Dan heard an interview on the way to work yesterday with Tim Burton. Burton said that he had seen a stage production of Sweeney Todd years ago, before his movie career was a career, and that his work had been profoundly influenced by the musical ever since. He said that he knew if he ever filmed a musical, it would have to be Sweeney Todd. For my part, on my way to the theater, I remarked to Daniel that if anyone should film Sweeney Todd, it needed to be Tim Burton. Thankfully, the Hollywood and Broadway stars aligned to make this pairing possible, because this combination is as devilishly delicious as Mrs. Lovett's famous meat pies.
Sweeney Todd in any incarnation is not for the faint of heart. It's a brutal look at the ways evil and revenge consume humanity, based on a gruesome legend that has been told in many bloody incarnations before.
I know Sondheim's stage version better than most, because I lived it for a few months when I was cast as part of the "company" about 8 years ago. I was one of the revelers at the masked ball, one of the people taken in by Pirelli's miracle elixir, one of the greedy commoners devouring Mrs. Lovett's pies and one of the inmates in the asylum. My costumes changed throughout the night, from the heavy bustled gown of a depraved socialite (a Hollywood rental -- the dress of a "lady of the night" used in the filming of Jekyll and Hyde), to the scratchy wool skirts of a London low-life. With the costume changes came a change in demeanor, as the story changed London from its grim sooty gray to a blood-drenched midnight black.
I remember a very heavy feeling after each performance over the course of a few weekends. The cast members quickly developed the habit of eating or drinking together after the show, not just out of the usual cast camaraderie, but as a way to sort of gently usher ourselves back into the someone less gruesome details of our everyday lives that went on between bloody shows. I don't think we could do that musical without being changed by it ourselves. Even though I knew full well that the patrons of our Mr. Todd's chair walked up and away to their families and the smoke from the oven was simply the result of a strawberry-smelling smoke machine (I had to know -- I operated it by remote while running about the stage singing in full voice), the thought of the Mr. Todds and Mrs. Lovetts of the world was sobering... even for (or perhaps especially for) those cast members who tried to push back the sobriety with substances licit and illicit.
Sondheim's music is very intricate, challenging and, in many respects, opera-derived. I managed to do two Sondheim musicals during my theater phase, and I have done little music since that has rivaled his score for complexity and challenge. Sondheim develops the characters through music and weaves their stories together in a tapestry of sound as brutal and heartbreaking as the story itself. Of course, the medium of film is much different from that of stagecraft, and I have to confess that while most of the musical bits that were cut from the film were those that had been mine to sing on stage, I think it was adapted beautifully. Among other things, I think this adaptation managed to help the viewer suspend the disbelief that springs from watching all of London spontaneously sing in one voice, by giving the lyrics to just a few characters. I don't think I really missed the company parts, because they were there in the music, unvoiced, but conveyed by the faces of the throngs.
Other bits were added, some dialog was smoothed out, other omissions were made, but the story and music retained their integrity. Would you believe that the thing that bothered me the most was the removal of one word from one of Judge Turpin's lines? "Ablutions." In the stage play he says, "Perhaps I have been too hasty with my morning ablutions." Of course, I loved that word. It's a good word... underutilized enough that our Judge Turpin couldn't say it correctly to save his life. Every night I would pronounce it correctly under my breath, and I looked forward to the way it would roll off of Alan Rickman's tongue. But, alas, that word received the axe as surely as Sweeney's patrons met his razor.
The fact that this little change bothers me most should say something to those of you who know me well. Yes... it really was that good. I wasn't sure about the voices of some of the leads, but what they lacked in vocal prowess they made up in presence. In the context of Burton's trademark visual artistry, the musical I loved took on a new, somewhat different life.
I cannot recommend it without reservation, but that is simply because I don't think the story of Sweeney Todd is for everyone. As one theater-goer behind me said at the end of the film, "That is messed up. That is seriously messed up." It is messed up. It is messed up as humanity is messed up. We devour each other as surely as did the starving Londoners of Sondheim and Burton's fantastical vision. We spread parasitic destruction by our hate and lust and greed in ways as hidden, if apparently less sinister, as those of Sweeney and his Mrs. Lovett.
In short, if you can stand to stare the evil in your own heart dead in its murderous face, and if you can laugh at the absurdity of what we do to one another, then this film may be for you. If not, perhaps you should stick with Alvin and the Chipmunks and the softer side of whimsy.
I've made my choice, as did Burton, and I cannot say I am sorry I did.
"There was a barber and his wife, and he was beautiful. A proper artist with a knife, but they transported him for life... and he was beautiful."
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Monday, December 17, 2007
The Full Armor of Mom
You've seen them. Maybe you have been them. Perhaps you are even raising them... you know, bubble kids. Those children who would probably be kept, impervious from harm, in a large bubble, if that were possible without constituting abuse. Given the limitations on parental "rights", these kids are simply not allowed to step foot outside without protective gear of every description, and their lives indoors are sanitized and safe.
It's for their own good. I'm not one to criticize that sort of parenting. Firstly, I haven't managed to cross over into the great international fraternity of parents. Secondly, I think I understand the impulse perfectly. I mean, I can be rather mother-bearish about the safety and wellbeing of my indoor cats, and they have nine lives that they would much rather expend more quickly in the great outdoors (not to mention that they don't have nearly as much humanity as I assign them).
Anyway, when bubble kids are on bikes or skates or skateboards or razors or scooters or those bizarre two-wheel skateboard things that I am not young enough know the name of, they are wearing helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, gloves... anything that will soften the blow when their bodies eventually hit the pavement. They look a little bit ridiculous, it's true, but I think looks are absolutely the least important thing when it comes to remaining in one piece.
Besides the ubiquitous "water wings", I don't remember such safety measures being thrust on my generation. When I wanted to forget how to slow my butterfly-bedecked banana seat bike sufficiently before hurtling myself head-long over the handlebars right into Mr. Perry's old truck, I had nothing but my own skin and play clothes to keep me from harm. When I wanted to fall on the playground and have a concussion, I just did it... without the benefit of a brain bucket.
Anyway, I have been inspired to become a bit more of a bubble kid myself. How? No... I have no intention of cleaning the house more often. I just intend to "dress up" when I go out skating.
What inspired this change? Well, call it one of the most basic human impulses: self-preservation.
This Saturday dawned chilly and brisk for a change. Perfect weather for a lap or two around the local ice rink, we thought. So, grabbing our skates and gloves and socks, we headed over to the ice rink. Now, I just happened to be in possession of a pair of only somewhat-too-small-for-me kneepads that dated from Daniel's roller blading days. I decided to make good use of them. I am quite sure I looked ridiculous, and I would have realize that even had Daniel not remarked between guffaws that I looked, in profile, like an overgrown faun. Of course, the effect was lessened by covering my brown leggings with baggy black pants... but no matter. I was better prepared to tumble... at long as I managed to tumble forward. I've had knee surgery once. I don't want to have it again, and if I must look like an arthritic faun when I skate, so be it.
The Zamboni was in operation when we arrived, so we stepped out onto fresh, slick ice. I was on the newly-sharpened blades of brand new skates on unmarred ice. That was an interesting combination which led me to an instant feeling of panic. When we had done this two weeks ago, the ice had been skated into a very large pile of shavings that more closely resembled snow than ice, and, I assure you, the feeling is entirely different.
For the most part, the skating went very well. I lasted much longer this time, even though I did have to remove my feet from the skates twice to let them recover from the compression pain. During those breaks I had the chance to watch how the kids on the ice (most of them wearing bike helmets, at least) responded to the challenges of skating when you just don't know how to do it. Several of them regularly belly-flopped, others fell sideways. Others fell over backwards. All of them popped back up to try again. And again. And again.
I don't want to fall. It's scary. I want the security of a hand or a wall or something more solid than I. I want to be spared the indignity of whatever heap I manage to land in, too. However, this trip, I didn't always have the luxury of a hand or a wall. I wanted Dan to have fun, and sometimes that fun meant taking a lap or two unencumbered by me. The wall was removed by a line of cones that made part of the rink off-limits. I was not pleased. However, once I mustered the courage to take that stretch of ice on my own, I also managed to skate around the entire rink once or twice without stopping.
Daniel, the wise, practical one, mindful that he'd be the one scraping me off the ice when I splattered, kept encouraging me all the while: "Don't go any faster than you can manage." Good advice, that. Wish I had listened. However, I apparently can't handle motion faster than a standstill.
My moment would come.
It did... about halfway into our stay, and it was spectacular. My feet decided to move ever further apart left to right as I skated along the length of the ice, such that I was doing side-to-side splits increasingly closer to the ice, until something strained in parts of me I didn't know I had, causing my torso to pitch forward. In the end, I got up close and personal with the chilly whiteness. I imagine it looked as though I were trying to make a face-down snow angel.
When I peeled myself up off of the ground, I discovered that I had a rather lingering pain in my right leg. As a result, my exit from the ice looked more than a little gimpy. I was later informed by a friend that I now am the only person of his acquaintance to manage a groin injury "without the benefit of a Y-chromosome." Obviously he doesn't know Michelle Kwan.
Anyway, while my bouncing back was not energetic, I did get back out on the ice again, mildly strained groin and all. I was determined not to let that fear get me, even if the ice would.
Thankfully the pain has subsided quite a lot over the last few days. I haven't needed pain medicine and I can walk normally again. And you know what? My knees, which took the brunt of my actual impact on the ice, are fine. God bless knobby faun legs!
Determined to learn my lesson from this, I have now ordered padded shorts (protecting the hips and tail bone), elbow and knee pads that fit, wrist guards and a helmet. Daniel threatens to get me in full hockey gear someday. That, I am to understand, is what it is to feel safe on the ice. In the meantime, I will enjoy some measure of increased security in the form of my unnatural padding, because I realize it is not a question of if I will fall again. It's a question of when and how and whether I will be able to get back up again afterwards.
I, now comfortably in my 30s, have become an ice-skating bubble kid. I'm not sure, but I think my mom may be proud of me. It is, after all, for my own good. Add to that all a little measure of good sense and a bit of humor when I tumble, and I will have put on the full armor of mom. After all, life's full of tumbles. It's just a matter of being ready--in one piece--to pop back up and try again.
It's for their own good. I'm not one to criticize that sort of parenting. Firstly, I haven't managed to cross over into the great international fraternity of parents. Secondly, I think I understand the impulse perfectly. I mean, I can be rather mother-bearish about the safety and wellbeing of my indoor cats, and they have nine lives that they would much rather expend more quickly in the great outdoors (not to mention that they don't have nearly as much humanity as I assign them).
Anyway, when bubble kids are on bikes or skates or skateboards or razors or scooters or those bizarre two-wheel skateboard things that I am not young enough know the name of, they are wearing helmets, knee pads, elbow pads, gloves... anything that will soften the blow when their bodies eventually hit the pavement. They look a little bit ridiculous, it's true, but I think looks are absolutely the least important thing when it comes to remaining in one piece.
Besides the ubiquitous "water wings", I don't remember such safety measures being thrust on my generation. When I wanted to forget how to slow my butterfly-bedecked banana seat bike sufficiently before hurtling myself head-long over the handlebars right into Mr. Perry's old truck, I had nothing but my own skin and play clothes to keep me from harm. When I wanted to fall on the playground and have a concussion, I just did it... without the benefit of a brain bucket.
Anyway, I have been inspired to become a bit more of a bubble kid myself. How? No... I have no intention of cleaning the house more often. I just intend to "dress up" when I go out skating.
What inspired this change? Well, call it one of the most basic human impulses: self-preservation.
This Saturday dawned chilly and brisk for a change. Perfect weather for a lap or two around the local ice rink, we thought. So, grabbing our skates and gloves and socks, we headed over to the ice rink. Now, I just happened to be in possession of a pair of only somewhat-too-small-for-me kneepads that dated from Daniel's roller blading days. I decided to make good use of them. I am quite sure I looked ridiculous, and I would have realize that even had Daniel not remarked between guffaws that I looked, in profile, like an overgrown faun. Of course, the effect was lessened by covering my brown leggings with baggy black pants... but no matter. I was better prepared to tumble... at long as I managed to tumble forward. I've had knee surgery once. I don't want to have it again, and if I must look like an arthritic faun when I skate, so be it.
