ADIOS PAPI

The Pope is spending the day saying good-bye to his generals. The cardinals evidently have a personal "moment" in which to give their well-wishes (or ask for pardons) to the head of the Catholic Church. For many, it will be the final time they see this man alive. For others, it will be the final time they see this man as "Pope". From the moment his successor is chosen, he becomes "Pope Emeritus"--a title which is confusing, to say the least.

When an academic retires, the person (often) is given "emeritus" status.  (I've known several professors, deans, and even a president or two.) It is more than honorary; the people have earned the title through their toil in office, for sure. However, it IS honorary in terms of effects on the world--few people expect more than the occasional "historical remembering" speech from these folks. Even when it appears their wisdom is being tapped, from what I've experienced, their wisdom is largely ignored--however politely.

I imagine it will be so with this retiring Pope.

A bigger question remains for me, as a child of the 60's, brought up in a mega-Catholic household: if the Pope represents the living face of God, on Earth, as we were taught in school, can God retire?
(I am not waxing sarcastic here. I am serious.)

 Can God become "emeritus"?

What would that mean, exactly?

For millions of Catholics, the retirement of this Pontiff sends shivers down their spines. Popes normally do not have a certain "shelf life". We were always taught (by nuns;by priests) that "the Pope is Pope and head of the Church until he dies".
God was to determine this trajectory.
If the Pope was weakening, well, that was God's plan..(As masses involved in the pedestrian Church, believing anything less was almost a sin...)

As an adult and an observer of global politics, it seems that what we were taught was only a shadow of the true manipulations going on. This includes the shadow-boxing and scramble for power within Rome--much to my chagrin when realized. Of course, this holds true for all political organizations--as well as spiritual ones.But I digress: we are talking about the Pope, here.

On one hand, I tried to live my life in accordance with the infallibility of the Pope. (Not an easy path, as anyone growing up in the sixties and seventies can attest.) As I worked with people from all over the planet--some in abject poverty and illiteracy, others representing the richest countries on Earth--I began to doubt the Pope's basic understanding of "life in the 20th century"--I don't just mean in the First World locations, either. These were not lessons from books--these were experiences in life.

Issues such as: basic birth control affects poor countries more directly than those places where medical care, child-care and education are readily available; or that women make up fifty-one percent of the world; or that children are at the highest risk of hunger, abuse, and neglect.

How many children have lived horrendous childhoods; suffered agonizing deaths from disease, poverty, or abuse, simply because birth control (NOT ABORTION !) was forbidden by Papal decree? How the issue of abortion might be drastically reduced, altogether, if decent birth control methods were permitted--yet, the Church forbade the most effective forms. "Abstinence" was held up as the greatest birth control method of all--and yet--"abstinence" was something many of the highest clergy couldn't (or wouldn't) indulge in, themselves, even as they remained "unmarried"...(I won't go into the irony of people on picket lines with ugly signs illustrating dying fetuses, being some of the very people who molest children--whether at home or in the backrooms of schools and churches.)

While it isn't just the poor that suffer these hardships, a Pope who was compassionate (and who was in touch with the population he was "leading"), should have, long ago, led children to safety. So far, none have. Not really. Not with strength and the power of God behind them. Not courageously or with ultimate purpose and vigor. Why not? Christ did.

Of course, the Catholic Church, like all human-run organizations, has been involved in a variety of misdeeds through the ages. From the earliest oppression of those who dared to criticize, through the Crusades, the Holocaust and all the other genocides it has been late in raising white hands to halt (including the deaths of women), the Papacy has seemed absolutely more interested in "politics" and "money" than in the needs of the very population most beloved by Jesus, Himself : The poor. The disenfranchised. The criticized. The misunderstood. The oppressed.
Again, I must ask: why?

I was taught that the Pope is on a direct line to God--divinely inspired and divinely chosen. He cannot make a mistake. After being annoited as Pope, whatever he decides for the Church is for the ultimate good of all. (Yet, continued misogyny, homophobia, racism and the tolerance of injustice in its own ranks, prevails.)

 Edicts which promote inequality, allow poverty and bring spiritual (as well as emotional) insecurity to the masses, continue to flow from Rome. Historically, the Catholic Church has been no different than any other organized religion--except it has proliferated on a larger scale. Pointing to this as the absolute blessing of God and the clear proof of its Truth begins to wear thin--in my mind.

(It leads one to come to the conclusion that the words of the Christ are not its true mission statement. The words of men running the organization--and their political vices/needs/desires-- seem to be. I wait, with bated breath, praying I am wrong.) 

Does this mean that there is no good that the Catholic Church has accomplished?  Of course not!

