Tuesday's Slice of Life

Discombobulation. It’s the word of the month.

Doesn’t help that I’m colder now than I was in March, starting my day in confusion. (It is June, right?) Doesn’t help that my semester is over, along with my paychecks, but new expenses keep cropping up. Doesn’t help that my husband was gone on a business trip for two weeks and though he’s back he’s so plowed under by jet lag and allergies that I still feel like he’s gone. (And, he’ll be gone on another trip next week.)

I am out of sorts, lacking focus, uninspired. And cold. (Had I mentioned cold yet?)

Discombobulation.

I’ve been trying to figure out why I am so off kilter. I started to think about yesterday. Yesterday I got the kids off to school and some early morning errands completed. Then, I sat down to be a writer for about two hours. I felt great all day. I focused myself and took the time to write – not for anyone else, just my own project that may never be read by another set of eyes; but mine have read it. More importantly, my brain thought up the words, my fingers typed them. The process of writing improved my yesterday.

Today, I missed a meeting of the neighborhood group this morning because I couldn’t get my act together, I ate an incredibly unhealthy breakfast while running errands, I made a few pointless drives to find upon arrival that I couldn’t get done what I wanted to get done. When I came back home I was so flustered it didn’t even occur to me to sit down to be a writer. I did laundry, cleaned the kitchen, searched for Anya’s missing purple raincoat.

I found my way to this screen after checking in on Facebook, reading email from school, looking for details about tomorrow’s workshop, and updating the calendar. Now, having read a few slices of life, my scattered self is regrouping.

This is my first post to Slice of Life. I’ll make a commitment to add something every Tuesday because I like the idea of building a community of random, scattered people with all sorts of harried and beautiful lives. And because, doing so today helped settle the discombobulation.

Spiritual atheism – an introduction

Spiritual development in an atheist household.

OK, we are not exactly atheists. Both Greg and I grew up Catholic, although my parents would not immediately recognize his family’s liberal Catholicism with its outwardly gay brothers and guitars leading the choir. But still, the church hierarchy played its role, and doctrine and sacraments were central.

As my own self-imposed penance for the sins of my youth, I became a Catechism teacher for 2 years. My 8 years in Catholic school prepared me well for this task and I taught diligently out of the book provided. My students learned to pray the “Our Father” and “Hail Mary.” They learned the events that brought about the first Christmas and the first Easter, and how to best go about celebrating both today.

But, as I read more, and experienced more, I slowly began to look differently at most of what I had learned (and taught) in church and catechism classes. Two adults committing their lives in love was a good thing – even when both were of the same gender. Sometimes, a woman had to make the difficult decision not to carry a child to term and she should be allowed that without screams from opponents or fear of bombs and guns shot off by the faithful. Spiritual leaders should be allowed to outwardly live like human beings in loving relationships, not forced to hide sexual urges or to leave their vocation in order to share their lives. In other words, I spent my adult life questioning the teachings of my Catholic education, and rejecting most of what I once accepted unquestioningly.

So, when Greg and I decided to get married, we knew we did not want Church sanction of the union. Greg didn’t even want the word “God” included in the ceremony, although people tend to ignore such requests and there he was, intruding on our big day. When Theodora was born, we knew we did not want a baptism. We knew she did not suffer from original sin, but was glorious in her original blessing, and so not in danger of eternal damnation. We did not want to make her a child of the church we had both rejected. So, instead, we hosted a “Welcome to the World” celebration on her 6 month birthday and invited our family and friends to introduce her to their spiritual beliefs to give her a firm grounding in the beauty of the spiritual world.  When Anya joined the family nearly two years later, we did the same.

Some family members made early efforts to introduce the girls to their faiths. Most notably, Greg’s sister with whom I would always have a difficult relationship, took the girls to Sunday Mass with her family on occasion. The girls have listened to priests talk about salvation and Christian charity. They have fidgeted in boredom during the homily, attempted to sing along with the choir, gazed around in admiration at the stained glass and statues, and already have completely rejected the Catholic faith. (Sorry Auntie, you tried.)

Yes, of course, Greg and I have a big role to play in their rejection. We talk to them honestly about what the Church stands for and their rules for living – as honestly as we can, given our own biases.  When they asked why we were not Catholic like so many other members of our family, we explained that we disagreed with many of the churches teachings. We could easily talk about the more political side of things: we think that gay marriage is right, we think that women should hold equal authority with men, we think that it is wrong to spend so much money on gold when people are starving. But the spiritual aspect has been much harder and I think we have not done a very good job explaining our case – perhaps because we are still struggling to define to ourselves what we believe in.

I won’t go into what Greg believes or doesn’t, except to make some comparisons to my own beliefs, or to describe conversations. It will be hard enough to explain what I believe, and to examine how that has impacted my daughters’ spiritual development. This will be a new strain of thought in this blog, along with the “Artifacts of a life” strain. Each new entry will include “Spiritual Atheism” in the title. Your comments are welcome.

artifacts of a life - backyard swing

There has always been a swing in my parents’ backyard. At least, there has always been one in my memory. I spent a lot of time on that swing. With friends, we would take turns pumping our legs hard enough to gain the altitude for a long jump into the grass. You hade to gain enough momentum to clear the hard packed dirt that surrounded the swing set. Sometimes we’d measure each jump in an Olympic competition, the winner earning bragging rights for the day in lieu of a gold medal.

