It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

What do my kids say?

I worry about what my kids say in public. 

Most parents reading that sentence are probably having one of two reactions.  The honest ones are thinking, “Oh, God, me too!” while those who prefer not to look too closely behind the curtains of their own lives are saying, “Well, then maybe you should raise them better and stop polluting their minds.”

It might come as a surprise to realize that I’m more closely aligning myself with the second set of parents here, but not in the ways you might think.  I don’t worry about the following things:

• Whether my kids have picked up swear words that they might pass along – They have
• Whether my kids will talk about the R rated movies they’ve seen – They will
• Whether they’ll pass along their knowledge of reproductive anatomy or physiology – Oh, well, at least they know the correct terminology.
• Whether they’ll out us for “always going to fast food restaurants for treats” – In my kids’ collective mind, more than once = “always”

I worry more about the value judgments they absorb from us, and how they convey those judgments to the rest of the world.  If there is one lesson in life that I would really like to give them, it is that every person has his own story.  The problem with this is that I also want them to understand that evil and malice do exist in the world and that it is the responsibility of every person to confront injustice.  Reconciling those two ideals becomes, for me, a giant, tangled, who-gave-the-ferret-the-yarn mess.

Mike and I are not perfect, and yeah, I do worry that our children might pick up something that slipped from our mouths in a moment of anger, irritation, irreverence, or sheer stupidity.  But, overall, I think of those things like viruses – something that may cause a transient infection but will be eradicated if the patient is generally healthy.  I believe that when parents try, most of the time, to live and speak the lives they want for their children, that is largely what the children will learn.  But, I worry about the hidden lessons, about the stories that my kids will take away that are right for our family but may not fit another household.

Here, let me give you three examples: two are moments when my children passed along things from our family – with different results, and one where another family’s values intruded on ours.

If you’ve read this blog for a while, then you probably realize that religion holds a somewhat tentative place in our house.  Mike is pretty opposed to organized religion, and while I was confirmed Catholic, I’ve fallen away from the Church whose teachings differ so drastically from my core values.  As a result, our kids have been raised with a pretty sketchy idea of theology.  My general message to them has been that I believe that all religions – throughout history and cultures – are ways of coming toward the same basic truths.  In this, we’ve tried to teach them to respect everyone’s religious beliefs.  Well, that hasn’t always worked.

Caitlin has considered herself a polytheist for several years.  She tends to favor the ancient Greek pantheon, but will consider the influence of the Egyptians.  She has no patience for the notion of one omnipotent and perfect deity.  She prefers the concept of a number of gods, flawed in human ways, and fulfilling different roles.  Since Caitlin is also typically opposed to sharing information with others except on a need to know basis, her beliefs haven’t generally been a problem.  A couple of years ago, however, she came home from school with one of those stories that made me wince.

Somehow she had wound up in a religious debate with a classmate in which she insisted that the Greek gods are real while the classmate, offended, said that the Greek pantheon were myth and that “there is no God but God.”  This was the point where things fractured a bit.  Caitlin, always ready for a good, speculative argument, demanded, “Well, what if the Greek gods are real and your God is imaginary?”

I’m still grateful not to have received an irate parent phone call on that one…

Incident number 2 took place in our car a year or so ago.  Aidan and two of his friends were riding in the back seat of our van while I was driving and trying not to listen to the 3^rd grade boy dialogue.  No one should have to listen to boys who somehow consider themselves out of earshot.   In my attempt to drown out the fart-jokes with internal white noise, I missed the beginning of the conversation.  My attention focused when I heard one of the boys say,

“That’s so gay!”

Aidan didn’t miss a beat.  “What’s wrong with that?”

“Huh?”  The conversation stopped.

“What’s wrong with being gay,” he asked.

Neither boy had an answer, other than a muttered “nothing,” so the world returned to methane-based humor.

My initial, and current, reaction was pride in my son.  I was proud of him for speaking out against a stereotype, and I was proud of him for breaking from the group to look at his own values.  Usually we worry that if one of his buddies said, “Hey, let’s go jump off that bridge,” Aidan would be the first one over the rail.

But, part of me wonders.  Where do we draw the line in speaking out for our beliefs?  Is it more right for my son to assert his value that no way of being should be used as an insult than it is for my daughter’s classmate to try to impose his belief in a single, omnipotent God on her, or her to impose her polytheism on him?  Part of me says, well, of course.  The one is speaking out against injustice while the other shows a disrespect for someone else’s religion.  But, is it ultimately the same thing?

Now, I happen to know the parents of both my son’s friends well, and I’m reasonably confident that none of them would be okay with their offspring using “gay” as a pejorative.  But what if one of those boys had belonged to a family who truly believed homosexuality to be a sin?  I would argue that Aidan was simply asking, “What is wrong with being gay?” and that his intent was to say that it’s not okay to use someone’s identity as a slur, but might not the hypothetical parent view the conversation as an attempt by my son to impose his beliefs on others?  I don’t know.

The third incident may explain some of this further.  While we generally try to provide a healthy balance of foods for our kids – we receive a weekly “farm box” from a local CSA program, we don’t stock fluorescent orange chips except as a special treat maybe twice a year, the bags of Halloween candy last longer than the twelve months between trick-or-treats, and a fruit or vegetable is mandatory in every lunch – Mike and I aren’t fanatic about every ingredient or product that crosses the kitchen threshold.  Sierra may have a whole-grain flour, nut, and raisin bar from Trader Joe’s with a glass of Kefir for breakfast but a Skippy peanut butter and Smuckers strawberry jam on white bread (with the crusts cut off) sandwich in her lunch.  (This week, these are her menu items of choice.)

Most of the time Sierra, like her siblings, packs her own lunch.  And for a first grader, I think she does a damn good job.  Her typical lunch involves the aforementioned sandwich (sometimes she mixes it up and has leftovers in a thermos jar), a pack of dried seaweed, a container of Pirate’s Booty, and a piece of fruit.  Nutrition-wise, I’d have to say, “not bad.”  She’s got her protein, her carbs, multiple vitamins and minerals, and nothing super-processed or with a lot of ingredients whose chemical structures were the stuff of my undergraduate nightmares.

You may have noticed that first graders are not into nuance.  Shade of grey tend to fall into two camps for the seven-year-old: black or white, good or bad, right or wrong, healthy or bad-for-you.

Knowing this, I shouldn’t have been surprised when Sierra came home a couple of months ago saying, “We need to buy a different kind of seaweed.”

Ok, not a comment I would have expected to hear in my former, non-kelp-purchasing, kid-free life.  But, what really threw me was the next line.

“M says that the kind of seaweed I bring in my lunch is bad for you.”

My first reaction was a series of three-letter acronyms for expletives.  Seriously?  Some kid had decided that our brand of seaweed is unhealthy?  What sort of freaky universe was this?  Could someone please choke that child with a Twinkie?

I’ll admit it – we did double check the sodium content (the only potential unhealthy thing I could think of).  It was fine.  As I type this, I feel like an idiot.  What kind of adult allows a 7 year old to influence her perception of how she feeds her children?