The Zamboni was in operation when we arrived, so we stepped out onto fresh, slick ice. I was on the newly-sharpened blades of brand new skates on unmarred ice. That was an interesting combination which led me to an instant feeling of panic. When we had done this two weeks ago, the ice had been skated into a very large pile of shavings that more closely resembled snow than ice, and, I assure you, the feeling is entirely different.
For the most part, the skating went very well. I lasted much longer this time, even though I did have to remove my feet from the skates twice to let them recover from the compression pain. During those breaks I had the chance to watch how the kids on the ice (most of them wearing bike helmets, at least) responded to the challenges of skating when you just don't know how to do it. Several of them regularly belly-flopped, others fell sideways. Others fell over backwards. All of them popped back up to try again. And again. And again.
I don't want to fall. It's scary. I want the security of a hand or a wall or something more solid than I. I want to be spared the indignity of whatever heap I manage to land in, too. However, this trip, I didn't always have the luxury of a hand or a wall. I wanted Dan to have fun, and sometimes that fun meant taking a lap or two unencumbered by me. The wall was removed by a line of cones that made part of the rink off-limits. I was not pleased. However, once I mustered the courage to take that stretch of ice on my own, I also managed to skate around the entire rink once or twice without stopping.
Daniel, the wise, practical one, mindful that he'd be the one scraping me off the ice when I splattered, kept encouraging me all the while: "Don't go any faster than you can manage." Good advice, that. Wish I had listened. However, I apparently can't handle motion faster than a standstill.
My moment would come.
It did... about halfway into our stay, and it was spectacular. My feet decided to move ever further apart left to right as I skated along the length of the ice, such that I was doing side-to-side splits increasingly closer to the ice, until something strained in parts of me I didn't know I had, causing my torso to pitch forward. In the end, I got up close and personal with the chilly whiteness. I imagine it looked as though I were trying to make a face-down snow angel.
When I peeled myself up off of the ground, I discovered that I had a rather lingering pain in my right leg. As a result, my exit from the ice looked more than a little gimpy. I was later informed by a friend that I now am the only person of his acquaintance to manage a groin injury "without the benefit of a Y-chromosome." Obviously he doesn't know Michelle Kwan.
Anyway, while my bouncing back was not energetic, I did get back out on the ice again, mildly strained groin and all. I was determined not to let that fear get me, even if the ice would.
Thankfully the pain has subsided quite a lot over the last few days. I haven't needed pain medicine and I can walk normally again. And you know what? My knees, which took the brunt of my actual impact on the ice, are fine. God bless knobby faun legs!
Determined to learn my lesson from this, I have now ordered padded shorts (protecting the hips and tail bone), elbow and knee pads that fit, wrist guards and a helmet. Daniel threatens to get me in full hockey gear someday. That, I am to understand, is what it is to feel safe on the ice. In the meantime, I will enjoy some measure of increased security in the form of my unnatural padding, because I realize it is not a question of if I will fall again. It's a question of when and how and whether I will be able to get back up again afterwards.
I, now comfortably in my 30s, have become an ice-skating bubble kid. I'm not sure, but I think my mom may be proud of me. It is, after all, for my own good. Add to that all a little measure of good sense and a bit of humor when I tumble, and I will have put on the full armor of mom. After all, life's full of tumbles. It's just a matter of being ready--in one piece--to pop back up and try again.
The Moral of the Story
I have been knitting again. Great piles of bargain yarn have collected in the living room, and I have spent a lamentable amount of time with hands clicking away, eyes glancing up periodically at a series of Christmas-themed movies, from nostalgic shows like the Waltons and Little House on the Prairie to Hallmark specials as vapid as the programmed messages on most greeting cards. After some reflection on the obvious, I have decided that there is a clear formula to these films. They must include:
1. Orphans and/or widows. Bonus points for including both.
2. Despair. Someone, anyone, must be reminded of the meaning of continued life through whatever it is that transpires, but they must begin with despair.
3. Miracles. The more obviously linked to the traditional Christmas story, the better. (Guiding stars, for instance, are perfect, but those involving Santa are a reasonable substitution.) And it's really best if people are left scratching their heads about how, exactly, hope has been restored.
Daniel and I went out to eat last night, and he remarked in the car on the way there that he wasn't even sure what had possessed me to watch that, well... I think he called it "crap." I had to laugh, but then I explained that I have been too antsy and agitated to just sit quietly with my own thoughts the last few days. I guess want my life to have a soundtrack that isn't my usual mental litany of quandaries, worries and obsessions. I joked with him about the deep message of these films, which he summed up, roughly, as: You must always (but especially at Christmas) keep someone around you who is more miserable than you are so you can be reminded that you are actually fortunate and have no reason to whine.
His tongue was planted firmly in his cheek, of course, but his assessment captures something essential: no matter the circumstances of your life, someone has it worse. Rejoice, therefore. Find your happiness, if you find it nowhere else, springing from the pity you feel for those ill-fated others. Surely if they can find hope and joy, you ought to as well. Wow. Is that what we've become?
I confess that I felt a tear well up in my eye when the two little WWII-orphaned children who had been mysteriously come to live on Walton Mountain one winter heard the voice of their presumed-dead mother from London over the short-wave radio on Christmas morning. I mean, I am not callous enough to be untouched by that sort of joyful twist, but I couldn't help feel a bit manipulated as well. The fact is, I can usually find enough pain and suffering in my own past to make this moment a reason to celebrate... I don't require the pity-inducing services of sundry symbolic orphans and widows, though I would do quite well to remember the very real suffering others endure in the very real world where crises are not permanently and neatly resolved in 120 minutes, give or take a few commercial breaks.
Real joy and peace and hope aren't about sentimentality. Real joy and peace and hope have a whole lot more to overcome in the circumstances of a broken world. They, like my pile of knitting, require a certain persistence and a willingness to get tangled up in the details.
1. Orphans and/or widows. Bonus points for including both.
2. Despair. Someone, anyone, must be reminded of the meaning of continued life through whatever it is that transpires, but they must begin with despair.
3. Miracles. The more obviously linked to the traditional Christmas story, the better. (Guiding stars, for instance, are perfect, but those involving Santa are a reasonable substitution.) And it's really best if people are left scratching their heads about how, exactly, hope has been restored.
Daniel and I went out to eat last night, and he remarked in the car on the way there that he wasn't even sure what had possessed me to watch that, well... I think he called it "crap." I had to laugh, but then I explained that I have been too antsy and agitated to just sit quietly with my own thoughts the last few days. I guess want my life to have a soundtrack that isn't my usual mental litany of quandaries, worries and obsessions. I joked with him about the deep message of these films, which he summed up, roughly, as: You must always (but especially at Christmas) keep someone around you who is more miserable than you are so you can be reminded that you are actually fortunate and have no reason to whine.
His tongue was planted firmly in his cheek, of course, but his assessment captures something essential: no matter the circumstances of your life, someone has it worse. Rejoice, therefore. Find your happiness, if you find it nowhere else, springing from the pity you feel for those ill-fated others. Surely if they can find hope and joy, you ought to as well. Wow. Is that what we've become?
I confess that I felt a tear well up in my eye when the two little WWII-orphaned children who had been mysteriously come to live on Walton Mountain one winter heard the voice of their presumed-dead mother from London over the short-wave radio on Christmas morning. I mean, I am not callous enough to be untouched by that sort of joyful twist, but I couldn't help feel a bit manipulated as well. The fact is, I can usually find enough pain and suffering in my own past to make this moment a reason to celebrate... I don't require the pity-inducing services of sundry symbolic orphans and widows, though I would do quite well to remember the very real suffering others endure in the very real world where crises are not permanently and neatly resolved in 120 minutes, give or take a few commercial breaks.
Real joy and peace and hope aren't about sentimentality. Real joy and peace and hope have a whole lot more to overcome in the circumstances of a broken world. They, like my pile of knitting, require a certain persistence and a willingness to get tangled up in the details.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Who Moved my Advent?
It's the time of year set aside by many Christians for preparation for the great feast that marks the Incarnation of Christ, that wondrous prelude to salvation, when humanity and divinity were joined for time and eternity in the God-man. It's also, however, the time that our culture has set aside for catastrophic damage to our personal finances and excess of pretty much every sort, in order to bring homage to the deities of consumerism and commerce.
These two seasons do have one thing in common, I suppose (beyond convergence on the calendar): sacrifice. Okay, I will grant that one expects you to sacrifice your passions for the sake of your soul, and the other wants you to sacrifice your soul for the sake of your passions, but who has time to quibble over the details when there's so much fun to be had?
I'll be the first to admit that my observance of Advent this year has been far from the pious ideal. I can, sadly, claim to have spent more time preparing my home for the feast (hanging lights and garlands, making wreaths, buying and wrapping presents and baking goodies) than I have preparing my heart for the coming Messiah. Still, I feel a sort of righteous indignation over our collective state of affairs. It's so easy to lose track of Advent. So, I want to know: who moved my Advent, and where did they put it?
This season has meant different things to me throughout my life. As a child, I was delighted by the small Advent calendars we had most years. Each day brought a previously closed door that I could open, behind which I would find a picture or a verse, or in especially decadent times, a bit of chocolate. Those little daily openings helped me to mark the time as we approached the morning with the grand unveiling of big gifts, all in remembrance of the greatest gift of all. It was not the most elevated of practices, perhaps, but it still created a sort of journey to the Christ child, not unlike that of the Wisemen who lauded the child born of Mary two millennia ago.
When I became older and a bit more theologically and practically adventurous (at least by Baptist standards), I encountered the Advent of wreaths and readings and fasting and alms-giving. This was a different experience from the joyful December of my youth, because rather than celebrating for the duration, which had been wonderful in its own way, the focus shifted to somewhat more sober and somber preparation for most of the month, and celebration for several days after December 25. I came to really love this approach. I mean, it made sense to me somehow.
Babies don't just pop into the world without warning, which is a very good thing. Families have the better part of 9 months to "prepare him room" - cleaning the house, rearranging the furniture, buying the clothes and diapers and bottles and blankets and preparing the household to deal with complete transformation: finances, lifestyle, sleeping patterns, eating, work, routines, exercise... just everything! Responsible parents don't expect baby to coexist with all of the refuse of childless adult life--they make the home welcoming and safe for the baby, and they give up many of the things, good and bad, that marked life before baby.
If the miracle of a simple human baby stirs up that much excitement, surely the arrival of the King of Heaven merits some preparation, especially since the change He offers the household of faith is every bit as miraculous as His Virgin birth. He will, given free rein in a heart, turn it inside out and fill it with purity, newness and joy... much as a new baby does for a family home.
After my conversion to Orthodoxy in my early 20s and then my eventual transition into Eastern rite practice, Advent took on a still different color. Suddenly I was exposed to new hymns and services, and another decidedly old, yet very new, way to mark the coming of Christ. Again, Advent was set aside, hallowed as time for preparation and quiet joyful remembrance. The manger is filled with fresh hay. The stalls of the animals are mucked out. The caves of our hearts are opened to the light of His glory, and he is invited to come again to dwell with us, with angelic songs. God with us, Emmanuel.
This year, I sit here and wonder. Who moved my Advent? When did the dates get mixed up on the calendar? Why did all Hallow's eve mark the beginning of the time of preparation for Black Friday, the most holy of days in the church of commerce and the temple of consumerism? And when did I buy in?
Advent? Are you there?
I, too, have been consumed.
Where is Advent, if not in our hearts? That is where we prepare Him room. If Advent moved out of mine, it is only because I crowded it out with all of the fun of what Christmas has become in my life. I love the concerts, the lights. I love the trees, the smells. I love the music, the pageantry. I love the gifts, the sharing. I love the foods, the richness. And, indeed, I should, because these things are all good gifts from God. But I have spent so much time reveling in the gifts, that I have neglected the Giver. I've broken out the champagne before he has even arrived at the door, and I've ripped open the packages under the tree... I hope he doesn't mind if I nibble on the hors d'oeuvres while I wait. Oh, and wow! That cake looks divine! Just a little slice, maybe, back here where nobody will notice...
O, come Emmanuel, and ransom my captive heart.
These two seasons do have one thing in common, I suppose (beyond convergence on the calendar): sacrifice. Okay, I will grant that one expects you to sacrifice your passions for the sake of your soul, and the other wants you to sacrifice your soul for the sake of your passions, but who has time to quibble over the details when there's so much fun to be had?