Wherever there are spiritual people--truly spiritually-seeking souls--there is good. Countless generations of saints (and sinners) have found redemption in its ranks. Excellent nuns, priests and brothers, monks and lay-people have toiled for the good of others--choosing lives of unselfish dedication and devotion to a Higher Cause. (But we can find these champions of humanity in other religions, too, can't we?)

Hope is a lifeline for us all. It can lead us out of the suffering of our own, private hells. The best in the Church offer this to the masses--which is why people still come to Church. Why in the poorest countries the Church continues to grow--even today.

Yet, it isn't any of these Saints that seem to rise. It is always, historically, individuals in direct line with the elite, who clothe themselves in velvet and jewels, removed from the common people who support their endeavors. Fear (of loss of salvation; of damnation to Hell) keep the masses in check, still. Fear of "the unknown", especially in turbulent or changing times (When has life on Earth ever been otherwise?), insures that the weakest among us will seek shelter from something "Bigger than themselves". Again, it is the hallmark of most organized religions--the Church isn't alone here. But the Church is claiming the "living Face of God", in Rome. Doesn't God love the lost or heartsick or poor, anymore?  Jesus surely did. More importantly, He DID SOMETHING about it.

Even as some Popes of the past have been righteous, there have been the shadow-boxers behind them; the wealthy and political;the power-hungry.This is not the Church Christ spoke of creating when He told his apostles to go out and preach to the world. (At least, in my own limited vision, it doesn't seem so.)

Hey, I could be wrong. I'm no scarlet-cloaked, gold-ringed cardinal with a full-time staff working under me.  I'm only a woman. A woman whose family remains loyal, alms bearing and active, to a Church which continually threatens to close down around them and leave them (literally), outside on the sidewalk, in their old age. A Church whose "living face of God" is now retiring...to his mansion and servents and low-key status of "Pope Emeritus", while the rest of us have to keep fighting for our lives; our souls.        

POISONING THE WELL

In a time of self-publishing and self-filming, there seems to be a whole lot less self-examining.

I often wonder if folks even take a few moments from their busy lives to reflect on who they are, how they became this person and what they've done over their years. I'm  not criticizing--just wondering if this is seen as "too Catholic"--or too guilt-inducing--thus counter-productive to getting ahead in the world? I don't think Americans like to reflect too closely on their own roles in history--unless there is a movie in it.

Self-examination of one's past is not without its perils-excessive guilt over what one cannot change is one. (However,as a writer, reflection is my primary tool.) Writing necessitates examining the most minute  nuances of what one can remember. Every scent; every sound; every joy, heartache and headache, become the materials of construction. No way to avoid going back--even to those darker places I might wish to avoid.

Along with guilt, there is a nagging question of responsibility. Not so much "who caused the situation", but  more of a question of "will writing about this matter hurt anyone else"?

What outweighs human suffering? Anything?  Can we avoid hurting others, inadvertently? (In war there are always "civilian casualties", which are written off as necessary evils. I rail against that phrase--it reduces everyone to expendable. However, in war, when war is to save the planet, or country, or civilization, doesn't everything become expendable?) The argument is heavy on both sides. Writing isn't truly a war--even if it often spills blood. There can be casualties.

In an English class on creative writing, which I recently taught, the idea of upsetting others came up quite suddenly. Students were expressing difficulty in creating characters for their short story assignments. They asked how I come up with my characters--a question often posed at readings.

 Every writer has a strategy. However, for most, the amalgam of people they've met over their lives, condensed and manipulated, becomes the basic material. Disguising these folks and extending the attributes they offer, becomes the "craft" of the writer. What do these characters have to teach us? Show us? Prove through their actions and decisions? (Can these points be illustrated in any other way? How?)

I suggested my students think of a buddy, who perhaps entered their lives and then dropped out, without notice. Imagine what this person's life might have been--might become. Use these imaginings to create the basis of your character's story.

 Well, they did.

However, one student, upset about her previous teacher leaving the school (and my being asked to continue the class), complained that she was being assigned to write a short story "about someone who used to go to the school-- the attributes of this person were being listed and negative things were being written". (Of course this was not entirely true.) In fact, 99% of the class had no problem creating a new character based on the classmate who suddenly dropped out. But we are talking 21st century culture. One student complaint that even hints at something that could become problematic in the wider world, elicits the utmost scrutiny from Administration.

The explanation and documentation and results of the class excercise proved the good intentions of the assignment, as well as the positive effects on the writings the students produced. As a "life lesson", I used the "blip" to illustrate the conundrum we face, as writers; of getting too close to reality--or what some folks see as reality--when we create our literary worlds.

This has always been an issue for writers. Either we are too dead-eyed and piss people off OR we are too romantic and "soft"--which pisses other people off! A careful high-wire act is always the path we walk.

