Be Not Afraid - Spiritual Atheism

Be not afraid

I go before you always

I’ve been singing this song to myself, on and off, for about two months now.

What a comforting idea, that power, always with you. I want to believe in that.

I do, in a way.

There is a power in the universe. I believe that with all my soul. But I just don’t know how to define that power, what to call it; I don’t know the strength or the purpose of that power. But that’s OK. That’s the mystery that religions have been talking about since humans first started thinking about these things. I’m OK with the mystery.

But I have to admit to some fear. Where are my parents, now that they’ve died? I can still feel them, their love and concern, so they can’t possibly have simply ended. They are in the universe, somehow.

I read a short story in high school (I can’t remember the title or the author) that said the dead exist as long as someone living thinks about them. The less they are in our thoughts, as we “move on” and gain distance from our grief and from our love, the more they fade. The scariest thing was the idea that they felt that loss, that they felt that forgetfulness. I vowed to put my Nana in my thoughts at least once a week, so she wouldn’t fade. And, I think I’ve actually done that ever since, though thirty-one years have passed since she died.

If I keep my parents in my thoughts every day, will they continue to exist? And, what does that mean, anyway? Would they want that existence; to be held in a connection to this living earth rather than to have the freedom to explore whatever is next?

And so, I am afraid. Afraid of what they have gone through in dying. Afraid of what I will go through. Afraid of making a mistake.

Whatever one would call my faith, I do have faith that there is love in the universe.  I agree with the mentor that is Jesus Christ, who seemed to teach us to treat people well and trust that life is good. Who tells us that we can wander far, in safety, though we do not know the way.

I’ve been wandering for all of my 43 years, trying to find the way. I’m struck with the idea that the wandering, not the way, is the important thing. That, naturally, is frightening. I will try not to be afraid.

SoL- apples and chaos

Monday night, band rehearsal.

Tuesday night is play rehearsal for one, soccer practice for the other.

I’ve had meetings the past two Wednesday nights.

Thursdays are for soccer practice

Friday afternoon means afterschool theater, nighttime marching band.

On Saturday, we head out to two different soccer games.

Sunday afternoon, I’m busy planning Monday’s class.

The above description of our week explains why my daughter was complaining about having frozen chicken nuggets for supper, again.

I haven’t been able to figure out how to fit in a family supper more than once a week. I make food that can travel, or make individual sized meals that each person eats before or after activities. I’m not a great cook, and my girls are finicky eaters, and I’m trying to avoid take-out and drive-through windows – and all of that combined makes for a stressful meal-time.

And, I haven’t been much fun to be around, either.

So, when Monday’s band rehearsal was cancelled, I decided to be a little more fun. The girls and I went to one of the local apple picking farms and filled two bags. We walked all over the orchard, looking for the best fruit; we climbed to the top of the hill for an unexpected view of acres of pines and maples; and we gathered the most beautiful red and orange and yellow leaves to take home and press.

When we got home, I scoured the empty cupboards and found a few potatoes to make the girls’ favorite home fries, baked some squash to make a batch of soup sweetened with apples, and cooked a supper that the four of us could enjoy together. It was lovely.

Today, I put aside the pile of essays I was grading when the girls came home from school and fried up a few apples with cinnamon as an afterschool treat.

Yes, I threw leftover spaghetti sauce and mozzarella onto a refrigerated pizza dough and called it supper before shuttling the kids to theater and soccer, and I’m typing this in my car (which is not helping my sore wrist) while I wait for rehearsal to be over, but the smell of those cinnamon apples and my daughter’s lip-snacking smile is still with me.

This level of business is new for us. There’s a lot I like about it, and a lot I don’t. I’m looking forward to the end of soccer season in a few weeks, but I know there will be other activities to take its place. I just need to remember to stop and smell the apples, and enjoy my beautiful girls through the chaos.

Read more Slice of Life posts at The Two Writing Teachers blog

Missing Mom's house

I’m heading over to my parents’ house today. I haven’t been there in two weeks, and that’s the longest I’ve been away from their house in years.

When my Dad got sick, I made sure not to miss a week. Many of us gathered at the house on Sundays anyway, so visits were easy to plan. Pretty soon, I found myself making a weekday trip as well, just to check in and see what I could do. Dad often had a task waiting for me – clean out his electric razor with the little air compressor downstairs, empty the dehumidifier, show him something on the computer, take out the trash. Often, we just had lunch or coffee together. I would chat with my Mom about whatever was going on in the greater family, talk local politics with my Dad, assure myself they were well and head home.

The sicker Dad got, the more frequent my visits became, until for the last few months of his life I was there daily.

When he died, I kept up my Sunday visits with Mom. I saw her once during the week as well, then twice, then three or four times. During the last week of her life my sisters and I lived there, each of us finding a spot to sleep; none of us sleeping much at all.

When Mom died, I still went over on Sundays to be with my family.

But last Sunday, I just needed to stay away. I’ve been struggling with my loss – it doesn’t get easier right away, you know, it actually gets harder for a while.

But, this morning I’m heading over again. And, I’m actually nervous about it. I’ve been so sad this week, that for a while I thought it was because I missed last Sunday’s visit. But now I think my problem is that I haven’t been able to wallow in my sadness. I want to crawl under the covers for three days and do nothing but cry and eat ice cream and potato chips. But I’m a Mom and a teacher so there is no time for that. Would it make me feel better anyway?

When I go to my Mom’s house today, I’ll be cleaning up her things, sorting through memories. It’s been a blessing to have those memories stirred, and to have my sisters and brothers there to share them. But it’s also been exhausting and I come home longing for that blanket and ice cream. I don’t know how my Mom ever survived the loss of her own parents when she had all of us demanding attention from her, preventing her from mourning the way she wanted. I wish she was here to advise me.

Painful grading - a slice of a teacher's life

My wrist hurts, but I’m happy.

My wrist hurts because I have carpal tunnel syndrome or some sort of repetitive stress injury; basically, I write too much.

But I’m happy because I have been writing on student papers. My college freshmen turned in the drafts of their first formal essay. I’m about a third of the way through them and I have been writing all over the papers. I scribbled in the margin when a paragraph lost focus. I circled details and questioned their necessity in moving the narrative forward. I made my confusion known when important details were missing.

I am also gathering my thoughts for class on Friday, when I hand these drafts back. Most students will look at their papers, covered in my pencil scribbles, and panic, thinking they have to start all over. But, the thing is, I’m happy despite my wrist pain because this is a great group of drafts. Sure, they all have revisions to consider, but most everyone is working from a solid beginning. I am very impressed.

Friday’s class will focus on organization and paragraph focus. And, hopefully, they’ll see exactly what I mean with all that writing. This should be a much less painful project for them, than it has been for me.

Short slice this week. Did I mention my wrist hurts?

Check out all the Slice of Life posts at Two Writing Teachers.