I'll be the first to admit that my observance of Advent this year has been far from the pious ideal. I can, sadly, claim to have spent more time preparing my home for the feast (hanging lights and garlands, making wreaths, buying and wrapping presents and baking goodies) than I have preparing my heart for the coming Messiah. Still, I feel a sort of righteous indignation over our collective state of affairs. It's so easy to lose track of Advent. So, I want to know: who moved my Advent, and where did they put it?
This season has meant different things to me throughout my life. As a child, I was delighted by the small Advent calendars we had most years. Each day brought a previously closed door that I could open, behind which I would find a picture or a verse, or in especially decadent times, a bit of chocolate. Those little daily openings helped me to mark the time as we approached the morning with the grand unveiling of big gifts, all in remembrance of the greatest gift of all. It was not the most elevated of practices, perhaps, but it still created a sort of journey to the Christ child, not unlike that of the Wisemen who lauded the child born of Mary two millennia ago.
When I became older and a bit more theologically and practically adventurous (at least by Baptist standards), I encountered the Advent of wreaths and readings and fasting and alms-giving. This was a different experience from the joyful December of my youth, because rather than celebrating for the duration, which had been wonderful in its own way, the focus shifted to somewhat more sober and somber preparation for most of the month, and celebration for several days after December 25. I came to really love this approach. I mean, it made sense to me somehow.
Babies don't just pop into the world without warning, which is a very good thing. Families have the better part of 9 months to "prepare him room" - cleaning the house, rearranging the furniture, buying the clothes and diapers and bottles and blankets and preparing the household to deal with complete transformation: finances, lifestyle, sleeping patterns, eating, work, routines, exercise... just everything! Responsible parents don't expect baby to coexist with all of the refuse of childless adult life--they make the home welcoming and safe for the baby, and they give up many of the things, good and bad, that marked life before baby.
If the miracle of a simple human baby stirs up that much excitement, surely the arrival of the King of Heaven merits some preparation, especially since the change He offers the household of faith is every bit as miraculous as His Virgin birth. He will, given free rein in a heart, turn it inside out and fill it with purity, newness and joy... much as a new baby does for a family home.
After my conversion to Orthodoxy in my early 20s and then my eventual transition into Eastern rite practice, Advent took on a still different color. Suddenly I was exposed to new hymns and services, and another decidedly old, yet very new, way to mark the coming of Christ. Again, Advent was set aside, hallowed as time for preparation and quiet joyful remembrance. The manger is filled with fresh hay. The stalls of the animals are mucked out. The caves of our hearts are opened to the light of His glory, and he is invited to come again to dwell with us, with angelic songs. God with us, Emmanuel.
This year, I sit here and wonder. Who moved my Advent? When did the dates get mixed up on the calendar? Why did all Hallow's eve mark the beginning of the time of preparation for Black Friday, the most holy of days in the church of commerce and the temple of consumerism? And when did I buy in?
Advent? Are you there?
I, too, have been consumed.
Where is Advent, if not in our hearts? That is where we prepare Him room. If Advent moved out of mine, it is only because I crowded it out with all of the fun of what Christmas has become in my life. I love the concerts, the lights. I love the trees, the smells. I love the music, the pageantry. I love the gifts, the sharing. I love the foods, the richness. And, indeed, I should, because these things are all good gifts from God. But I have spent so much time reveling in the gifts, that I have neglected the Giver. I've broken out the champagne before he has even arrived at the door, and I've ripped open the packages under the tree... I hope he doesn't mind if I nibble on the hors d'oeuvres while I wait. Oh, and wow! That cake looks divine! Just a little slice, maybe, back here where nobody will notice...
O, come Emmanuel, and ransom my captive heart.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Christmas Concert at Duke
An entry or two ago I was in raptures about the joys of singing, especially with the Choral Society of Durham. Well, this morning I received in my inbox a link to a review of the concert that provoked that reflection. Published on Classical Voice of North Carolina, a site that follows the performing arts state-wide, the review is titled Still the Preferred Christmas Concert, and is amazingly positive. I now, most assuredly, feel even more honored and humbled to be a part of something so wonderful.
P.S. I should be able to get a recording of this concert sometime after the new year... my only sadness is that our most faithful audience members are so far away, but I will do what I can to share.
P.S. I should be able to get a recording of this concert sometime after the new year... my only sadness is that our most faithful audience members are so far away, but I will do what I can to share.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Exercising Futility
I remember seeing catalog pictures and television images, when I was a child, of other children dressed in puffy coats, knit hats and colorful mittens lying and frolicking in piles of colorful leaves. I didn't really have a context for this in my own life, but I knew that it was part of that phenomenon called "autumn" by people living in a place where it could be marked mark by more than the beginning of another interminable school year and a change in the colors of the clothes on the rack at Hinshaws Department Store.
Nearly three decades later, I have a context... and I have the distinction of having already raked a pile of leaves 14 feet long by 6 feet wide by 3 feet high... and having at least 5 times as many leaves still in need of clearing from other areas of the yard. I think I can safely say that I have never seen so many leaves in my life, and I have certainly never had to actually clear so many of them. Well, I suppose I don't *have* to clear them. Several of our neighbors have simply let the leaves perpetually blanket their lawns. I, however, am among the leaf-pile-makers this year for my own sometimes inscrutable reasons.
The temperatures here have been unseasonably warm. It was 78F yesterday, and the forecast for tomorrow touches 80. It's a nice break, especially when I want to be outside and the cooler temperatures we'd begun to expect brought with them the threat of asthma flares. So, pretty much every day (excepting this weekend, when there was singing to do), I have spent 20 to 40 minutes outside, vigorously sweeping leaves into a pile by the street. It's great exercise, even if it is, more than anything, an exercise in futility. Yesterday, the majority of the 40 minutes I spent out there was devoted to clearing the same third of the front lawn I had cleared last week. Somehow, I don't mind.
I can't explain why, exactly, I have enjoyed moving the leaves around so much. The few times the glossy-topped, fuzzy-bottomed ovular leaves needed raking in our front yard in my youth, I wanted nothing more than to be paid richly for my labor or let off the hook. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it is just another way I can throw myself into living here, and nobody is telling me I need to do it.
One day last week my job stresses were piling up. I was feeling more than a little burdened, and I needed to expend my mounting energy in a way that wouldn't cause harm to myself or others. The weather was cooler, so I bundled up in my synthetic Ugg-style boots, pants, a scarf and a sweater, grabbed the rake and tore at the lawn with determination. The one thing I had failed to consider was just how strongly the wind was blowing that day. In short order, I found my carefully-corralled leaves scattering themselves across the yard again, spinning aloft like so many earth-toned ballerinas dancing to the music of the wind.
As stressed as I was, my first impulse was to be angry. But at what? At myself for failing to understand physics and the effects of force? At the wind for sweeping through the neighborhood? At the leaves for daring to move from the locations I had assigned for them? At God, for designing a world that I can't control?
I stopped for a moment, looked around, thought a bit, and then began to laugh. Immobilized, I let the wind play in my hair as it undid my work. I actually found myself thinking, "Well, that just means there will be more raking to do tomorrow when I want to melt down under stress and feel the urge to take it out on the leaves." I genuinely didn't care. My stresses had dissipated with the fluttering leaves. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, either. I mean, it is folly to rake on a windy day. Isn't it? And surely it is lunacy to stand there, leaves swirling around me, and laugh.
I guess my raking isn't about the leaves at all. It's about how alive I feel when I see the earth transforming around me. It's about the satisfaction of working with my hands, and letting my all-too-sedentary body feel the burn of exertion. It's about tackling a project that is way too big for me and just working at it, day after day. It's about discovering the beautiful new tender shoots of grass in the freshly-cleared patches that foreshadow the distant spring when the trees will bud and drape themselves anew in lush green robes. It's about letting the burdens of life that don't change -- my job, the endless piles of laundry, dishes needing scrubbing, floors needing sweeping, my favorite persistent worries and obsessions -- give way to a burden, no, an opportunity, that comes only when autumn creeps in with its golden splendor.
Nearly all of the leaves have fallen now. The trees subdivide the lavender-blue sky with their meandering denuded branches. I don't imagine I will be able to rake all of the leaves before I become to busy to rake, ice storms move in or my asthma prevents me from being active outdoors in the cold for more than a few minutes at a stretch. In the meantime, you'll find me here, willing them into piles, laughing at the wind, and relishing the exercise in futility that places me firmly here in this time and place.
Nearly three decades later, I have a context... and I have the distinction of having already raked a pile of leaves 14 feet long by 6 feet wide by 3 feet high... and having at least 5 times as many leaves still in need of clearing from other areas of the yard. I think I can safely say that I have never seen so many leaves in my life, and I have certainly never had to actually clear so many of them. Well, I suppose I don't *have* to clear them. Several of our neighbors have simply let the leaves perpetually blanket their lawns. I, however, am among the leaf-pile-makers this year for my own sometimes inscrutable reasons.
The temperatures here have been unseasonably warm. It was 78F yesterday, and the forecast for tomorrow touches 80. It's a nice break, especially when I want to be outside and the cooler temperatures we'd begun to expect brought with them the threat of asthma flares. So, pretty much every day (excepting this weekend, when there was singing to do), I have spent 20 to 40 minutes outside, vigorously sweeping leaves into a pile by the street. It's great exercise, even if it is, more than anything, an exercise in futility. Yesterday, the majority of the 40 minutes I spent out there was devoted to clearing the same third of the front lawn I had cleared last week. Somehow, I don't mind.
I can't explain why, exactly, I have enjoyed moving the leaves around so much. The few times the glossy-topped, fuzzy-bottomed ovular leaves needed raking in our front yard in my youth, I wanted nothing more than to be paid richly for my labor or let off the hook. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it is just another way I can throw myself into living here, and nobody is telling me I need to do it.
One day last week my job stresses were piling up. I was feeling more than a little burdened, and I needed to expend my mounting energy in a way that wouldn't cause harm to myself or others. The weather was cooler, so I bundled up in my synthetic Ugg-style boots, pants, a scarf and a sweater, grabbed the rake and tore at the lawn with determination. The one thing I had failed to consider was just how strongly the wind was blowing that day. In short order, I found my carefully-corralled leaves scattering themselves across the yard again, spinning aloft like so many earth-toned ballerinas dancing to the music of the wind.
As stressed as I was, my first impulse was to be angry. But at what? At myself for failing to understand physics and the effects of force? At the wind for sweeping through the neighborhood? At the leaves for daring to move from the locations I had assigned for them? At God, for designing a world that I can't control?
I stopped for a moment, looked around, thought a bit, and then began to laugh. Immobilized, I let the wind play in my hair as it undid my work. I actually found myself thinking, "Well, that just means there will be more raking to do tomorrow when I want to melt down under stress and feel the urge to take it out on the leaves." I genuinely didn't care. My stresses had dissipated with the fluttering leaves. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, either. I mean, it is folly to rake on a windy day. Isn't it? And surely it is lunacy to stand there, leaves swirling around me, and laugh.
I guess my raking isn't about the leaves at all. It's about how alive I feel when I see the earth transforming around me. It's about the satisfaction of working with my hands, and letting my all-too-sedentary body feel the burn of exertion. It's about tackling a project that is way too big for me and just working at it, day after day. It's about discovering the beautiful new tender shoots of grass in the freshly-cleared patches that foreshadow the distant spring when the trees will bud and drape themselves anew in lush green robes. It's about letting the burdens of life that don't change -- my job, the endless piles of laundry, dishes needing scrubbing, floors needing sweeping, my favorite persistent worries and obsessions -- give way to a burden, no, an opportunity, that comes only when autumn creeps in with its golden splendor.
Nearly all of the leaves have fallen now. The trees subdivide the lavender-blue sky with their meandering denuded branches. I don't imagine I will be able to rake all of the leaves before I become to busy to rake, ice storms move in or my asthma prevents me from being active outdoors in the cold for more than a few minutes at a stretch. In the meantime, you'll find me here, willing them into piles, laughing at the wind, and relishing the exercise in futility that places me firmly here in this time and place.
Sunday, December 9, 2007
A Most Perfect Gift
"There's nothing else like choral singing in all of human experience. We have the opportunity to create beautiful music together with others, using an instruments that are a very part of who we are."
I wish I could remember exactly the words he used, but this is the closest I can come to what Rodney Wynkoop said to us tonight before we headed upstairs to sing the second of our two Christmas concerts. The room we occupied beneath the majestic Duke Chapel was not designed to hold 150 people comfortably (or uncomfortably, for that matter), but there was a warmth and connectedness and electricity amongst the singers crammed into every corner of the too-small space, and all of us knew that what he was saying was true.