The rest of the short story class went on without incident. Most of my students felt it was a valuable lesson. We scratched those stories and went on in another direction. (I went on to remember this "sting"...mostly to my pride... as an educator in the public sector. (Visions of the novel PEYTON PLACE began to fill my dreams...)

Today, I find myself "self-editing" in a deeper way. Returning to  my birthplace, living shoulder to shoulder with blood family, under the same roof of my childhood, it becomes increasingly murky. Sense memories flood over me--good, bad, horrifying or comforting--a veritable well of material to pull new stories from. But there is a cost to this endeavor.

Along with the reclaimed images, come the real-life characters. Most are still alive. Most are still kicking. Some, I break bread with, on a daily basis.

To write the adventures I've shared, or share the truths I see, well, that's where self-examination rains down. (Eighty-percent of my day, I wrestle with this unexpected "weather".) Whose truth? Why? Where did those ideas originate? Who was right? Who was wrong? What was forced upon us all? How could it have turned out differently? What are the long-term answers?

As a writer,I realize the process of this self-examination is boring to a reader. All it can do is to temper what I turn out. My high-wire walk begins to sway. I don't want to be a tepid writer. I want to inflame my readers! I want to cause controversy and upheaval! I want them to come away with some kind of change, however that manifests in the world!

(But I don't want to "hurt" anyone...not really.)

So, this greatest of all mysteries: how to have an effect on the culture without causing pain to the individual members?

After all, as I have pointed out to my writing students, even Steinbeck was hated. At least for a while. (Residents of Oklahoma were furious he "created" the scenarios in THE GRAPES OF WRATH.) And of course, in the venerable "New York Times", around 1937, he admitted that Lennie Small, in OF MICE AND MEN, existed as a real man...someone he had met and witnessed murdering a foreman on a ranch, with a pitchfork...

So, in this room that was never my room, in this house that belongs to my parents, in a town that doesn't really know what to do with me (or maybe even trust why I've come back), I  pull up buckets of my past. I try to sip that minerally water, taking in what refreshment it has to offer. As I send the bucket back down the well, I hope my lips haven't left any poison on the rim.















      

COWGIRL BOOTS and WINTER BLUES

I don't get this New England weather...whether or not it is global warming or simply a lack of memory from my earlier life...but to go from "almost spring mud-luscious melting pools of goo" to below zero at sundown and black ice, is just Evil. Today: we aren't getting the predicted 24'' in "The Worcester Hills" (Gardner), but, we ARE getting this mix of heavy snow/melting rain/dirty slush piled up.Piled up and still coming down...

When I was a kid, winter weather was bad but predictable. I can remember that "snow days" didn't just mean no school and sledding and building forts with my friends. They meant getting up in the dark, as the factory whistle blew its bellow throughout our town, annoucing school closure. It meant hand-made  oatmeal in a huge pot on the stove, and bowls up to the brim, with just enough space left for a splash of milk and some brown sugar on top. Oatmeal that Mom and Nana cooked, earlier than our own rising. Oatmeal we all dreaded--that bloaty feeling might have warmed us up and fueled us for the snow-shoveling extravaganza we had to deal with--but which always gagged me and made me feel weighed down. The hot chocolate chaser was the reason to rise. It, too, made the old way, from real cocoa powder and hot milk, delicious--as long as there was no skin on the top...I hated that "skin". So did my siblings. We'd quick, suck the steaming stuff down, before the coating of "skin" could form, scalding our tongues in the process. What irony--about to enter the deep-freeze with scalded tongues!

Mom and Nana would remind us how some kids were waking up to factory jobs and no breakfast and how we should be thankful. We were, deep down. (Mostly for the school day off.) Thankful for the few hours of freedom which came after the snow shoveling and homework checks and getting our clothes ready for "tomorrow".

 Button checks. Zipper checks. Ironed pleats and hems and cuffs. Collars without rings or wear and tear. Spotless undies. Shoes polished. Sweaters without holes or with holes mended...We were a family that entered the world  "representing". (What? I'm still unsure...) Before jeans and frayed hems; before tee-shirts and tennies; long before hoodies and yoga pants. Not yet uniformed at school, but with family dress-codes that were far more strictly enforced, we dressed. So, before the next day's departure, we checked and laid out our school clothes. Then, we were "free".

The snow removal itself was an ongoing contest of wills: between the city snow- plows and our own efforts. We had a long, wide-at-one-end driveway, and a front walk that ran all the way to the road. Both would take hours to shovel, only to finish and find the city plows had pushed the street debris into the driveway and front path, effectively blocking both.

"The mailman can't get to the porch!" was a cry we dreaded.
"Your Father won't be able to get into the driveway when he gets home!" was the second clarion call.