Well, we’re nearing the end of the school year, but M is still at it.  Last week, Sierra was visibly upset (since this child’s default expression is a huge grin, upset isn’t exactly hard to discern.)  Sure enough, “M still says that my lunches aren’t healthy.  Now he’s saying that my sandwich is bad for me.”

Aidan, from the back seat, made the noise beloved of pre-teen boys – that sort of cough, laugh, vocal fart that indicates a level of derision un-expressible by words.  “What the heck is wrong with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”  I have to give Aidan credit; he may rain a torrent of judgment down on Sierra, but other kids are not allowed to make his little sister feel bad.

“He says that the kind of bread we buy is bad.”

Ok, well, white bread criticism makes a bit more sense to me than seaweed-critique, but I was becoming annoyed.  Biting back a number of comments that would not endear me to the 1^st grade parent body, I dredged up, “Well, anything is bad for you in the wrong amount.  Even water can be bad for you if you drink too much of it.  The important thing is eating a reasonable amount of each kind of food.”

This is our default answer to junk food, why pizza is not a vegetable, whether soda=poison, and any other random nutritional question.

So here is my quandary.  M and his family obviously had nutritional right on their side in the white bread question.  Realistically there isn’t anything healthy about the sandwich bread Sierra eats.  (I’ve learned to pick nutritional battles because I fear that if my children decide that cannibalism is the only reasonable antidote to whole grains, I will be the first menu item.)  However, where is the line between M being informed about healthy foods, M educating his friends, and another family’s way of life trampling all over ours?

And where do my kids draw the line?  When does their belief in freedom of religion collide with someone else’s values?  And where does indignation over a slur become telling someone else how to live?

I don’t really know.  I haven’t answered these questions for myself yet.  And so, I do worry about what my kids pass along.

Epiphany

Wikipedia has two entries for the word “epiphany” – epiphany (feeling) and Epiphany (the holiday.)  Deriving from the Greek epiphaneia, meaning ‘manifestation, striking appearance,’ epiphany encompasses that feeling of the “aha!” moment, the often fleeting instant when everything clicks.  In Christian tradition, Epiphany falls on January 6 and celebrates the revelation of Jesus to the Gentiles as the Christ, primarily through the visit of the Magi or “Wise Men.”

Maybe it’s the time of year, but my brain can’t help combining these thoughts into my own definition of epiphany – the visitation of wisdom.  To call me an intuitive thinker might be an understatement; my brain has a hard time tracing a thought from point A to point B in any sort of stepwise fashion – it tends to be easily distracted by shiny objects.  As such, I often rely overmuch on moments of epiphany as admittedly lazy intellectual shortcuts.  It’s easier for me to look for the flash of insight than to work my way stepwise through a problem.  Sometimes this approach works, giving me the perfect spark of creativity or a brilliant moment of clarity.  Often, though, it leads down a path of false conclusions.

As in almost everything else, it comes down to balance, leaving room for the moments of epiphany – the “Aha!” bursts of creativity and insight – yet still doing the work to verify the conclusion.  And, as in so many things, I’m beginning to learn this lesson from my children.

Waldorf parents often find ourselves in a perpetual state of justification – justifying paying private school tuition despite cutting every other corner of the family budget (a particularly difficult justification in a city like Davis with a renowned public school system), justifying why our 7 year olds can’t yet read, justifying the weird aversion to television and video games, justifying school festivals layered with incomprehensible overtones of both Paganism and Christianity.  Much of the time, these conversations hinge around the points that draw most parents to Waldorf education, the pieces from the beginning.

Nurturing, creative, appreciation for the arts, peaceful, wholesome, low-tech, age-appropriate – these terms and many more are thrown about when the parents of young Waldorf students gather.  Waldorf education is hugely attractive to parents who worry about their children being “taught to the test,” to parents who have read horror stories about over-scheduled, over-stressed children since the line on the stick turned pink, to parents who fear the influence of a fast-paced, “violent” culture on their sheltered darlings, to parents who bemoan the loss of arts classes in traditional schooling.

Don’t get me wrong, these pieces are all a part of Waldorf education, and for the most part, pieces of what our family appreciates and part of our justification for the seeming insanity of our family budget.  But, I listen to these phrases, hear sentences like: “Well, I’m glad they’ve had that creative foundation in the lower grades, but I don’t think it’s necessary as they get older” and I shake my head.  Something is missing. 

Maybe it’s the pastel-walled classrooms or the assignments that look way too fun and involve far too many colored pencils to be intellectual that make people see this curriculum as something designed for  young children, as something artsy and light, but hardly rigorous.  After all, if the upper grades students aren’t bringing home 6 hours of homework a night, they can’t possibly be learning anything, can they?

I think part of the problem most people have in understanding the Waldorf curriculum is that it is an education formed of interwoven ideas and principles, a complex model that doesn’t mesh with our modern “Insert Tab A into Slot B”  or educational menu thinking.  When Waldorf teachers talk about the curriculum being child-driven, this isn’t some sort of airy-fairy “let the kids do whatever they want and they’ll educate themselves” system.  The curriculum is child-driven only in that it has been crafted to link so inextricably to the physical, mental, and emotional development of the child that everything becomes part of the education.  Waldorf students don’t have a lot of homework because, if it is being done right, they are always in the classroom – or, rather, the classroom is always in them.

Believe it or not, I haven’t strayed that far from my original theme.  I’m coming back to epiphany.  Most epiphanies can only be accurately assessed from behind.  After time passes, we are able to review the evidence, to see if that flash was indeed truth or if it was fool’s gold.  When our children are in the lower grades, most Waldorf parents get only flashes of the whole picture – a form drawing here, the magic of the Michaelmas pageant, classroom songs sung around the house or in the garden.  It isn’t until our children are almost graduated, until our bank accounts are nearly depleted, that we see the pattern, the threads connecting every aspect of their education.

“Art,” “Creativity,” “sweet puppet plays” – I’ve heard the parts for years, and shook my head.  Nope, I thought.  That’s not it.  You aren’t getting it.  There’s more.

Two nights ago, our school held its annual Winter Concert.  Only grades 2-8 perform, but for the last few years, I’ve made it something of a crusade to invite the parents of pre-school – 1^st graders to the concert.  “It’s so good to see what your kids are working towards,” I say.  But, as the words leave my mouth, I know they are incomplete.  I know that the other parents will hear me and think that I am saying – “Look, someday your child will play an instrument like that.” or “Someday your kid will be able to sing a round in multi-part harmonies.”  But, these are parts.

Friday night, I listened and watched as Caitlin and the other 6^th-8^th graders played holiday carols as the audience filed into their seats.  A random observer dropped into the hall would never have guessed the degree of year-round grumbling about practice or the missed notes at home or emanating from the strings room at school.  Someone listening to a recording would picture a far more mature orchestra. 

On my left, my son and his best friend chatted before the performance started.  I listened to their conversation and something clicked.  “No, I don’t want to be James Marshall anymore,” said Aidan in response to a comment from his buddy.

“How come?”

“He wasn’t in the Bear Flag Revolt, and I really want to re-inact that.”

“He wasn’t?  Oh yeah, you’re right.”