We had worked on the music for weeks, learning the intricacies of rhythm, pitch, blend, tempo, dynamics, feeling, phrasing and text. We'd labored over each piece and worked the trickier elements repeatedly. Still, I never feel quite ready to perform.
It's as if I want the music to invade every pore of my being. I want to breathe it, dream it, feel it in the pulsing of my heart. I want to know it so intimately that it simply flows from me, but that kind of mastery is very difficult to achieve, especially in just a few weeks and in the isolation of learning my bits at home alone. Then there is the challenge of producing the sound I hear in my mind faithfully, despite the limits of my natural voice and its training. The best I can usually do is to memorize large portions of the score and hope to only use my music as a subtle reminder of the details that escape me, while I watch and listen to see how the notes and text will be interpreted in the moment of performance.
That's one of the beauties of music; because it is performed by people, it is never exactly the same twice. Each instance of a piece is nuanced -- influenced by the mood of the conductor, the attentiveness of each choir member, the accidents of timing (such as the train that barged through the neighborhood with whistle blaring during an otherwise quiet moment in our first performance), and the energy in the room. If you are not truly in the moment, you miss the gift of that unique sonority and emotion that exists only there, only then.
I'm struck, as I sit here writing, by a deep feeling of contentment, and a deep feeling of loss. I have these moments only once, and I want their glow to illumine my soul long after the sound waves have died out and we're all resumed the business our lives.
Is it any wonder the angels sing before the King of heaven? Is it a mystery that music is the service perfect beings bring to the deity? Surely not. There's nothing that moves the soul so deeply. Nothing so transformative, when music reflects the highest calling we each possess: the calling to love as we are loved, overwhelmingly and perfectly.
Sometimes, in the moment when the cracks in my "professional" veneer begin to show, I find my voice quavering in emotion, and my eyes brimming with tears. I wonder to think that I have been given the gift to create something that is a reflection of the beauty of the very throne-room of God. I, so broken. I, so imperfect. I, so unequal to the task. Even now I am not quite composed.
I'm so grateful that God has given us tongues to sing His praises. I'm overwhelmed to think that we have been given a gift of such transcendence and power. I'm humbled to be allowed to participate in that gift so publicly. I'm honored to express part of my being I am in songs that display the tiniest glimpse of the glory of the Author and Source of all Being.
The echoes of this music won't leave my mind for weeks. Its deep reverberations may never depart my soul. Somehow, in the blending of voices in that one, fleeting moment, that music has become a part of who I am. What a gift.
A most perfect gift.
I wish I could remember exactly the words he used, but this is the closest I can come to what Rodney Wynkoop said to us tonight before we headed upstairs to sing the second of our two Christmas concerts. The room we occupied beneath the majestic Duke Chapel was not designed to hold 150 people comfortably (or uncomfortably, for that matter), but there was a warmth and connectedness and electricity amongst the singers crammed into every corner of the too-small space, and all of us knew that what he was saying was true.
We had worked on the music for weeks, learning the intricacies of rhythm, pitch, blend, tempo, dynamics, feeling, phrasing and text. We'd labored over each piece and worked the trickier elements repeatedly. Still, I never feel quite ready to perform.
It's as if I want the music to invade every pore of my being. I want to breathe it, dream it, feel it in the pulsing of my heart. I want to know it so intimately that it simply flows from me, but that kind of mastery is very difficult to achieve, especially in just a few weeks and in the isolation of learning my bits at home alone. Then there is the challenge of producing the sound I hear in my mind faithfully, despite the limits of my natural voice and its training. The best I can usually do is to memorize large portions of the score and hope to only use my music as a subtle reminder of the details that escape me, while I watch and listen to see how the notes and text will be interpreted in the moment of performance.
That's one of the beauties of music; because it is performed by people, it is never exactly the same twice. Each instance of a piece is nuanced -- influenced by the mood of the conductor, the attentiveness of each choir member, the accidents of timing (such as the train that barged through the neighborhood with whistle blaring during an otherwise quiet moment in our first performance), and the energy in the room. If you are not truly in the moment, you miss the gift of that unique sonority and emotion that exists only there, only then.
I'm struck, as I sit here writing, by a deep feeling of contentment, and a deep feeling of loss. I have these moments only once, and I want their glow to illumine my soul long after the sound waves have died out and we're all resumed the business our lives.
Is it any wonder the angels sing before the King of heaven? Is it a mystery that music is the service perfect beings bring to the deity? Surely not. There's nothing that moves the soul so deeply. Nothing so transformative, when music reflects the highest calling we each possess: the calling to love as we are loved, overwhelmingly and perfectly.
Sometimes, in the moment when the cracks in my "professional" veneer begin to show, I find my voice quavering in emotion, and my eyes brimming with tears. I wonder to think that I have been given the gift to create something that is a reflection of the beauty of the very throne-room of God. I, so broken. I, so imperfect. I, so unequal to the task. Even now I am not quite composed.
I'm so grateful that God has given us tongues to sing His praises. I'm overwhelmed to think that we have been given a gift of such transcendence and power. I'm humbled to be allowed to participate in that gift so publicly. I'm honored to express part of my being I am in songs that display the tiniest glimpse of the glory of the Author and Source of all Being.
The echoes of this music won't leave my mind for weeks. Its deep reverberations may never depart my soul. Somehow, in the blending of voices in that one, fleeting moment, that music has become a part of who I am. What a gift.
A most perfect gift.
Friday, December 7, 2007
You'll Go Down in History...
Sometimes have to wonder if I have the power to curse sports teams merely by genuinely hoping they will win. I seem to have an uncanny knack for watching losing games or associating with losing teams.
I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.
Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.
By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.
I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).
I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.
Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.
It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.
It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.
For your reference:
N
I played soccer and T-ball as a kid, and I can assure you that my teams played strangely better when I was benched. Even with me benched, we were not championship material by a long shot. I didn't even make the basketball or volleyball teams in junior high, and, out of deference to my wounded pubescent pride, I couldn't watch the teams play that I had not been allowed to join, so they managed to avoid destruction by association.
Fast forward to high school. When I was attending La Serna, the school's football team won one game for each year I was there. Only one game. Per year. Total. I began to sit in the stands on the side of our cross-town rivals (one of my friends was the sister of their star quarterback), but my genuine hope that my team would rally was their undoing.
By then I had given up on making any teams, so I played sports only in P.E. class, and even my modest involvement there created fireworks. One of my few soccer matches in high school was also the occasion of suspension for one of my opponents. She kicked me in the (unprotected) shins three times before I got mad enough to return the favor. She then promised to visit revenge on me with her friends Maria, Maria and Maria, at which point I hightailed it to my guidance counselor's office. I was deemed faultless. She was suspended. Still, I think that soccer match had a rather abortive and not-at-all-satisfying ending.
I went to two sporting events while I attended UCLA: a football game lost to USC (and if you know California college politics, you will understand why this was particularly painful) and one basketball game, the outcome of which I can't remember (I was on a date with my husband-to-be, so I think I have an excuse).
I've been to a handful of professional sporting events in my life, and while my Dad, who was usually along, may have a more faithful memory of the outcome, I mostly remember requisitioning the binoculars so that I could watch fans on the opposite side of the arena. My lack of interest in the actual game, therefore, may not have brought the curse of the Nikbino to life.
Why bring up this topic now? Well, since moving here, I've noticed it flaring up again. We managed to watch the local professional soccer club lose (or at least not win) three matches in person. Then, since I have developed a genuine interest in hockey, every team I have adopted as a favorite has lost the game when I watched any portion of it on TV or in person.
It started with my first Hurricanes game. That one was lost decisively. Since then, I have watched about 10 hockey matches on TV. I adopted Dan's favorites where I didn't have one already, and the Kings, Ducks, Bruins, Senators and Hurricanes have lost every game I have watched in part or in whole. The Hurricanes have won one in that stretch of time -- the one that I couldn't watch because I was at choir rehearsal.
It's only a matter of time before someone in the Hurricanes organization discovers the truth. I can only hope they are feeling generous and offer to pay me lots of money to find a new hobby. I'm not sure I like the other alternatives... after all, a very traditional and important part of hockey is fighting, and I don't have a guidance counselor to run to this time.
For your reference:
N
R
S
Thursday, December 6, 2007
I'm fine, thank you.
When asked, "How are you?" I am the sort of person that is likely to give an honest answer, and often as not that answer will be somewhat less unflaggingly optimistic (or formality-bound, depending on your perspective) than the culturally mandatory "I'm fine, thank you."
I've tried to explain the weight of this cultural norm to a online friend who is learning English. He consistently answers "I'm okay" when I inquire about his wellbeing via instant messenger. His answer always prompts a "Why just okay?" from me, to which he then replies, "Nothing is wrong; that's just what I say."
That little exchange has become our own ritual. I suppose what I have unsuccessfully tried to convey to him is that until you really know how something will be understood culturally, in the context of the language and of the listener, the default reply is probably the best one. Still, I have this subtle expectation of honesty and accuracy where most of our culture seems to have none, and I have little respect for the prescribed reply once I have any respect for my conversation partner.
The fact is, I can nearly always find something to complain about, repeatedly and at length. I don't think this is a virtue -- it's more of a failing. But it also makes me me somehow. Still, even as curmudgeonly (realistic, pessimistic, depressive, melancholy... ?) as I am, there are moments in life when even I can't help but realize that I am, indeed, fine. One of those moments came last night.
It was about 8:00. Dinner had been consumed, work had been set aside for a few hours. I had soft yarn and slightly chilly knitting needles in my hands and comfy slippers on my feet. The lights were off, except for the hundreds of tiny white bulbs bedecking the newly-acquired Christmas tree and garlands. There was a warm orange glow and gentle crackling in the fireplace that took the bite out of the chill of the room. My husband, healthy except for the obligatory pre-concert sore throat, sat contentedly beside me on the couch, dividing his attention between the small, furry body snoring on his lap and the hockey game on the screen. My own lap was warmed by a larger purring cat who occasionally roused himself from his catnip dreams to take a swipe at my yarn.
I stilled my mind's constant scampering long enough to be in that moment, and I saw that the moment was beautiful. I stopped knitting, looked at Daniel, until he felt my gaze and turned to look back at me, and I told him that I loved being there with him in that moment.
And I did love it, because there, in that moment, it didn't matter what the bank account balance said, what we'd eat for dinner tomorrow, who would attend our concerts this weekend, what I would wear to a wedding next month, whether I would meet my deadline on Monday, what this or that person thought of me, what I said yesterday that I shouldn't have. Not my sins of omission and commission. Not our plans for life in 10 years. Not all of the things I should have done and didn't and did do and shouldn't have. None of it mattered.
In that moment was all of the contentment I long for when I am busy fretting about everything past and everything future.
I wonder how often I let these moments slip by without the slightest notice. Probably depressingly often. Still, I captured this one, and I will treasure it in my heart.
How am I?
I'm fine, thank you.
How are you?
I've tried to explain the weight of this cultural norm to a online friend who is learning English. He consistently answers "I'm okay" when I inquire about his wellbeing via instant messenger. His answer always prompts a "Why just okay?" from me, to which he then replies, "Nothing is wrong; that's just what I say."
That little exchange has become our own ritual. I suppose what I have unsuccessfully tried to convey to him is that until you really know how something will be understood culturally, in the context of the language and of the listener, the default reply is probably the best one. Still, I have this subtle expectation of honesty and accuracy where most of our culture seems to have none, and I have little respect for the prescribed reply once I have any respect for my conversation partner.
The fact is, I can nearly always find something to complain about, repeatedly and at length. I don't think this is a virtue -- it's more of a failing. But it also makes me me somehow. Still, even as curmudgeonly (realistic, pessimistic, depressive, melancholy... ?) as I am, there are moments in life when even I can't help but realize that I am, indeed, fine. One of those moments came last night.
It was about 8:00. Dinner had been consumed, work had been set aside for a few hours. I had soft yarn and slightly chilly knitting needles in my hands and comfy slippers on my feet. The lights were off, except for the hundreds of tiny white bulbs bedecking the newly-acquired Christmas tree and garlands. There was a warm orange glow and gentle crackling in the fireplace that took the bite out of the chill of the room. My husband, healthy except for the obligatory pre-concert sore throat, sat contentedly beside me on the couch, dividing his attention between the small, furry body snoring on his lap and the hockey game on the screen. My own lap was warmed by a larger purring cat who occasionally roused himself from his catnip dreams to take a swipe at my yarn.