So, off we went, out in cycles. Two or three kids to a shift. Sometimes Nana joining us--though we knew it wasn't good for her heart. (Mom has "memories" of shoveling with us, but they are false. Her role in the family was strictly 'inside the house'. Maybe she wanted to join us. Maybe her imagination allowed her to join us. In the recent weather, she has helped Dad "clear the macadam"--after youngest brother snow-blows. It is a matter of scraping remnants off to aid the melt--but it is NOT shoveling in the truest sense.)The truth of the matter is that we kids did the shoveling. Dad when he was home, too. But mostly, it was a "kids chore". Expected. Nagged until completed. Still guilt-tripped and "watched" from an upstairs window. Quality controlled to the point of neurosis...

(I'm told, however, that for thirty-years or so, Dad would allow no one but himself to snow-blow. As he has aged, in the last year, he now allows Kevin to take over--though Ann and I would gladly do it. Instructions, in Sharpie, on duct tape, run across the front of the blower--just in case. They have been pointed out to me numerous times. However, I have yet been allowed to make use of them...) Instead, I'm handed an orange shovel and then told I "don't do it right" by my sibs...

As we got into our teens, my memories of the shovel and salt-on-the-walk blur. Perhaps both brothers were old enough and rugged enough to take over for "the girls". Instead, memories of walking to High School, in legs only cloaked in panty-house and slip-on boots, skirts hiked high, fashionable ( But cold!) coats, and uncovered heads, no mittens, were the norm. Oh how I hated those days before girls were allowed to wear pants to school! When (finally) jeans were okayed, they were only allowed once a week, in our family...However, with five teen-agers, parents often lost count. By the time my youngest brother was at Gardner High, he got away with wearing pretty much whatever he wanted. For me, for three years, though, it was mini-skirts and panty-hose and legs smarting and reddened by those frosted mornings I hurried past Simplex Time Recorder factory,  up the hill to Elm Street, and sought the warmth of Gardner High.

When I stopped wearing glasses and upgraded to my first hard contacts, there was the added discomfort of tears freezing and eyelids sometimes stuck by the time I made it to my first class. Oh High School, for girls, was a constant fashion-test and comfort battleground! The cold only added to the challenge.

Sometimes, in California, on camping trips, in the rain, when a fire couldn't be struck, or jackets were soggy in the wind, I would pull inner resources from my early days and remember what REAL cold felt like. Today, I don't have to dream. Today, one step outside, it confronts me, all too readily.

 I pick up the shovel. I face the driveway (and my two aging siblings), already moving the slush. There is no avoiding it.

My cowgirl boots, however, are under my bed...a few pebbles from the desert still stuck to their soles. Ready for escape. Always.
   
 

CATFISH: the blogpost

Even as I fulfill my mother's worst criticism: "You don't even have a job to support yourself!" (tutoring and subbing at the High School and trying to get kids on the edge to graduate doesn't count, I guess.), I find cable t.v. a guilty pleasure--especially old movies and bad reality television. Recently, a re-run of "Catfish" (the movie) aired.

Somehow, in the drama of 2010, I missed the controversy of this documentary. Too bad. It is exactly the kind of question-raising, edge-blurring slice-of-recreated-life that perks up my sluggish imagination these days. Not only is the premise of the "docu-maybe" interesting, the fact that it might NOT be a for-reals documentary spices the pot. As with film medium itself, documentaries have evolved into entertainment vehicles utilizing all sorts of manipulations to frame "a story". Animation, recreation, staged meetings, rehabbed statistics, false interviews and in some cases, fake footage, are just a smattering of "new rules".

 Of course, what is any writing, really? All comes from the point of view of the creator. Same with film-writing. Same with videography. The one constant is "story". Does it pique the viewer? Does it infuriate or entertain or move the viewer in some deep way? Does it have a point of view that is clearly stated? Is it interesting? These questions seem to be a common ground. All else is up for grabs in a time when real-life actors aren't even required to show up on the set to shoot a full-length movie.

Basically, "Catfish" (for those of you who also have missed the 2010 premiere) is the supposed true life story of a FaceBook romance gone wrong. A young New York photographer took a picture that was supposedly "seen" by a younger artist--like a little kid artist. She hunted him down and found his page on FB and began contacting him.She liked his photograph enough to draw a picture based on it. He was charmed when he viewed her "work". She began sending him stuff in the mail, building the relationship. He responded, sometimes paying for the work and sometimes accepting it for free. Thus begins the documentary....maybe.

Along the way, the mother of the child becomes involved, of course.She begins to correspond with the NYer. Then, pictures of the family are shared, of course. There is one beautiful and older cousin whose photos capture the NYer's eye. Another "relationship" blossoms. Of course. Phone calls ensue. The documentary, written and filmed by the photog's brother and another friend (Ariel Shulman and Henry Joost) convince the brother to play the romance out...until it begins to smell...well...fishy.

