Hope that I don’t encounter caribou or polar bears on my journey. It feels cold enough for them to be around, and hitting one of those would really damage my car. Besides, polar bears are cute.
12:16- Arrive home. No polar bears or caribou in sight.
12:17- Wonder if I raised a polar bear from infancy, if it would still be tame when it was grown.
12:18- Go inside and make hot cocoa. Thaw self. Put on warmest pajamas. Fall asleep.
I am glad this was the last game, even though it was a loss. I can’t handle this kind of cold! At least in hockey the ice is on the rink, not falling from the sky!
4:30- Leave work. Notice that it’s very cold and windy, and yes, those are snow flurries. Crap.
5:14- Arrive at home. Home is further south than work, so it should be warmer, but it isn’t.
5:16- Feed squeaky guinea pig.
5:18- Remove work clothes. Begin bundling up. Flannel pajama pants, then jeans over that. Hmm, should I wear tights under all this? Nah, I won’t need that. Tank top, thermal top, fleece sweatshirt. Ah, nice and toasty for the first time all day! I’m disguised as a college student for this event—the fleece is a yellow UT sweatshirt Tirithien gave me. No one will know I’m not really a student!
5:25- Walk out to get mail.
5:27- Conclude that wind cuts right through the denim and flannel on my legs. Go back in for the tights.
5:38- On the road to Toledo, making sure I also have my gloves, hat, and scarf to wear as I get colder.
6:23- Arrive at parking lot where Tirithien is waiting. Notice that he is much less bundled up than I am. For comparison, see the below artistic rendering. (If you click on the picture, you can see all the details of our bundled-up-ness.)
6:24- Decide to go get pizza before the game, since kickoff is not until 7:30. (I’d thought it was at 7:00.6:36- Arrive at pizza restaurant. Place order. Gaze at each other lovingly across the table, annoying nearby patrons in the process.
7:02- Wonder if annoyed patrons somehow sabotaged our order, since it wasn’t there yet.
7:05- Receive pizza. Yum! I’m sure that the eating of pizza is also helping my college student disguise.
7:30- Keep trying to flag down server to get a box for the leftovers. Hello, we’re missing the kickoff here!
7:35- Get box, get check. Go to bathroom while Tirithien is paying the check. (Thank you, sweetie!)
7:36- Realize that going to the bathroom while wearing so many layers is a tricky sort of maneuver.
7:39- On the road to UT.
7:58- In the stadium looking for seats. It’s snowing. This is a bit more than flurries. Tirithien looks up at the falling snow and says, “Now this is football weather!” I look at him like he’s crazy. There is no snow in football. Football is played in the fall. It does not snow in the fall. It snows in the winter. Snow means hockey weather, not football weather!
7:59- Sit on metal bleacher (okay, we had a blanket to spread out on it). Okay, it’s cold, but not intolerable. I can handle it.
8:14- Realize that since the game is on ESPN, there are going to be far too many media breaks and they’re going to be far too long.
8:20- Realize that ESPN must have brought their own referees, because these guys are obviously blind, much like the standard ESPN play-by-play announcer. Find common ground with similarities between ESPN’s abuse of hockey and abuse of football.
8:30- Realize that my toes are a little numb. Think longingly of my warm apartment and my TV on which I could be watching my Red Wings… nah, they were playing in Calgary. That would make me cold just to think about it.
8:40- Halftime show. Apparently the opposing team’s band does not do well in the cold. The opposing team’s band wears marching band capes. How embarrassing, they all look like they’re trying to be superheroes!
8:49- The Rocket band takes over. Wow, they must have saved their best show for the last game, because they were on step and sounded great!
9:15- Game resumes. It’s getting colder.
9:18- Realize that my coat is covered in snow.
9:38- Referees make phantom penalty calls that result in a touchdown for the other team. Decide that referees’ brains are frostbitten because they didn’t wear fancy knit caps like mine.
9:39- Try to tell Tirithien of this theory. Realize that my face is numb enough that I can no longer talk properly.
9:52- Notice that one referee has a big “F” on the back of his jersey. Ask if there’s also one with a big “U.” There is. Laugh at the idea of the F and the U standing next to each other. Note that maturity level is dropping with temperature.
10:20- More interminable referee bungling resulting in another score for the other team. Stand on the metal bleacher in front of me and shout, “Kill the refs!” as best I can with my numb mouth.
10:20:15- Tirithien decides it’s time to get inside before either (a) I freeze into a solid icicle, or (b) he feels the need to throttle a referee or two.
10:25- Go into campus library to thaw before heading back to vehicle.
11:15- Head back to Tirithien’s car, so he can kindly port me back to my own car. (I didn’t park on campus because they’d have charged me money to park there on a game day. I guess my student disguise isn’t that good.)
11:35- Head back north. Hope that I don’t encounter caribou or polar bears on my journey. It feels cold enough for them to be around, and hitting one of those would really damage my car. Besides, polar bears are cute.12:16- Arrive home. No polar bears or caribou in sight.
12:17- Wonder if I raised a polar bear from infancy, if it would still be tame when it was grown.
12:18- Go inside and make hot cocoa. Thaw self. Put on warmest pajamas. Fall asleep.
I am glad this was the last game, even though it was a loss. I can’t handle this kind of cold! At least in hockey the ice is on the rink, not falling from the sky!
Tuesday, November 15, 2005
Spontaneous Storytime
On the road between home and Dayton, we crossed a river whose green highway sign proclaimed its name to be Mad River. How very strange a name for a body of water! It didn't look the least bit mad, or even slightly perturbed. It flowed gently and placidly southwards-- probably a tributary of the Ohio. But why would such a calm and pastoral river be named the Mad River? My muse whispered this story spontaneously to me.
The Mad River is so named because in days of old, people who felt madness come upon them would go and pray to the spirit of that river. They would wash in the water, and the water would take their madness from them-- or at least enough of it that they could function. The creative part of the madness was left them, and the destructive part was taken away.
However, when the spring floods came, the Mad River would rage uncontrollably over its banks, all the madness in the water churned up and set loose, no longer held bound by winter’s ice, and vast was the damage that rushing water would cause.
At last a wise shaman was able to speak with the river god and cure him of his madness so that the river rages no more—yet she also angered the river god with her presumption in daring to speak with authority to an immortal spirit and work her healing arts upon him.
Because of this, the river god will wash the madness from the people no longer, and the people of the valley must bear their own ills as best they may.
The Mad River is so named because in days of old, people who felt madness come upon them would go and pray to the spirit of that river. They would wash in the water, and the water would take their madness from them-- or at least enough of it that they could function. The creative part of the madness was left them, and the destructive part was taken away.
However, when the spring floods came, the Mad River would rage uncontrollably over its banks, all the madness in the water churned up and set loose, no longer held bound by winter’s ice, and vast was the damage that rushing water would cause.
At last a wise shaman was able to speak with the river god and cure him of his madness so that the river rages no more—yet she also angered the river god with her presumption in daring to speak with authority to an immortal spirit and work her healing arts upon him.
Because of this, the river god will wash the madness from the people no longer, and the people of the valley must bear their own ills as best they may.
Monday, November 14, 2005
Confusion, fear, and longing
This weekend, Tirithien and I went on a short road trip. To Dayton. Ah, beautiful Dayton. :-P
The reason we went, of course, is that Dayton (actually Fairborn, one of the Dayton suburbs) is the location of Wright State University, where Tirithien had a very favorable med school interview a few weeks ago. It’s his top choice school right now, so he wanted me to see the campus and the city and all. I had Friday off from work for Veteran’s Day, so I figured, why not?
The campus was lovely. Quite a lot bigger than the school I attended, but then, most colleges are. Dayton is just far enough south that it’s starting to get into the Appalachian foothills, and it actually does seem like a nice enough place.
Now, the thing is, I’ve been wanting to go to grad school for quite some time. Really, I’ve been trying to arrange it ever since I finished my undergrad degree. The trick has been deciding what sort of degree I really want.
English. I want an English degree. I want a Master of Arts in English. And maybe one in History for good measure.
Am I brave enough to do such a thing? If I were being sensible, I would get an MBA or a degree in some sort of administration or in social work or something like that. Maybe teaching, maybe health care, but something to increase my employability.
The problem I’ve found with trying to do this is the sheer vagueness of it. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe whatever. None of it jumps out at me, none of it possesses me and seizes my heart as The Thing I should be doing.
English? History? Every bit of it. Bring it on.