I stilled my mind's constant scampering long enough to be in that moment, and I saw that the moment was beautiful. I stopped knitting, looked at Daniel, until he felt my gaze and turned to look back at me, and I told him that I loved being there with him in that moment.
And I did love it, because there, in that moment, it didn't matter what the bank account balance said, what we'd eat for dinner tomorrow, who would attend our concerts this weekend, what I would wear to a wedding next month, whether I would meet my deadline on Monday, what this or that person thought of me, what I said yesterday that I shouldn't have. Not my sins of omission and commission. Not our plans for life in 10 years. Not all of the things I should have done and didn't and did do and shouldn't have. None of it mattered.
In that moment was all of the contentment I long for when I am busy fretting about everything past and everything future.
I wonder how often I let these moments slip by without the slightest notice. Probably depressingly often. Still, I captured this one, and I will treasure it in my heart.
How am I?
I'm fine, thank you.
How are you?
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Turn about is fair play
Some months ago I wrote about how Daniel and I were taking dance lessons together. That was an exercise in Daniel trying to learn to do something that I already enjoy. Well, I figured it was my turn to invest myself in an activity Daniel already enjoys: ice skating.
I think I last ice skated when I was about 18. That would be, well, several years ago now. Even then, in my early youth, and when I still had some illusions of invincibility, my technique was flawless: I could grab walls, flail about and crash to the ground with the best of them. I have rather intense sense memories of the smell of the ice, the penetrating chill when I drew in a breath, the sting of ice-burned flesh and the unyielding, stinking, rented blue plastic skates, and no memory of anything like a comfortable glide. Back then, the figure in my skating was my still-slender and graceful teenage form. Now, the figure in my skating is a bit lumpy and awkward. I can hope the extra natural padding will make it a bit less life-threatening when I fall... repeatedly.
The local ice rink has public skating hours on Sunday afternoons, so we decided to go skating this past weekend. I prepared physically by throwing on layers of clothing, both for the padding and the warmth. I prepared mentally by adding my Hurricanes sweatshirt to the ensemble and vowing internally to let go of the dang wall at least a few times -- whatever the cost. I should have prepared spiritually by going to confession, but the time for that had passed, so I just whispered a quick prayer or two. Armed with gloves, a festive red scarf, my inhaler and as much chutzpah as I could muster, I hopped into the car.
Rental skates just ain't what they used to be... either that or this is a primo ice rink. Instead of stinking plastic, mine were made of stinking thick leather. Believe it or not, that simple fact made my day brighter. The first pair were way too big (my feet do not require their own zip codes) and the second pair were just about right, except that they felt a bit like an all-foot-encompassing vise grip and my feet started screaming bloody murder within about 3 minutes of touching blade to ice. Still, I was determined to get out there, and get out there I did.
It took me about 30 seconds to decide that the people who looked wobbly and awkward actually were wobbly and awkward, and my best bet was to look like I knew what I was doing. Perhaps this was my ice-skating-adaptation of the old adage that if you want to love someone, you should act like you already do, and you will find that you really do love them in the end. The funny part is that it worked. The more I focused on just being natural and copying the motion of the people who were at ease on the ice, the more fluidly I moved. I still had my moments of sheer panic when it was going so well that I made a bee-line for the wall because I was dead certain my luck wouldn't last. Daniel just smiled at me, took a lap or two while I rested between icy sprints, and took me by the hand. Somehow just holding his hand made the impossible (staying upright on the ice) seem attainable.
Finally, I made it all the way around the rink once without diving for the wall. Of course, I managed to fall just as I completed the circuit, but I found myself laughing, because as covered with ice-shavings and undignified as I was at that moment, I had reached a milestone. I had taken my first tumble and I had lived to tell the tale.
The downside of the experience was that my feet were so incredibly uncomfortable that I had to remove the skates to avoid tears. As long as the skates were on, the pain was inescapable and simply intolerable -- sitting or standing, it didn't matter. Daniel and I discussed the problem, and we talked to someone who knows a thing or two about skates. Together we decided that rental figure skates were a bad idea for me. They are made in only one width -- too narrow -- and they are molded to fit someone else's feet (or the feet of several someones by the time I got them). Since this is something I want to be able to do with Daniel, and rental skates would make it next to impossible for me, we decided to buy me some inexpensive hockey skates. Two shops and a receipt later, I am now the proud owner of spiffy cheap hockey skates that are wide enough for my feet! They still have something of a vise-grip quality, but they tell me that's just how it ought to be.
For the uninitiated, the padding in many hockey skates is made to soften some with intense heat and harden again when cooled. When you put skates on that have been subjected to that heat, the padding conforms somewhat to the contours of your feet and ankles, allowing for a more customized fit. Wearing baked skates provides a sensation quite unlike any I have ever experienced before, because I have never felt such intense, penetrating, pleasant heat on my feet in my life. I have decided that the next time my feet are cold, I am going to throw my skates in the oven. (Kidding. Kidding... but it is tempting).
As I sit and type, I have my skates on (with blade protectors, of course). I hope that by next time we skate (in two weeks, perhaps), I will have broken the skates in a little. Then I will make them show me what they can do.
I think my next purchase should be a helmet... and perhaps a life insurance policy.
I think I last ice skated when I was about 18. That would be, well, several years ago now. Even then, in my early youth, and when I still had some illusions of invincibility, my technique was flawless: I could grab walls, flail about and crash to the ground with the best of them. I have rather intense sense memories of the smell of the ice, the penetrating chill when I drew in a breath, the sting of ice-burned flesh and the unyielding, stinking, rented blue plastic skates, and no memory of anything like a comfortable glide. Back then, the figure in my skating was my still-slender and graceful teenage form. Now, the figure in my skating is a bit lumpy and awkward. I can hope the extra natural padding will make it a bit less life-threatening when I fall... repeatedly.
The local ice rink has public skating hours on Sunday afternoons, so we decided to go skating this past weekend. I prepared physically by throwing on layers of clothing, both for the padding and the warmth. I prepared mentally by adding my Hurricanes sweatshirt to the ensemble and vowing internally to let go of the dang wall at least a few times -- whatever the cost. I should have prepared spiritually by going to confession, but the time for that had passed, so I just whispered a quick prayer or two. Armed with gloves, a festive red scarf, my inhaler and as much chutzpah as I could muster, I hopped into the car.
Rental skates just ain't what they used to be... either that or this is a primo ice rink. Instead of stinking plastic, mine were made of stinking thick leather. Believe it or not, that simple fact made my day brighter. The first pair were way too big (my feet do not require their own zip codes) and the second pair were just about right, except that they felt a bit like an all-foot-encompassing vise grip and my feet started screaming bloody murder within about 3 minutes of touching blade to ice. Still, I was determined to get out there, and get out there I did.
It took me about 30 seconds to decide that the people who looked wobbly and awkward actually were wobbly and awkward, and my best bet was to look like I knew what I was doing. Perhaps this was my ice-skating-adaptation of the old adage that if you want to love someone, you should act like you already do, and you will find that you really do love them in the end. The funny part is that it worked. The more I focused on just being natural and copying the motion of the people who were at ease on the ice, the more fluidly I moved. I still had my moments of sheer panic when it was going so well that I made a bee-line for the wall because I was dead certain my luck wouldn't last. Daniel just smiled at me, took a lap or two while I rested between icy sprints, and took me by the hand. Somehow just holding his hand made the impossible (staying upright on the ice) seem attainable.
Finally, I made it all the way around the rink once without diving for the wall. Of course, I managed to fall just as I completed the circuit, but I found myself laughing, because as covered with ice-shavings and undignified as I was at that moment, I had reached a milestone. I had taken my first tumble and I had lived to tell the tale.
The downside of the experience was that my feet were so incredibly uncomfortable that I had to remove the skates to avoid tears. As long as the skates were on, the pain was inescapable and simply intolerable -- sitting or standing, it didn't matter. Daniel and I discussed the problem, and we talked to someone who knows a thing or two about skates. Together we decided that rental figure skates were a bad idea for me. They are made in only one width -- too narrow -- and they are molded to fit someone else's feet (or the feet of several someones by the time I got them). Since this is something I want to be able to do with Daniel, and rental skates would make it next to impossible for me, we decided to buy me some inexpensive hockey skates. Two shops and a receipt later, I am now the proud owner of spiffy cheap hockey skates that are wide enough for my feet! They still have something of a vise-grip quality, but they tell me that's just how it ought to be.
For the uninitiated, the padding in many hockey skates is made to soften some with intense heat and harden again when cooled. When you put skates on that have been subjected to that heat, the padding conforms somewhat to the contours of your feet and ankles, allowing for a more customized fit. Wearing baked skates provides a sensation quite unlike any I have ever experienced before, because I have never felt such intense, penetrating, pleasant heat on my feet in my life. I have decided that the next time my feet are cold, I am going to throw my skates in the oven. (Kidding. Kidding... but it is tempting).
As I sit and type, I have my skates on (with blade protectors, of course). I hope that by next time we skate (in two weeks, perhaps), I will have broken the skates in a little. Then I will make them show me what they can do.
I think my next purchase should be a helmet... and perhaps a life insurance policy.
Monday, December 3, 2007
To Thanksgiving and Beyond!
I have been remiss about really updating the blog. I suppose that is partly because I have been too busy living to write about the process. That's a nice thing, especially when the holidays are upon us and I might be rather lonely and homesick given less to do with my time. However, lest there is some confusion, I haven't written about the things that we have done that actually matter to me. South of the Border was just a sidebar to recent life, yet it, so far, has gotten nearly all of the blog time. I plan to rectify that here.
Thanksgiving day was a bit different for us this year. We were not able to travel to our various gatherings of immediate family, and our immediate families were not able to come here. That meant we were in for a rather quiet holiday. We'd talked about either going to the rescue mission in Raleigh to help, or just taking a day to vegetate on the couch over turkey TV dinners. Either option sounded fine to me, because I don't have specific expectations for holidays at this point in my life. I mean, we picked up and moved to the opposite coast of the US just under 5 months ago, so life is bound to be altered by that.
I have some wonderful extended family in the area here, but I opted not to say anything to them about our lack of "plans", mainly because I knew we'd be just fine spending a quiet holiday and that the last thing I wanted to do when we chose to move to the area was forever alter the dynamics of my family here and create a sense of obligation to include us in their plans. In the end, my aunt called with an invitation anyway and my cousin hosted a truly lovely dinner that we both enjoyed. I only regret that I had so little to do with its preparation! My extended family were very gracious to us, and, in the end, I am glad we didn't opt to isolate ourselves for the day.
Dinner was early - at noon - so that we could watch the Packers game. (You can take my family out of Wisconsin, but you can't take Wisconsin out of my family.) I'm not much of a football fan, but even I have a "Packer Cracker" (as in nutcracker) that hangs from our tree this time of year and have been known to don a hat shaped like a block of cheese for effect. Sensing that other members of the family wanted to watch the game with somewhat less divided attention, I happily took over book-reading duty for my cousin's adorable youngest son. He, clad in his miniature jersey, sat and read the better part of 26 picture books with me, keeping one ear on the rest of the room, so he could contribute shouts of "Touchdown" and "Brett Favre" when Green Bay scored. That is time well-spent, I'd say.
On Friday, we were off to the Charleston area to visit Jeff and Heather. Daniel and Jeff have been friends since college, and they were in a band together for several years, were roommates for a time and even took ice hockey lessons together. Needless to say, they have a lot of shared history and a lot of interests in common. Jeff is witty, talented and an excellent conversationalist, and a known quantity for us. I knew that his wife Heather was beautiful, but given that we had met her only once outside of their wedding, and that about 4 years ago, I was a little bit nervous about how well we would get along... especially because they had invited us to stay in their home with them. It turns out I had nothing to fear. Heather and I talked easily and had quite a lot in common. She's quirky in a very fun way, and she's every bit as clever and pleasant to be around as Jeff is.
Together, we ate, drank and were quite merry. Dan and Jeff reminisced and talked music, while Heather and I chatted and shopped. In short, our time spent there was great. We didn't want to go back home on Sunday, but work didn't leave us with other options.
Here's where I get mad at myself. I took some pictures of our time there and managed to delete them accidentally. *sigh* At least they are coming to visit us in late December (when the Carolina Hurricanes play the Boston Bruins), so maybe I will get a photographic reprieve.