The conversation then drifted to John Sutter, and early California.  I believe passports were mentioned.  School had just ended for winter break, yet these two 4^th graders were planning the details of the roles they will assume for their class trip to Sutter’s fort in February.  They were out of school, but school was not out of them.

The Winter Concert always makes me cry – odd, since I’m hardly the type to be overwhelmed by the Hallmark moment.  But, this year, I saw something different.  Yes, the 2^nd graders earnestly singing “O Tannenbaum” in German were adorable in their shiny black, white, and red outfits, but as I watched each class perform, something began to unfold.  As expected, the performances grew slightly more complex for each class.  3^rd and 4^th grade both performed pieces reflective of their curriculum, 5^th and 6^th grade joined in singing more complex choral pieces than the lower grades can manage.  And, then near the end – came two performances that blew me away.  ‘This.  This is why,’ my mind said.

I’ve written about Caitlin’s class before.  They haven’t been labeled an ‘easy’ class by even the most doting of parents.  Intelligent, active (very active), strong-willed, enthusiastic – this class has historically been shy on one leadership quality.  Discipline.  This state began to change last year.  Over the course of the year, the parents watched in no little awe as their teacher began to challenge them, force them to work together, and generally began to make them view discipline as something coming from within rather than imposed from outside.  Dr. Rick Tan has shown these kids, through his own example, the balance of brilliant creativity and disciplined work.  Friday night, it all came together as the class performed a piece written and composed by Dr. Tan, “Winter Angels.”

In Waldorf education, there is a philosophy that while not every child will excel at everything, all children are good at something.  As the 7^th grade performed “Winter Angels” this philosophy shone.  Some sang, some played the instrumental part, and some danced.  Yes, danced – a choreographed, beautifully timed performance.  These pre-teen and teenaged boys and girls worked together to perform not goofily or with shuffling embarrassment, but in a coordinated and professional manner I would never have guessed possible several years ago.  I always knew they had the talent, the creativity, and the pizzazz, but discipline?

As I wiped my cheeks after watching my oldest child and her class take their bows, the 8^th grade took the stage.  Their piece was listed in the program simply as “Mystery Song.”  (Caitlin later told me that the 8^th graders had developed this piece independently even of their teacher.)  Dressed in white shirts, blue jeans, and an assortment of geek-chic hats and glasses, with flags jammed nonchalantly in front pockets, the 8^th grade took the stage with their bodies proclaiming louder than any words – “We are teens.  We have come into our own.  Watch.”

K’naan’s “Wavin’ Flag” began in the background. And the 8^th grade came into its own.  “When I get older/ I will be stronger/ They’ll call me freedom.  Just like a waving flag.” Singing, dancing, clapping overhead, drumming on plastic buckets, these kids showcased unity, discipline, and the raw power of youth.  ‘Here we are,’ they said.  ‘This is who we are.  This is what you have produced.’  These teens held an audience of parents, grandparents, and younger siblings captive, and they knew it.  They owned the stage, and in that moment, they owned us.

“Give me freedom/Give me fire/Give me reason/Take me higher.”

Fittingly, it took the 8^th grade, in a very non-Waldorfy (as my family likes to say) performance, to give that epiphany.  This, this is what it is all about – that balance of creativity and discipline that produces a moment of absolute confidence and power at an age where most kids feel lacking in both.

Winter Traditions -- Light and Song

In the Catholic faith, Advent encompasses the 4 weeks before Christmas.  A candle is lit each of the 4 Sundays; traditionally, there are 3 purple candles and 1 pink.  As a child in plaid jumper and navy knee socks, I was told that Advent was a solemn time of waiting, a time to repent and reflect (not quite as severe as Lent, but not party time, either).  The purple candles symbolized the sorrow of waiting; the pink candle, lit on the 3^rd Sunday represented the joy of the approach of the Christ child.  This all seemed to fit for me – Advent was a time to be good, because Santa knows, and there was definitely something purple in the waiting – waiting for Christmas baking, waiting for grandparents, waiting for Santa, waiting for snow, waiting for Christmas carols, waiting to decorate the tree, waiting to open presents.  Advent was definitely a time of waiting.

As I grew older, Advent came to seem less of a period of waiting, and more of a countdown from Thanksgiving.  Light the candle – 1 week closer.  Tick.  Next candle.  Tick.  Pink candle.  Tick.  Last candle, andohmigodIhaven’tdonemostofmyshoppingyet.  BOOM.

It wasn’t until my children started school (yes, this is one of those posts) that I began to understand the place of light in winter.  In the lower grades, the children make beautiful paper lanterns and attend a Lantern Walk to celebrate Martinmas.  As the fall air begins to bite, the line of lanterns woven through the dark is threaded with song. 

After Thanksgiving, in the first week of Advent, the school offers an Advent (or Winter) spiral to the children in the lower grades.  In a quiet room, a spiral of pine boughs is laid on the floor, punctuated with luminarias.  One at a time, the children enter the spiral, carrying a white candle in a red apple.  The child lights his or her candle from the pillar at the center of the spiral, then bends to light one of the candles along the spiral on the way out. 

This year, the Winter spiral was only offered for the children up through fourth grade.  As my son and his classmates each took their turn in the spiral, I could see why.  Something changed in their faces.  Unlike the few younger siblings that walked the spiral during this session, the fourth graders that exited the spiral were not the same as those who had entered.  While the younger children glowed with a round innocence even after their candles were extinguished, as the fourth graders blew out their candles at the mouth of the spiral, they blew out something else.  Fourth grade marks the transition from little kid to big.  The unquestioning faith of childhood has begun to fall by the wayside, shadows creep into the corners.

The first light of advent is the light of stones,

Stones that live in crystals in seashells and in bones

The second light of advent is the light of plants,

Plants that reach up to the sun, and in the breezes, dance

The third light of advent is the light of beasts,

The light of hope that we may see in greatest and in least

The fourth light of advent is the light of man,

The light of love, the light of thought, to give and to understand

This is the Advent verse my children recite at school.  To me, there is something deeper here, in this marking of points of nature, than just a lighting of candles to mark time.   The verse grounds the moment with the outside world.  It is easy in winter to experience a hibernation of the soul, to direct our thoughts and feelings inward, to protect ourselves from the outer darkness and to protect others from any darkness of ours that might ‘contaminate’ a season of joy.  Yet, as the kids light their candles with a verse, they are connected: to the stones, the plants, the beasts, and to each other.

Singing fills our house (and car, and yard, and grocery store) this time of year.  The English translation of the Swedish Santa Lucia song, the school Advent song, the dreidel song, “Channukah, Oh Channukah,” and a random assortment of Christmas carols (in English, German, French, and Spanish) float through our lives this time of year.  These winter songs have all been adopted by my children, regardless of festival or religion.

Light.  Song. 

The part of my brain that has studied other traditions, the part that remembers history books, or dusty lessons in comparative studies can trace the links between European pagan and modern Christian festivals without bursting any neurons.  However, it wasn’t until my children began coming home from school with songs and verses of light that the point of all of those Solstice candles connected with me on a visceral level.