Wright State happens to have an English program which has an emphasis in creative writing. Most schools’ Master level English programs are literature only, or linguistics if one is lucky. I can picture myself in my most secret dreams, 3 or 4 years from now, graduating with a double MA in English and History. Just think of the background this would give me for the stories that want to be told!
But... Wright State is 3 hours away from home. Can I even contemplate such a thing, such a leap of faith? I’d have to leave everything I know—my secure (but unfulfilling) job, my home, my family, taking this chance that may or may not ever pay off for me. An advanced degree is certainly no guarantee of becoming published!
But… I want to go. I want to learn. God, for the first time in years, I truly want something for myself, something that actually shines brightly enough for me to recognize it.
I’m afraid of going and taking that chance. I’m afraid of staying home and missing that chance.
And so my heart whispers to me to look southward to the bright hills.
The reason we went, of course, is that Dayton (actually Fairborn, one of the Dayton suburbs) is the location of Wright State University, where Tirithien had a very favorable med school interview a few weeks ago. It’s his top choice school right now, so he wanted me to see the campus and the city and all. I had Friday off from work for Veteran’s Day, so I figured, why not?
The campus was lovely. Quite a lot bigger than the school I attended, but then, most colleges are. Dayton is just far enough south that it’s starting to get into the Appalachian foothills, and it actually does seem like a nice enough place.
Now, the thing is, I’ve been wanting to go to grad school for quite some time. Really, I’ve been trying to arrange it ever since I finished my undergrad degree. The trick has been deciding what sort of degree I really want.
English. I want an English degree. I want a Master of Arts in English. And maybe one in History for good measure.
Am I brave enough to do such a thing? If I were being sensible, I would get an MBA or a degree in some sort of administration or in social work or something like that. Maybe teaching, maybe health care, but something to increase my employability.
The problem I’ve found with trying to do this is the sheer vagueness of it. Maybe this, maybe that, maybe whatever. None of it jumps out at me, none of it possesses me and seizes my heart as The Thing I should be doing.
English? History? Every bit of it. Bring it on.
Wright State happens to have an English program which has an emphasis in creative writing. Most schools’ Master level English programs are literature only, or linguistics if one is lucky. I can picture myself in my most secret dreams, 3 or 4 years from now, graduating with a double MA in English and History. Just think of the background this would give me for the stories that want to be told!
But... Wright State is 3 hours away from home. Can I even contemplate such a thing, such a leap of faith? I’d have to leave everything I know—my secure (but unfulfilling) job, my home, my family, taking this chance that may or may not ever pay off for me. An advanced degree is certainly no guarantee of becoming published!
But… I want to go. I want to learn. God, for the first time in years, I truly want something for myself, something that actually shines brightly enough for me to recognize it.
I’m afraid of going and taking that chance. I’m afraid of staying home and missing that chance.
And so my heart whispers to me to look southward to the bright hills.
Tuesday, November 08, 2005
Old Poetry
This is an old poem of mine, which seemed appropriate to share today. It's one of my rare experiments with things like "rhyme" and "meter." Most of my poetry is more or less stream of consciousness free verse. This is from..... gah! It's from 1997! I feel old now. Oh well. Enjoy!
All the mist is on the mountain,
all the secrets there are hidden.
Twist of fate, drop of rain;
then the leaves begin to turn.
All the stars are in the sky,
all the tears within my eyes.
Words of pain, hurt of heart;
then the leaves begin to turn.
On the mountain there I roam,
seeking shelter and a home.
Flash of dart, borne of mind;
then the leaves begin to turn.
No true place for me to go;
surrounding me the voice of crow.
Peace of sleep, warmth of home;
when the leaves begin to turn.
All the mist is on the mountain,
all the secrets there are hidden.
Twist of fate, drop of rain;
then the leaves begin to turn.
All the stars are in the sky,
all the tears within my eyes.
Words of pain, hurt of heart;
then the leaves begin to turn.
On the mountain there I roam,
seeking shelter and a home.
Flash of dart, borne of mind;
then the leaves begin to turn.
No true place for me to go;
surrounding me the voice of crow.
Peace of sleep, warmth of home;
when the leaves begin to turn.
Monday, November 07, 2005
The Meeting of Mama and Boyfriend
Since some of you will be curious….
It went quite well. :-)
Tirithien made dinner. (I made things like salad and dessert—like I’ve said, he’s a much better cook than I am!) My mom came over, and we all had a nice time. It went surprisingly well. Much conversation about many varied things.
I’m still not sure why I was so horribly nervous, and I’ll probably go through the same thing again when it’s time for him to meet my other family members, but at least now I know it’s a survivable event! Mom didn’t run away screaming, and Tirithien didn’t run away screaming after Mom left, so I think I’m okay. :-)
I guess next it will be his turn to be nerve-wracked when I meet HIS family!
It went quite well. :-)
Tirithien made dinner. (I made things like salad and dessert—like I’ve said, he’s a much better cook than I am!) My mom came over, and we all had a nice time. It went surprisingly well. Much conversation about many varied things.
I’m still not sure why I was so horribly nervous, and I’ll probably go through the same thing again when it’s time for him to meet my other family members, but at least now I know it’s a survivable event! Mom didn’t run away screaming, and Tirithien didn’t run away screaming after Mom left, so I think I’m okay. :-)
I guess next it will be his turn to be nerve-wracked when I meet HIS family!
Sunday, November 06, 2005
Hey, I won an award!
At church this morning, I found out that one of the monthly articles I write for the parish newsletter had been chosen for an award in a competition for the whole diocese-- and we have a big diocese! It's the Red Ribbon Award for Excellence in Religious Journalism, in the category of Theological Reflection. So I had to get my picture taken, and the article and picture will be printed in December's issue of the diocesan newspaper. Not bad for a layperson! Here is the article. It was in January's newsletter.
Grace, Faith, and “Worthiness”
Someone asked me recently how we can presume to participate in the Eucharist week after week. She couldn’t deal with it, she said. She didn’t feel she could approach the altar at all, because she was not worthy. It really threw me off trying to come up with an answer for her. Worthiness and unworthiness don’t really seem to be issues for us in the Episcopal Church, so a person’s suitability to receive the Eucharist wasn’t something I had thought much about. “Everyone is invited to receive Holy Communion,” it says in our bulletin, and that was good enough for me.
To me, that’s part of the nature of God’s grace. None of us are worthy on our own. The Eucharistic Feast is freely given by God to all who are willing to accept it. It’s a gift, not a loan or something we can “earn.” Nothing we can do could possibly be enough to make ourselves worthy of that incredible gift God gave us through the sacrifice of Jesus, that gift of salvation that allows us to make the spiritual journey to reunite with God.
The Eucharist is a sacrament given to us to remind us of the sacrifice Jesus made for us. Its physical presence reminds us of the body which died and the blood which was shed, and its spiritual presence becomes the spirit of that body and blood, touching our own souls to strengthen our union with Jesus.
It is also a way of strengthening our union with each other. It is a meal we share together, an outward way of acknowledging that we have all accepted this wondrous gift of grace God has given to us, as unworthy as we are, to transform us into something better than what we had been.
I have been blessed enough to occasionally serve as a Eucharistic Minister. I was surprised to realize, as I carried the chalice to those who waited at the rail, that serving as EM is a ministry of hospitality. Offering the chalice is a welcoming act, an act of inviting others to share in this union. Through the sharing of bread and wine, body and blood, we are together given the chance to reaffirm our acceptance of God’s great love. The realization that my hands were among the ones helping to distribute this gift was a vastly humbling experience. Am I worthy to do this? Absolutely not. But I am grateful beyond measure that God has chosen to sometimes use me in this way.
Paul wrote to the Ephesians, “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God— not the result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.” It is not our works which make us worthy of receiving God’s grace, but God’s grace which makes us worthy and willing to do good works.
May we never forget to be thankful for God’s grace and love, as we pray that one day all of the world will be able to accept it and shelter in its warmth.
Grace, Faith, and “Worthiness”
Someone asked me recently how we can presume to participate in the Eucharist week after week. She couldn’t deal with it, she said. She didn’t feel she could approach the altar at all, because she was not worthy. It really threw me off trying to come up with an answer for her. Worthiness and unworthiness don’t really seem to be issues for us in the Episcopal Church, so a person’s suitability to receive the Eucharist wasn’t something I had thought much about. “Everyone is invited to receive Holy Communion,” it says in our bulletin, and that was good enough for me.
To me, that’s part of the nature of God’s grace. None of us are worthy on our own. The Eucharistic Feast is freely given by God to all who are willing to accept it. It’s a gift, not a loan or something we can “earn.” Nothing we can do could possibly be enough to make ourselves worthy of that incredible gift God gave us through the sacrifice of Jesus, that gift of salvation that allows us to make the spiritual journey to reunite with God.