The Thursday after we got back from Charleston, Daniel's mom came to visit. Hers was a short visit, but very nice. I am not sure how it happened, but we managed to spend most of the time she was here shopping and eating. (I am noticing a trend... and yes, we do occasionally do other things). I've been on deadline this week, so I didn't personally have as much time to spend together as I would have liked, but I think Daniel and his mom had some good opportunities to talk. Among other things, they walked into town together to browse the local antique shop, and we ate together at a very homey buffet restaurant in Fuquay-Varina--the sort of place that has regulars, plastic utensils, Southern "home-cooking" and its own distinctive culture. Fun stuff!
While Daniel and his mom were out shopping, Daniel picked up a mercifully sale-priced HDTV, and we got digital cable hooked up the next day, so we have spent a fair amount of time ogling the pretty new television and acclimating ourselves to the technology of this century. I should explain that this TV came about in a rather strange way: I decided to buy NHL Center Ice cable stations for Dan for Christmas. It turns out that you must have digital cable to get those stations, and that a fair number of the games are broadcast in high-definition. Facts such as these ended up making his Christmas present turn into a relatively major investment and the TV "our" present to each other, because it's a shame to waste HD coverage of sports when you have it available to you. Frankly, though, considering all he unselfishly does to preserve peace in this house, I think Daniel deserves much more than just the ability to watch hockey in HD for 5 months...
It's been a really great couple of weeks. We are very blessed.
Thanksgiving day was a bit different for us this year. We were not able to travel to our various gatherings of immediate family, and our immediate families were not able to come here. That meant we were in for a rather quiet holiday. We'd talked about either going to the rescue mission in Raleigh to help, or just taking a day to vegetate on the couch over turkey TV dinners. Either option sounded fine to me, because I don't have specific expectations for holidays at this point in my life. I mean, we picked up and moved to the opposite coast of the US just under 5 months ago, so life is bound to be altered by that.
I have some wonderful extended family in the area here, but I opted not to say anything to them about our lack of "plans", mainly because I knew we'd be just fine spending a quiet holiday and that the last thing I wanted to do when we chose to move to the area was forever alter the dynamics of my family here and create a sense of obligation to include us in their plans. In the end, my aunt called with an invitation anyway and my cousin hosted a truly lovely dinner that we both enjoyed. I only regret that I had so little to do with its preparation! My extended family were very gracious to us, and, in the end, I am glad we didn't opt to isolate ourselves for the day.
Dinner was early - at noon - so that we could watch the Packers game. (You can take my family out of Wisconsin, but you can't take Wisconsin out of my family.) I'm not much of a football fan, but even I have a "Packer Cracker" (as in nutcracker) that hangs from our tree this time of year and have been known to don a hat shaped like a block of cheese for effect. Sensing that other members of the family wanted to watch the game with somewhat less divided attention, I happily took over book-reading duty for my cousin's adorable youngest son. He, clad in his miniature jersey, sat and read the better part of 26 picture books with me, keeping one ear on the rest of the room, so he could contribute shouts of "Touchdown" and "Brett Favre" when Green Bay scored. That is time well-spent, I'd say.
On Friday, we were off to the Charleston area to visit Jeff and Heather. Daniel and Jeff have been friends since college, and they were in a band together for several years, were roommates for a time and even took ice hockey lessons together. Needless to say, they have a lot of shared history and a lot of interests in common. Jeff is witty, talented and an excellent conversationalist, and a known quantity for us. I knew that his wife Heather was beautiful, but given that we had met her only once outside of their wedding, and that about 4 years ago, I was a little bit nervous about how well we would get along... especially because they had invited us to stay in their home with them. It turns out I had nothing to fear. Heather and I talked easily and had quite a lot in common. She's quirky in a very fun way, and she's every bit as clever and pleasant to be around as Jeff is.
Together, we ate, drank and were quite merry. Dan and Jeff reminisced and talked music, while Heather and I chatted and shopped. In short, our time spent there was great. We didn't want to go back home on Sunday, but work didn't leave us with other options.
Here's where I get mad at myself. I took some pictures of our time there and managed to delete them accidentally. *sigh* At least they are coming to visit us in late December (when the Carolina Hurricanes play the Boston Bruins), so maybe I will get a photographic reprieve.
The Thursday after we got back from Charleston, Daniel's mom came to visit. Hers was a short visit, but very nice. I am not sure how it happened, but we managed to spend most of the time she was here shopping and eating. (I am noticing a trend... and yes, we do occasionally do other things). I've been on deadline this week, so I didn't personally have as much time to spend together as I would have liked, but I think Daniel and his mom had some good opportunities to talk. Among other things, they walked into town together to browse the local antique shop, and we ate together at a very homey buffet restaurant in Fuquay-Varina--the sort of place that has regulars, plastic utensils, Southern "home-cooking" and its own distinctive culture. Fun stuff!
While Daniel and his mom were out shopping, Daniel picked up a mercifully sale-priced HDTV, and we got digital cable hooked up the next day, so we have spent a fair amount of time ogling the pretty new television and acclimating ourselves to the technology of this century. I should explain that this TV came about in a rather strange way: I decided to buy NHL Center Ice cable stations for Dan for Christmas. It turns out that you must have digital cable to get those stations, and that a fair number of the games are broadcast in high-definition. Facts such as these ended up making his Christmas present turn into a relatively major investment and the TV "our" present to each other, because it's a shame to waste HD coverage of sports when you have it available to you. Frankly, though, considering all he unselfishly does to preserve peace in this house, I think Daniel deserves much more than just the ability to watch hockey in HD for 5 months...
It's been a really great couple of weeks. We are very blessed.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
The Perfect Sort of Weird
Daniel has a habit of breaking out laughing at me. Usually I have just done or said something utterly bizarre. (Yes, it happens often.) When I ask why he is laughing, he says "You are so weird. I love you. You are the perfect sort of weird for me!" Anyhow, Sunday marked the day we met six years ago. So, here, 2 days late and several dollars short, I dedicate this classic love song to the man who is the perfect sort of weird for me!
PIG LATIN SONG
(John D. Loudermilk)
BOB LUMAN (WARNER BROS. 5204, 1961)
Oink-oink, oink-oink
Two little piggies go walkin'
Two little piggies go talkin'
Down the lane, hand in hand each day
The he-piggy steals a kiss from her
And then starts to whisper
And this is what the little piggies say
Iay, Iay ovelay...
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Darling please tell me that we'll never never part
If you're not hip or if you don't understand
They're sayin' I love you in P-I-G-L-A-T-I-N
Oh yeah, Iay, Iay ovelay
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Darling please tell me that we'll never never part
Me and my baby go walkin'
Me and my baby go talkin'
Down the lane, hand in hand each day
I steal a kiss from her
And then we're startin' to whisper
And this is what, what we have to say
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Darling please tell me that we'll never never part
If you're not hip or if you don't understand
They're sayin' I love you in P-I-G-L-A-T-I-N
Oh yeah, Iay, Iay ovelay
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Iay ovelay ouyay ithway all of my heart
Darling please tell me that we'll never never part
Please tell me that we'll never never part
Please tell me that we'll never never part
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
South of the Border
Everyone knows that if you travel south of the border in California, you are headed to Mexico, commonly just referred to as "South of the Border". What most people do not know is that if you travel south of the border in North Carolina on I-95, you end up at "South of the Border" in Dillon, South Carolina. We used to live just over 2 hours North of the Mexican border, so this "attraction" about 2 hours South of our new home takes on a special poignancy.
Don't think you can miss the place. Indescribably tacky billboards announce its approach for over 60 miles in either direction (picture a giant 3-D wiener with the phrase "You never sausage a place" and you will get the idea), and the skyline is indelibly blighted by the Sombrero Tower, dubbed by some as the "Eiffel Tower of the South".
"Pedro", the mascot of "S. O. B.", would have you believe you have arrived in little Mexico (Tijuana comes to mind, sort of, in a very bizarre Dixie kind of way). In fact, it's a wonderland of fun if you like pseudo-Mexican kitsch, terrible puns, carnival rides at Pedroland, giant fiberglass animals and shop after shop of cheap molded plastic garbage masquerading as toys, clothing and dinnerware. Let's just say that we wondered quietly why human rights groups haven't lobbied to shut the place down, and we weren't terrifically surprised that we didn't see a single person that looked remotely Mexican for miles in any direction. Perhaps they prefer not to shop at "El Drug Store".
Still, we were looking to stretch our legs, use the restroom and get a bite to eat, and South of the Border turned out to be a great place for the former, an adequate place for the second, and a regrettable place for the latter, despite our decidedly low standards at that point in our journey.
This most interesting locale proved to be a rather accurate caricature of what many Americans think of when they think border-town Mexico. That is a fact I find mildly embarrassing, having spent about 3 months of my life in Mexico over the years. To quote a caricature of American culture, "Aye Caramba!" Rather than attempting further description, I think I will let my camera do the t
alking.
Don't think you can miss the place. Indescribably tacky billboards announce its approach for over 60 miles in either direction (picture a giant 3-D wiener with the phrase "You never sausage a place" and you will get the idea), and the skyline is indelibly blighted by the Sombrero Tower, dubbed by some as the "Eiffel Tower of the South".
"Pedro", the mascot of "S. O. B.", would have you believe you have arrived in little Mexico (Tijuana comes to mind, sort of, in a very bizarre Dixie kind of way). In fact, it's a wonderland of fun if you like pseudo-Mexican kitsch, terrible puns, carnival rides at Pedroland, giant fiberglass animals and shop after shop of cheap molded plastic garbage masquerading as toys, clothing and dinnerware. Let's just say that we wondered quietly why human rights groups haven't lobbied to shut the place down, and we weren't terrifically surprised that we didn't see a single person that looked remotely Mexican for miles in any direction. Perhaps they prefer not to shop at "El Drug Store".
Still, we were looking to stretch our legs, use the restroom and get a bite to eat, and South of the Border turned out to be a great place for the former, an adequate place for the second, and a regrettable place for the latter, despite our decidedly low standards at that point in our journey.
This most interesting locale proved to be a rather accurate caricature of what many Americans think of when they think border-town Mexico. That is a fact I find mildly embarrassing, having spent about 3 months of my life in Mexico over the years. To quote a caricature of American culture, "Aye Caramba!" Rather than attempting further description, I think I will let my camera do the t
alking.
Be Still and Know
If there was ever a time I deeply wanted to hear "no" in response to my question, it was one Sunday in early 2001. I was in college at the time, and I was in the middle of one of a string of unhealthy relationships. I was, once again, experiencing the desperation and dismay that only comes from reflecting on who I ought to be in Christ and who I actually am wrapped up in myself. I was going to confession every two weeks at the instructions of my confessor priest, and I was rather distraught by how many sins I could manage to commit in the short 14 days that would elapse before I would formally make my confession to Christ in the presence of this kindly priest.
It's not that I was an incredibly bad person. In fact, I am quite sure I never had to confess anything out of the common way for someone in my age and situation. But much of the reason I was at confession so often was because, this priest, in his wisdom, knew that I needed more frequent reminders of grace, forgiveness and love. It wasn't that I was so sinful as much as that I was so weak. He could see that I needed to unburden my soul of the weights I carried and watch them become nailed to the cross. I needed to hear the words, after a reminder of God's love and compassion, "Have no further anxiety; go in peace."
Have no further anxiety. Go in peace.
I think if you look up the word "anxiety" in the dictionary, you may find my picture as an illustration. I haven't the heart to look. It would probably only contribute to my anxiety. As for peace, I know not of what you speak. I cannot sit or stand without fidgeting, and the tell-tale jiggling of my leg and twitching of my fingers provide a pretty accurate glimpse of what my mind is doing not quite so visibly. I don't know how to be still. I don't know how to be peaceful. I don't know how to release the anxiety I feel about all of the aspects of my life -- including my sinful condition.
The faith I have embraced is not one of guilt. It isn't at all. In fact, Orthodoxy's emphasis is on the divine in mankind, not the damage. Ours is not a theology of depravity and damnation, but of a loving and compassionate Savior.
No, the guilt is mine. I carry it with me, fused to my soul like an extra limb: one that drags itself behind to slow progress whenever I, fragmented and conflicted, choose to move towards God. That limb is a convenient place to rest when I decide the struggle against it is too much.
That Sunday six years ago, I sat and asked my priest, in deadly seriousness, if the saints had something in them that I didn't. I've read the stories -- all of the amazing men and women who have become vessels of uncreated light and grace -- from the dawn of mankind to today. Surely they have something, some deep longing that is greater than the pull of temptation, some divine spark that grows into a flame, some preternatural force of will. My priest looked at me and answered, also deadly serious: "No."