"Reeled In" might have been a more sincere title for the work--not only is the photographer (supposedly) pulled into this very involved scenario of lies and betrayals and family dysfunction (including twin brothers, who, at 22 and developmentally disabled, need constant care; a loveless (it seems) and controlling marriage; uterine cancer and chemo; an estranged step-daughter; isolation on a far-away midwestern farm and an artless child, used for her identity), but the audience is reeled - in to believing this story is "for reals". However, it is like summer beach fiction: enough twists and turns, with just a smattering of "this almost happened to me", to keep us entertained.

I, too, was "reeled-in". I have also been "catfished"--that is, begun corresponding on social networks with individuals who were not who they claimed to be. It happens often enough in real life to make one wonder: Is this how humans actually relate?  Hmmmm....Is no one immune?

Later in the week, I found that the photographer, after the controversy of the film's release, went on to sell his idea to MTV, to begin a series called "Catfish" wherein he would be contacted by individuals who have had similar relationships, online, and are now wondering what is real and what is "made up". He and his team interview people and arrange for both parties to meet--to see who is telling the truth and who is hiding behind a contrived persona. Supposedly, this will bring true lovers together and weed out the "villains". However, in this series, there really are no villains. (How could anyone be a villain when the creator of the series perhaps created his own victim-persona to finish his brother's film?)

Just as in the documentary, the series only reveals very needy people reaching out, albeit via fantasy, to other needy people. Usually one of the pair is more attractive (in a mainstream way) than the other, and often people are hiding their true sexuality, or gender, or physical looks. It is sad when the photographer tries to play "therapist"...I think that is dangerous. Many of the expected emotions of the folks involved (as was the case in the film), seem dampened and unreal. When people find out they have been duped, for years, by someone who posts pictures (for years) of a twenty-three- year- old- Barbie- look-alike,who turns out to be a forty- year- old- male- office worker, well, it would seem that a little pissed-offness would be healthy. However, on "Catfish" the series, we find people willing to change their sexual preferences, geographical locations and lifestyles--forgiving any and all lies--and simply hugging it out; smiling;  moving on--usually with the same relationship firmly in place (if exposed). I guess real-love is a thing involving cameras...

I think the series lives up to the documentary by being a staged, pre-written (obviously), scripted thing. It pulls the viewer in, at first, the way a good mystery story does. There is a kind of crime; there is human outrage; there is betrayal of what one has come to believe.We must get to the bottom of it! But then, somewhere on the road, there is a turn. The story isnt' clear-cut. What is wrong begins to emerge wrong on both ends. Sadness is the link in all the stories. There is no satisfying wind-up--in fact, the wind-ups only bring up more questions. (Perhaps this IS the point?)

On the other hand: people lying about their personas online isn't new. People trolling for victims online isn't new, either. Fantasy is what fuels the Internet. Sometimes, it is all we need. Reality t.v., which began as "real life situations video-taped for our enlightenment", has become real-life entertainment, period. Maybe what we need to learn is to watch the edges and begin to discern. We need to teach kids critical thinking skills. (We also need to learn to get back in touch with our own true emotions and not rely on what might look good to someone else, onscreen.)

 Anyway, that's my two cents.

I recommend the film, "Catfish". I don't believe it is the truth as it played out. I think everyone involved in its making needs serious and long-term talk therapy (if not medication...). However, it is worth a screening. And if you get "catfished" yourself, don't say I didn't warn you!       

Ten Commandments and the Eightfold Path

I was brought up with the Ten Commandments, even before I went off to meet the Sisters of St. Joseph at Sacred Heart School. My Catholic familia pounded these laws into us from birth...It wasn't until I was almost seven that I found out one could be forgiven for one's popcorn-on-the-water transgressions...transgressions for which I usually received a whack on the behind or a slap in the face (often after asking such smart-assed questions as to "why?" something was considered punishable in the first case.)...transgressions which adults continued to imbibe in, and for which I got the worst punishments when I dared to point this fact out...(They could show up for "Confession" and emerge totally fresh, forgiven, and with a second wind for the next week's adventures.) Until I left home for good, I never had such a "Go to Jail Free" pass in my possession.

In Catholic School, the nuns were still allowed to put their hands on us at their discretion--much as the priests were--though the nuns' rough-handling was much different... When I was falsely accused of chewing gum and swallowing it (third grade, Sr. Concepta Agnes), my first thought was to try to explain that it was spit I'd swallowed and spit which was still stuck in my throat out of absolute fear of this four foot eleven eighty-six year old with the thick brogue and the gnarly muscles. (Why it did not occur to me that rational and truthful explanations to adults, who were just itching to whack somebody--anybody--for whatever frustrations their lives were currently filled with--would ever work, eludes me. Why I still sometimes believe this plan is also weird, I know. Must be hard-wired in my brain. God knows I've tried to therapize it out, over the decades...sigh.) Sr. C was no exception.