The Eucharist is a sacrament given to us to remind us of the sacrifice Jesus made for us. Its physical presence reminds us of the body which died and the blood which was shed, and its spiritual presence becomes the spirit of that body and blood, touching our own souls to strengthen our union with Jesus.
It is also a way of strengthening our union with each other. It is a meal we share together, an outward way of acknowledging that we have all accepted this wondrous gift of grace God has given to us, as unworthy as we are, to transform us into something better than what we had been.
I have been blessed enough to occasionally serve as a Eucharistic Minister. I was surprised to realize, as I carried the chalice to those who waited at the rail, that serving as EM is a ministry of hospitality. Offering the chalice is a welcoming act, an act of inviting others to share in this union. Through the sharing of bread and wine, body and blood, we are together given the chance to reaffirm our acceptance of God’s great love. The realization that my hands were among the ones helping to distribute this gift was a vastly humbling experience. Am I worthy to do this? Absolutely not. But I am grateful beyond measure that God has chosen to sometimes use me in this way.
Paul wrote to the Ephesians, “For by grace you have been saved through faith, and this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God— not the result of works, so that no one may boast. For we are what he has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life.” It is not our works which make us worthy of receiving God’s grace, but God’s grace which makes us worthy and willing to do good works.
May we never forget to be thankful for God’s grace and love, as we pray that one day all of the world will be able to accept it and shelter in its warmth.
A Nerve-Wracking Meeting!
On Sunday evening, Tirithien is going to meet my mama. Yes, that vaunted tradition in a new relationship, the boyfriend-mom meeting. Yikes!
Now, I should have nothing to worry about. They've been talking via email for weeks and they seem to be getting on famously! I mean, it's only going to be my mom, not my brother or stepdad or various other extended family members who are close. It's just going to be dinner, and I'm not even cooking it-- Tirithien is. Plus I've got a stronger sense of myself than I had last time I was in the boyfriend-meeting-parents situation. Let me explain that.
Every past time I've had a boyfriend meet my family, I was either nervous that the boy would say something to embarrass me in front of the family or that the family would say something to embarrass me in front of the boy. Not that they'd do it on purpose, just that there would be some sort of clash, and I'd be "tainted" by association. This time, I don't have that fear at all. I'm not sure if it's that I've grown up enough to realize that other people's "embarrassing" words and deeds are not my responsibility, or what, but I'm feeling pretty confident in that respect.
So I've got all this good stuff in my corner, but I'm STILL nervous! Would someone like to tell me why? Gah!
(Half laughing, half meaning it!)
Now, I should have nothing to worry about. They've been talking via email for weeks and they seem to be getting on famously! I mean, it's only going to be my mom, not my brother or stepdad or various other extended family members who are close. It's just going to be dinner, and I'm not even cooking it-- Tirithien is. Plus I've got a stronger sense of myself than I had last time I was in the boyfriend-meeting-parents situation. Let me explain that.
Every past time I've had a boyfriend meet my family, I was either nervous that the boy would say something to embarrass me in front of the family or that the family would say something to embarrass me in front of the boy. Not that they'd do it on purpose, just that there would be some sort of clash, and I'd be "tainted" by association. This time, I don't have that fear at all. I'm not sure if it's that I've grown up enough to realize that other people's "embarrassing" words and deeds are not my responsibility, or what, but I'm feeling pretty confident in that respect.
So I've got all this good stuff in my corner, but I'm STILL nervous! Would someone like to tell me why? Gah!
(Half laughing, half meaning it!)
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Pranks
My prankful adventure with Tirithien got me to thinking about other pranks I’ve played over time. It’s normally kind of hard for me to pull off a very good prank, because I’m likely to start giggling and give the whole thing away. It’s like keeping a happy secret to myself. I just can’t do it! But still, I’ve managed some good ones in my time.
For example, back in my college days, I was on the speech and forensics team. The first overnight trip I went on, I wound up rooming with the coach, who had extremely long blonde hair. Amazingly long. The next morning when I got in the van with everyone else, while the coach was paying the team’s bill, I informed my teammates that the coach’s hair was really a wig, and that when she thought I was asleep she had taken it off for the night. I made the story completely ridiculous by saying that she’d forgotten her wig head, so she set it on the lampshade instead! I wasn’t really intending to be believed, you see; it was early morning and I was feeling more than a little punchy. Most of the team took this as the silliness I’d intended, but one guy actually believed it. Back on campus, he started telling it to people in earnest, lampshade and all! Then various people would come talk to me and ask me to confirm the story. Well, why not go with it? “Sure, I did see it,” I’d say. As late as my senior year, people would come ask me about this story and whether or not it was true. Stephen can confirm this.
Stephen and I would occasionally tell people we were twins, but for some reason no one believed that. Can’t imagine why… ;-) We had more success, though, in convincing people that he was a Black Muslim and that’s why he couldn’t eat chicken. Now, I don’t know if Black Muslims can eat chicken or not, but Stephen didn’t back then, so it got tossed into the story. Hey, it seemed plausible. And with him in his crocheted skullcap, calling me his “strong white sister,” no one questioned it. Never mind that we were at a Baptist college!
The past two April Fool’s Days I’ve accidentally pulled good ones on my family. In 2004, when I was planning my wedding, I sent my mom an email to tell her we were giving up on the whole thing and going to Vegas instead. I figured my brother would have done some prank or another that morning, so she’d already be on guard against such pranks. Nope. She fell for it. She even called my aunt to tell her, and my aunt emailed me to tell me what a good idea she thought it was! Oops.
This year, my now-ex and I were playing around with the idea of buying a house. So on April 1st, I found a listing for the shoddiest, nastiest, most run-down house in the nastiest part of Detroit. It cost $13,000. I sent this listing to my mom and aunt, gushing about this great house and what a great deal it was, it just needed a little cleaning up, and so on, and how friendly the neighbors seemed because they’d been looking at us so intently. I figured it was WAY too over the top for them to believe.
Nope. They played along with what they thought I was doing and pretended to be excited for us. Later I found out they’d been panicking and wondering how to convince me not to move to such a dangerous neighborhood. They didn’t catch on that it was a prank until I sent a follow-up email to tell them that the most dangerous part of living in that neighborhood was the frequent alien abductions.
I kind of hope that the timing will work out well enough that when I become pregnant some day down the line, the announcement to the family would be perfectly appropriate on April 1st. Then I’d get to laugh all day at my family not believing me until the next day!
For example, back in my college days, I was on the speech and forensics team. The first overnight trip I went on, I wound up rooming with the coach, who had extremely long blonde hair. Amazingly long. The next morning when I got in the van with everyone else, while the coach was paying the team’s bill, I informed my teammates that the coach’s hair was really a wig, and that when she thought I was asleep she had taken it off for the night. I made the story completely ridiculous by saying that she’d forgotten her wig head, so she set it on the lampshade instead! I wasn’t really intending to be believed, you see; it was early morning and I was feeling more than a little punchy. Most of the team took this as the silliness I’d intended, but one guy actually believed it. Back on campus, he started telling it to people in earnest, lampshade and all! Then various people would come talk to me and ask me to confirm the story. Well, why not go with it? “Sure, I did see it,” I’d say. As late as my senior year, people would come ask me about this story and whether or not it was true. Stephen can confirm this.
Stephen and I would occasionally tell people we were twins, but for some reason no one believed that. Can’t imagine why… ;-) We had more success, though, in convincing people that he was a Black Muslim and that’s why he couldn’t eat chicken. Now, I don’t know if Black Muslims can eat chicken or not, but Stephen didn’t back then, so it got tossed into the story. Hey, it seemed plausible. And with him in his crocheted skullcap, calling me his “strong white sister,” no one questioned it. Never mind that we were at a Baptist college!
The past two April Fool’s Days I’ve accidentally pulled good ones on my family. In 2004, when I was planning my wedding, I sent my mom an email to tell her we were giving up on the whole thing and going to Vegas instead. I figured my brother would have done some prank or another that morning, so she’d already be on guard against such pranks. Nope. She fell for it. She even called my aunt to tell her, and my aunt emailed me to tell me what a good idea she thought it was! Oops.
This year, my now-ex and I were playing around with the idea of buying a house. So on April 1st, I found a listing for the shoddiest, nastiest, most run-down house in the nastiest part of Detroit. It cost $13,000. I sent this listing to my mom and aunt, gushing about this great house and what a great deal it was, it just needed a little cleaning up, and so on, and how friendly the neighbors seemed because they’d been looking at us so intently. I figured it was WAY too over the top for them to believe.