Robyn Beaufoy, a good friend, wrote a piece in the school newsletter about Advent celebrations.  In this essay, she writes “Writer Annie B. Bond reminds us that ‘Kwanzaa, Hanukkah, Christmas, Yule, Diwali, and the celebration of Buddha’s enlightenment all take place in December, the darkest time of the year.’ Despite these different leanings, our common searching for Light in the darkness of Winter unites us.”

When Caitlin was in 5^th grade, the mother of one of Aidan’s friends came in and talked to the class about Diwali, the Indian festival of lights.  As the class began their studies of world civilizations that year, they began to link the commonality of festivals.  In 3^rd grade, one of the other mothers had come into the classroom to teach the students about Channukah.  At the school, the 2^nd graders each year enact the Swedish festival of Santa Lucia.  The oldest girl in the class wears a crown of candles on her head, and the children distribute breads or cookies to everyone in the school – while carrying candles and singing, of course.

Winter has been especially dark the past few years.  When the economy began to flag, we first noticed the inadequacy of my paychecks in winter.  Within the last couple of years, we’ve been forced to tell the children, “Well, you know, Santa’s having a rough time, too.  There are an awful lot of kids out there who don’t have any toys at all, and he needs to take care of them.”  Two years ago, the last of my living grandparents, my maternal grandmother, passed away on Christmas Day. 

Yet, with each shadow, there is a spot of light.  Grandma lived a long and full life, yet her last years had been grey and shadowed with frailty and forgetfulness.  She was ready to move on.  Our economic challenges have forced the focus of Christmas away from elaborate lists and mountains of packages.  Though the bank account is not nearly so bleak this year, I have yet to begin or even fret about any Christmas shopping.  I’d rather inhale the Christmas tree and snuggle on the couch with my family.  There will be presents, but hopefully, they will bring joy, not stress.

Darkness comes.  In each of our lives, there are periods of long, black cold.  We all have our times of sorrowful or solemn waiting.  Rarely do we get to choose when that long Advent of the soul will strike.  But we have a choice.  We can approach these times with the joylessness of time marked, or we can hold moments of that darkness, be present in them, turn them over, and light a candle to move on.

The fourth light of advent is the light of man,

The light of love, the light of thought, to give and to understand

 

 

Finding the Thread -- Fear in the News

Readers of this blog may have noticed that I’ve never attempted the sort of “weekly round-up” posts seen in other, more focused blogs.  This is a technique that works great for blogs that cover one topic or niche, but since this blog is essentially a reflection of my brain (scattered), I’ve generally felt that trying to tie up bits of news from the week that stuck out for me would be like trying to string a bunch of random beads into a pattern.

Yet, there are weeks when certain news items stick to the brain, and it seems as though there should be a thread that joins them.  Perhaps this is simply a reflection of my current thoughts, but it seems as though I may have found a thread for the events and issues that have stood out for me this week.

Here are my “beads” of news, in no particular order.

1. The debt ceiling talks collapsed (again.) In other words, the president and Congress began tattling on each other and John Boehner took his ball and went home.
2. Though we are having a mild summer in CA, worry about friends, family, and colleagues has me following the heat wave in the Midwest and East.
3. The bombing and shooting tragedy in Norway is made even more horrific by the age of so many of the victims and the choice of disguise of the murderer.
4. A breastfeeding doll popular in Europe causes some controversy in the U.S.
5. School board members decide to un-ban a book after they actually read it.
6. A study indicates that modern playground safety modifications may actually be detrimental to children.

There they are, snippets of world events from catastrophic to idiotic.  What is the thread that ties these things together?  Here’s a clue.  When I took the above picture this morning, I was afraid to use it.  The beads are kind of blurry, and the whole photo is shadowed weirdly.  Then it hit me – those are the aspects that make the picture perfect for this post.  My beads, these bits of news, stood out from the media storm randomly and kind of blurry.  But, the whole picture is tainted by something unpleasant and shadowy.  Fear.

Yesterday, I posted about fear on the personal level.  Today, societal fear seems to be the thread that connects these issues – at least in my mind. 

Wait.  What about the heat wave? Fear didn’t cause summer heat.  Yeah, I hear you.  Inserting the heat wave into the list reminds me of the old Sesame Street game, “Which of these things is not like the others?”

The thread of fear is pretty obviously strung through some of these events.  This morning, I found it interesting to note that NPR, not generally an alarmist news outlet, used the words “fear” and “afraid” in the blog post on the debt-ceiling crisis.  Should the public be afraid?  Probably.  The potential global economic impact of a failure to raise the debt-ceiling is pretty awful.  But, what struck me is how fear is affecting the process.  Why do politicians lock into a “my way or the highway” mindset?  Fear.  For humans, the loss of ability to compromise, to be flexible, indicates a loss of our higher brain functions.  The more we are driven by fear (fear of losing power, fear of losing face, fear of losing money, elections, etc) the more rigid we become.  Posturing to show “strength” is the human equivalent of puffing up our feathers or spines to look bigger to the predator.

“Terror” was prominent in the headlines referencing the bombing and shooting in Norway.  An apt adjective, for sure.  While the bombing in Oslo is horrific enough, I can’t imagine anything more terrifying than what the kids at that summer camp must have endured.  The thought of them seeing someone they believed to be a police officer – a person sent to keep them safe—open fire on them is nauseating.  But here, fear seems to be not only the result of the murderer’s actions, but the cause as well.  News reports refer to the suspect as an extremist who believes that immigration, multi-culturalism, and particularly Islam are destroying Norway.  A man acting from fear creates fear.

Now we drop into the seemingly banal.  However, in my mind at least, fear breeds fear.  The more we close our minds, bodies, and hearts, in self-protection, the more we make room for the truly dark things. 

Playgrounds – remember metal slides?  Do you remember the really tall ones, with their tight corkscrews and rickety ladders?  Do you remember how the metal burned your legs below the hem of your shorts on a summer day?  Do you remember the metal merry-go-rounds?  Do you remember trying to keep your legs moving as fast as those of the older kids, until you screwed up the courage for that jump and then landed on the spinning platform?  Do you remember the pit of fear in your stomach just before you took that leap?  My kids won’t.  And if you are a member of my generation or those that follow, neither will your kids.  As parents, we have clamored for freedom from fear for our children.  We have smoothed the edges, lowered the peaks, and softened the landings for our kids.  We are one step away from bubble-wrapping them into incompetence.  And, in our desire to protect our children from the scrapes and fractures of life, we have taught them that life is to be feared.  We are creating adults who will not have the skills to stand against the darkness of fear.

The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, by Sherman Alexie is on my to-read list, so I’ll admit that I am not yet qualified to speak intelligently about it.  (There are those who would say that I’m not qualified to speak intelligently about a number of things, but why let fear stop me?)  However, I was intrigued by the news that the Richland, WA school board had reversed a decision to ban Mr. Alexie’s book after two of the members originally voting for the ban decided to actually read the book.  The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian tends to spark controversy due to the “dark” nature of its subject matter.  The semi-autobiographical story of a boy raised in poverty on a Native American reservation attending a mostly-white high school deals with themes that middle class parents often fear exposing their children to.  The book was one of those listed in the recent rant against YA fiction in the Wall Street Journal.  I’ve already written my thoughts on the article and its implications, but for anyone uncertain as to my views on book banning, here they are:

1. If you don’t want your kids to read a book, fine, tell them.  However, your fears do not get to dictate what books my children can find in their bookstore, classroom, or library.
2. If you fear a book, read it.  Don’t make judgments based on hearsay and supposition.  Know what you fear.
3. The most famous book censor in history was Hitler.  Talk about a guy with fear issues.