I found myself hung over the second floor stone windowsill of the red brick building, my upper body hanging in space, my eyes focused on the tarred schoolyard below. My lower body was tilting, off the ground, held by one mighty fist of Sr. Concepta, my dress knotted in her veiny right hand, my short legs dangling two feet off the classroom floor. I truly believed I was going to die--or, at the very least, be smashed like a pumpkin, my dress over my bloody head, flung into an afterlife that probably held even more humiliations, as I never got time for a final Confession. Luckily, the screaming and horrified shouts from the rest of the class (less in worry about my fate than in terror for their own third-grade lives) called another nun from next door. I was reeled in and set free. The nuns conferred in the outside hallway for all of three minutes. Sr. Concepta Agnes returned, alone, and the transgression was never discussed again. (Neither hers nor mine...)

As an adult, I have travelled seeking out Bigger Truths. I have sought ways to work out my angry memories and to find forgiveness for my sins. I have even re-explored the Catholic Church of my ancestors. Wherever I go, I find that our sins are mostly against ourselves. Seeking forgiveness from those we've wronged is the best medicine. Only then, can we begin to heal the rot inside our own lives which leads to our bad behavior against other beings. The ten commandments, it turns out, are a good blueprint--if hard to follow. Versions of their message can be found in almost all cultures, past and present, if one seeks a Higher Path. On my adventures, I came to the Four Noble Truths and the Eightfold Path. They offered a slightly different (and more esoteric) "take" that spoke to me in a time of exploration of alternate realities--something even the highest Physics Scientists now attest to being real. During this time of Lent, it is something to consider. (An addition to the Survival Manual for life on Earth).
 Peace be with us all.
P.S. Allow the kids' questions...

My take on what I've discovered:

FOUR NOBLE TRUTHS
All life is sorrowful, suffering
The cause of suffering is ignorant craving
The cessation of suffering can be achieved
The way is the Noble Eightfold Path

THE EIGHTFOLD PATH
Right views (keep your mind on the study of Higher Stuff)
Right aspirations (try to follow the good stuff)
Right speech (no mean speaking; no negative gossip; no lies)
Right conduct (kindness; gentleness)
Right means of livelihood (do no harm in your work, to the Planet, or yourself, or others)
Right endeavor (pursuit of Higher Spiritual Awareness)
Right mindfulness (awareness of Higher Self )
Right contemplation (education, prayer, meditation)      

ASH WEDNESDAY

Ash Wednesday, beginning of Lent for all Christians, beginning of sober times and reflection of all sins and misdeeds. End of holiday hilarity--even as such hilarious holidays as St. Valentine's Day and Presidents' Day fall right in that 40-day block. (They came later...who knew when the Church began?)

As a Catholic School child (8 years of unrelenting nuns and priests and aspiring saints), Ash Wednesday did NOT mean hang overs from Mardi Gras celebrations nor trading plastic beads and wanton stories of excess. Ash Wednesday meant either going with the Parental Units, before school, to Mass, at Church, and during the sacred celebration, walking up to the altar and getting a usually red-faced priest to stick his huge thumb in a plate of what looked like cold cigarette ashes (though the priest often smelled of cigar smoke, himself...) and then rubbed what was supposed to be a Sign of the Cross on one's forhead. By the time we got home, the "cross" had melted into a smudged thumb print.

If we waited for the school celebration, it meant walking a few blocks down Lincoln Street, to Sacred Heart Church,from Sacred Heart School. We filed, one by one, with nuns running in the gutters, all the way to the Church. There, inside, we confronted the same scene--big priests with bowls of cold ashes--ready to mark us as mortals destined for ruin--and possibly a Higher Plane--if we towed the line. (I had my doubts, even then. But by then, I'd learned to "go with the flow"--at least outwardly--if I could contain myself.)

Back at school, all the girls would compare whose ashes stayed on the longest--or were the darkest--signifying special status and obvious sanctity. (For the only time during the year, the girls with the oiliest forheads were deemed "lucky"...) Usually, my ashes flaked off by the time I hit the schoolyard. My straight-cut pixie "bangs" brushed them off, aided by my stocking cap and thick glasses. It was hopeless. Nobody ever saw how "holy" I truly was...or trying to be...even at these outwardly obvious moments.