Nope. They played along with what they thought I was doing and pretended to be excited for us. Later I found out they’d been panicking and wondering how to convince me not to move to such a dangerous neighborhood. They didn’t catch on that it was a prank until I sent a follow-up email to tell them that the most dangerous part of living in that neighborhood was the frequent alien abductions.
I kind of hope that the timing will work out well enough that when I become pregnant some day down the line, the announcement to the family would be perfectly appropriate on April 1st. Then I’d get to laugh all day at my family not believing me until the next day!
Tuesday, November 01, 2005
Hollow Halloween
Halloween is usually a huge deal for my family. We actually get together at my aunt’s house, since she is in the neighborhood most conducive to trick-or-treating. (There are actual sidewalks!) Usually I will take my brother trick-or-treating around the neighborhood for awhile, and he will split the candy with me. (Last year he thought he was too old to go, but this year he decided he didn’t like that and he was going to go again!)
My mom and brother are absolutely mad about Halloween. They usually have very elaborate decorations up, they will have sound effects tapes playing to scare the trick-or-treaters, and they just enjoy themselves thoroughly.
This year, though, my mom was too injured to play. She fell in the garage and really messed up her back and knees, so she couldn’t even make it to my aunt’s.
My brother did have a very cool costume—he and his friend dressed up as “Living Dead Dolls,” which I think are hugely creepy, but they love them, so I guess that’s the important thing. I took them around the neighborhood in search of treats—no tricks on MY watch, thank you very much!
We made it about two blocks from home base before I tripped on a gigantic root in someone’s yard. I stepped with my left foot part on and part off this root I hadn’t seen. My foot twisted up, my ankle gave out, and I fell. Couldn’t just stumble and rebalance, oh, no, I had to actually fall, right splat on my knees. It was such a sudden sharp pain that I felt a wave of dizziness and nausea hit me, but I was able to shake that off and not puke in this stranger’s yard.
My brother was slightly panicky. “Are you all right???? Should we go get help????”
I was muttering curses at my clumsiness in German. (I guess I hoped they wouldn’t realize I was swearing.) But I told him to calm down, I’d be fine, I just needed to stretch the ankle out some. And that did work enough for me to hobble back to my aunt’s house. My uncle took over the chaperone duties, and I sat on the porch to hand out candy to the little ghosties and goblins.
There were hardly any kids out at all. It was actually kind of eerie. I remember when I was a kid (and it wasn’t really THAT long ago!) that there would have been TONS of kids out. We’d have been tripping over each other instead of over roots. But there were just a few. The weather was nice enough—a few raindrops, but it was warm out.
So all-in-all, kind of a disappointing Halloween. My ankle is sore and my knees are bruised up.
Maybe I’d feel better if I went and got some of the Reeses Cups out of my brother’s candy stash.
My mom and brother are absolutely mad about Halloween. They usually have very elaborate decorations up, they will have sound effects tapes playing to scare the trick-or-treaters, and they just enjoy themselves thoroughly.
This year, though, my mom was too injured to play. She fell in the garage and really messed up her back and knees, so she couldn’t even make it to my aunt’s.
My brother did have a very cool costume—he and his friend dressed up as “Living Dead Dolls,” which I think are hugely creepy, but they love them, so I guess that’s the important thing. I took them around the neighborhood in search of treats—no tricks on MY watch, thank you very much!
We made it about two blocks from home base before I tripped on a gigantic root in someone’s yard. I stepped with my left foot part on and part off this root I hadn’t seen. My foot twisted up, my ankle gave out, and I fell. Couldn’t just stumble and rebalance, oh, no, I had to actually fall, right splat on my knees. It was such a sudden sharp pain that I felt a wave of dizziness and nausea hit me, but I was able to shake that off and not puke in this stranger’s yard.
My brother was slightly panicky. “Are you all right???? Should we go get help????”
I was muttering curses at my clumsiness in German. (I guess I hoped they wouldn’t realize I was swearing.) But I told him to calm down, I’d be fine, I just needed to stretch the ankle out some. And that did work enough for me to hobble back to my aunt’s house. My uncle took over the chaperone duties, and I sat on the porch to hand out candy to the little ghosties and goblins.
There were hardly any kids out at all. It was actually kind of eerie. I remember when I was a kid (and it wasn’t really THAT long ago!) that there would have been TONS of kids out. We’d have been tripping over each other instead of over roots. But there were just a few. The weather was nice enough—a few raindrops, but it was warm out.
So all-in-all, kind of a disappointing Halloween. My ankle is sore and my knees are bruised up.
Maybe I’d feel better if I went and got some of the Reeses Cups out of my brother’s candy stash.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The Resounding Defeat of Resolution 11
Squeeee!
For some reason, back in January, my church decided that I would do well as one of our three delegates to Diocesan Convention, which is the main decision-making body for the Episcopal Diocese of Michigan. That was Saturday.
I had been dreading it horribly.
I don't want much of anything to do with church politics. It gets in the way of spirituality. I miss the days when I could just go to church and sing in the choir, maybe do an occasional reading. I have been "herded" into more and more of an administrative role, and I dislike it. I'll do it as necessary, but I'm not really all that comfortable with it.
This Convention, though, I'd been dreading more than anything. The job of Convention is to approve the Diocesan budget for the next year, and also to pass or block various resolutions which guide the Diocese on its way. There were huge budget cuts necessary this year, and I was expecting huge battles.
Even worse, though, was Resolution 11.
You see, the reason I started attending an Episcopal Church in the first place was that they elected Gene Robinson, an openly gay man, to be the Bishop of the Diocese of New Hampshire. I figured that if they would do that, they must align fairly well with me on political and social justice issues, so I'd be comfortable. And with the parish I chose, I was right.
The Episcopal Church is part of the Anglican Communion, which is essentially a loosely knit group of all the churches which were founded by the Church of England. Much of the Anglican Communion was, shall we say, less than pleased about Bishop Robinson's consecration, particularly several bishops of Dioceses in Africa. The church may well wind up in a schism over this issue-- it's not there yet, but there's a pretty strong chance it will.
Now, I happen to believe that eventually, science will prove that one's sexuality is a matter of genetics and brain coding, thus meaning that folks who are gay were made that way by God, thus making homosexuality in no way a sin. So in my mind, Bishop Robinson has as much right to be a bishop as does anyone else, and I'm more than a little irked that it's such a big deal.
But Resolution 11 basically stated that we would apologize to the bishops in Africa, that we would repent for the election of Bishop Robinson, and we would never do such a thing again. That's a highly simplified version of it, but you get the gist.
I had a plan. If this passed, I was going to stand up and register a formal objection, then walk out in protest. I hated it, hated that it was on the ballot. I'm not at all sorry that Bishop Robinson was elected, and damned if I'm going to repent for it.
Anyway, back at Convention.... it was actually going quite well. The budget passed with a minimum of fuss, and we were making our way through the resolutions at a good pace. Ones that I thought would cause a lot of debate, such as support for adoption by "non-traditional" parents (step parents, or same-sex partners of parents), or in support of restoring domestic partner benefits to those who lost them when Michigan passed the anti-gay-marriage amendment last year? Went right through. Hardly any debate.
Then we came to Resolution 11, and the words flew. Up, down, for, against. Someone moved that we amend the resolution to be instead a feel-good resolution that he had written. The substitute resolution basically stated that we were sorry pain had been caused, but we had to do what we had to do. This was lovely and well-written, but since it wasn't really a resolution to do anything, it was defeated.
Then we had to vote on whether to pass the original resolution. Would we accept it? Would we apologize to the African bishops for taking what I feel was a prophetic action and a direct bit of guidance from the Holy Spirit? My heart was pounding as our bishop called for the vote.
"All those in favor?"
We voted by holding up voting cards to be counted and tallied.
When the bishop called for those in favor of adopting Resolution 11, very few people raised their voting cards. I could feel a big grin spreading across my face as I realized what was happening.
"All those opposed?"
Pink ballot cards up in the air as far as I could see. Everywhere, pink ballot cards raised high, pink ballot cards raised to show the world that we really did feel that we did what we had to do and what was right to do.
I actually had tears in my eyes.
I tell you, my friends, it was beautiful to see. Absolutely glorious.
For some reason, back in January, my church decided that I would do well as one of our three delegates to Diocesan Convention, which is the main decision-making body for the Episcopal Diocese of Michigan. That was Saturday.