I think he went on to explain, but I was too distracted by all the parts of "no" I understood to really listen to the rest. The impact of his words was clear. For we believe in a will that is free -- free to choose the right and good, and free sit idly by, a willing slave to sin. "No" means that I am not off the hook. "No" means that I am made to become holy as Christ is holy, and that if I am not, I have nobody but myself to blame, because I am free to run home to my Father, like the prodigal son who squandered his living. Home to my Father who will dress me in the finest clothing and kill the fatted calf.
I like my guilt. I must. It has been my friend and companion these 30-odd years. It provides me with a ready excuse: You want to be like who? Hahahaha. Good one. At least you still have your sense of humor. I've told you before, and I will tell you again, there is no way God has any use for a "Christian" like you. If you like, I can catalog for you all of the things you have done in the last week... no, I only need the last day to prove my point. Why bother repenting when you know you will do it again? And you will -- you will fail. Even now, while you have been listening to me, you've added to the list of failings.
On it drags. On it drones and drowns out the other voices, including the ones I most need to hear:
"I, even I, am the one who wipes out your transgressions for My own sake, And I will not remember your sins."
"Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more."
Hence the frequent reminder: Have no further anxiety. Go in peace.
"NO, there is nothing about you that is fundamentally different from those who love me to their martyrs' deaths. There is NO sin so great I cannot forgive it. There is NO offense I am unwilling to forget. It is you who cling to it, I can set you free."
It's not that I was an incredibly bad person. In fact, I am quite sure I never had to confess anything out of the common way for someone in my age and situation. But much of the reason I was at confession so often was because, this priest, in his wisdom, knew that I needed more frequent reminders of grace, forgiveness and love. It wasn't that I was so sinful as much as that I was so weak. He could see that I needed to unburden my soul of the weights I carried and watch them become nailed to the cross. I needed to hear the words, after a reminder of God's love and compassion, "Have no further anxiety; go in peace."
Have no further anxiety. Go in peace.
I think if you look up the word "anxiety" in the dictionary, you may find my picture as an illustration. I haven't the heart to look. It would probably only contribute to my anxiety. As for peace, I know not of what you speak. I cannot sit or stand without fidgeting, and the tell-tale jiggling of my leg and twitching of my fingers provide a pretty accurate glimpse of what my mind is doing not quite so visibly. I don't know how to be still. I don't know how to be peaceful. I don't know how to release the anxiety I feel about all of the aspects of my life -- including my sinful condition.
The faith I have embraced is not one of guilt. It isn't at all. In fact, Orthodoxy's emphasis is on the divine in mankind, not the damage. Ours is not a theology of depravity and damnation, but of a loving and compassionate Savior.
No, the guilt is mine. I carry it with me, fused to my soul like an extra limb: one that drags itself behind to slow progress whenever I, fragmented and conflicted, choose to move towards God. That limb is a convenient place to rest when I decide the struggle against it is too much.
That Sunday six years ago, I sat and asked my priest, in deadly seriousness, if the saints had something in them that I didn't. I've read the stories -- all of the amazing men and women who have become vessels of uncreated light and grace -- from the dawn of mankind to today. Surely they have something, some deep longing that is greater than the pull of temptation, some divine spark that grows into a flame, some preternatural force of will. My priest looked at me and answered, also deadly serious: "No."
I think he went on to explain, but I was too distracted by all the parts of "no" I understood to really listen to the rest. The impact of his words was clear. For we believe in a will that is free -- free to choose the right and good, and free sit idly by, a willing slave to sin. "No" means that I am not off the hook. "No" means that I am made to become holy as Christ is holy, and that if I am not, I have nobody but myself to blame, because I am free to run home to my Father, like the prodigal son who squandered his living. Home to my Father who will dress me in the finest clothing and kill the fatted calf.
I like my guilt. I must. It has been my friend and companion these 30-odd years. It provides me with a ready excuse: You want to be like who? Hahahaha. Good one. At least you still have your sense of humor. I've told you before, and I will tell you again, there is no way God has any use for a "Christian" like you. If you like, I can catalog for you all of the things you have done in the last week... no, I only need the last day to prove my point. Why bother repenting when you know you will do it again? And you will -- you will fail. Even now, while you have been listening to me, you've added to the list of failings.
On it drags. On it drones and drowns out the other voices, including the ones I most need to hear:
"I, even I, am the one who wipes out your transgressions for My own sake, And I will not remember your sins."
"Neither do I condemn you. Go and sin no more."
Hence the frequent reminder: Have no further anxiety. Go in peace.
"NO, there is nothing about you that is fundamentally different from those who love me to their martyrs' deaths. There is NO sin so great I cannot forgive it. There is NO offense I am unwilling to forget. It is you who cling to it, I can set you free."
Friday, November 23, 2007
For You This Thanksgiving
MooMoo nearly always has some portion of her tongue hanging out. This was a rather classic example.
But seriously ... We're very thankful for all of our friends and family and hope you have all had a blessed time of feasting and joy with those you love!
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Hooked
There have been many firsts in my life, but it seems I have rarely (since I was an infant and everything was new) had so many firsts in the space of a few months. Of course, the new things seem to have multiplied some when I got married anyway. Daniel had plenty of interests that I didn't yet share and together we have found reasons to go new places and try new things. He took me to my first opera. He has been with me for my first trips to London, Dublin, Savannah, Charleston, Philadelphia and other fun places. He was with me for my first soccer game. And, tonight, in the midst of my first "real" fall, I had another first: my first hockey game.
Mind you, I have never even watched a full hockey game on television before. I have watched a few minutes, yes, but not a full game. I didn't know what high sticking was, or what power plays were, or that goal tenders seem to enjoy turning themselves into pretzels at the first hint of an incoming puck. I couldn't have told you that a double minor was a relatively major penalty, that the linesmen (the referee-types without orange armbands) were known to do graceful leaps to avoid becoming obstacles, that players hop in and out of the game like they might get hit by lightening if they stay on the ice more than 25 seconds at a stretch, or that hockey fans are at least as fanatical as their counterparts in other sports.
I knew so little, in fact, that I asked a friend who had attended a hockey game a few days ago to tell me how cool it is in the arena. He informed me that it is a little cool by my standards (he's used to sub-zero temps where he's from and has been seen wandering around in short sleeves when it's 35F outside and I am bundled up like a blizzard may flatten me at any moment). He assured me, however, that if I stood up and cheered properly, I would be fine.
Cheering properly? Well, maybe I could get that right. I *did* know enough to cheer for the home team. Still, at the beginning, I sometimes wasn't sure why, exactly, in that I couldn't have told you why whatever acrobatic or violent thing had just occurred on the ice was laudable. Nor did I understand precisely why I was chanting "Ref, you suck" with all of the black-and-red clad folks around me.
We were 8 rows from the ice and plenty close to the spot where the players repeatedly slam into the glass when they are trying to keep the opponent from passing the puck out of the corner to a teammate out in front of the goal. That was a sight, and sound. But there were other sights and sounds right there in the stands. We were also one row and an aisle from some of the people I will refer to as "donkeys" who were rooting for the wrong team. They even managed to make the otherwise cute and intelligent children in front of them root for the wrong team. This provoked silly comments from the fans behind me and was more than mildly annoying when the other team scored. But why should I care?
I was giggling at "Come on... we all know Philadelphians don't have sticks long enough to grab onto" from the die-hard fans behind me, directed at the guys across the aisle, when the woman on the other side of Daniel asked, "Is this your first hockey game?" I had to admit it was, and I was promptly informed by three of the fans around me that it gets worse (or better, depending on how you look at it).
Well, it got better. And it got worse. The better part was that I began to have a clue and even found myself spontaneously standing and yelling at the right moments. I even understood why the man behind me yelled "Get your head out of your a**, ref... you are missing a good game here." The "it got worse" part is that the good guys played badly. Very badly. Even I could tell it wasn't working.
As the game drew to a close, I leaned over to the woman who had inquired about my newbie status and said, "I am not even a real fan yet and I have already lost my voice." She smiled and replied, "It doesn't take long to get hooked." She's right. I think I may be hooked. Daniel smiled when I said as much as we were leaving.
I left wrapped in a cozy oversized Hurricanes sweatshirt and in possession of a working knowledge of the Hurricanes lineup. Cullen, Wallin, Williams, Brind'Amour, Ladd, Staal, Ward, Stillman, Walker ... Don't you silly hockey players know that hooking is a penalty? To the penalty box with all of you! (But thanks for the rather costly lessons in cheering properly -- and please have the decency to win next time!)
Mind you, I have never even watched a full hockey game on television before. I have watched a few minutes, yes, but not a full game. I didn't know what high sticking was, or what power plays were, or that goal tenders seem to enjoy turning themselves into pretzels at the first hint of an incoming puck. I couldn't have told you that a double minor was a relatively major penalty, that the linesmen (the referee-types without orange armbands) were known to do graceful leaps to avoid becoming obstacles, that players hop in and out of the game like they might get hit by lightening if they stay on the ice more than 25 seconds at a stretch, or that hockey fans are at least as fanatical as their counterparts in other sports.
I knew so little, in fact, that I asked a friend who had attended a hockey game a few days ago to tell me how cool it is in the arena. He informed me that it is a little cool by my standards (he's used to sub-zero temps where he's from and has been seen wandering around in short sleeves when it's 35F outside and I am bundled up like a blizzard may flatten me at any moment). He assured me, however, that if I stood up and cheered properly, I would be fine.
Cheering properly? Well, maybe I could get that right. I *did* know enough to cheer for the home team. Still, at the beginning, I sometimes wasn't sure why, exactly, in that I couldn't have told you why whatever acrobatic or violent thing had just occurred on the ice was laudable. Nor did I understand precisely why I was chanting "Ref, you suck" with all of the black-and-red clad folks around me.
We were 8 rows from the ice and plenty close to the spot where the players repeatedly slam into the glass when they are trying to keep the opponent from passing the puck out of the corner to a teammate out in front of the goal. That was a sight, and sound. But there were other sights and sounds right there in the stands. We were also one row and an aisle from some of the people I will refer to as "donkeys" who were rooting for the wrong team. They even managed to make the otherwise cute and intelligent children in front of them root for the wrong team. This provoked silly comments from the fans behind me and was more than mildly annoying when the other team scored. But why should I care?
I was giggling at "Come on... we all know Philadelphians don't have sticks long enough to grab onto" from the die-hard fans behind me, directed at the guys across the aisle, when the woman on the other side of Daniel asked, "Is this your first hockey game?" I had to admit it was, and I was promptly informed by three of the fans around me that it gets worse (or better, depending on how you look at it).
Well, it got better. And it got worse. The better part was that I began to have a clue and even found myself spontaneously standing and yelling at the right moments. I even understood why the man behind me yelled "Get your head out of your a**, ref... you are missing a good game here." The "it got worse" part is that the good guys played badly. Very badly. Even I could tell it wasn't working.
As the game drew to a close, I leaned over to the woman who had inquired about my newbie status and said, "I am not even a real fan yet and I have already lost my voice." She smiled and replied, "It doesn't take long to get hooked." She's right. I think I may be hooked. Daniel smiled when I said as much as we were leaving.
I left wrapped in a cozy oversized Hurricanes sweatshirt and in possession of a working knowledge of the Hurricanes lineup. Cullen, Wallin, Williams, Brind'Amour, Ladd, Staal, Ward, Stillman, Walker ... Don't you silly hockey players know that hooking is a penalty? To the penalty box with all of you! (But thanks for the rather costly lessons in cheering properly -- and please have the decency to win next time!)
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Self-loathing and Vindication
“How often we recall, with regret, that Napoleon once shot at a magazine editor and missed him and killed a publisher. But we remember with charity that his intentions were good.”
~ Mark Twain
I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I adore words and I have great affection for writers. The problem is that this particular pair of loves sometimes feels like it was modeled after God and Mammon.
Some weeks ago I was sent a book to review with the idea that we would print an excerpt. I opened it expectantly. I had not read more than a page or two before the dreaded realization hit me that the book had not been professionally edited before publication. That, or it had been poorly edited and somebody had been ripped off. I hate that. I especially hate it when I deeply want to like the book on its other merits.