I have to applaud the members of the Richland school board for having the courage to revisit their decision, and to look societal fears in the face.  Good job, guys!

Now we move on to what is, to me, the weirdest item on the list.  Sure, you say: “Breastfeeding doll, pretty darn weird.”  Nope, don’t misunderstand me.  I don’t think the doll is weird at all.  I think it’s weird to object to a doll that gives children a more accurate picture of the way babies are meant to be fed.  I think it’s weird that we began by making dolls that nursed out of plastic bottles.  I think it’s weird that modern society (and particularly American society) has such a dysfunctional, fear-based relationship with the bodily function that defines us as mammals.  What sort of self-loathing drives us to reject a fundamental aspect of our humanity?

My youngest child is now six, but I’ve never really gotten over some of the strange incidents that stuck out over a collective 6-7 years of breastfeeding my children.  (The breastfeeding resume extends over three kids; do the math before you freak out.) 

• My mom urging me to “go to the ladies’ lounge” to nurse Caitlin while we were in a mall restaurant.  “And do what,” I asked.  “Sit on the sink counter?”  Let’s face it, modern restrooms distinctly lack a space for actual “rest.”  But, more critically, I never could understand the logic behind socially isolating a woman who was feeding her baby the way it was meant to be fed.  No one would tell a woman with a bottle to go into seclusion to feed her infant.  I like intelligent lunchtime discourse.  Babies may be cute, but they are not great conversationalists.
• The same elderly women in a shopping mall who had cooed over Caitlin in her stroller giving me dirty looks a short while later as I sat on one of the padded benches nursing her.  For the record no “private parts” of my anatomy were on public display.  But, judging by the reactions of these women, you’d have thought I was doing a pole dance in a nursery school.
• The confused and paranoid responses of TSA agents to my breastpump as I prepared to board a flight to a conference.  Really, what’s the tricky concept here?  How are basic medical devices not a part of their training?
• The couple who pulled back the folds of my baby sling to see the “adorable baby” and who recoiled with horror as they realized that “the adorable baby” was having lunch while I pushed my cart through Costco.  Now, I think they should have been embarrassed for assuming that it was okay to touch me or anything on my person without my permission.  However, I wasn’t the least embarrassed about feeding my kid.   A screaming baby in the middle of a big-box store would have been more disturbing to me.

Our societal views on gender, sexuality, and reproduction are so fear-ridden as to be nearly completely dysfunctional.  It’s amazing that the American middle-class hasn’t become an endangered species.  Why do we refuse to talk to our children about reproduction until they are so deeply confused by their hormones that they are incapable of listening?  Why do we assign euphemisms to some body parts but not others?  How confusing must it be for children to hear a penis called “pee-pee” or “wiener”, but to know that an elbow is always an elbow?  Why do we permit our children to watch cartoons and play with toys that emphasize costumes sexualizing the female breast, but freak out at the concept of a doll who uses the breast for its intended purpose?

Fear.  Fear drives us.  Fear limits us.  Fear was meant to help us survive in a harsh, unpredictable natural world.   When the lion leaps from the grass, fear is a pretty good response.  This brings me to the last, and rather oddly shaped, bead.  How does extreme summer heat fit onto our fear necklace?

Two thoughts come to mind here:

1. Fear for the safety of the people and animals affected by abnormal or extreme climate conditions.  This is probably a ‘healthy’ fear as long as it doesn’t become incapacitating.  Fear of natural disaster can inspire us to plan and prepare; concern for others can pull us out of ourselves into a greater good.
2. Climate change.  The science is solid.  Climate change is real.  We are experiencing its effects, and will continue to do so.  Without action, we could really have something to fear.  However, an issue of fact continues to be a subject for debate, with substantial numbers of people denying the evidence.  Why?  Fear.  Humans don’t like to contemplate a reality that forces change.  We fear the unknown.  We fear loss of comfort, jobs, convenience.  We fear change.

Like climate change, the cycle of fear is real and prevalent.  And as with climate change, until we learn to look fear in the face and recognize it for what it is, it will continue to grow.  A friend posted a link to a podcast by author Tara Brach in the comments section to yesterday’s post.  Ms. Brach’s book Radical Acceptance (recommended to me a few years back by another friend) is one of my favorite tools for identifying and processing the fears that cripple me, and the podcast has some wonderful insights.

Closing with some of the best words ever on the subject.  Enjoy!

 

Co-Creating

“All things by immortal power,/Near or far,/Hiddenly,/To each other linked are,/That thou canst not stir a flower/Without troubling of a star.” – Francis Thompson

“No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main;” – John Donne

“For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.” – Newton’s Third Law

I could go on with the quotes, but I think you get the point.  We are all connected.  No action exists in a vacuum.  No choice, no word is without consequence.  We know this.  We see with incredible clarity the effects of the choices of others upon our lives.  But how often do we own our own actions and the ramifications of those actions, for good or ill?

In this era of instant connectivity, we need more than ever to be aware of the so-called “butterfly effect,” that gem of chaos theory.  The butterfly effect is a metaphor stating that the flap of a butterfly’s wings in South America can change the weather in Central Park.  It was used in reference to the predictability (or lack thereof) of long term weather patterns, referencing the incredibly complex equations upon which these patterns rest.  In life, the metaphor can be stretched a bit further.  Small, seemingly localized actions can take on tremendous consequence.  Sometimes these events are benign or amusing: a video of a laughing baby goes “viral,” a snake goes missing and within a few days has over 200,000 followers on Twitter.  Yet, other choices speak to a darker side of humanity. 

Speech is good.  I’m a writer; by default, I am a huge fan of open communication.  As a recovering, conflict-avoidant introvert, I also recognize the danger of keeping words buried within.  Yet, words have power.  The effect of language to inspire, wound, and persist is evident throughout documented history.  Through the internet, and particularly social media, we have developed a 10 second attention span (perhaps less, did you just blink?  Oh look, a kitty!) and an infinite presence.  The words that we publish with a single click last.  Forever?  Until the machines take over?  I don’t know, but they are out there.  Google yourself.  Go on, I dare you, just this once.  That comment you posted on a forum last year, it’s there.  It may even be on multiple sites.  You can’t undo it – no takebacks. 

In the 90’s, there was a great animated series called The Animaniacs.  This deliciously snarky show had a recurring short feature called “Good Idea, Bad Idea.”  The premise was simple.  A skeleton in a bowler hat enacted two similar sounding, yet disastrously different concepts.  “Good idea – climbing a mountain.  Bad idea – climbing a mountain lion.”  There are days when looking through Facebook, Twitter, etc, leads me to believe that either many people did not watch enough 90’s television, or that we integrated the wrong lessons. 