I had been dreading it horribly.
I don't want much of anything to do with church politics. It gets in the way of spirituality. I miss the days when I could just go to church and sing in the choir, maybe do an occasional reading. I have been "herded" into more and more of an administrative role, and I dislike it. I'll do it as necessary, but I'm not really all that comfortable with it.
This Convention, though, I'd been dreading more than anything. The job of Convention is to approve the Diocesan budget for the next year, and also to pass or block various resolutions which guide the Diocese on its way. There were huge budget cuts necessary this year, and I was expecting huge battles.
Even worse, though, was Resolution 11.
You see, the reason I started attending an Episcopal Church in the first place was that they elected Gene Robinson, an openly gay man, to be the Bishop of the Diocese of New Hampshire. I figured that if they would do that, they must align fairly well with me on political and social justice issues, so I'd be comfortable. And with the parish I chose, I was right.
The Episcopal Church is part of the Anglican Communion, which is essentially a loosely knit group of all the churches which were founded by the Church of England. Much of the Anglican Communion was, shall we say, less than pleased about Bishop Robinson's consecration, particularly several bishops of Dioceses in Africa. The church may well wind up in a schism over this issue-- it's not there yet, but there's a pretty strong chance it will.
Now, I happen to believe that eventually, science will prove that one's sexuality is a matter of genetics and brain coding, thus meaning that folks who are gay were made that way by God, thus making homosexuality in no way a sin. So in my mind, Bishop Robinson has as much right to be a bishop as does anyone else, and I'm more than a little irked that it's such a big deal.
But Resolution 11 basically stated that we would apologize to the bishops in Africa, that we would repent for the election of Bishop Robinson, and we would never do such a thing again. That's a highly simplified version of it, but you get the gist.
I had a plan. If this passed, I was going to stand up and register a formal objection, then walk out in protest. I hated it, hated that it was on the ballot. I'm not at all sorry that Bishop Robinson was elected, and damned if I'm going to repent for it.
Anyway, back at Convention.... it was actually going quite well. The budget passed with a minimum of fuss, and we were making our way through the resolutions at a good pace. Ones that I thought would cause a lot of debate, such as support for adoption by "non-traditional" parents (step parents, or same-sex partners of parents), or in support of restoring domestic partner benefits to those who lost them when Michigan passed the anti-gay-marriage amendment last year? Went right through. Hardly any debate.
Then we came to Resolution 11, and the words flew. Up, down, for, against. Someone moved that we amend the resolution to be instead a feel-good resolution that he had written. The substitute resolution basically stated that we were sorry pain had been caused, but we had to do what we had to do. This was lovely and well-written, but since it wasn't really a resolution to do anything, it was defeated.
Then we had to vote on whether to pass the original resolution. Would we accept it? Would we apologize to the African bishops for taking what I feel was a prophetic action and a direct bit of guidance from the Holy Spirit? My heart was pounding as our bishop called for the vote.
"All those in favor?"
We voted by holding up voting cards to be counted and tallied.
When the bishop called for those in favor of adopting Resolution 11, very few people raised their voting cards. I could feel a big grin spreading across my face as I realized what was happening.
"All those opposed?"
Pink ballot cards up in the air as far as I could see. Everywhere, pink ballot cards raised high, pink ballot cards raised to show the world that we really did feel that we did what we had to do and what was right to do.
I actually had tears in my eyes.
I tell you, my friends, it was beautiful to see. Absolutely glorious.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Honeys, I'm home!
For the past week or so, I’ve been a Blog Refugee.
I’ve been hiding out at another blog, trying to make a place for myself there so as not to have to keep deleting the various rude comments which have been left in various posts.
But you know, I like THIS blog.
So I am back.
My finger is still on the delete key for certain types of comments. I believe strongly in freedom of speech, but as this is my own personal blog, I hardly have to let you use my space to insult me! I don’t care if you want to disagree about something, I don’t care if you want to debate me. A good challenge is always welcome. But insults, baseless accusations, and unnecessary rudeness (towards me OR towards my loved ones) won’t be tolerated.
If we’re going to argue, let’s do it honorably and with dignity, all right?
So, here I am. I’m back, nice and comfy in my blog home. :-)
I’ve been hiding out at another blog, trying to make a place for myself there so as not to have to keep deleting the various rude comments which have been left in various posts.
But you know, I like THIS blog.
So I am back.
My finger is still on the delete key for certain types of comments. I believe strongly in freedom of speech, but as this is my own personal blog, I hardly have to let you use my space to insult me! I don’t care if you want to disagree about something, I don’t care if you want to debate me. A good challenge is always welcome. But insults, baseless accusations, and unnecessary rudeness (towards me OR towards my loved ones) won’t be tolerated.
If we’re going to argue, let’s do it honorably and with dignity, all right?
So, here I am. I’m back, nice and comfy in my blog home. :-)
Thursday, October 20, 2005
More Observations from the Grocery Store
This is the article I'm submitting for the November issue of my church's newsletter. I thought I may as well share with you all!
The Cheapening of Spirituality and the Tao of Shampoo
Cleanliness is next to Godliness, as the saying goes. There’s quite a bit of truth to this. There’s always been something very viscerally satisfying about a warm bath, or the smell of fresh laundry, or even a stack of gleaming clean dishes. But I think some marketing people are taking it a little too far these days.
The other day, I bought this nice new shampoo and conditioner with a citrus scent. I smell a little like a creamsicle after using it, but I'm okay with that.
This morning in the shower, for some reason I looked more closely at the text on the shampoo bottle. "Refresh your hair and spirit!" it proclaimed. Huh? Wha? It's shampoo! I buy it so I can have clean hair, I don't buy it so I can attain spiritual enlightenment in the shower! But this seems to be happening all through the Health and Beauty section these days. It's not just shampoo, it's not just soap, it's a "sensory experience!" It's "therapeutic!" It will refresh your mind and spirit! Excellent, I can wash my hair and wash my brain at the same time. St. Therese of Lisieux wrote eloquently of how we might find God in the “little things” of this world—everyday actions and deeds. “It is just the same in the world of souls - which is the garden of Jesus. He has created the great saints who are like the lilies and the roses, but he has also created much lesser saints and they must be content to be the daisies or the violets which rejoice his eyes whenever he glances down.”
Doubtless a morning shower can be part of this way of looking at the world. Water is a great gift from God, and the cleansing of our bodies might remind us of the cleansing our souls received in our Baptisms. But using a particular brand of shampoo or soap that promises to “refresh your spirit” on its own? A person would be soggy in the shower for quite some time waiting for that “instant enlightenment” we are promised by the marketing departments of these companies.
Spiritual enlightenment, the path home to God, is not easy. It is the camel through the eye of the needle, and it is the dark night of the soul, the forty days alone in the wilderness. It requires deliberate thought, conscious effort and dedication, and it is not to be had through anything that can be bought at the grocery store. It requires nothing less than an entirely new way of thinking and a shredding of old patterns that hold us back.
There are no shortcuts on the Spiral Path our souls dance as they find their way back to the Source of all Creation. And this is as it should be. You get what you pay for, after all, and a quick, cheap version of “enlightenment” will fade in the wash, be too stiff to move and grow with your spirit, and wind up tossed in the spirit’s version of a garbage can once it’s too worn out to be useful.
No, best to work hard at it and go the long way around. This is a journey, and must be played out in its own time.
Of course, if you’re really in a hurry to attain enlightenment, that shampoo is on sale for $1.98. Spiritual refreshment is not guaranteed through its use, but at least you’ll have clean hair while you reflect on how lucky we are that God called Apostles and Disciples instead of advertising people.
The Cheapening of Spirituality and the Tao of Shampoo
Cleanliness is next to Godliness, as the saying goes. There’s quite a bit of truth to this. There’s always been something very viscerally satisfying about a warm bath, or the smell of fresh laundry, or even a stack of gleaming clean dishes. But I think some marketing people are taking it a little too far these days.
The other day, I bought this nice new shampoo and conditioner with a citrus scent. I smell a little like a creamsicle after using it, but I'm okay with that.
This morning in the shower, for some reason I looked more closely at the text on the shampoo bottle. "Refresh your hair and spirit!" it proclaimed. Huh? Wha? It's shampoo! I buy it so I can have clean hair, I don't buy it so I can attain spiritual enlightenment in the shower! But this seems to be happening all through the Health and Beauty section these days. It's not just shampoo, it's not just soap, it's a "sensory experience!" It's "therapeutic!" It will refresh your mind and spirit! Excellent, I can wash my hair and wash my brain at the same time. St. Therese of Lisieux wrote eloquently of how we might find God in the “little things” of this world—everyday actions and deeds. “It is just the same in the world of souls - which is the garden of Jesus. He has created the great saints who are like the lilies and the roses, but he has also created much lesser saints and they must be content to be the daisies or the violets which rejoice his eyes whenever he glances down.”