Here's where the realist in me sits myself down for a firm talking-to. I can't seem to manage to write a single blog post without some infelicity or error, so what business have I meddling in other people's writing? I suppose the answer is principally economic: I get paid to meddle.
I imagine the authors I work with have a rather love-hate relationship with me, too. I sometimes get the "That's perfect - it is exactly what I was trying to say!" response. I've even been told that I am the best editor a particular writer has ever worked with. The pessimist in me wonders if that statement hinges on a single fact that makes anything said in that particular form true, much the way my dear husband's admission that I am his "very best wife ever" is just as true as the statement he never utters that I am his "very worst wife ever." Meanwhile, the cynic in me starts looking for whatever it is the author wants from me. Perhaps, in my short career, I already feel I have dodged a bullet or two.
I very rarely get the feeling that an author hates my guts. The pragmatist in me believes this is principally because authors are so skilled with words and so clever in general that they can mask their venom and simply decide to never work with me again. However, I am sometimes struck by the conviction that what I have done in daring to touch someone's work is somehow reprehensible, whether or not the writer comes out and says it.
Oh phooey, I'll be out with it!
I hate editors.
I am an editor.
My logic classes at UCLA notwithstanding, I suppose that means I have some degree of self-loathing.
In my volunteer library job, I am sometimes asked to "weed" books that have a high number of "circs." This means that I get to find a designated book on the shelf, look at it briefly, and decide whether to consign it to the shredder or grant it a reprieve. I talked with one of my fellow volunteers about the feelings this particular job evokes. We tend to come up with the same sort of words to describe what we become when we do what we must do: inquisitor, executioner, tyrant ... In short, we become firemen worthy of Bradbury's dim future. Sentencing books to death makes us animals.
Sometimes (when I am NOT giddy with the power -- who am I kidding? I am seldom giddy with it, I am more often sick with it) editing evokes the same feelings. I must juggle the righteous indignation provoked by would-be words and sentences that affront the reader and the those unshakable feelings that creative efforts just oughtn't be touched.
I sat down early this morning to craft an email to the author before I started my day officially and, more to the point, before I lost my nerve. I had put it off for several days. Basically, my assessment boiled down to four words: Great material, terrible editing. Conflicted as I was, I couldn't bring myself to just come out and say it in those words.
The book has printed. It is already selling. My summation of the editing situation is likely to be as welcome as a hairball on the new beige carpet.
I eventually wrote a rather apologetic and lengthy email essentially asking if I can edit the heck out of a passage and call it an "adaptation." I sat and rewrote and reviewed and revised and revisited my message for a good 20 minutes. I read it out loud, imagining how my words would sound to me if I had written the book and found this message sitting in my inbox. Finally, I pressed send and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, waiting for that lightening bolt to hit.
When I realized I had been spared God's immediate vengeance, I got back to some of the things I needed to do, such as buying a few groceries for dinner. I walked into the store -- the nice boutique grocer with upscale products and uptown prices that happens to be conveniently located -- and was greeted by a sign: "Try Are Clementines." My coworker from Tennessee reminded me that it could have been worse. If he had written the sign the way he actually says those words, it would have read "Try Air Clementines."
In a moment it dawned on me: I am an angel of mercy. I have a purpose. I can do more than cause writers pain. I can bring grammatical light to the darkness of modern prose. Besides... I am right, darn it!
I got home to find an email waiting for me. The author was very gracious and was perfectly willing to let me adapt the material. The message closed with a few words in parenthesis:
(And you're correct -- the book needed editing and we should have had it sent out).
The editor in me is vindicated.
~ Mark Twain
I have a love-hate relationship with my job. I adore words and I have great affection for writers. The problem is that this particular pair of loves sometimes feels like it was modeled after God and Mammon.
Some weeks ago I was sent a book to review with the idea that we would print an excerpt. I opened it expectantly. I had not read more than a page or two before the dreaded realization hit me that the book had not been professionally edited before publication. That, or it had been poorly edited and somebody had been ripped off. I hate that. I especially hate it when I deeply want to like the book on its other merits.
Here's where the realist in me sits myself down for a firm talking-to. I can't seem to manage to write a single blog post without some infelicity or error, so what business have I meddling in other people's writing? I suppose the answer is principally economic: I get paid to meddle.
I imagine the authors I work with have a rather love-hate relationship with me, too. I sometimes get the "That's perfect - it is exactly what I was trying to say!" response. I've even been told that I am the best editor a particular writer has ever worked with. The pessimist in me wonders if that statement hinges on a single fact that makes anything said in that particular form true, much the way my dear husband's admission that I am his "very best wife ever" is just as true as the statement he never utters that I am his "very worst wife ever." Meanwhile, the cynic in me starts looking for whatever it is the author wants from me. Perhaps, in my short career, I already feel I have dodged a bullet or two.
I very rarely get the feeling that an author hates my guts. The pragmatist in me believes this is principally because authors are so skilled with words and so clever in general that they can mask their venom and simply decide to never work with me again. However, I am sometimes struck by the conviction that what I have done in daring to touch someone's work is somehow reprehensible, whether or not the writer comes out and says it.
Oh phooey, I'll be out with it!
I hate editors.
I am an editor.
My logic classes at UCLA notwithstanding, I suppose that means I have some degree of self-loathing.
In my volunteer library job, I am sometimes asked to "weed" books that have a high number of "circs." This means that I get to find a designated book on the shelf, look at it briefly, and decide whether to consign it to the shredder or grant it a reprieve. I talked with one of my fellow volunteers about the feelings this particular job evokes. We tend to come up with the same sort of words to describe what we become when we do what we must do: inquisitor, executioner, tyrant ... In short, we become firemen worthy of Bradbury's dim future. Sentencing books to death makes us animals.
Sometimes (when I am NOT giddy with the power -- who am I kidding? I am seldom giddy with it, I am more often sick with it) editing evokes the same feelings. I must juggle the righteous indignation provoked by would-be words and sentences that affront the reader and the those unshakable feelings that creative efforts just oughtn't be touched.
I sat down early this morning to craft an email to the author before I started my day officially and, more to the point, before I lost my nerve. I had put it off for several days. Basically, my assessment boiled down to four words: Great material, terrible editing. Conflicted as I was, I couldn't bring myself to just come out and say it in those words.
The book has printed. It is already selling. My summation of the editing situation is likely to be as welcome as a hairball on the new beige carpet.
I eventually wrote a rather apologetic and lengthy email essentially asking if I can edit the heck out of a passage and call it an "adaptation." I sat and rewrote and reviewed and revised and revisited my message for a good 20 minutes. I read it out loud, imagining how my words would sound to me if I had written the book and found this message sitting in my inbox. Finally, I pressed send and squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, waiting for that lightening bolt to hit.
When I realized I had been spared God's immediate vengeance, I got back to some of the things I needed to do, such as buying a few groceries for dinner. I walked into the store -- the nice boutique grocer with upscale products and uptown prices that happens to be conveniently located -- and was greeted by a sign: "Try Are Clementines." My coworker from Tennessee reminded me that it could have been worse. If he had written the sign the way he actually says those words, it would have read "Try Air Clementines."
In a moment it dawned on me: I am an angel of mercy. I have a purpose. I can do more than cause writers pain. I can bring grammatical light to the darkness of modern prose. Besides... I am right, darn it!
I got home to find an email waiting for me. The author was very gracious and was perfectly willing to let me adapt the material. The message closed with a few words in parenthesis:
(And you're correct -- the book needed editing and we should have had it sent out).
The editor in me is vindicated.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Conversations
Daniel: One thing
I just heard a bit of wisdom
sounds like A---'s wife just hit a deer
NIKKI: oooh
Daniel: the advice B--- gave is
don't wash the blood off the car
that way you can prove to the insurance co. that it was a deer
NIKKI: lol
okay
Daniel: Apparently the deer hit the windshield, and now there's glass in the backseat
NIKKI: I would be most upset about the deer
Daniel: bizarre. She hit the deer in mid-leap
she was in an SUV, and the deer hit the windshield and roof
NIKKI: yikes
I love you.
Please don't hit any deer, dear.
Daniel: fine then.
you always take away all my fun.
NIKKI: I try.
:P
Daniel: such is your wifely duty.
------------
Daniel and I have a long tradition, stretching back to the first week of our acquaintance -- when I was in Los Angeles and he was almost two hours away -- of communicating during the days or evenings apart via instant messaging programs. I have now-vague memories of joking about tambourines with ribbons and spirited praise songs in the online time spent together between our first meeting and our first date. It's how we got to know each other when the distance and our responsibilities kept us apart. I mean, this was, after all, the relationship that commenced with "May I email you?"
Of course, we know each other pretty well by now, but it still seems perfectly normal to us to exchange laughter, information and even endearments via text on a screen. It gives us no pause. It's just something we do, like reading a book together in the evenings, watching CSI or The Simpsons from the love-seat during dinner, going to lunch together when we worked in the same office, and talking about the big and small wrinkles in our lives before we drift off to sleep.
On Sunday the two of us stood chatting with a bunch of mostly young mothers as their children threw branches at each other on the lawn. Somehow the topic of communicating with spouses during the day came up. Most of these women are stay-at-home moms who use phones to make the occasional call to their office-working husbands. One mentioned the sometimes "I can't talk now" response that greets her spoken "I love you" as one of the hazards of work-day calls. There was some debate whether a typed "I love you", greeted by the same, was inferior when there are phones that can convey the voice in all of its intimacy and reality.
I'm not sure it matters to Dan or to me what is "better." I think what we value is all of the ways we can carry on the constant, though admittedly intermittent, conversation of our lives.
I just finished Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking -- the memoir she wrote in reflection on the year of her life that followed the sudden death of her husband, John Gregory Dunne. As is our custom, I would read passages from the book to Daniel that struck me as I read. In this book, there were quite a lot of things that had that effect. I read the first three chapters while soaking in the bath, and by the time Dan wandered in to check on me or tell me something, my toes were raisins, my eyes were glowing red orbs and my face was damp, ruddy and tear-streaked. He took one look at me, asked what was wrong, and plopped down on the toilet seat to listen.
Such is his husbandly duty.
Perhaps the book resonated with me because, as Dan put it, "Her magical thinking is much like yours. I can see you doing and thinking the same things."
"Read, learn, work it up, go to the literature.
Information is control."
I think he's right, as much I can imagine what I might be like without him. The truth is that neither of us knows what we might be like facing an empty house, clothes without anyone to wear them, half-finished projects and reminders everywhere that we were once not so desperately empty and alone.
I think another reason for that reaction is how much of our own marriage I saw in their relationship as described by Joan. I recognized that constant conversation, which, for them, both writers working at home, happened most often in person:
"I could not count the times during the average day when something would come up that I needed to tell him. This impulse didn't end with his death. What ended was the possibility of response. I read something in the paper I would normally have read to him. I notice some change in the neighborhood that would interest him [...] I recall coming in from Central Park one morning in mid-August with urgent news to report: the deep summer green is already changing. We need to make a plan for the fall, I remember thinking. We need to decide where we want to be at Thanksgiving, Christmas, the end of the year.
I am dropping my keys on the table inside the door before I fully remember. There is no one to hear this news, nowhere to go with the unmade plan, the uncompleted thought. There is no one to agree, disagree, talk back."
By the grace of God, our conversation continues. Sometimes it is rather mundane and irrelevant.
Daniel: I see the Britney saga never ends... now a celeb-watch website has posted video of her running a red light with the kids in the car
it's like watching a train wreck, I tell ya
Daniel: too true
Sometimes it is deep, serious and life-changing.
all red
2005 Wine Club #4 (34% Cab Franc, 33% Malbec, 33% Pt. Verdot)
2005 Tre Vini (50% Sangiovese, 27% Cab, Sauv., 23% Malbec)
Daniel: awesome!
NIKKI: Mr. Orange-cat just came calling at the front porch
Daniel: fun
NIKKI: except Monkey growled at orange cat
which made Moomoo mad
because Moomoo didn't see orange cat
so Moomoo got riled and took it out on Monkey
hissing and swatting at him
Daniel: she's so high strung
NIKKI: yes
well, it was upsetting
he howled
Daniel: did she eventually see Mr. Orange?
NIKKI: nope
I tried to explain, though
lol
Daniel: Now is when you need an electronically-controlled squirtgun on the porch
NIKKI: lol
NIKKI: haha
What matters is that the conversation keeps going as long as we are given to carry it on. So, I just keep talking, chatting, calling and loving... whenever I have a moment to do so.
Such is my wifely privilege.
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