For the boys, as with most things, life was more direct and easier. The priests lovingly squashed big thumbprints into little forheads, rubbing just a bit longer on those "bad boys" than was necessary. And inevitably, as soon as the boys got to the back of the Church, they swiped the ashes off with their fists, wiping all traces onto pants and snow jackets--or for some malcontents, on the woodwork.
Most boys ashes were already blowing in the wind by the time they hit the school macadam. Ah, the life of Catholic boys...I knew because two of them lived with me.

As my questions and doubts and betrayals by the Church grew, and self-realization increased (and pursuit of True Godhead continued), there were fewer and fewer rites that I partook in. Ash Wednesday became code for "Spring is coming". Unlike childhood sacrifices of giving up chocolate or t.v. on Friday nights, a sense of wonder at the subtle turning of the seasons in the West, took over. The blossoming of the California poppies in the deserts--that riot of scarlet screaming up from the sand--became a different "holy celebration". Easter services at dawn, on the edge of the Pacific, or on a quiet mountain top far from the sleeping cities, became my new celebrations. Chanting and meditation and retreats filled with mindfulness and Eastern teachers replaced the smudged-thumbed Priests of my childhood. Easter was still about the Christ and the promised resurrection--I've never lost that lesson--but it was tied in with the rebirth of the physical planet in a much ignored way from my youth. I didn't need special clothes nor have to spend forty days without meat to deserve Easter. It was a promise freely given and the entire Earth could partake.

Today, my parents decided to wait for the noon Ash Wednesday services at Holy Rosary, instead of the nine a.m. services at Sacred Heart. Both Churches are still operating in town, and the Bishop is trying to convince them to consolidate into the Catholic Churches of Gardner--as they will attempt to do, next year, with both parish schools. Huge resistance from the historical enclaves exists--cultural as well as financial and demongraphic. The Bishop seems unconcerned, as long as his job is intact. The priests move blithely on, still big and smiling and saying the same words, more or less, they have always said: some folks deserve to serve God up close, and personal, and be paid for it--in status and life-time job security--like themselves. For the rest of us, well, we receive the ashes...

One time my little sister Ann viewed the Ash Wednesday services with big eyes, seated between my parents, in the pew. When we all returned with the smudged crosses on our forheads, she asked my Mom: "You said Uncle Charlie turned to ashes inside his coffin, last year, right?"
Mom answered: "Yes, after he died and they buried him at the cemetery, his body turned back to dust and ashes..."
Ann then asked: "So, is that Uncle Charlie they're spreading on everyone's face?"

God bless us, everyone. Happy Lent.        

BIizzard Time!

Rolled out of bed.
Ann's birthday today.
Had a gift from Maeve, her dog, and me. 
(Family party for her on Sunday.)
Pulled off longjohns and checked out the window for first snowflakes.
They had already begun.
Pulled on undies, snowsox, jeans and two sweatshirts. Pulled down a beanie over my furrowed brow.
Hurried downstairs for coffee, awaiting Ann's arrival.
(We have to drive to New Hampshire for Maeve's six month check up and vaccinations...her vet lives there and is waiting for us.)
Get leather bomber jacket, gloves, snowboots on over everything else. Put Maeve's leash on. Maeve is terribly excited, we are going "somewhere". (I have also reminded her it is her "Mom"'s birthday.)
I do not mention the vet visit...

We wait.
We wait.
We wait and sweat.
We wait and just as I'm peeling off layers and almost passing out from heat stroke, Ann arrives.
We pile out to car.
We slide out of the snowy driveway.
Big silver flakes the size of corn chips are tumbling down the road in front of us.
Few cars.
Fewer people.
Maeve dances on the back seat, still not sure where we are going but glad to be going anywhere --especially with us.
(Ann has thanked me for the eagle bracelet we gave her--the female eagle woman of our clan--but doesn't seem overly impressed....oh well...more gifts on Sunday.)

We make good time to the vet's.
Maeve takes a doggy dump outside. Ann picks it up with a doggie dump bag. She goes in with Maeve. This time, I'm left out in the car.
A man with a terrible cough, hacks and spits, lights a cigarette and starts yelling into his cell phone one foot from the Jeep. (He has the entire parking lot to make the call--but he has to stand one foot from my face, outside the window of the car, to make his call.) His coat is open. His baseball hat is on backwards. He smokes and hacks and shoots a lugie into a pristine snowbank, meanwhile screaming at his girlfriend...
I try to watch the snow and think of dogs and beaches and white sand.