Other times, one friend would spin you on the swing, twisting the chain until there was no more room for your head to fit between the lengths, then one good push in the opposite direction to send you spinning wildly, legs extended, hands gripping the chain, breath caught at the top of your chest, stolen by the centrifugal force.

But the swing was there even when friends were not. A swing called to a solitary me and promised a pedestal from which to sing. The swing was mine when nothing else in our crowded house seemed to be.

Looking out my mother’s window as I wash her dishes today, I see my quiet self practicing a song for the church choir, or reading the book assigned by y 6^th grade teacher, or contemplating the swift moving clouds, or listening to chattering squirrels. It’s a different swing set now, the old rusted green one finally having succumbed to children and grandchildren and random neighborhood visitors. The swing, though, is still mine.

just want to be sure of you

Any morning that does not have TV as an option brings Anya to me first thing. She comes over for a hug, often wordless or with a short ‘good morning.’ She might not even lift her own arms but just lean into me with absolute trust and love and need. It is one of the best times of my day and I try to be available to it immediately. When I see her coming, I drop what I’m doing: quickly wipe peanut butter off my hands, or put the mug down unsipped, or close the laptop. She is totally and completely mine in those moments, needing to feel herself against me just as urgently as when she was a baby. But I know there is an important difference. When she was a baby, I could finish making the sandwich, sip the coffee, or read to the end of the email and she would still be there, waiting for me, needing me. But this new adolescent has other resources available to her, and if I am not ready for the hug, she won’t wait. Off she’ll go to her music, her books, her journal, her sister, her friends.

I treasure our ritual hug for what it is; a safe start to the day for us both. Once we’re sure of each other, we’re ready for the rest.

Artifacts of life – my favorite coffee cup

I found the cup under the sink in my classroom. All sorts of junk had been left behind from the teachers who previously occupied this space. I put the cup up on the counter, assuming someone would come by to claim it. After a few weeks, I put it back under the sink, still believing that no one would leave it behind, that they would come back and claim this lovely gift.

For gift it was; must have been. The perfect size: not too big that your coffee would get cold before you drank to the bottom; not too small that you were constantly revisiting the pot.  The bottom is wide enough so you don’t worry about it toppling unbalanced each time you put it down. The brim is just the right thickness to avoid unsightly dribbles down your chin when you take a quick gulp. I hate those mugs that are so think all you taste is ceramic on your tongue.

Not a mass-produced Disney souvenir, but hand-made in Poland, according to the stamp on the bottom. Brush marks show on the blue painted handle. The pattern around the outside is unevenly stamped. The blue reminds me of the English imitation Canton China we had at every New England museum I’ve ever worked with. The green is mossy in artful contrast.

When I left that school, I packed the mug with my things.

Drinking coffee from this mug on my porch or at the kitchen table makes me happy. Not deliriously, laugh out loud happy, but short sigh, slight smile, ready to face the day happy. Coffee tastes better. Words come easier. Laundry is less burdensome.

There is a danger to placing too much value on the stuff of our lives. There are a few things, though, that are brought to us to add joy or peace or to bring energy. I’m grateful to the forgetful teacher who left such a treasure behind. I like to think that she wasn’t actually forgetful at all but consciously bestowed a gift to an unknown soul who was continuing the work she had started.

And, I am grateful to this coffee mug, for starting my day off well. 

Artifacts of life - empty cous cous container

An empty cous cous salad container

         
The evidence of a poor diet and a poorly organized day. No time for preparing even a simple meal, I grab a prepared side dish from the grocery store deli and call it lunch. Is this an artifact of a dedicated writer’s life, not taking precious creative time for something as mundane as a meal? That does sound better than what it is. Makes me a romantic outcast, dealing with only the most basic artifices of my suburban life and stealing time for rebellion. I like the picture. But the picture is crap.

       
 Here’s my day. Woke up a few minutes after my 12 year old daughter and pulled some pants on. I checked in with her, let the dog out, made coffee and fed the dog. It took me a few minutes to calculate the time I had left and the tasks that had to be completed before I could write up a schedule in my head. Make the kids lunches, gather all my stuff for the day in my bag, get dressed, then go pick up my friend’s son and drive him and my own daughter to school for their early band practice. Calculations made clear that the shower would have to wait, but that I should have just enough time to wash my hair before I needed to get daughter number two to her chorus rehearsal. Having to drive a forgotten lunch box to the middle school threw a wrench into the works, but an unexpectedly available husband got the gears untangled again. I made it to the office 10 minutes before my first student was scheduled to arrive.

After a morning of giving writing advice to 18 year olds, I headed to the grocery store, eating into my planned writing day. Still, I went aisle by aisle and got the fixings for a healthy family and even remembered to stock up on the soft tissues since everyone has been sniffling for a week. I put the refrigerated items away, left the rest on the kitchen table and came out to the porch with my plastic tub of cous cous and started writing in response to prompts by John Dufresne. Now, near time for Thea to come off the bus and my mind is back on family track – have to walk the dog and get my exercise, do a few loads of laundry, put the rest of the groceries away, wash dishes, sweep the family room, send a card to the newlyweds, wrap a present for Greg’s co-worker’s new baby, make dinner for the family, and do some prep work for Friday’s class. But I have a few minutes before Thea arrives, so I’ll just write about it, instead.