Good idea – posting a well-thought-out comment, correction, or critique below an article.  Bad idea – indiscriminately bashing the author for his views, choices, lifestyle, and hair color.

Good idea – honestly discussing an argument, misunderstanding, or other pain with a friend, spouse, etc.  Bad idea – trashing that person on your Facebook wall, their wall, or the walls of unsuspecting friends or strangers.

Good idea – posting a single correction to an error in a review of your book.  (Better idea, privately communicating that correction to the author; or just leaving well-enough alone.)  Bad idea – posting a nuclear meltdown series of rants on the reviewer’s blog.

Good idea – engaging members of other faiths in discussion about the similarities and differences of your religion.  Talking about fears, concerns, and hopes.  Bad idea (Tragically disastrous idea) – burning the holy text of another faith.

The examples could go on almost as long as these words will bounce around whatever electronic trampoline the internet provides, but I think you get the point.  Recently, I interviewed a life coach for an article I was writing.  In our discussion, she said something that stuck.  She mentioned the importance of recognizing that we “co-create” our circumstances.  This concept is fundamental.  It goes back to childhood.  Come on, say it with me… “It takes two to start a fight.”  Indulging in a culture of victimhood serves no one.  Occasionally, as with certain violent crimes, we may be true victims of circumstance.  However, we choose our circumstances more often than they choose us, and failure to acknowledge our ownership of our lives denigrates not only ourselves but humanity as a whole.

When we speak, we choose to release words that others may not want to hear.  Just as it is our right and choice to speak our “truth,” it is the right of others to disagree with or to be offended by that truth.  When I write, I force myself to pretend that I am writing in an impenetrable bubble.  I can’t put my thoughts into words if I imagine a world looking over my shoulders and being hurt or offended.  But, before I seal the envelope or hit send, I must imagine every one of those people, and admit to myself that even my most benign words may give pain or offense.  When the comments come, I have to be prepared for the reality that I will be misunderstood, that I will be judged.  Here I have choices:  lash out in pain; retreat into my hole and never type another word; or look again at my words, making corrections or accepting that my truth may not be the truth of others.

With the evolution of the ever-present, but somewhat ersatz support network of social media, it is easy to succumb to the lure of airing every emotion publicly in our search for understanding.  I’ve done it. I bet you have too.  But, how much do we have the right to share?  When it is no longer just our pain, but that of another person, does the dirty laundry get to go out on the line?  Speaking of lines, where is that line?  What is the distinction between venting about a rough day with my unruly children and exposing the growing pains of my kids to the world?  Where is the line between bitching with the girlfriends about “men” and releasing a private beef with one’s spouse to all?  And, do you really want to put that argument out there?  How long will it be before others see your role?  Can you look in that mirror?

All of these things pale before the horror of religious warfare.  Even I can’t blame modern culture for this one.  Humans have destroyed one another in the name of God or of gods for millennia.  But I was struck by the words of one of the pastors responsible for the Quran burning in Florida.  “Wayne Sapp, a pastor at the church, called the events "tragic," but said he did not regret the actions of his church.

"I in no way feel like our church is responsible for what happened," Sapp said in a telephone interview on Friday.” – NPR

If you feel strongly enough about another faith to burn its holiest text, shouldn’t you own your view enough to accept that members of that faith may have a violent or outraged reaction to your act?

One last quote to close:

“Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.” Max Ehrmann, “Desiderata”

 

 

 

Spring Fever

You can barely see them, jutting from the naked branches of the trees.  Tiny buds with nearly microscopic filaments, the first scouts of spring.  Soon the trees will explode into bursts of lace and perfume.  Spring is short here in the Central Valley.  February teases us with days of pastel sun and fresh bloom before plunging us back into the last deluges of grey.  The clouds of pink and white are ephemeral, soon dashed to the ground by storms and replaced with sedate leaves.

Those early petals and first sparks of February sun invade my mind each year, burrowing into my body and igniting a cascade of restless energy that builds inside me.  This time of year, I can sympathize with the kids who linger at recess and stare out of windows, dreaming of puddles, new grass, and tree houses.  I can sympathize with teens, squirming with prickly hormones, dreaming of fast cars and hot dates.

Spring is dangerous, deceptive in its pretty dress of virginal lace and flower.  The gentle colors and soft winds belie the Siren song blown on the winds, calling us into the wild.  An NPR piece leads with the statement that, “Almost no musical work has had such a powerful influence or evoked as much controversy as Igor Stravinsky's ballet score “The Rite of Spring”.”  Stravinsky knew what he was about.  Spring is not gentle or kind; it fills humanity with the darkness of creativity.  It pulls us into primal places where sense has no meaning or purpose.

We associate spring with new life. Our modern symbols include fluffy ducks and chicks, pastel eggs dotted with cartoon stickers, and plush bunnies.  These safe, plasticized trinkets seek to tame the fear of spring’s wilderness.  We prefer to forget that life is born of fire, passion, and pain.  Even in the Christian tradition of sacrifice and rebirth that is Easter, we focus on the rolling away of the stone, rather than upon the darkness of Christ’s Passion, where ‘passion’ means suffering.

To create – life or art -- is to break something: to break boundaries, to break rules, to break the barriers of propriety that we set upon ourselves and to delve into the wilderness of desire and madness.  The new shoot or bloom destroys its hard casing, abandons protection to grow.  In the mayhem of spring, nature calls to us to do the same – to cast aside our safe shells, to expand, to thrust ourselves fully into the ephemeral splendor of our lives, to call upon the wild power stirring within us.

Summer will come soon, bringing the lassitude of long, hot days, of shady leaves and sedate afternoons.  The heat will drain the restless energy from us, and we will be sensible once again.  But for now, the recklessness that is spring begins to stir.  Can you feel it?

States of Grace

Our grace has a genealogy.  Passed from the Moore family to their great friends, my great-grandparents, the Davises, the verse has wandered through generations, presiding over everything from elaborate holiday feasts to store-bought pizza.

I guess you could say that ours is a secular house.  Raised Presbyterian, but with the imprint of eight years of parochial school, I became confirmed as a Catholic during college.  That was a different era of Catholicism.  Vatican II still rested fresh in most minds; my cradle-Catholic, Polish-American grandmother told stories of masses in Latin, fish every Friday, and entire days of fasting during Lent.  Mine had been a Catholic education with guitar masses and softball playing nuns teaching evolution.  Abortion, birth-control, pre-marital sex, and homosexuality were still big church no-no’s, but the lines seemed less stark, and one sensed that if the church could make the radical shift to female altar-servers, other changes would come in time.

In a big church wedding with a full Mass, I married a Lutheran-baptized, secular, rationalist with the promise that other than for weddings and funerals, I would never again force him into the pews.  My own church attendance – always spotty – began to fade after the birth of our first child, and when the baptism questions began.  At first, “when are you going to get her baptized” seemed reasonable, and there was no conscious procrastination on our part.  Life had simply become complicated, there were diapers, more laundry, and I spent approximately 20 hours of every day with something attached to my breast.  But, gradually, the questions became intrusive, demanding, and resented.  This was our choice, and really, what was the rush?   Other than occasionally testing her newly emerging teeth on inappropriate surfaces, I failed to see what evil Caitlin could be harboring.