Doubtless a morning shower can be part of this way of looking at the world. Water is a great gift from God, and the cleansing of our bodies might remind us of the cleansing our souls received in our Baptisms. But using a particular brand of shampoo or soap that promises to “refresh your spirit” on its own? A person would be soggy in the shower for quite some time waiting for that “instant enlightenment” we are promised by the marketing departments of these companies.
Spiritual enlightenment, the path home to God, is not easy. It is the camel through the eye of the needle, and it is the dark night of the soul, the forty days alone in the wilderness. It requires deliberate thought, conscious effort and dedication, and it is not to be had through anything that can be bought at the grocery store. It requires nothing less than an entirely new way of thinking and a shredding of old patterns that hold us back.
There are no shortcuts on the Spiral Path our souls dance as they find their way back to the Source of all Creation. And this is as it should be. You get what you pay for, after all, and a quick, cheap version of “enlightenment” will fade in the wash, be too stiff to move and grow with your spirit, and wind up tossed in the spirit’s version of a garbage can once it’s too worn out to be useful.
No, best to work hard at it and go the long way around. This is a journey, and must be played out in its own time.
Of course, if you’re really in a hurry to attain enlightenment, that shampoo is on sale for $1.98. Spiritual refreshment is not guaranteed through its use, but at least you’ll have clean hair while you reflect on how lucky we are that God called Apostles and Disciples instead of advertising people.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
The Scary Lady at the Grocery Store
Last night on my way home from choir practice, I had to stop and pick up a few things at the store. I needed pet food AND me-food, so I had to go to the big superstore instead of the regular grocery store. But this is generally not a big deal. I know where everything is there—or at least everything that I needed last night, so theoretically, it would not be a long trip.
I was just about done, pushing my cart past a bewilderingly large display of shampoo, when one of the store workers pushed a work cart past me. She looked over at me, sighed a great sigh of exasperation, and said, “I wish I still carried a gun.”
What the…?!?
I’m sure my eyes looked about ready to pop out and roll across the floor, but I think I managed to sound polite and sympathetic. “Bad day?” I asked her.
Well, now that she had a sympathetic listener, the floodgates opened. This woman stood there in her red grocery smock, price gun in hand, telling me about how she wanted to shoot out the store’s loudspeakers because they kept playing Fleetwood Mac songs on the store radio, and she’d had enough of that when the guy who used to live in her basement would play Fleetwood Mac on his guitar while wearing nothing but his underwear, and if she had to hear Stevie Nicks one more time, that would just be the end of it because she couldn’t take it anymore, and her next job would not have any music at all!
Meanwhile, I was trying to edge away carefully. She kept following me, ranting all the way! Maybe she wasn’t allowed to leave her department, or maybe there was some sort of electronic tether that had her confined to the Health and Beauty section, though; when I made yet another empathetic-but-I-have-to-go-now noise and crossed the aisle to the dairy section, she did not follow me, even though she was still calling out how the guy who’d been playing Fleetwood Mac songs in his underoos had been diagnosed with depression.
Am I some kind of magnet for random strangers to tell me their problems, or what?
And then after all that, I still forgot to get the sour cream.
I was just about done, pushing my cart past a bewilderingly large display of shampoo, when one of the store workers pushed a work cart past me. She looked over at me, sighed a great sigh of exasperation, and said, “I wish I still carried a gun.”
What the…?!?
I’m sure my eyes looked about ready to pop out and roll across the floor, but I think I managed to sound polite and sympathetic. “Bad day?” I asked her.
Well, now that she had a sympathetic listener, the floodgates opened. This woman stood there in her red grocery smock, price gun in hand, telling me about how she wanted to shoot out the store’s loudspeakers because they kept playing Fleetwood Mac songs on the store radio, and she’d had enough of that when the guy who used to live in her basement would play Fleetwood Mac on his guitar while wearing nothing but his underwear, and if she had to hear Stevie Nicks one more time, that would just be the end of it because she couldn’t take it anymore, and her next job would not have any music at all!
Meanwhile, I was trying to edge away carefully. She kept following me, ranting all the way! Maybe she wasn’t allowed to leave her department, or maybe there was some sort of electronic tether that had her confined to the Health and Beauty section, though; when I made yet another empathetic-but-I-have-to-go-now noise and crossed the aisle to the dairy section, she did not follow me, even though she was still calling out how the guy who’d been playing Fleetwood Mac songs in his underoos had been diagnosed with depression.
Am I some kind of magnet for random strangers to tell me their problems, or what?
And then after all that, I still forgot to get the sour cream.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Race Riots in my Backyard
(Well, not really my backyard, but close enough.)
On Saturday afternoon, a racially-motivated riot broke out in Toledo. Toledo is about 30 miles south of where I live. Tirithien lives there, on the opposite side of town from the place the riots took place. So I am down in Toledo with some frequency. I wouldn't say I have my finger on the pulse of the city, as the saying goes, but I'm at least close enough to see that it's breathing.
As far as I can tell from the garbled news reports and the little bit of info I'd heard in advance, a neo-Nazi group had planned a protest in a "racially mixed" neighborhood. The protest was supposedly motivated by a disagreement between a black family and a white family, but I haven't found any news reports that describe the nature of this dispute or how it might have come to the attention of this neo-Nazi group.
The people who live in the neighborhood were (understandably, in my opinion) upset about these plans, and counter-protests were planned. Unfortunately, somehow, somehow, and no one seems to know how, the counter-protests devolved into violence. Fires and looting. The neighborhood was a war zone.
And then the neo-Nazis didn't even show up.
I imagine them sitting at home laughing at the fiery images on the news. "See, we were right!" they can say. "Look how they rose to our bait!"
Now, I am a firm believer in free speech in public places. I'm an ACLU member, and it's one of my central beliefs that people should be allowed to speak what they truly believe. But there's got to be a balance somewhere between statement of belief and statements carefully calculated to inflame tension and violence. Besides that, I'd feel a great deal of grim satisfaction if I were able to muzzle the neo-Nazi leaders and leave them voiceless for awhile.
How does this happen, this devolution into violence in protest situations? There have been many protests and counter-protests in the world which don't become riots. What causes certain ones to explode in violent flame?
Everytime I think humans might actually be evolving into something better.... then something happens. :-(
On Saturday afternoon, a racially-motivated riot broke out in Toledo. Toledo is about 30 miles south of where I live. Tirithien lives there, on the opposite side of town from the place the riots took place. So I am down in Toledo with some frequency. I wouldn't say I have my finger on the pulse of the city, as the saying goes, but I'm at least close enough to see that it's breathing.
As far as I can tell from the garbled news reports and the little bit of info I'd heard in advance, a neo-Nazi group had planned a protest in a "racially mixed" neighborhood. The protest was supposedly motivated by a disagreement between a black family and a white family, but I haven't found any news reports that describe the nature of this dispute or how it might have come to the attention of this neo-Nazi group.
The people who live in the neighborhood were (understandably, in my opinion) upset about these plans, and counter-protests were planned. Unfortunately, somehow, somehow, and no one seems to know how, the counter-protests devolved into violence. Fires and looting. The neighborhood was a war zone.
And then the neo-Nazis didn't even show up.
I imagine them sitting at home laughing at the fiery images on the news. "See, we were right!" they can say. "Look how they rose to our bait!"
Now, I am a firm believer in free speech in public places. I'm an ACLU member, and it's one of my central beliefs that people should be allowed to speak what they truly believe. But there's got to be a balance somewhere between statement of belief and statements carefully calculated to inflame tension and violence. Besides that, I'd feel a great deal of grim satisfaction if I were able to muzzle the neo-Nazi leaders and leave them voiceless for awhile.
How does this happen, this devolution into violence in protest situations? There have been many protests and counter-protests in the world which don't become riots. What causes certain ones to explode in violent flame?
Everytime I think humans might actually be evolving into something better.... then something happens. :-(
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
A Note to my future baby
Back in August, I posted a list of 100 Random Things About Me. Numbers 17 and 18 on this list concerned a little baby boy, a baby who has made recurring appearances in my dreams for years. My suspicion and my hope is that he is a vision of the baby I will have some day. He’s been appearing with some frequency lately, so I thought I would write a note to him, since he’s apparently wanting attention. ;-) His name is Brendan William—Brendan for St. Brendan the Voyager, and William because…. well, because.