Ann comes out.
Maeve's heart is good. She didn't bite the vet. In fact, he finally got the guts to trim her nails--which pisses me off as I've had to take her in once a month for the last year because he is afraid to trim them! I guess when Ann told him what we're doing in Gardner with the dog he got embarrassed.
She's put on a pound but is bouncy and healthy and no one thought she would make it this long.
She licks my face and reminds me of every human I know with that same "Yay, I'm outta there!" goofiness after getting out of the doctor's office.
We drive home in increasing foggy snow.
The light is like the inside of a dirty cotton ball.
The cold pounds into my bones, even with the heater on.
I cradle doggie meds and a litter bag filled with my used kleenex. Ick.
We stop for gas.
Fifty people lined up like it's a Zombie Apocalypse....Ann pumps her gas and we head home.

At home, dog jumps out.
I head inside. Gotta get another warmer jacket and pick up another new prescription.
Ann is headed to a house auction. "It'll be filled with house flippers from Boston in this blizzard, but I want to at least see what's up..." Her friend from work will attend with her, as well as niece Mer, who, one day, will surely inherit any house Ann buys.
I pull off a coat.
I pull on a coat.
I blow my nose, filling my jacket pockets keys, gloves, money and kleenex.
I head out, alone.

The snow is filtering down in slanty sheets. Behind the clouds, somewhere, a yellow sun beats down. It is eerie and quiet and still freezing.
The car starts.
I head for the drugstore.
On the radio, the Mamas and the Papas sing me down the street...."a winter's day...."


 

AWAITING THE BIG ONE

1978: I had fled the East Coast, a Wells College graduate nursing a busted heart, leaving everyone I had known or loved, landing with my back to the Pacific and my dreams clinging like dust to my brain. I was hardly there when winter hit the East and buried it under a few feet of snow.

I was dealing with politics and sociological phenomena like the murder of Harvey Milk and Jonestown. Weather, no matter how severe, (there were giant fire storms singeing my backyard even as it snowed in Gardner, MA) was not on my priority list. (God forgive my callousness or ignorance.) Well, the Universe, which I take very personally, is making me re-live the moments I'd missed:

I finally go to the doctor on Monday to find that my sister was right: massive sinus infection. All those blueberries evidently kept it on the back burner for months and kept it out of my brain, so I didn't die--but I could have. Maybe. Or so I'm told.  Now, big anti-biotics for the next week. Massive head-aches, gross stuff blowing out of my nose by the minute and no sleep. But I have to carry on...

Tutoring. Kids are defiant and don't want to do homework at home. Want me to watch them read. Want to discuss "life" and not biology. Come in just a little late. Take forever to get set up. Want to finish early...meanwhile I am blowing my nose every second and apologizing for it. All gender wars aside, when tutoring male teens, even this gross behavior is excused quite readily...

Come out of the Library. It is almost zero degrees F. My nose finally stops running. It is frozen.
My back tire is flatter than a book page. I knew it was low earlier, but not like this. Evidently the air temp did it in. I am outside and the Library has closed and it will take AAA at least an hour to get here...My student comes out and offers to go to his home, pick up his airpump, come back, inflate my tire and see me home!  What a sweetie. I agree, reluctantly.

We take turns sitting in my heated car and running the pump. It takes twenty freezing minutes. I limp home. I put the car in the driveway, knowing I'll have to move it in the morning.  I go inside and tell the parental units what has occurred. No one seems phased. However, then, over dinner, I am told fifteen versions of what to do.  I decide to move the car into the street, risk a ticket, better allowing AAA to get it in the a.m. with a towtruck and to allow Mom and Pop access out of the garage--if need be.  Of course everyone balks.

I move the car.
Much family feuding.
I get up in the a.m. Call AAA. They send a tow truck which takes two hours to arrive and involves three more calls back and forth. I get towed to the tire place. I get a lecture on how I shoulda bought four tires when I put the front ones on.  I finally tell the tire dude: Hey! You aren't helping! Let's just put on new back ones, okay?

(Tire guy finally shut up and put on new back tires)Two hundred and ten bucks. My entire last check for tutoring...sigh. No new sneakers this month! I leave an hour later.
Pick up anti-biotics and juice and salsa fresca.
Get home.
Park in driveway praying everyone is in for the night.
Come inside.

"So, your sister said you went to the doctor for something yesterday?  I thought it was just your usual check-up..." from Mom.

"How were the tires?  Expensive, right...?" Dad.

Before I can answer, we are back to "The Storm".

It's coming. All the plows are lined up. Everyone is charging their devices and buying back up batteries. Two storms to meet right over Gardner. Thunder and lightning in the blizzard--sounds like the wrath of God to me!

"I saw thunder and lightning in a blizzard before...no big deal..."  Mom. ( Unless it is about her body, nothing is 'a big deal'...)

We eat and they discuss the storm.
Thirty-six inches on Friday to Saturday. Power outages. That means, no snowblowing brother...I cringe, expecting shoveling with a rag shoved up each nostril and my car stuck in the driveway with nobody going anywhere.

I pour some more juice and pray.