Years pass, more children are born, and a new pope is elected.  Somewhere in the decade, either the Church, or my views toward it, has shifted.  Strictures that once seemed eccentrically stodgy reveal themselves to me as cruel bigotry.  I can’t see taking my children to listen to homilies that preach values completely opposite to those we attempt to instill at home.  Catholicism and I have parted ways.  I’m somewhat drawn to the more liberal Episcopal Churches, or perhaps Unitarian Universalism, but haven’t yet mustered the impetus to explore either denomination.  So, our lives exist more or less independently of organized religion.  We teach the children that religion is a human means of understanding the universe, and that all religions are equally valid attempts to reach that understanding.  At this point, I suspect my older kids know more Hebrew songs by heart than they do Christian hymns.  At times, this free-ranging ecumenicism has had its drawbacks.  Caitlin, currently obsessed with all things ancient (and particularly Greek), wound up in an unfortunate confrontation with a classmate last year.  When told by the classmate that the Greek gods were not real, and that God was the only true god, Caitlin retorted that maybe God wasn’t real and that the Greek gods were.  This prompted a discussion at home about respecting the beliefs of others.  Caitlin’s response?  “Doesn’t he have to respect my beliefs?”  In the midst of trying to explain that the Greek pantheon is no longer widely worshiped, I wondered, ‘who am I to tell her that some gods are myths while others are real?’ 

The only daily sign of Christian faith in our house is grace.  Here, I refer to the pre-meal blessing rather than a spiritual or mental state.  The more uplifted meaning of the word fluctuates in our lives by the minute.  Grace is, to me, not only a thank you note to God, but it is a connection to those around me, my family, my companions, and those who have gone.

God is great. God is good.  Let us thank Him for our food.  Amen. The everyday blessing of my childhood evokes memories of muttered arguments of whose “turn” it was, and the surreptitious kicking of shins by the sister who felt that her turn had been usurped.  This was the grace of weekday meals, chanted in a singsong by either my sister or myself with eyes closed and hands tightly clasped in laps – when they weren’t poised to grab the biggest piece of pizza.

Bless us, O Lord for these, Thy gifts, which we are about to receive.  FromThybountythroughChristourLordAmen.  In the name of theFatherSonandHolySpiritAmen.  My knees still feel the brush of polyester pleats, and the wood rim of my desk chair pressed into their backs.  With these words I smell chalk, rain-soaked coats, and bologna.  This was the pre-lunch blessing, said in a rush designed to enable each class to get to the cafeteria before the garlic bread was gone on rigatoni day.  My thoughts were usually less occupied with gratitude to God, and more concerned with the fear of explaining to my peers yet another atypical lunch (Calamari sandwiches, anyone?) and wondering if I could convince the yard duty teacher to let me go outside for recess without finishing every last crust of bread.  I held the record for World’s Slowest Eater until Aidan came along to take the title.

Oh, the Lord’s been good to me.  And so I thank the Lord, for giving me the things I need – the sun, and the rain, and the appleseed.  Oh, the Lord’s been good to meeeee.  GORP, instant oatmeal, hot dogs, and pocket stews – these are the foods that accompany my fingers as they type Johnny Appleseed’s song in rhythm.  This was the blessing of Girl Scout campouts and family camping trips.  Of the graces of my childhood, this is one of two that I have carried into my children’s world.  This is the grace of trees and mountains, of woodsmoke and the cries of bluejays.  This is the grace sung of freedom: the freedom to explore and to get dirty.

For these and all Thy gifts of love, we give Thee thanks and praise.  Look down our Father from above and bless us all our days.  For Jesus’ sake, Amen.  Written down, the verse seems simple, the words easy, yet this is the grace that has challenged many.  I remember, and I suspect this to be true for my sister, a sense of mild triumph when I finally memorized “the family grace.”  I have seen this same triumph in my children, manifesting in the display of superiority by the elder two over Sierra who still mumbles “fordesandallygiftsabove…”  This grace took my genius (I mean that literally, not sarcastically.  He really is a genius; it’s quite discouraging.) husband several years of family holidays to memorize.  Mike and I have been married over 14 years; about a year and a half ago, my mother-in-law announced that she had finally memorized the grace.

I can only attribute the confusion to the complex and rich heritage of our family grace.  Join hands and close your eyes. 

For these – the grace came from Mr. and Mrs. Moore, dear friends of my dad’s maternal grandparents.

 And all Thy gifts – the Moore’s son Eddie had died young, leaving widowed a woman named Gloria. 

Of love – Gloria’s sister Ginny came out to California, to visit her sibling, and to look for a new life. 

We give Thee thanks – Grandma and Grandpa Davis’s daughter Sylvia had died of cancer, leaving a husband and young son, my father. 

And praise – Grandma Ginny always claimed that she fell in love with the towheaded child before she succumbed to the charms of his father Carl, my Grandpa Bligh. 

Look down our Father – Heads bow – around a turkey, a ham, platters of sides, a prime rib, a rack of lamb, enchiladas, pork chops and sauerkraut – the foods were many, varied, and meaningful in their ability to bring a family together.  Generations depart and enter.  Rich, the blond boy, grew up and married Jean – another only child.  They produced me, and then my sister.  Our holidays and birthdays joined in an endless circle of grandparents, great-grandmother, great-aunts and uncles, hands joined in unison. 

From above – Grandpa Davis died when I was a toddler.  Uncle Mac, my Aunt Glo’s second husband, and Grandma Davis passed while I was in high school.  But my grandparents all saw the entry of the next generation.  Grandma Ginny lived hold her first two great-grandchildren, and Mom’s father, my Grandpa Mac got to know not only Caitlin, but Aidan, the great-grandson who resembles him not only in red-hair, but moral certainty.  Grandpa Bligh knew all three, and was able to hear Caitlin and Aidan sing “his cowboy song” and to see the infant Sierra before his death.  Grandma Doris, my maternal grandmother, knew all of her great-grandchildren, and though the pictures they colored must have been only blurs and though time and memory floated in hazy clouds, her face lit whenever they walked into the room.  Fittingly perhaps, the last of my grandparents passed away just before grace on Christmas Day.  While eulogizing his mother-in-law, Dad commented that it was characteristic of Grandma Doris to time her transition to that moment when everyone was busy with other things, to not be a ‘bother’.  I think that it was fitting that she depart just as we prepared to join hands in the blessing that connects our family’s past to its present and future. 

And bless us all our days.  Our days are full.  Sometimes weeks pass before my sister and I can end our games of ‘voicemail tag.’  My children see their grandparents more often than many of their peers, but less frequently than any of us would like.  Some nights gathering five people around a table and enforcing a few seconds of what I envision as joyful reflection and my children see as rote nonsense seems too much bother.  Some nights, we pull out another family staple.  Everyone yells, “Yay, God!” and digs in.  But, when we stop, join hands (or in Sierra’s younger days, ears), and say the words, my family is present – in body and in spirit. 