Hey, little Brendan. Hey there, my little sweetie!
Yes, I love when you smile at me. You have the cutest smile ever!
But why are you in my dreams so much lately? You know it’s not time for you to be a real baby yet. You have to keep being a dream baby.
Yes, I want to hold you. Very much. I want to feel in my waking life how soft you are. I want to touch your curly hair with my own hands and see if it’s as soft as it seems like it will be, and I want to see you look up at me out of those great big green eyes with that look you give me in the dreams, that look of “Mama’s here and everything is good.” I want to see the sweet simplicity of your baby smile and feel the weight of you in my arms as I cuddle you to sleep.
There’s so much I want to show you, so many wonders in life! I will tell you stories and teach you to live your dreams. I will teach you how to learn and how to live, about dinosaurs and how to tie your shoes, how to make a peanut butter sandwich, how to love.
But this is not the right time, my dearest. Be patient with your mama. Give me some more time to get my life ready for you. I’m working on it, I promise. It will happen.
Be patient, my little one. Just wait for me to be ready, sweet little dream-baby. I love you with all my heart and all my soul already, and that’s why I want you to wait. You deserve a better life than I can give you right now.
Sleep, my love, my sweet baby. Sleep and dream of me, wherever you are, whatever waiting room babies wait in before they’re born. And I will dream of you. :-)
Hey, little Brendan. Hey there, my little sweetie!
Yes, I love when you smile at me. You have the cutest smile ever!
But why are you in my dreams so much lately? You know it’s not time for you to be a real baby yet. You have to keep being a dream baby.
Yes, I want to hold you. Very much. I want to feel in my waking life how soft you are. I want to touch your curly hair with my own hands and see if it’s as soft as it seems like it will be, and I want to see you look up at me out of those great big green eyes with that look you give me in the dreams, that look of “Mama’s here and everything is good.” I want to see the sweet simplicity of your baby smile and feel the weight of you in my arms as I cuddle you to sleep.
There’s so much I want to show you, so many wonders in life! I will tell you stories and teach you to live your dreams. I will teach you how to learn and how to live, about dinosaurs and how to tie your shoes, how to make a peanut butter sandwich, how to love.
But this is not the right time, my dearest. Be patient with your mama. Give me some more time to get my life ready for you. I’m working on it, I promise. It will happen.
Be patient, my little one. Just wait for me to be ready, sweet little dream-baby. I love you with all my heart and all my soul already, and that’s why I want you to wait. You deserve a better life than I can give you right now.
Sleep, my love, my sweet baby. Sleep and dream of me, wherever you are, whatever waiting room babies wait in before they’re born. And I will dream of you. :-)
Monday, October 10, 2005
A Frozen Saturday Night in Glass Bowl Stadium
Okay, historically football has really not been my thing. I love hockey, I hate baseball. Football? Meh. It’s just sort of there.
Well, my sweetie adores football, so I agreed to see a few games with him this season. It’s part of our deal—he’s going to teach me about football and I’m going to teach him about hockey. Granted, we will probably see more football games in person than hockey games, seeing as how he likes college ball (University of Toledo, go Rockets!) and I like pro hockey (let’s go, Red Wings!), and college football tickets are MUCH cheaper than pro hockey tickets. Like, really, really, much cheaper.
So, this past Saturday was UT’s homecoming game, against Eastern Michigan University. Now, EMU was on my short list of schools to attend, and if I had gone there, this could have been an interesting dynamic. But since I didn’t, I don’t have a particular attachment to them, and Toledo and Ypsilanti are about equidistant from my home, so I didn’t feel any qualms about rooting for UT to win. (My joke of the evening was, “Don’t tell anyone I’m from the same state as those guys!”)
This was a homecoming game, so the stands were full of what I called with amused disdain “drunken freshmen howling in the background.” There weren’t any crowd problems or anything, just some people who weren’t making a whole lot of sense in what they were yelling at the players and referees. Well, no, we might have had a crowd problem at one point.
See, I have this problem when watching any sort of sport. I get really pissed off if someone stands up in front of me. I don’t mind people getting up and down, getting to their seats or whatever, but if they stand up and stay there, and I miss an important play? This is not a happy time. So when this crowd of people from a fraternity and sorority came and filed into the row in front of us and stood up ON THEIR SEATS, this was bad. “You make a better door than a window!” I told the boy in front of me. He just looked confused. We moved to a different section.
Ah, that was better. Now I could actually see this game I don’t really understand yet!
I could also see the marching band at halftime. I was a flag twirler in my high school band my senior year, so I feel qualified to say that UT’s marching band is really bad. My inner twirler wanted to run down there and take over the directing—“No! No! You’re offstep and off rhythm! What are you doing????” I didn’t, of course, but the temptation was there.
Meanwhile, as the Rockets were running up the score (30 to 3 final, poor EMU!), it was getting colder. And colder. And colder. I started out wearing jeans and a thermal top, with a fleece jacket. It got colder. I zipped up my jacket. Colder still. I put on my gloves and wrapped my fleece scarf around my neck. Even colder. Okay, I put on my knit hat. And I was still cold! I finally wound up wrapped in the wool blanket we had brought to protect our bottoms from the frozen metal bleachers. My sweetie was just sitting there perfectly comfortable, jacket unzipped. (“Oh, are you cold, my love?” Um, yeah!) So he cuddled me close. Then I was okay. :-)
I wound up having fun. I would jump up and cheer when the Rockets scored, just like all the real fans. I would yell at the refs when they made a boneheaded call. I laughed at the girls who had dressed for fashion instead of warmth and were shivering like crazy. (I’m a meanie, I know!) I cuddled with my sweetie for warmth, and we gave each other kisses between plays.
I think I could get to enjoy this.
But the funny thing is, now I kind of miss my days twirling a flag for the Flat Rock High School marching band. Our team was generally awful, but we could put on one fine halftime show.
Oh well. If I'd tried to twirl while it was that cold, I'd probably have dropped the flag anyway. And that would have just been embarrassing.
Well, my sweetie adores football, so I agreed to see a few games with him this season. It’s part of our deal—he’s going to teach me about football and I’m going to teach him about hockey. Granted, we will probably see more football games in person than hockey games, seeing as how he likes college ball (University of Toledo, go Rockets!) and I like pro hockey (let’s go, Red Wings!), and college football tickets are MUCH cheaper than pro hockey tickets. Like, really, really, much cheaper.
So, this past Saturday was UT’s homecoming game, against Eastern Michigan University. Now, EMU was on my short list of schools to attend, and if I had gone there, this could have been an interesting dynamic. But since I didn’t, I don’t have a particular attachment to them, and Toledo and Ypsilanti are about equidistant from my home, so I didn’t feel any qualms about rooting for UT to win. (My joke of the evening was, “Don’t tell anyone I’m from the same state as those guys!”)
This was a homecoming game, so the stands were full of what I called with amused disdain “drunken freshmen howling in the background.” There weren’t any crowd problems or anything, just some people who weren’t making a whole lot of sense in what they were yelling at the players and referees. Well, no, we might have had a crowd problem at one point.
See, I have this problem when watching any sort of sport. I get really pissed off if someone stands up in front of me. I don’t mind people getting up and down, getting to their seats or whatever, but if they stand up and stay there, and I miss an important play? This is not a happy time. So when this crowd of people from a fraternity and sorority came and filed into the row in front of us and stood up ON THEIR SEATS, this was bad. “You make a better door than a window!” I told the boy in front of me. He just looked confused. We moved to a different section.
Ah, that was better. Now I could actually see this game I don’t really understand yet!
I could also see the marching band at halftime. I was a flag twirler in my high school band my senior year, so I feel qualified to say that UT’s marching band is really bad. My inner twirler wanted to run down there and take over the directing—“No! No! You’re offstep and off rhythm! What are you doing????” I didn’t, of course, but the temptation was there.
Meanwhile, as the Rockets were running up the score (30 to 3 final, poor EMU!), it was getting colder. And colder. And colder. I started out wearing jeans and a thermal top, with a fleece jacket. It got colder. I zipped up my jacket. Colder still. I put on my gloves and wrapped my fleece scarf around my neck. Even colder. Okay, I put on my knit hat. And I was still cold! I finally wound up wrapped in the wool blanket we had brought to protect our bottoms from the frozen metal bleachers. My sweetie was just sitting there perfectly comfortable, jacket unzipped. (“Oh, are you cold, my love?” Um, yeah!) So he cuddled me close. Then I was okay. :-)
I wound up having fun. I would jump up and cheer when the Rockets scored, just like all the real fans. I would yell at the refs when they made a boneheaded call. I laughed at the girls who had dressed for fashion instead of warmth and were shivering like crazy. (I’m a meanie, I know!) I cuddled with my sweetie for warmth, and we gave each other kisses between plays.