For Jesus’ sake, Amen.  I still don’t know which window into the universe provides the clearest view.  For all I know, Caitlin’s subversive worship of a pantheon of capricious and flawed deities may be correct; it’s certainly a more fun idea than that of a single, perfect deity.  Maybe my Jewish friends are right, and Jesus was a nice guy, but not the Messiah.  Does it matter?  Religions are human constructs, and whatever one’s faith, humans are very small dots in a very large universe.  So, let’s all join hands, close our eyes, and appreciate our dysfunctional human family.  Pass the bread, please.

Maybe I'm Stupid, But...

...I just don't get it.  I've heard all of the arguments, seen all of the presumptive Biblical support, and -- nope, I don't get  it.  What on earth does it matter whom, or if, another person loves?  Does the presence or absence of a relationship change one's talents, personality, intelligence, or gifts?  I suppose one could argue that love has a reputation for enhancing some and diminishing others of these traits, but I don't think the intrinsic traits are changed.  Priorities shift, yes, but the person is the same.

I recently reviewed a gorgeous novel (please note: novel, as in fiction) for Blogcritics.org. http://blogcritics.org/books/article/book-review-the-marien-revelation-by/

. The Marien Revelation, by Miguel Santana is a beautiful piece of writing. It is primarily the tale of two parallel lives: that of a modern Mexican-American woman named Marien, and that of a young Jewish girl of two thousand years ago named -- you guessed it -- Mary.

Now, in Santana's story, he touches on the premise that Jesus had a lover, the disciple referred to in the Gospels as "the one whom Jesus loved." Now, while judging by Santana's Facebook page and blog, he does appear to be a gay rights advocate, this particular subplot is a minor component of the book. I think this was clear in my review. In the only two comments on the review, what did people get agitated about? Yep, Jesus' sexuality.

First, The Marien Revelation is a work of fiction! Neither I, nor the book's author had actually contended that Jesus was gay. Second, what would it matter? Ignore the dogma for a moment: what would change if Jesus had had a lover -- male or female? Would his good deeds be somehow lessened? Would miracles (for believers) suddenly be non-miraculous? Would the teachings of the Gospels be void?

This is the same logic that confuses me so badly in the modern debate over gay marriage. Opponents of gay marriage use the argument that they are protecting the institution of marriage. Huh? Is my marriage somehow jeopardized by the fact that my children have classmates with two moms or two dads?

Now, there are plenty of factors that can put marriages at risk. I would argue that most of these factors arise from inside the marriage. However, I'll concede that external forces can play a role in the disintegration of a marriage. But, I fail to comprehend how the marriage of two other consenting adults can possibly diminish or threaten an existing union.

Will I somehow forget to kiss my husband goodbye if I see matching bands on the hands of a gay couple? Will he decide that he doesn't need to come home at night if two men are permitted to marry? Will we separate because one of our kids has a playdate at the home of a lesbian couple? Nope, I still don't get it.

I don't get the use of a string of nonsense and meaningless dogma to heighten fear and deprive people of what should be a pretty basic civil right. But, maybe I'm stupid...

Wordless -- first published on http://blogcritics.org

         “Do any human beings ever realize life while they live it? – every, every minute?”  “Some, the saints and the poets, maybe.” – Thornton Wilder, “Our Town”

There are no words.  One experience unites all humans.  Without regard for income, race, religion, language, or geography, we face the same end.  Death is universal.  In our last walk down the corridor of mortality we are united.  Yet, we have no words, no language to express the incomprehensible, reality-shattering vastness of death. 

Sure, we have clichés.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”  “Perhaps it is a blessing.”  “At least he’s not in pain, now.”  “She’s in God’s hands now.”  “He’s in a better place.”  “Time will heal.”  “It’s for the best.”  “It’s all part of God’s plan.”  The phrases are rituals of sort, formulae we have developed to serve as proxies to our bewilderment and fear.

Official clichés have evolved, as well.  “Died in service.”  “Combat losses.”  “Civilian casualties.”  “Troop deaths.”  “Fallen in battle.” “Acceptable loss.” Each phrase carefully avoids the staring eyes with lids fixed open in rigor, the purging of bodily fluids, the escape – banishment—of another soul from its body.  Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

Our feeble language robs even the act of dying of its reality.  Rarely do we say, “so-and-so died last night.”  The word feels too bald, too final.  We hide behind euphemisms, hoping their impotence will erase the truth.  “He passed away,”  “She passed on,”  “We tried, but we lost him.”  Lost, where does one lose a soul – in a drawer perhaps?  Here, we move into the realm of medical euphemism.  “Cardiac arrest.”  “He coded.”  In veterinary medicine, we have our own dialect for death, “put to sleep,” “put down,” “euthanized.”  Only in moments of bitter exhaustion do I admit that in this process I kill an animal.

Perhaps the clichés shield us from the shattering, inevitable truth.  In the end, every dignity, every secret is stripped from us.  Death is not a peaceful sleep, a graceful slip into a higher plane.   The body’s decay begins before the soul departs.  Whether suddenly traumatic or slow and declining, death robs us of the careful protections we have placed upon our body.  No ointment, unguent, or garment can hide the failure of these pretty boxes, the carefully decorated shells we inhabit.

Even those who believe in a purpose, a continuity beyond death fall back upon cliché and formula.  Immortality, even a perfect one – especially a perfect one, is vast and horrifying beyond human comprehension.  Our brains are wired to accept neither end nor infinity.  Both terrify.

The false shelter of our clichéd, greeting-card death leaks.  Blood seeps through the cracks.  How does one tell a mother who has lost her child, that “it is part of God’s plan,” that “it is for the best.”  When confronted with the monstrosity of that last phrase, a mother I know whose children were killed at the hands of evil demanded “what could be better than my children?”  What indeed?  The father of a dear friend died in the slow ravages of cancer, and I had no words beyond “I’m glad for your sake that it’s over, and I’m sorry for your loss.”  Nothing more to offer after twenty years of friendship.

In a strange and dangerous paradox, numbers and geography diminish death in our minds.  One person dies near home or in the limelight of celebrity and we rally around, cloaking the tragedy in candles and stuffed animals.  Thousands die in a natural disaster in a far corner of the world, and we shake our heads, say “isn’t that awful,” and flip back to the reality TV program of choice.  Perhaps the magnitude of mass death weighs too heavily upon the soul, squashing empathy.  Yet, when we allow the numbers to inure us against the pain of mass extinction, we risk our humanity.  Our instinct to turn from mass death enables those for whom genocide is a tool, and renders all humanity more vulnerable to the havoc wrought by disease and disaster. 

If we looked beyond the stock phrases, would we see the abominable folly of our petty squabbles?   Would we see that we are all walking down the same cold hallway, toward the same end?  What happens if we draw the curtain that veils the madness that is human existence?  Will we fragment, break under the unbearable weight of reality, or will we find words at last?

The poets come closest.

“For in that sleep of death what dreams may come, When we have shuffled off this mortal coil, Must give us pause...”  -- William Shakespeare

“Though wise men at their end know dark is right,/ Because their words had forked no lightning they/ Do not go gentle into that good night. – Dylan Thomas

“Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood./  For nothing now can ever come to any good.” -- W.H. Auden

“Each man’s death diminishes me.” – John Donne

No words.  We have no words.