I think I could get to enjoy this.
But the funny thing is, now I kind of miss my days twirling a flag for the Flat Rock High School marching band. Our team was generally awful, but we could put on one fine halftime show.
Oh well. If I'd tried to twirl while it was that cold, I'd probably have dropped the flag anyway. And that would have just been embarrassing.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
A Story About Tirithien
It was a bright day, a warm summery day, and we stood together looking out at the river. Just talking. Not about anything in particular.
We were friends, and had been for awhile. He was the best friend I’d found since my college days—making friends outside of a school setting was a trick which had eluded me until I met him. He’d listened to my ranting and dried my tears about the breakup of my marriage, helped me talk through some things, helped me focus myself again on the future and its bright possibilities. I’d listened to his hopes and dreams, been his sounding board, encouraged him to do things he hadn’t known he could do.
Friends. Very close friends. Best friends, as little kids say.
That day by the river, that sunny day, I hugged him. He’d been telling me of his grandfather who had died, and he looked sad and lonely. So it was perfectly natural to hug him, to comfort him.
He seemed surprised, his body language unsure at first. Uncomfortable. He relaxed into the hug, though, and his arms wrapped close around me. We held each other softly, each very careful of the other.
We pulled back a little, looked at each other with some surprise. We’d never done much in the way of touching, you see. Our friendship was based on words and stories, very cerebral, very platonic. So we surprised each other with that warm hug.
Even more than surprise, though, even more than that shock in his green eyes, I saw something else. I saw need, I saw fear, and I saw love. And we were both trembling, wondering what to do, how to proceed, each desperately afraid of hurting the other and each desperately wanting to act.
Slowly, in a moment that seemed to last forever, we pulled close again. A last second of indecision, followed by a decision to trust, to take my chance with the love I saw reflected in his eyes and had seen so much in the tenderness of his friendship. One last breath, and our lips met in a gentle kiss, a kiss of perfect sweetness and perfect love.
I’m not sure if I can say with any certainty who kissed whom first, or which of us was more surprised as we drew back and looked at each other in utter amazement. I do know that we pulled each other close again, kissed again, realizing now the truth neither of us had been able to see.
In that kiss, that sweet, soft kiss, my entire world changed. With that kiss I realized that somewhere along the way, some time when I was not expecting it, some time when I was not paying attention but only trying to focus on rebuilding my life, I had fallen hopelessly, deeply in love with my best friend. With the truth of that kiss, I knew deep inside my soul that nothing would ever be the same again.
I love you, my Tirithien. :-)
We were friends, and had been for awhile. He was the best friend I’d found since my college days—making friends outside of a school setting was a trick which had eluded me until I met him. He’d listened to my ranting and dried my tears about the breakup of my marriage, helped me talk through some things, helped me focus myself again on the future and its bright possibilities. I’d listened to his hopes and dreams, been his sounding board, encouraged him to do things he hadn’t known he could do.
Friends. Very close friends. Best friends, as little kids say.
That day by the river, that sunny day, I hugged him. He’d been telling me of his grandfather who had died, and he looked sad and lonely. So it was perfectly natural to hug him, to comfort him.
He seemed surprised, his body language unsure at first. Uncomfortable. He relaxed into the hug, though, and his arms wrapped close around me. We held each other softly, each very careful of the other.
We pulled back a little, looked at each other with some surprise. We’d never done much in the way of touching, you see. Our friendship was based on words and stories, very cerebral, very platonic. So we surprised each other with that warm hug.
Even more than surprise, though, even more than that shock in his green eyes, I saw something else. I saw need, I saw fear, and I saw love. And we were both trembling, wondering what to do, how to proceed, each desperately afraid of hurting the other and each desperately wanting to act.
Slowly, in a moment that seemed to last forever, we pulled close again. A last second of indecision, followed by a decision to trust, to take my chance with the love I saw reflected in his eyes and had seen so much in the tenderness of his friendship. One last breath, and our lips met in a gentle kiss, a kiss of perfect sweetness and perfect love.
I’m not sure if I can say with any certainty who kissed whom first, or which of us was more surprised as we drew back and looked at each other in utter amazement. I do know that we pulled each other close again, kissed again, realizing now the truth neither of us had been able to see.
In that kiss, that sweet, soft kiss, my entire world changed. With that kiss I realized that somewhere along the way, some time when I was not expecting it, some time when I was not paying attention but only trying to focus on rebuilding my life, I had fallen hopelessly, deeply in love with my best friend. With the truth of that kiss, I knew deep inside my soul that nothing would ever be the same again.
I love you, my Tirithien. :-)
Monday, October 03, 2005
The one boy they left behind
Today on the message board at snopes.com, someone posted a link to this article about eleven Marines killed in Iraq-- or rather, about the twelfth man in their squad, the one who was not killed by the roadside bomb with his comrades.
The men in this squad ranged in age from 19 to 25. The boy who did not die, Lance Corporal Travis Williams, is 21.
I know little enough about how close a squad of soldiers can become; I've never been in the military and I don't claim any sort of firsthand knowledge. Yet I know from my own life that the closest friendships I've formed, the strongest bonds, have been the ones born of adversity, the ones where we were working towards a common goal. The ones where we needed to trust each other and build upon each other's strengths, the ones where our striving together against the odds made our friendship into something strong and enduring. If I may form lifelong friendships in this way, here in comfort and safety in the complacent midwest, how much stronger must that be amongst people who face death together on a daily basis?
We were trying to get the college newspaper out on time. We were trying to form a new chapter of a service fraternity. There was stress. There was never danger.
These young men were trying to survive together, trying to battle what they saw as threats against our nation. They had to trust each other with their very lives. And in this squad, they did. In the article, the squad's platoon commander is quoted as saying, "They were like a family. They were the tightest squad I've ever seen. They truly loved each other."
The word I've most often heard used to describe the bonds formed between soldiers is "brotherhood." I have a brother. I understand brothers.
So I try to imagine, for the sake of this young Marine, how would it be if some tragedy were to happen, if my brother died while I lived? That would be a grief beyond words, a sorrow beyond compare. It is too much a horror to contemplate.
My heart breaks for this young lad in Iraq. So much death, so much loss.
Is he lucky to be alive?
The theological part of me says yes. If there is life, then there is hope.
But the part of me who is a sister, the part who understands what brotherhood means? I only understand the palest shadow of his grief and how he will rage at the heavens because he was not killed by that bomb with his beloved brothers. This part of me understands that life may not be luck at all.
The men in this squad ranged in age from 19 to 25. The boy who did not die, Lance Corporal Travis Williams, is 21.
I know little enough about how close a squad of soldiers can become; I've never been in the military and I don't claim any sort of firsthand knowledge. Yet I know from my own life that the closest friendships I've formed, the strongest bonds, have been the ones born of adversity, the ones where we were working towards a common goal. The ones where we needed to trust each other and build upon each other's strengths, the ones where our striving together against the odds made our friendship into something strong and enduring. If I may form lifelong friendships in this way, here in comfort and safety in the complacent midwest, how much stronger must that be amongst people who face death together on a daily basis?
We were trying to get the college newspaper out on time. We were trying to form a new chapter of a service fraternity. There was stress. There was never danger.
These young men were trying to survive together, trying to battle what they saw as threats against our nation. They had to trust each other with their very lives. And in this squad, they did. In the article, the squad's platoon commander is quoted as saying, "They were like a family. They were the tightest squad I've ever seen. They truly loved each other."
The word I've most often heard used to describe the bonds formed between soldiers is "brotherhood." I have a brother. I understand brothers.
So I try to imagine, for the sake of this young Marine, how would it be if some tragedy were to happen, if my brother died while I lived? That would be a grief beyond words, a sorrow beyond compare. It is too much a horror to contemplate.
My heart breaks for this young lad in Iraq. So much death, so much loss.
Is he lucky to be alive?
The theological part of me says yes. If there is life, then there is hope.
But the part of me who is a sister, the part who understands what brotherhood means? I only understand the palest shadow of his grief and how he will rage at the heavens because he was not killed by that bomb with his beloved brothers. This part of me understands that life may not be luck at all.
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